The Haley Classical Journal, Volume II Issue I

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

An Undergraduate Research Publication Affiliated with Hamilton College

Volume II | Issue I | January 2021 The Haley | Volume II | Issue I | January 2021

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

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

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

Peer Editors

Madeleine Cavallino, Hamilton College, 2021 Aimee LaFon, University of Tennessee, Knoxville, 2021 Ava Witonsky, Hamilton College, 2021 Kayley Boddy, Hamilton College, 2022 Melanie Geller, Hamilton College, 2022 Jacob Hane, Hamilton College, 2022 Calyn Clare Liss, Hamilton College, 2022 Katherine Miller, Hamilton College, 2022 Molly Osinoff, Hamilton College, 2022 John Sullivan, Hamilton College, 2022 Angus Wilson, University of King’s College, 2022 Philip Chivily, Hamilton College, 2023 Lydia Davis, University of Tennessee, Knoxville, 2023 Tonwa Hauff, Hamilton College, 2023 Laura Hester, Hamilton College, 2023 Aidan Holmgren, Hamilton College, 2023 Sammy Smock, Hamilton College, 2023 Austin Manning, Hamilton College, 2024 Megan Mogauro, Hamilton College, 2024 Adina Mujica, Hamilton College, 2024 Ally Zamudio, Hamilton College, 2024

Copy Editors

Kayley Boddy, Hamilton College, 2022 Jacob Hane, Hamilton College, 2022 Angus Wilson, University of King’s College, 2022 Philip Chivily, Hamilton College, 2023 Laura Hester, Hamilton College, 2023 Sammy Smock, Hamilton College, 2023 Megan Mogauro, Hamilton College, 2024

Cover Art: Theo Golden, Hamilton College Class of 2020 | instagram, @tgoldenart | website, tgoldenart.com Cover Image: Darryl Low | unsplash, @1188low

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

Contents nota bene A Martyrdom that Overshadowed Heresy: Saint Lucian of Antioch Fight Like An (Upper-Class) Girl: Intersectionality, Civil Disobedience, and Women in Greek Tragedy From Humbaba to Gorgons: The Artistic Connection between Ancient Near East and Ancient Greece The Functionality of Neronian Allusion in Illuminating Trimalchio’s Psyche: A Textual Analysis of the Cena Trimalchionis Melior Pietate Fideque: Hannibal As Aeneas in Silius Italicus’s Punica

Jacob Hane

iv

Scott Benigno

1

Kate Medwar-Vanderlinden

7

Zhiyuan Wang 11

Jack Curley 16

Dante Minutillo 21

Verba non Acta: The Purpose of Cicero’s Pro Marcello

Will Shu-Lun Shao 25

The ξένος (or ‘passerby’) in Attic Funerary Epigrams

John Shamgochian 29

Classics Department Hamilton College 198 College Hill Road Clinton, NY 13323

Winter 2021 Issue Property of the Hamilton College Classics Club

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

nota bene Χαίρετε Salveteque, I am proud to present the first issue of the second volume of The Haley Classical Journal. Working on this journal with my fellow members of the editorial board, as well as our excellent array of student peer editors, copy editors, and authors, has given me great joy these past few months. This has not been an easy task given the state of the world, but working with such talented and wise individuals has given me faith in not only the future of this field, but also our future as a whole.

Furthermore, I am humbled by our ability to carry out our original vision of creating a more equitable field as our founders August Naston and Tyler Boudreau originally set out to accomplish. This year has posed unique challenges for students and academics alike: injustices have only been exacerbated by the COVID-19 pandemic; democratic institutions have been challenged and attacked. These events have reminded me of the soulful mission of this publication: to amplify underrepresented voices in this field.

This issue comes at a critical juncture in time. As we enter the new year, we must strengthen our resolve to advocate for a more equal classics. As August Naston gracefully articulated in the last issue of The Haley, “We can always do better. We must do better.” And so, the work goes on.

Thank you to all those who have helped along the way, especially the Classics Department faculty at Hamilton.

Wishing you all the best in the new year.

Take care, Jacob Hane

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

A Martyrdom that Overshadowed Heresy Saint Lucian of Antioch

Scott Benigno, Emory University, Class of 2022

Abstract

Deep in the Vatican Library is a calendar that recounts the lives and stories of saints through artwork. The Menologion of the Byzantine Roman Empire’s Emperor Basil II is a masterpiece of Christendom, art, and history. Within its pages lies the story of Saint Lucian of Antioch. His inclusion, however, raises some questions, for Saint Lucian inspired Arius to deviate from church teaching in the 300s CE. Lucian’s belief in God the Father’s supremacy over God the Son was heretical, but his martyrdom, which the artists of the Menologion portray in their text, as well as his fruitful theological exploits, were a stronger narrative for those in power. Christian clergymen have thus remembered Lucian fondly, even bestowing the title “martyr” to his name, while simultaneously failing to acknowledge that his theological beliefs strayed from the official doctrine of the Church.

The Menologion of Emperor Basil II of the Byzantine Empire gives modern scholars insight into the saints of Greek Orthodoxy and their connections to their faith.1 Christians in the imperial period of Roman history often allowed themselves to be martyred by authorities to prove the strength of their faith in the face of temporal adversity. Within the virtual pages of the Menologion in the Vatican Library, there is an artistic rendition of a saint isolated in prison; a glowing nimbus enveloping his head represents his faithfulness (figure 1). In the foreground lies a budding plant with flowers juxtaposed against the lifeless saint’s body being cast into rolling waters, suggesting that such ends breed fruitful beginnings.

While the imagery within the text is consistent with other contemporary depictions of martyrdom, the story of Saint Lucian of Antioch reveals a doctrinal dilemma. Lucian both inspired one of Christendom’s early heretical movements, Arianism, through his belief in the superiority of God the Father over God the Son and served as a proto-Jerome figure by editing and drafting his own version of the Bible, yet the Menologion’s artists specifically chose to portray Lucian as a martyr. Ultimately, the Church recognized Lucian’s defense of Christianity while on trial and subsequent martyrdom over both his contributions to the Church and heretical theological beliefs.

Lucian was a prominent theologian during the late 200s and early 300s CE, though most theologians remember him for his martyrdom. The Christian historian Eusebius of Caesarea, Lucian’s contemporary, wrote about the martyr in his Church History. Without discussing any other aspect of his life, Eusebius solely focused on Lucian’s martyrdom and its extenuating circumstances: Among the martyrs at Antioch was Lucian, a presbyter of that parish, whose entire life was most excellent. At Nicomedia, in the presence of the emperor, he proclaimed the heavenly kingdom of Christ, first in an oral defense, and afterwards by deeds as well.2 1 The Menologion is available for viewing (in Latin) at https://digi.vatlib.it/view/ MSS_Vat.gr.1613 2 Eusebius, Church History, (Documenta Catholica Omnia, 2006), 403.

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The juxtaposition of the emperor against the kingdom of Christ is no mistake; Lucian, in this description, sides with his faith and the next life over any connections to the Roman state and his earthly ruler. His life was excellent because his faith in Christ was complete, which in turn makes him an honorable saint. Eusebius commended Lucian for courageously defending his faith and standing up to the Pontifex Maximus himself in the name of God and his beliefs: Lucian, a presbyter of the parish at Antioch, and a most excellent man in every respect, temperate in life and famed for his learning in sacred things, was brought to the city of Nicomedia, where at that time the emperor happened to be staying, and after delivering before the ruler an apology for the doctrine which he professed, was committed to prison and put to death. Such trials were brought upon us in a brief time by Maximinus, the enemy of virtue, so that this persecution which was stirred up against us seemed far more cruel than the former.3 While Eusebius praises St. Lucian, Eusebius held biases against Emperor Maximinus, as Maximinus ordered the last of the imperial persecutions of Christians. He juxtaposes Maximinus, calling him “the enemy of virtue,” with Lucian, whom he labels “a most excellent man.” Eusebius’ writing is one of the only primary source accounts regarding Lucian’s life, but he does not explicitly explain the details of Lucian’s martyrdom beyond his allusion to it. His description serves to portray Lucian as a good Christian in life, not just in death, possibly in order to defend his actions on earth, even as he ignores Lucian’s theological views. Eusebius is not alone in his descriptions of Lucian’s heroism, as late antiquity Church historian Philostorgius also builds on this narrative. Academic Michael Slusser’s 2003 article “The Martyrdom of Lucian of Antioch,” uses a 20th century German reconstruction of Philostorgius’ destroyed writings to recount, “When Lucian showed up in Nicomedia, Maximinus was afraid to see his face, lest he be con3 Eusebius, Church History, 421.

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College verted to Christianity on the spot, so he had a curtain hung between them as they spoke with each other.”4 When looking at Lucian’s eventual persecution by itself, the argument for his inclusion in the Menologion emerges as a strong counter to Roman paganism: a saint and a martyr who, according to Slusser’s use of Philostorgius, made the head of Roman polytheism tremble with fear would, in the eyes of the newly-emerging faith, fortify the legitimacy and affirm the strength of Christendom.

In his medieval encyclopedia the Suda, Byzantine scholar Soudas provides a brief description of Lucian’s life and theological achievements that offer a more acceptable narrative from the Church’s perspective. The Suda allows for a new perspective of Lucian’s life, especially with respect to his representation in the Menologion, as Soudas penned the text during Emperor Basil II’s reign. In regard to Lucian’s origins, Soudas writes: [Lucian] the martyr; this man was from Samosata in Syria,[1] born in the upper class...And he entered into monastic life and reached the standard of every human excellence. He also entered the holy service, became a presbyter in Antioch, and established a large school there, as the best people from various regions were coming to him.5 Soudas refers to Lucian not as Saint Lucian of Antioch, but as Lucian the Martyr. Lucian, even seven centuries after his death, continued to be known for martyrdom; like Eusebius, Soudas erased Lucian’s heretical theological practices from history, instead focusing on his service to the faith. Unlike Eusebius however, Soudas further explores Lucian’s actions as a theologian, though only regarding his positive deeds, writing: This man thought that the holy books had taken in much of what was counterfeit within themselves, because time had corrupted much of their content...So he re-edited the books...And furthermore one can find that he guarded the purity of the divine doctrines to the greatest degree among his contemporaries.6 Soudas expands on Eusebius’ narrative, including and making paramount Lucian’s martyrdom while establishing that he contributed theologically to Christendom. It offers readers a second reason behind Lucian’s canonization and inclusion in the Menologion, even as it omits negative aspects of his theology. Saint Lucian became an important figure because of his edited edition of the New Testament. Soudas argues that the two centuries between Christ’s death and resurrection and Lucian’s studies led theology, in some form, to stray from its original meanings. He also mentions that Lucian strained to fix the holy scriptures and bring purity back to the written word of Christendom. Butler further discussed this idea in his Lives of the Saints, a revised and edited hagiography in English originally written in the 1700s by a priest and based 4 Michael Slusser, “The Martyrdom of Lucian of Antioch,” (Journal of Ancient Christianity , vol. 7, no. 2, 2003), 332.

5 Soudas, “Lucian,” In Suda, (Suda On Line, 2000), 685.

6 Soudas, Suda, 685.

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on the 17th century hagiography Acta Sanctorum. Herbert Thurston and Donald Attwater, updating Priest Alban Butler’s work, explain Lucian’s efforts: [Lucian] also undertook to purge the Old and New Testament from the faults that had crept into them through the inaccuracy of transcribers and in other ways. Whether he only revised the text of the Old Testament by comparing different editions of the Septuagint, or corrected it upon the Hebrew text, being well versed in that language, it is certain in any case that St Lucian’s edition of the Bible was much esteemed, and was of great use to St Jerome.7 As with Eusebius and Soudas, Butler’s description is favorable, albeit it lacks the adjectives and colorful praise for Lucian that the former two include. Ignoring his connection to Arius and Arianism, those who read Butler’s account are shown a saint whose main achievement was his relationship with the Bible and religious texts, rather than his martyrdom. Here, he is Saint Lucian the Theologian. Of the lines dedicated to St. Lucian, all of them involve his theological exploits, the bulk of which is about properly editing and transcribing the Bible into a version of his own, the same idea that Soudas discusses. This important achievement

by Lucian for the Church may dispel attempts to reexamine his heretical beliefs, for it could lead to questions regarding the sanctity of the Bible itself. His portrayal in the Menologion attempts to steer clear of this path by portraying his imprisonment and then martyrdom. Lucian’s status as a proto-Jerome figure is a common theme across multiple accounts of his life; his work is forever connected to the story of the modern Bible through its influence on Jerome’s Vulgate in the late 300s CE. Soudas, Eusebius, and Butler’s accounts based on a hagiography all write positively about Lucian, showing that, even though centuries exist between all three writings, Lucian’s status as an important theological figure in Christianity has consistently been reaffirmed. Either these writers have fallen captive to the narrative pushed by the Church regarding Lucian, or they too understand the need to gloss over Lucian’s heretical beliefs for the benefit of the religion as a whole.

Within the context of Lucian’s theological views, the artistic rendering of his martyrdom underscores his piousness and his place as a devoted saint. On the left side of the image, large walls of stone surround Lucian, who gazes stoically to the ground, representing his imprisonment in Nicomedia. Lucian sits with a slumped posture and shallow face, indicating that he is weak and is malnourished but the light of the nimbus around his head continues to shine, indicating that while he suffers in the corporeal plane, the strength of his faith still remains steadfast. Branislav Cvetković, a medieval and Byzantine art historian, writes extensively about the importance of the nimbus in his article “Nimbi in the Late Byzantine Art: A Reassessment.” He elucidates on the nimbus’ variety in use and the importance of taking a close look at nimbi across artwork: 7 Alban Butler, Herbert Thurston, and Donald Attwater, Lives of the Saints (Maryland, 1926-38), 46.

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College ...it is hard to overestimate attention paid to nimbi in medieval art since correct establishment of their forms makes difference between looking and seeing, which are basic notions in art-historical methodology. That the nimbi would often have special form is obvious in their luxurious embellishment with jewels, pearls, filigree or the various techniques of painting, relief and metalwork.8 The saints in the Menologion all have their own nimbi surrounding their heads, a circle of bright yellow and bordered by a red ring, and they are all almost identical to each other in shape and color.

The simplicity of the nimbi reflects the humility and poverty of saints and martyrs who forgo materiality for spiritual righteousness. However, the standardization of nimbi representation in the Menologion may also represent the equalization of saintliness; illustrators may not have wanted to laud one saint over another in terms of their devotion to God. In illustrating Lucian’s nimbus as simple, the artists of the Menologion sought to equate him to other saints. Again using the German reconstruction of the Philostorgius’ writings, Slusser details Lucian’s death, which is the scene on the right side of the painting in the Menologion: The last mention of the emperor…has him ordering the body of Lucian to be sunk in the sea with a big rock tied to the right hand; this sets the stage for the famous rediscovery of the body by a dolphin, which beaches it where Lucian’s disciples can find it…9 The symmetry of Lucian’s lifeless body — especially with the outstretched arms — illustrates that he is victorious in his death.

Cvetković emphasizes the importance of symmetry in Byzantine imagery in his 2006 article, “Intentional Asymmetry in Byzantine Imagery,” explaining, “As the basic concept of Byzantine aesthetics, symmetry dominated its art production in general and characterized positive and triumphal contextual appearances in particular.”10 Lucian’s symmetrical body in death is no accident; Byzantine painters include this iconography to signify Lucian’s martyrdom as a triumph, both of his own will and of God’s. However, even in this victory of faith — taking into consideration the positive writings of Eusebius and Soudas as well — Basil II’s artists omitted any reference to Lucian’s theological beliefs, school, or disciples. The Menologion opts for a non-theological view of Saint Lucian, focusing instead on his martyrdom for his faith rather than risk drawing attention to his influential, heretical beliefs.

In the Roman city Antioch, home both to pagans and early Christians alike, Lucian opened his famous school of theology, which underscores the popularity of his unique theological interpretations in his own time. At his school of theology, Lucian taught his edition of the Bible, layered with his own personal Christian beliefs as well. His studying and editing of the books of the Gospel 8 Branislav Cvetković, “Nimbi in the Late Byzantine Art: A Reassessment,” (Nis and Byzantium XIII, 2013) 87-88.

9 Slusser, “The Martyrdom of Lucian of Antioch,” 332.

10 Branislav Cvetković, “Intentional Asymmetry in Byzantine Imagery: Communion of Apostles in St. Sophia Ohrid and Later Instances,” (Byzantion 76, 2006), 74.

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led him to his theological ascertainment that God the Father was more powerful than God the Son. Thomas G. Weinandy, in his article “Lucian of Antioch,” describes this change in teaching: “...

[Lucian] interpreted the Old Testament in a more historical and literal manner in contrast to the more allegorical interpretation found in Alexandria.”11 Even more than his school of theology, Lucian’s edits of the Gospels “became central to the Textus Receptus found in most of the Greek New Testament manuscripts.”12 Thus, in this capacity, Lucian directly serves as a proto-Jerome figure; his work in biblical composition was critical to the development of orthodox consensus in the burgeoning Catholic church. Yet, despite how influential Lucian of Antioch was in creating an early consensus on scripture, Eusebius, Soudas, and the authors of the Menologion illustrate Lucian the Martyr rather than Lucian the Theologian.

Although later Christian clergymen selectively focused on his martyrdom, Lucian’s theological beliefs remained controversial immediately after his death, which further exemplifies how authors such as Eusebius and Soudas acted as proto-revisionists in their writings on the controversial character of Lucian. The popularity of Lucian’s edited version of the Bible caused theological issues for the Church, which eventually influenced the officially sanctioned Vulgate. Saint Lucian of Antioch’s beliefs, though not contentious during his own lifetime due to the lack of a standardized corpus of Christian scripture, came under scrutiny in the decades after his death on January 7, 312 CE. Using works like Gustave Bardy’s influential Recherches sur S. Lucien d’Antioche et son e´cole, published in 1936, Weinandy details one such controversial belief, saying, “As a basic principle Lucian denied that God, because of his unchanging divine transcendence, could directly interrelate with the changing historical created order.”13 Lucian’s belief strayed from the orthodox Christian teaching of the 4th c. CE. Orthodox Christian doctrine proclaims that God is omnipotent; Lucian’s belief that God is unable to connect or change his created order would be Lucian’s first heresy. Based on this fact, Weinandy also argues in “Lucian of Antioch” that: Such a premise would logically lead to the conclusion that if the Son/Logos became man, the Son/Logos could not be truly and fully divine. Since the Son/ Logos did become incarnate, he must, by necessity, be ontologically subordinate to the utterly transcendent God.14 The First Ecumenical Council of Nicaea in 325 CE, headed by Emperor Constantine, ruled and confirmed that this belief was heretical, and that Christ was of the same divine nature of God. Thus, the popularity of Lucian’s texts — despite the fact that they are not in alignment with orthodox Christian doctrine — forces the imperial council to uproot an already-widespread theological belief.

Furthermore, the most famous of Lucian’s pupils was Arius, the founder of the heresy Arianism, which held that the Son of God was lesser than God the Father. In “The Letter of the Synod in 11 T.G. Weinandy, “Lucian of Antioch,” (The Encyclopedia of Ancient History, 2012), 1.

12 Weinandy, “Lucian of Antioch,” 1.

13 Ibid.

14 Ibid.

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College Nicaea to the Egyptians,” edited and translated in Norman P. Tanner’s Decrees of the Ecumenical Councils, the council’s discussed its results: First of all the affair of the impiety and lawlessness of Arius and his followers was discussed in the presence of the most pious emperor Constantine. It was unanimously agreed that anathemas should be pronounced against his impious opinion and his blasphemous terms and expressions which he has blasphemously applied to the Son of God, saying ‘he is from things that are not,’ and ‘before he was begotten he was not’ and ‘there once was when he was not,’ saying too that by his own power the Son of God is capable of evil and goodness, and calling him a creature and a work.15 In this statement, the Council of Nicaea — through their condemnation of Arius — officially declared Lucian’s own firmly held beliefs on divinity heretical. Thus Lucian the Martyr comes directly into conflict with Lucian the Apostate, which provides the basis for the Church’s own interrogation of Lucian’s role within the orthodox tradition.

Throughout the 300s CE, important figures in the Church regarded Lucian as a controversial figure. One of Arius’ contemporaries, Saint Epiphanius of Salamis, provides one such perspective of Lucian through his direct relation of Arius and Lucian: “Lucian and all Lucianists [by which he means Arius and his followers] deny that the Son of God took a soul in order that, of course, they may attach human experiences directly to the Logos.”16 Putting his words into action, Epiphanius’ Panarion, a famous exposition on sects of Christian heresies up to the 370s CE, specifically includes a section on Lucian and his teachings.17 Accusations arose as Arius himself had attended Lucians’s school of theology, and some of Arius’ most prominent ideas come directly from Lucian himself.

Though differences between the two remained, the two agreed on one of Christianity’s most sacred aspects, for example, “Arius and his subsequent followers…held such a view of the Incarnation, and so they consistently argued that the Son could not be truly God, but rather the first of all creatures.”18 Thus, Lucian is a complicated figure: a saint who modernized and centralized the written word of the Bible, who died for his faith, was also a theological heretic and heavily influenced the rise of Arianism. However, even as contemporaries made accusations, Lucian’s status within Christianity remained that of a martyr despite his theological differences with Christian doctrine, as Eusebius and Soudas illustrate in their hagiography of him. The Church, in a rather revisionist fashion, decided to uphold Lucian’s martyrdom and contributions to Christianity rather than his divergent theological ideas, casting a singular narrative onto an otherwise complex story.

Due to shifting Church leadership over late antiquity and the 15 Norman P. Tanner, “The Letter of the Synod in Nicaea to the Egyptians,” Decrees of the Ecumenical Councils, (Georgetown University Press, 2016).

16 Weinandy, “Lucian of Antioch,” 1.

17 Wiliam Smith, Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology (C.C. Little and J. Brown, 1849).

18 Weinandy, “Lucian of Antioch,” 1.

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medieval era, it was not uncommon for saints to be cast as heretics and saints alike, depending on the political and theological processes of the time. A major example of this situation is Gregory Palamas and his defense of hesychasm in the 14th c. Byzantine Roman Empire. William Franke, an American academic and philosopher, discussed Palamas’ orthodoxy in Apophatic Discourses in Philosophy, Religion, Literature, and the Arts. Volume 1.

Classic Formulations, writing, “...[Palamas] became a prominent figure in ecclesiastical politics and theological controversies. This caused him to be subjected to periods of imprisonment and exile at the hands not only of Turks but also of his Byzantine political enemies.”19 However, the Church, within a decade after his death, accepted Palamas’ views as orthodoxy and venerated him. In comparison to Lucian — and long after his death — the Church officially condemned the heresy Lucian inspired even as they upheld him as a saint. Thus Lucian is a unique example; the Church’s willingness to overlook a venerated saint’s heretical beliefs is crucial to understanding the Church’s relationship with Lucian.

The authors of the Menologion exemplify the choice the Greek Orthodox Church made regarding Saint Lucian of Antioch; that is, his inclusion in the calendar implies he was nonetheless an important saint. The Church looked past Saint Lucian’s heretical beliefs, as the iconography demonstrates. Unlike other images of saints that clearly outline their cult, there is no reference in the painting to Saint Lucian’s controversial teachings or interpretations.

However, Arius, who was inspired by Lucian, is often defined in Christian artwork by his heretical teachings. In an icon representing the Council of Nicaea in 325 CE (figure 2), Arius is shown kneeling defeated before the council, all of whom, except Arius, are seated and have a nimbus glowing around their head. Inclusion of the heretic is only proof of his vanquishment by the powers of Christendom, while the omission of the nimbus distinguishes the righteous from the blasphemous. In a similar drawing from a canon law book published in 825 CE (figure 3), Emperor Constantine I, also with a nimbus around his head, orders the books of Arius to be burned at the same council. Although Arius himself is not included, his doctrine is rejected and in flames, both in the image and to viewers. When Lucian’s heretical beliefs bled into Christian art, such as through depictions of Arius, they were clearly shown to be incompatible with orthodoxy.

Thus, in the Menologion, Saint Lucian’s beliefs were left out because they had connections to the leader of the Church’s largest heretical movement of the fourth century. However, the artists included Saint Lucian the martyr, as the Greek Orthodox Church embraced and accepted this interpretation of Lucian. Philip Schaff, in his History of the Christian Church, discusses how the Church remembered Lucian for his martyrdom: The contradictory reports are easily reconciled by the assumption that Lucian was a critical scholar with some peculiar views on the Trinity and Christology which were not in harmony with the later Nicene Orthodoxy, but that 19 William Franke, On What Cannot Be Said: Apophatic Discourses in Philosophy, Religion, Literature, and the Arts. Volume 1. Classic Formulations, (Notre Dame, Indiana: University of Notre Dame Press, 2007), 318.

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College he wiped out all stains by his heroic confession and martyrdom.20 While the Church Fathers condemned his personal beliefs after his death, the greatness of his martyrdom in the eyes of Christendom eclipsed his doctrinally blasphemous actions. He not only raged against the Romans during the last persecution, but he directly defied the Roman Emperor Maximinus at his trial. Even in hunger and near death during his imprisonment, Lucian refused “meat offered to idols,” which exemplifies his devotion to his God.21 Furthermore, the importance of his work on Biblical scripture to the Church meant that Saint Lucian’s inclusion in the Menologion may have been a critical choice. Omitting such a saint, whom earlier clergymen such as Eusebius lauded, could have cast doubts on Lucian’s place as a saint within the Church; by revising his legacy to focus on his martyrdom, the Church prevented new arguments and criticisms over his theological beliefs. Inclusion with a focus on his contributions to orthodoxy may have raised objections regarding the same issue, but, by portraying his willingness to die for his faith, Basil II’s official church calendar put forth a narrative that both the clergy and laity could accept. Describing martyrdoms place in Christianity in the New Catholic Encyclopedia, Thomas Gilby and Lawrence S. Cunningham write: It is the constant teaching of the Church that [in martyrdom] is such an intensity of love expressed as to justify the sinner, baptized or unbaptized, and to bring him the forgiveness of all his sins, removing all guilt with stain, pardoning all debt of temporal punishment, and adorning him with a special crown, or aureole.22 The showcasing of Lucian’s death was not just a painting of his sacrifice, but a recognition that such an action was so powerful that it dispelled all notions of temporal sin, and, by extension, Lucian’s heresy. The sanctity of both the Bible and Christian orthodoxy was kept safe through this strict association, allowing Lucian to retain his sainthood and the Church to avoid possible degradation.

To this day, Saint Lucian of Antioch remains a canonized figure, though still relatively unknown in both the Greek Orthodox and Roman Catholic Churches. He inspired Arius through the later-deemed heretical belief that God the Father was supreme; he simultaneously served as a proto-Jerome figure in his formulation of his own version of the early Bible. Ultimately, however, the Menologion’s depiction of Lucian fully revolves around his complete devotion to his faith through his martyrdom. Little is known about Lucian’s life on earth, and his beliefs persisted in active debates for only another century, but his less allegorized editions of the New Testament and his powerful martyrdom live on today. The Menologion helped to uphold Saint Lucian’s positive image during the Middle Ages and gave one of the Byzantine Roman Empire’s last accounts on Lucian. By focusing on his martyrdom, the artists

erased any legacy of Lucian’s heretical beliefs. The complexity of Lucian further illustrates that the medieval Church was accustomed to overlooking an individual’s complicated and heretical actions in the name of their positive theological actions and connection to the faith in death, thus acting as arbiters of historical revisionism. By labeling Lucian a saint and focusing on his martyrdom, the Church stripped the theological narrative behind Lucian’s life and replaced it with a straightforward story of devotion until death. Though it stunted focus on his heretical beliefs and connection to Arius, it also overshadowed his theological contributions to Christendom in the process.

Appendix

Figure 1. Anonymous. Lucian of Antioch. Miniature Basil II Minology. Constantinople, 985. Vatican Library, Rome. http://days.pravoslavie.ru/Images/ ii1381&3769.htm.

20 Philip Schaff, History of the Christian Church, (Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1916), 813.

21 Slusser, “The Martyrdom of Lucian of Antioch,” 330.

22 Thomas Gilby and Lawrence S. Cunningham, “Martyrdom, Theology of,” New Catholic Encyclopedia, 2nd ed, (New York, 2003), 231.

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Figure 2. Holy Fathers of the First Ecumenical Council of Nikea, 325. Mégalo Metéoron Monastery, Greece. https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?title=File:Nikea-arius.png&oldid=426521393.

Butler, Alban, Herbert Thurston, and Donald Attwater. Lives of the Saints. Maryland: Christian Classics, 1926-1938.

Cvetković, Branislav. “Nimbi in the Late Byzantine Art: A Reassessment.” In Nis and Byzantium XIII, 2013.

Cvetković, Branislav. “ Intentional Asymmetry in Byzantine Imagery: Communion of Apostles in St. Sophia Ohrid and Later Instances.” In Byzantion 76, 2006 Eusebius. Church History. Originally published in 4th C. Revised and translated by Documenta Catholica Omnia, 2006.

Franke, William, ed. On What Cannot Be Said: Apophatic Discourses in Philosophy, Religion, Literature, and the Arts.

Volume 1. Classic Formulations. Notre Dame, Indiana: University of Notre Dame Press, 2007.

Gilby, Thomas and Lawrence S. Cunningham. “Martyrdom, Theology of.” In New Catholic Encyclopedia, 2nd ed. New York, 2003.

Schaff, Philip. History of the Christian Church. Texas: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1916.

Slusser, Michael. “The Martyrdom of Lucian of Antioch.” In Journal of Ancient Christianity vol. 7, no.2, 2003.

Smith, William. Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology. Boston: C.C. Little and J. Brown, 1849.

Soudas. “Lucian.” In Suda. Translated by Akihiko Watanabe; edited by Edmund P. Cueva, David Whitehead and Catharine Roth. Suda On Line, 2000.

Tanner, Norman P. “The Letter of the Synod in Nicaea to the Egyptians.” In Decrees of the Ecumenical Council. Washington DC: Georgetown University Press, 2016.

Weinandy, T.G. “Lucian of Antioch.” In The Encyclopedia of Ancient History. Wiley Online Library, 2012.

Figure 3. c. 825. In Jean Hubert et al. Europe in the Dark Ages. London: Thames & Hudson. 1969. 143.

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Fight Like An (Upper-Class) Girl Intersectionality, Civil Disobedience, and Women in Greek Tragedy

Kate Medwar-Vanderlinden, University of Maryland, College Park, Class of 2021

Abstract

Heroines in ancient Greek tragedies come from a variety of backgrounds and, as a result, belong to many different marginalized identities. Despite this marginalization, they are still characters who are able to take action against injustice. In the cases of the chorus and Electra in Aeschylus’ The Libation Bearers and Antigone in Sophocles’ Antigone, they are able to defy corrupt monarchs. However, do their individual identities affect the extent to which they are able to rebel? By considering these plays in the more modern contexts of intersectionality and civil disobedience, this paper hopes to explain why each of these characters rebels differently — and why being upper-class and ethnically Greek allows these ancient heroines the most agency.

Henry David Thoreau and Kimberle Crenshaw make an unlikely duo, but both are credited with inventing words that have become very mainstream in political discussions. The term ‘civil disobedience’ can be defined in a number of ways, but was first coined by Thoreau in an 1848 essay to describe his unwillingness to pay taxes that contributed to war efforts. Over a century later, in 1989, Crenshaw introduced the term ‘intersectionality’ in her work “Demarginalizing the Intersection of Race and Sex: A Black Feminist Critique of Antidiscrimination Doctrine, Feminist Theory and Antiracist Politics.” She argued that because black women belong to two marginalized identities that are often considered separately (race and gender), they experience a unique form of oppression that is ignored by both the law and so-called activists.

Despite the fact that these two concepts were first written about at very different points in time, they can come together to help contemporary audiences and scholars analyze ancient Greek plays that were written even earlier. While Crenshaw’s specific work on African-American intersectionality and Thoreau’s tax-centric definition of civil disobedience are not applicable to the women of ancient Greek tragedies, the general concepts are.

In Aeschylus’ The Libation Bearers and Sophocles’ Antigone, many of the female characters hail from different social classes and ethnicities. This means that they have different levels of access to civil disobedience, which in this context will be used to describe any action taken against each play’s main authority (Queen Clytemnestra’s rule in The Libation Bearers and King Creon’s rule in Antigone). Just as Crenshaw states that race can interact with gender to create unique experiences of oppression, the chorus and Electra from The Libation Bearers as well as Antigone from the eponymous play all have different levels of access to civil disobedience, specifically corresponding to how upper-class (and how ethnically Greek, in the case of the chorus) they are. The chorus is composed of foreign-born enslaved women, Electra is a Greek woman who is treated as if she is enslaved, and Antigone is an upper-class Greek woman. They are all able to rebel in some way, but while the chorus can only encourage rebellion in others, Electra is an active participant in a rebellious plot, and Antigone is able to fully take matters into her own hands and directly target authority.

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The Libation Bearers In The Libation Bearers, the chorus is composed of eastern enslaved women. Unlike choruses in other similar contemporary plays, these women play a rather active role in moving the plot forward. Rather than just commenting on the action, they spur it. The way they contribute to disobedience against Queen Clytemnestra, however, is limited to complaining behind her back and encouraging others to take action. Ultimately, this can be explained by intersectionality; the unique oppression faced by the chorus because of their ethnicity, class, and gender is both the cause of their disobedience and the inhibitor of it. This can be seen by studying the chorus’ interactions with Electra and Orestes, by considering the way women of similar identities were treated in Ancient Greece, and by taking a closer look at Electra’s role in the play.

There are many points at which the words of the chorus urge disobedience against Clytemnestra, yet they never confront her themselves. In their first scene, they give Electra advice on how she should pray, which plants the idea of revenge against Clytemnestra in her mind. They tell her to “be mindful of those guilty of murder,” and “pray that some spirit or a man may one day come… one to kill those who killed.”1 When Electra hesitates at this, the chorus continues to push her, saying, “How could it not be right to repay your enemy, evil for evil?”2 Electra is convinced, and the influence of the chorus is shown as she prays for Orestes to return and for Justice to “kill the killers.”3 Her prayers are answered, and when Orestes arrives and reunites with Electra, the chorus urges both to take action against Clytemnestra. They tell Orestes and Electra that, “it is you, the children, who will seize the day,” simultaneously encouraging the two siblings to take action and highlighting the fact that the chorus is not in a position to do so.4 They also tell the two to “steel your hearts and go with Rage… call your father, stand with your kin,” prompting Orestes and Electra to invoke their father’s spirit and make a plan of action.5 Finally, 1 Aeschylus, Oresteia, trans. Peter Meineck (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, Inc., 1998), I.117, 119-121.

2 Ibid., I.123.

3 Ibid., I.144.

4 Aeschylus, I.376-379.

5 Ibid., I.455-456.

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College the chorus helps Orestes interpret dreams that Clytemnestra had, and it is only because of this exchange that Orestes is “able at last to interpret Clytemnestra’s dream” and become “empowered to assume a stranger’s disguise that will gain him successful entry into the feminine domain of the house.”6 Without their influence, Clytemnestra would not be defeated.

There are also moments where the Chorus themselves pray for Clytemnestra’s downfall. For example, they call for the “Mighty Destinies” to “fulfill the will of Zeus” and for Justice to “veer the course,” which, in context, would mean the death of Clytemnestra.7 But while the chorus does what they can, it is not surprising that they never take any physical action. In Athens, at the time this play was written and performed, even just being a woman would mean no participation in politics — women were not considered politai, which “more specifically signifies citizens with full political rights.”8 The only way that women could really interact with their city-state was through religious activities. There were larger religious roles they could take on, such as becoming priestesses, but roles such as these were only given to a limited number of girls and only for “a certain time.”9 There were also smaller religious roles, such as “helping the priestesses to set up the loom for the weaving of the sacred robe presented to Athena at the Panathenaea.”10 Thus, it is no coincidence that one of the only ways that the chorus (and Electra) can really take action against Clytemnestra is by praying and suggesting prayer — it is one of the only things Athenian women can do. Even then, it is unclear whether the foreign or slave status of the chorus would preclude them from such activities. As will be discussed more in the context of Electra’s role, the chorus does not participate in prayer at the same level of frequency or success that Electra does.

The chorus’ motives for suggesting disobedience in the first place also seem to be directly tied into their identity as foreign-born, enslaved women. When they enter in the first scene, they are wearing “threadbare fabrics,” and describe how “terror swept the halls of the House and fell hard upon the women’s rooms.”11 No doubt they were treated poorly under the reign of Clytemnestra and Aegisthus because of their identities — they explicitly say it was the women’s rooms that terror fell hard upon. Throwing their status as foreigners and slaves into the mix likely just compounded the harsh treatment. At the time this play was written and performed, foreign women in Athens, called metic women, were often subjected to discrimination and harassment. Legally, “their status was always an inferior one” and they could not own land or give birth to Athenian citizens.12 The public opinion of metic women was similarly harsh. In his famous trial speech against a metic woman named Neaira, Apollodorus of Acharnae accuses these women of “living indecent lives” and “prostituting themselves and others.”13 6 Froma Zeitlin, Playing the Other: Gender and Society in Classical Greek Literature. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996), 358.

7 Aeschylus, I.306-309.

8 Sue Blundell, Women in Ancient Greece (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1995), 128.

9 Ibid., 134.

10 Blundell, 134.

11 Aeschylus, I.29-40.

12 Blundell, 145-146.

13 Rebecca F. Kennedy, Immigrant Women in Athens: Gender, Ethnicity, and

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His speech also describes how Neaira was also formerly enslaved and how she was “brutally abused” when she first came to Athens.14 In her article about metic women and Neaira in particular, Rebecca Kennedy argues that her status as a former enslaved person, in addition to her status as a metic woman, played “no small part” in her abuse.15 The combination of these identities resulted in horrific treatment. While the chorus in The Libation Bearers only explicitly mention being women in the context of harsh treatment, the audience watching would have known that their identity as foreign slaves would also entail poor treatment.

Just as the identity of the chorus explains their dislike of Clytemnestra and Aegisthus, it also explains their loyalty to Agamemnon and, by extension, his children. They associate Agamemnon with “unconquerable majesty, untamed, invincible, that once filled the hearts and minds of the people” and even refer to his tomb as an altar.16 This extreme loyalty would certainly be the expectation at the time. Slaves were “completely under the control of their masters.”17 Only “specially-favored slaves” were allowed to marry, have families, or even have sexual relationships with other slaves.18 Although many slaves got along with the wives of their masters, possibly due to a “sense of common exclusion from the masculine world of public affairs,” the situation with Clytemnestra is very different.19 Not only does Clytemnestra take on a very masculine role in the Oresteia, likely nullifying any possible female bond, but a slave would probably not be expected to remain loyal to a woman who killed their master and took over his rule.

The way in which the chorus’ combination of identities affects their actions can be seen by comparing them to Electra, whose role is limited by gender and class, but not ethnicity. Electra is a woman who lives “like a slave” after being cast out by her mother, Clytemnestra.20 She does not take any direct action — it is Orestes alone who physically enacts revenge against Clytemnestra. This can absolutely be explained by Electra’s status as a woman and honorary slave — just as the chorus would not be expected to take any action, Electra would not be expected to either. Just as in the case the chorus and the women of ancient Athens, prayer is the main action she is able to take.

However, Electra is still technically royalty and not foreign-born. Because of this, she has more power than the chorus does. It is her prayers that are explicitly answered, not the chorus’. When Orestes returns, he specifically says that “[Electra’s] prayer has been fulfilled.”21 The chorus also includes Electra in their call to action, along with Orestes — they acknowledge that she is able to help Orestes more directly than they could. With their encouragement, Electra participates in prayer with Orestes in hopes that their father’s spirit will lend them aid. She also directly Citizenship in the Classical City. (Routledge, 2014), 97.

14 Kennedy, 104.

15 Ibid., 104.

16 Aeschylus, I.55, 106.

17 David K. Roselli, “Polyneices’ Body and His Monument: Class, Social Status, and Funerary Commemoration in Sophocles’ Antigone,” Helios 33 (2007): 146. https://hcommons.org/deposits/objects/hc:14110/datastreams/CONTENT/content 18 Blundell, 146.

19 Ibid., 147.

20 Aeschylus, I.135.

21 Ibid., I.212.

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participates in the plot that Orestes comes up with, while the play does not mention the chorus as being involved. Orestes tells Electra that she must “promise to keep [their] meeting a secret and go back inside,” as well as “keep a close watch in the house.”22 In her book Playing the Other: Gender and Society in Classical Greek Literature, Froma Zeitlin pinpoints the relationship between Electra and Orestes as the best example of the way that, if a male needs to “successfully penetrate the interior of the house and reclaim it as his own, he typically requires feminine assistance.”23 She even goes further, saying that the reason Orestes ultimately succeeds is because “he has joined forces with his sister, Electra.”24 Despite being more included than the chorus, Electra’s actual involvement is limited to prayer and staying out of Orestes’ way. She inhabits a slave-like role, praying alongside the chorus of enslaved women and only passively assisting Orestes in entering the house. If Electra had not been given this slave status, could she have done more to avenge her father?

Antigone Antigone is in a similar position to Electra, that of a woman who is technically royalty but has been disgraced in some way. In this case, it has been revealed that she and her siblings are products of incest between a mother and son. However, Antigone is never cast out and labeled as a slave in the way that Electra is. Rather, as seen through the eventual burials of both of her brothers and the treatment of actual lower-class characters, Antigone is portrayed as upper-class. This directly contributes to why she is able to commit large-scale acts of civil disobedience, such as burying her disgraced brother and standing up to King Creon.

Just like the chorus and Electra, Antigone is negatively affected by her gender. This is made clear in the way that King Creon, her uncle who has recently been made king, constantly brings up Antigone’s gender when challenged about his decision to put her to death. He declares, “No woman rules me while I live,” when first arguing with Antigone, signaling that her identity as a woman directly relates to why she is such a threat to him, and why she must be punished.25 When his son Haemon disagrees with him, Creon accuses him of being a “woman’s slave” and “on the woman’s side.”26 The problem is not just that Haemon does not agree with his father, it is that he is doing so for the sake of a woman.

Creon does not even refer to Antigone by name or as Haemon’s fiancee, but just as a woman. However, while her gender helps to sentence her to death, it is Antigone’s class that allows her to rebel against both Creon and gender roles in the way she does.

From the beginning of the play, Antigone’s brother Etecoles is shown to be upper-class. This is proven through the “praise and commemoration” he receives from Creon, who makes sure that he “will be buried and receive all the offerings that are owed to the ‘noblest’ dead.”27 The reason that Antigone’s other brother, 22 Ibid., I.556, 579.

23 Zeitlin, 355.

24 Ibid., 76.

25 Sophocles, Antigone, trans. Elizabeth Wyckoff, 18.29-30.

26 Sophocles, 27.20, 26.14.

27 Roselli, 144.

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Polyneices, does not receive this burial is because he stood against Eteocles and those actions were seen as wrong and improper by Creon. From this, it would be assumed that Antigone, who has not yet acted against Creon, still has high status. Even when Antigone unlawfully buries Polyneices and is brought before Creon, their subsequent argument serves to affirm this upper-class status of both Polyneices and herself. Creon makes the argument that Polyneices is not equal to Eteocles, but Antigone “asserts that it was not at all a slave... but a brother who perished,” which indicates a “perceived slight against Polyneices’ social status.”28 This comment also showcases Antigone’s own upper-class privilege, as it is implied that “the plight of the slave [would not have required] Antigone’s intervention.”29 Eventually, Polyneices’ class, and by extension Antigone’s, is confirmed by the narrative, as he ends the play “commemorated with a lofty mound in an unabashedly elitist and Homeric fashion.”30 Another indication of Antigone’s social status, and specifically of its allowing her to do things that a woman of lower-status could not, is the way that the Guard (a lower-class character) is treated by the narrative. Like Antigone, the Guard talks back to Creon and is threatened for it. However, when Creon threatens the guard with torture if he does not reveal who buried Polyneices, he does so in a way that suggests a kind of torture “reserved exclusively for slaves.”31 There is also no “explicit defense” of the Guard’s retorts, and Creon’s threats “pass without comment.”32 Meanwhile, Antigone is presented as “making an impassioned defense” of Polyneices, and Creon’s threats against her are met with backlash from all of the other characters: the Chorus, Antigone’s sister Ismene, and Creon’s son, Haemon.33 Haemon even says that “the whole town is grieving for this girl” in reference to Antigone.34 Antigone is able to confront Creon and is validated for it in a way that the Guard, or the women of The Libation Bearers, are not — and the difference between her and all of these characters is social status.

Conclusion Looking at these plays through the lens of intersectionality and civil disobedience serves to show how various identities can interact with a person’s ability to disobey authority, even in ancient times. It can also help to illuminate why these women act in the different ways that they do. The manner in which these characters are treated in their respective plays definitely showcases the oppressive effects of gender disparity on women. However, looking specifically at how each character’s social class — and ethnicity, in the case of the chorus in The Libation Bearers — interacts with their ability to participate in acts of civil disobedience shows that there is a lot more to oppression than simply gender and that just as Crenshaw argues, it does not make sense to look at these identities individually. Metic and slave women in Athens were much 28 Ibid., 146.

29 Ibid., 147.

30 Ibid., 155.

31 Roselli, 149.

32 Ibid., 149.

33 Ibid., 149.

34 Sophocles, 24.21.

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However, while these plays certainly highlight the limitations imposed on civil disobedience by various identities, they also show that civil disobedience is still possible in the face of marginalization and oppression. The chorus encourages rebellion, Electra’s prayers kickstart action, and Antigone both buries her brother and argues directly with the King. By the end of each of these plays, the tyrant falls.

Works Cited Aeschylus, Oresteia. trans. Peter Meineck. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, Inc., 1998.

Blundell, Sue. Women in Ancient Greece. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1995.

Crenshaw, Kimberle. “Demarginalizing the Intersection of Race and Sex: A Black Feminist Critique of Antidiscrimination Doctrine, Feminist Theory and Antiracist Politics.”

University of Chicago Legal Forum 1989, no. 1 (1989): 139-167.

Kennedy, Rebecca F. Immigrant Women in Athens: Gender, Ethnicity, and Citizenship in the Classical City. Routledge, 2014.

Roselli, David K. “Polyneices’ Body and His Monument: Class, Social Status, and Funerary Commemoration in Sophocles’ Antigone.” Helios 33 (2007): 135-177. https:// hcommons.org/deposits/objects/hc:14110/datastreams/ CONTENT/content Sophocles, Antigone. trans. Elizabeth Wyckoff. Retrieved from https://assets.aspeninstitute.org/content/uploads/files/ content/docs/SOPHOCLES_ANTIGONE_(AS08).PDF Thoreau, Henry D. ed. Stanley Applebaum and Philip Smith. Civil Disobedience and Other Essays. Mineola: Dover Publications, Inc., 1993.

Zeitlin, Froma. Playing the Other: Gender and Society in Classical Greek Literature. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996.

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From Humbaba to Gorgons The Artistic Connection Between Ancient Near East and Ancient Greece Zhiyuan Wang, Macalester College, Class of 2021

Abstract

Both Humbaba and Gorgons are monsters in ancient mythology. Humbaba first appears in the Near Eastern myth, the Epic of Gilgamesh. On the other hand, Gorgons, whose gaze turns people into stones belong to the Greek mythical traditions. While these two monsters may seem far apart, scholars have proposed conceptual frameworks that support the iconographical connection between them. Building on these scholarships, I argue that Greek artists add a gendered layer into the Gorgon images in comparison with their Near Eastern predecessor. Through a detailed analysis of selected artworks, I first identify frontality and gaze as two crucial elements for Humbaba images. I then examine one of the earliest Gorgon images found in a Proto-Attic amphora and discuss its frontality and gaze as a continuation of Humbaba tradition. Finally, I situate Gorgon images in the local Greek context, addressing the patriarchy beneath adaptations.

Monsters are imaginary creatures that frequently appear in ancient mythologies. As the oldest known mythical tale in history, The Epic of Gilgamesh depicts Humbaba, a guardian monster whom two Mesopotamian heroes, Gilgamesh and Enkidu, slay.1 This story was widely represented in the Mesopotamian visual culture and beyond, inspiring the iconography of Gorgons later in ancient Greece. Gorgons are dreadful monsters who can turn anyone looking at them into stones. In Greek mythology, a young hero called Perseus embarks on a journey to decapitate a Gorgon.

As the only mortal among her sisters, Medusa becomes the target, whom Perseus successfully kills in order to complete his quest.2 Beyond the similarities between mythical tales, scholars have long recognized the artistic connection between Humbaba and Gorgon images. Based on these existing literature, I identify three stages of iconographical development. First, the visual representation of Humbaba emerged in Mesopotamia. Then, the Puno-Phoecian production of masks illustrates the intermediate stage of transmission. Finally, Greek artists in the Orientalizing Period transformed Humbaba into Gorgons. For the first stage, I will examine a terracotta plaque from Nippur (figure 1) and a cylinder seal (figure 2), both of which date back to the late third and early second millennium BCE. Through these two examples, I will identify two defining features of the Humbaba images: frontality and gaze. I then proceed to analyze a Proto-Attic amphora from Eleusis (figure 3), one of the first unambiguous representations of Gorgons dating back to 670 BCE. I will situate the amphora in the Orientalizing context and discuss how frontality and gaze manifest themselves with local adaptations. By tracing this chronology of development, I conclude that Greek Gorgons are the transformed Humbaba with a patriarchal undertone.

Conceptual Background 1 Stephanie Dalley, trans., Myths from Mesopotamia: Creation, The Flood, Gilgamesh, and Others (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 77.

2 Stephen R. Wilk, Medusa: Solving The Mystery of The Gorgon (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 19-22.

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Gorgon images emerged 1000 years after the decline of Humbaba iconography. In order to explain such continuity, scholars have proposed the following conceptual frameworks. The first framework concerns Humbaba plaques and masks produced exclusively at the end of the third millennium and the beginning of the second millennium BCE. According to archaeological records, the production of these artifacts ceased in later times.3 In the Late Bronze Age, we can still find plaques and masks resembling Humbaba in the Puno-Phoecian area. Unlikely to have remained in use for a thousand years in between, the Humbaba iconography is believed to take the following two routes for transmission: northern Syrian art and temple decorations in Mesopotamia.4 Furthermore, Greece and the Near East were closely connected in the early first millennium BCE, namely during the Orientalizing period (710 – 600 BCE). To explain the emergence of oriental influence in Greek art, Markoe investigates the distribution of art works along the Aegean trade routes between the Phoenician mainland and Athens.

With his study, Markoe establishes that the Attic schools in Athens were under a second-hand influence of trade; although the oriental imports in Athens were scarce, Crete served as an intermediary and passed on the Near Eastern influence to mainland Greece.5 Thus, the complex trade network led to the artistic exchange across the Mediterranean Sea. Since Gorgon images emerged in this intercultural context, they continued the Near Eastern Humbaba tradition despite the large temporal and spatial gap.

The Frontality of Humbaba Before analyzing specific examples, I shall first discuss the definition of Humbaba images. Graff addresses the historical con3 Sarah B. Graff, “Humbaba/Huwawa” (PhD diss., New York University, 2012), 182.

4 Ibid.

5 Glenn Markoe, “The Emergence of Orientalizing in Greek Art: Some Observations on the Interchange Between Greeks and Phoenicians in the Eight and Seventh Centuries B.C,” Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research.

301, no. 1 (February 1996): 54-60.

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Figure 1 is a small terracotta plaque (8.6 x 7.4 cm) excavated from Ur III levels (2112 – 2004 BCE) at Nippur. It is the earliest plaque that is securely identified as Humbaba.9 The plaque presents an isolated frontal face with wrinkles and a grimacing mouth, adhering to the definition of an iconic image. In addition, the artist emphasizes Humbaba’s eyebrows, which in turn exaggerates the large round eyes.

While the isolated head refers to the death of Humbaba, its visual design implies Humbaba’s powerful status. The disembodied head alludes to the plot of the epic: “And Gilgamesh … the head of Humbaba.”10 Although the verb is missing, we can still infer Gilgamesh’s action as decapitation. Implicitly, the disembodiment represents the death of Humbaba. However, the visual elements demonstrate power instead of vulnerability. The frontal position suggests an active engagement with the audience. The large round eyes and the grimacing mouth enhance this effect. Furthermore, the special attention to the mouth alludes to Humbaba’s supernatural power: “Humbaba, whose shout is the flood weapon, whose utterance is fire and whose breath is death.” 11 The text associates destructive events to the action of shout, utterance and breath, highlighting the demonic power of Humbaba’s mouth. Therefore, the portrayal of Humbaba’s mouth evokes its supernatural power.

The Gaze of Humbaba I will now turn to a cylinder seal (Figure 2) from the Old Babylonian period (2000 – 1600 BCE), which is a hematite seal (2.65 x 1.3 cm) presenting three figures. The king stands in the middle of the three figures, signified by his long beard and the idealized shape of muscles. The king also holds a mace in one of his hands and forms a firm fist with the other. In front of the king is the war-goddess Ishtar, identified by the weapons she carries. While the king is facing Ishtar and stepping towards her, Ishtar turns her body towards the viewer. Standing behind the king is the goddess Lama. She wears an elaborated long dress, raising her hand in front of her face to indicate her interceding status. The image of Humbaba appears as an iconic image between the king and Ishtar, with oversized eyes and a grimacing mouth. Just like Ishtar, its frontal gaze stares directly at the viewer.

The medium of cylinder seal intensifies the destructive undertone of the frontal gaze of both Humbaba and Ishtar. In Old 6 Graff, “Humbaba/Humwawa,” 1-16.

7 Ibid, 17.

8 Ibid, 18.

9 Ibid, 28.

10 Dalley, Myths, 77.

11 Ibid, 63.

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Babylonian seals, “the identifying inscription of the seal owner and his father also names the deity of whom the seal owner considered himself a devotee,” meaning that the seal is an extension of self-identity with an attempt to attain divine associations.12 In this light, the royal figure implies a powerful social status, and the juxtaposition between the frontal Ishtar and the frontal Humbaba highlights the seal owner’s desire to evoke power. In addition, Ishtar’s exaggerated eyes and mouth resembles the facial features of an iconic Humbaba: the gaze from Humbaba allies with the gaze of Ishtar, blurring the boundaries between these two identities. The supernatural power of Humbaba is thus associated with the goddess Ishtar. Given the relationship of the seal to the owner, we can conclude that the visual representation of power permeates into the seal owner’s personal life, which in turn boosts the power concentrated in the visual scene.

Early Gorgons in Archeological and Cultural Contexts Having examined frontality and gaze as defining features of the iconic Humbaba, I shall now discuss the visual representation of Gorgons in the Orientalizing Greek art. Typically, Gorgons have “wide-open, staring eyes, and a broad grinning or snarling mouth filled with prominent teeth, usually with both upper and lower fangs.”13 The description of facial features shares a strong parallel with our definition of iconic Humbaba figures. One important site for the early Gorgon art is the Sanctuary of Orthia at Sparta.

In particular, Carter argues that the furrow masks found in Orthia preserved the identity of Humbaba as the demonic adversary of a hero.14 Building on these connections, Graff analyzes a wide range of masks from the late Bronze Age to the fifth and fourth century BCE.15 Through a detailed analysis of visual features, she concludes that no matter how closely some of the Phoenician, Punic and even Spartan masks may resemble Humbaba, their context alone would have transformed the meaning of the imagery so that it reflected specific local associations rather than its original significance in its much earlier, Mesopotamian place of origin.16 If we examine the local specificity in terms of ancient Greek culture, we notice an enthusiasm for monster images in Dark Age Greece (1100 – 700 BCE). Specifically, Langdon explains the emergence of the monster culture in the Early Iron Age from experiential, taxonomic and ritualistic viewpoints.17 Monsters were part of the worldly experience for ancient Greek people. Traveling by sea, which was full of peril, ancient Greeks viewed monsters as 12 Edith Porada, “Why cylinder seals? Engraved Cylindrical Seal Stones of the Ancient Near East, Fourth to First Millennium B.C.,” Art Bulletin 75, (December 1993): 571.

13 Wilk, Medusa, 31.

14 Jane B. Carter, “The Masks of Ortheia,” American Journal of Archeology 91, no. 3 (July 1987): 365-366.

15 Graff, “Humbaba/Humwawa,” 177-183.

16 Ibid, 182.

17 Susan Langdon, Art and Identity in Dark Age Greece, 1100-700 B.C.E. (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2008): 119.

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College the manifestation of these anxieties against the insecure world.18 There was also physical evidence such as Paleolithic skulls and long-bones testifying to the existence of monsters. In an attempt to rationalize the world, people began to employ natural philosophy to associate monsters with oral theogonies, placing them in the primordial time.19 Furthermore, there was a correlation between monsters and social taboos, rendering them effective symbols in rituals. Specifically, Langdon discusses the role of young heroes in forming the social order — the defeat of monsters symbolizes the restoration of order. In this light, the value of monstrous images was to teach children these social values through heroic rites.

20 Therefore, the emergence of Gorgon images in Orientalizing Greece was locally motivated.

An Early Gorgon Image: Proto-attic Amphora from Eleusis By combining both the archeological evidence and the cultural background, I have shown the historical context in which Gorgon images emerged. I shall now turn my attention to one of the first unambiguous representations of Gorgons: a Proto-Attic amphora from Eleusis cemetery (Figure 3).21 The amphora is 1.42 meters in height, dating back to 670 BCE.22 Figure 3 shows the image of Gorgons in the body of the amphora, depicting the decapitated corpse of Medusa surrounded by curved flowers. Medusa’s two sisters appear by the side of her corpse. The torsos of the Gorgon sisters resemble the shape of cauldrons with snake and lion heads as attachments.23 While the body of the Gorgon sisters are in profile, their heads are at frontal positions with their eyes, mouths and teeth emphasized, adhering to the iconography of the Near Eastern Humbaba.

The visual presentation of the Gorgon sisters illustrates the interregional influence in the Orientalizing period. Scholars have used the term “Orientalizing” since 1870 specifically to describe Greek art influenced by Near Eastern models.24 For example, cauldrons and cauldron attachments “were produced in workshops all over the eastern Mediterranean and Near East world.”25 However, it is difficult to label these cauldron attachments for their places of origin by archaeological records.26 Therefore, we need to be careful when we identify certain elements as the Near Eastern influence. Nonetheless, the Gorgon sisters are the manifestation of the interconnected world in the Orientalizing period. Thus, we can view the emergence of the Gorgon imagery as the product of intercultural exchange.

The Frontality of Gorgons 18 Ibid, 120.

19 Ibid, 121.

20 Ibid, 122-123.

21 Graff, “Demons, Monsters and Magic,” 265.

22 Walter Burkert, “The Worlds of Odysseus” in Assyria to Iberia : At the Dawn of the Classical Age, eds. Joan Aruz, Sarah B Graff, and Yelena Rakic (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2014), 255.

23 Graff, “Demons, Monsters and Magic,” 265.

24 Ann C. Gunter, Greek Art and The Orient (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009): 64.

25 Graff, “Humbaba/Humwawa”, 190.

26 Ibid.

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As a continuation of the Humbaba tradition, the head of the Gorgon possesses mortifying power. In Iliad Book 5, while Athena is dressing herself for battle, the text refers to the power of Gorgon, “thereon is set the head of the grim gigantic Gorgon / a thing of fear and horror, portent of Zeus of the aegis.”27 The power of the head is more specifically mentioned in Book 11, “circled in the midst of all was the blank-eyed face of the Gorgon / with her stare of horror, and Fear was inscribed upon it, and Terror.”28 In this case, the artist highlights the blank-eyed face of Gorgon and her stare of horror. While The Epic of Gilgamesh focuses on the destructive power of Humbaba’s mouth, Homer’s Iliad shifts to the eyes as the source of power. I shall now elaborate these similarities and compare the image of Gorgons with the image of Humbaba.

Just like Humbaba, the faces of Gorgons are at frontal positions, directly engaging with the audience to evoke the death scene of Medusa. Since the body of Medusa lies headlessly on the side, the living Gorgons assume the role of their dead sisters confronting the viewer through the power of their eyes, resembling Medusa’s confrontation against Perseus. The viewer, in turn, becomes Perseus, whom the Gorgon sisters confront after slaying Medusa. The power dynamics between the viewer and the Gorgons are established through the frontal face.

Furthermore, Gorgons’ frontal heads heighten the sense of terror delivered in the mythology. The frontal heads are grotesque. In particular, Graff argues that the heads can be seen to represent an imaginative composite combining the overall shape of a cauldron, the profile of the projecting cauldron attachments at the rim of the vessel, and – instead of the blank, smooth surface of a bronze cauldron – elements taken from the dramatic frontal view of a griffin’s head cauldron attachment, enlarged to fill the entire surface.29 On the other hand, Gorgons’ bodies are in profile, holding a posture in action. Unlike the beheaded Medusa, whose legs are covered by the dress, the legs of the Gorgon sisters are exposed, revealing a sexual allure. Just like Gorgons’ frontal heads, the sexual allure is also directed towards the viewer. The presentation in profile further suggests that the sexual allure is an ongoing action, which constitutes part of their plan for revenge. Thus, the exposed legs intensify the frontal engagement with the viewer through the head. Gorgon images arouse fear through a combination of profile and frontal positions.

The Gaze of Gorgons Gorgons’ petrifying gaze in the mythical tradition contradicts their visual presentations in the amphora, further enhancing the power. According to the mythical tales, the Gorgons’ gaze is threatening and terrifying; as soon as the person returns her gaze, 27 Homer. “The Iliad,” in The Medusa Reader, eds. Marjorie Garber and Nancy J. Vickers (New York: Routledge, 2003), 9.

28 Ibid, 10.

29 Graff, “Humbaba/Humwawa,” 187.

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College the Gorgon will petrify them. Therefore, the gaze from Gorgons “does not simply challenge your own status as subject of the gaze, but robs you of it.”30 In other words, the legends around Gorgons would compel the viewer to look away from the image. On the other hand, once artists render Gorgons into an image, they become the object of the human gaze. The viewer is returning the gaze, a practice which these mythological monsters never allow. Therefore, we can see an extra layer of power. The visual depiction accomplishes what otherwise would not be available to the viewer: a direct contact with the Gorgons. By forcing the viewer to confront the Gorgons, the power of gaze is intensified.

Nevertheless, the gaze of the Gorgons reflects the triumph of the hero. On the side of the Gorgon sisters, Medusa lies headlessly. As the Gorgon sisters assume Medusa’s role confronting the viewer, their gaze is also the implied gaze from Medusa herself.

Despite the dreadful power their gaze possesses, ultimately, they are monsters defeated by a hero. When their gaze directly engages the viewer, they are searching for vengeance. When the viewer receives the gaze, he understands that they are merely defeated monsters. Instead, the viewer sees the young hero Perseus leaving the body of Medusa on the side of her Gorgon sisters.

Artistic Continuity between Humbaba and Gorgons The frontality and gaze are two crucial elements for Humbaba and Gorgon images. For both Humbaba and the Gorgon, the frontal position allows the artworks to form a direct contact with the viewer, whereas the gaze element delivers a sense of power towards anyone who sees the image. These commonalities support my argument that Gorgons were transformed versions of Humbaba, which emerged in the Orientalizing Greece. While the frontality and the gaze were still prominent elements in the Gorgon images, these two features underwent changes as well. In this section, I shall analyze the development of these two features regarding the historical continuity.

One significant development of the frontal head is the designed headdress for Gorgons. Graff points out that “neither Humbaba nor Pazuzu, Bes, Hathor, or any of the other sources suggested for the Gorgon’s iconography wear a headdress or coiffure composed of snakes.”31 Humbaba, Pazuzu are Near Eastern monsters, and Bes, Hathor are Egyptian deities. The absence of the Near Eastern and Egyptian inspirations suggests a local innovation. The hair of early Gorgons is usually “shown as a series of tight curled rings above the forehead.”32 Despite taking different forms, the headdress in the Eleusinian Gorgons is still consistent with the general trends.

Over time, this emphasis on hair developed into the snake-haired image of Medusa in Ovid’s Metamorphoses.33 Moreover, Gorgon’s gaze reveals patriarchal ideology in ancient Greek societies. Mack discusses the gender ideology beneath Medusa myths: “when she [Medusa] has the power of objectification, she is the topsy-turvy sign of patriarchy undone…when Per-

seus defeats her, laying hold of the power of objectification and securing himself the position of subject, the proper orders of patriarchy are restored.”34 The tremendous power a female monster possesses was an outlier of the social order, which is also reflected by the dynamics of the viewer returning the Gorgons’ gaze. As I have demonstrated above, the heroic defeats over monsters were educational for the children in ancient Greece to learn proper values. Therefore, the Perseus legend reinforces the patriarchal ideology as well. On the contrary, the gaze of Humbaba lacks these gender dynamics. The power of gaze becomes manifest by fixing it at the frontal position. In the epic, there are no female attributes associated with Humbaba. Therefore, the all-powerful gaze of Humbaba became the gendered gaze of the Gorgons.

Conclusion In conclusion, I have analyzed the function of frontality and gaze in both iconic Humbaba and early Gorgon images. Using a terracotta plaque from Ur III Nippur, I have illustrated the power within the disembodied frontal head in relation to the textual account in The Epic of Gilgamesh. Through an Old Babylon cylinder seal, I demonstrate the power of gaze fixed at the frontal position. These two late third and early second millennium examples are typical representations of iconic Humbaba images, which were transmitted through the second millennium via the following proposed routes: northern Syrian art and Mesopotamian temple decorations. By the end of the Bronze Age and Early Iron Age, there were a range of grotesque masks found throughout the Mediterranean Sea. Scholars believe that these masks possess similar artistic styles as the Humbaba images from the earlier time. An interest for monsters emerged in Dark Age Greece as a result of the maritime experience and the establishment of social order. Inspired by the Near Eastern artifacts, which Phoenician merchants brought to Greece via trade, ancient Greeks began to produce their own Gorgon images. One of the earliest Gorgon images is from a Proto-Attic amphora excavated at Eleusis cemetery. While the frontality remained a strong connection to the viewer, and the gaze still conveys tremendous power, there were also some local innovations. In particular, the headdress emerged as a new element of the head, which developed into the snake-haired feature of Medusa. Furthermore, the Perseus legend adds a gendered layer onto the gaze — the gaze is the reflection of the hero’s triumph which symbolizes the restoration of patriarchal orders. Thus, Gorgon images are a continuation of the Humbaba tradition in the Near East with locally adapted innovations.

34 Mack, “Facing Down Medusa,” 596.

30 Rainer Mack, “Facing Down Medusa (An aetiology of the gaze).” Art History 25, no. 5 (November 2002): 575.

31 Graff, “Humbaba/Humwawa,” 188.

32 Wilk, Medusa, 31.

33 Ibid,, 21.

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

Figure 3: The image of Gorgons in the body of a Proto-attic amphora, 670 BCE, Eleusis cemetery.

Works Cited

Figure 1: Terracotta plaque of a Humbaba head, Akkadian or later, Ur Royal Cemetery.

Figure 2: Cylinder seal with Humbaba head, Old Babylonian Period, purchased

by British Museum.

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Aruz, Joan, Sarah B Graff, and Yelena Rakic, eds. “Demons, Monsters and Magic.” In Assyria to Iberia : At the Dawn of the Classical Age, 263-271. New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2014.

Burket, Walter. “The Worlds of Odysseus.” In Assyria to Iberia : At the Dawn of the Classical Age, edited by Joan Aruz, Sarah B Graff, and Yelena Rakic, 263-271. New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2014.

Carter, Jane B. “The Masks of Ortheia.” American Journal of Archaeology 91, no. 3 (July 1987): 355-383.

Dalley, Stephanie, trans. Myths from Mesopotamia: Creation, The Flood, Gilgamesh, and Others. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008.

Graff, Sarah B. “Humbaba/Huwawa.” PhD diss., New York University, 2012.

Gunter, Ann Clyburn. Greek Art and the Orient. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009.

Hesoid. “Theogeny.” In The Medusa Reader, edited by Marjorie Garber and Nancy J. Vickers, 11-13. New York: Routledge, 2003.

Homer. “The Iliad.” In The Medusa Reader, edited by Marjorie Garber and Nancy J. Vickers, 9-10. New York: Routledge, 2003.

Langdon, Susan. Art and Identity in Dark Age Greece, 1100-700 B.C.E. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2008.

Mack, Rainer. “Facing Down Medusa (An aetiology of the gaze).”

Art History 25, no. 5 (November 2002): 571-604.

Markoe, Glenn. 1996. “The Emergence of Orientalizing in Greek Art: Some Observations on the Interchange between Greeks and Phoenicians in the Eighth and Seventh Centuries B. C.” Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research 301, no. 1 (February 1996): 47-67.

Porada, Edith. 1993. “Why cylinder seals? Engraved Cylindrical Seal Stones of the Ancient Near East, Fourth to First Millennium B.C.” Art Bulletin 75, (December 1993): 563582.

Wilk, Stephen R. Medusa: Solving The Mystery of The Gorgon.

Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000.

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The Functionality of Neronian Allusion in Illuminating Trimalchio’s Psyche A Textual Analysis of the Cena Trimalchionis Jack Curley, Colgate University, Class of 2021

Abstract

Gaius Pompeius Trimalchio Maecenatianus, an ostentatiously rich and arrogant slave-turned-businessman, is one of the most eccentric characters in the history of fiction. His wild and pompous antics have inspired a great deal of literature — most notably F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, which had the working titles of Trimalchio and Trimalchio in West Egg — and have fascinated generations of readers and scholars alike. This paper contextualizes Trimalchio in the historical period in which Petronius wrote the Satyrica in order to delve into the underlying mechanisms of the character’s narcissism and ego-centrism.

With respect to Trimalchio, allusion — not literary parallel — to the Roman emperor Nero is the principal literary device that Petronius employs, drawing upon the socio-political happenings of contemporary Rome to animate and enliven the host of the Satyrica’s notorious banquet.

From his introduction into the narrative, Trimalchio presents an intricate literary puzzle — a dispositional maze requiring the reader to examine the Satyrica’s complexities to reach its center.

The character’s humble origins, extravagant wealth, and bombastic ostentation pose an inherent hermeneutical problem to the audience, which forces us to evaluate the cultural context and nuanced writing of Petronius to better understand Trimalchio’s identity.

As a whole, the fragmentary remains of the Satyrica are some of the most compelling selections of satirical fiction in history, both subverting the elite and established tradition of Classical literature and offering poignant, albeit possibly inflated, insights into Roman culture under Neronian rule.1 The novel’s authorship and date of composition have been much debated. However, on account of the many historical, linguistic, and literary connections to the Neronian period, the majority of scholars agree with Kenneth Rose’s The Date and Author of the Satyricon, which argues that Petronius Arbiter, one of Nero’s many courtiers, wrote the work late into the reign of Nero.2 Minority opinions challenging this statement exist, though, and so the reader must maintain “at least a flicker of wariness and doubt” regarding the text’s origins.3 On account of the close association with the Neronian period, one may be inclined to interpret Petronius’ satirizing tone and innumerable allusions to Nero as underhanded socio-political commentary, lampooning the infamous emperor through Trimalchio. Despite the character’s similarities to the emperor, scholars such as Kirk Freudenberg and Caroline Vout have discouraged this approach because it limits not only the scope and purpose of the Satyrica’s allusions, but also the purpose of the novel as a 1 Froma Zeitlin, “Petronius as Paradox: Anarchy and Artistic Integrity,” Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association 102 (1971), 633-634; “For, as I hope to prove, the Satyricon is a radically anti-classical work, which, by its subversion and rejection of classical aesthetic theory with its attendant expectations, sets out to project a radically anti-classical world-view.”

2 Kenneth Rose, The Date and Author of the Satyricon (Leiden: Brill Publishers, 1971).

3 Gareth Schmeling, “Introduction,” In A Commentary on the Satyrica of Petronius (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), xiv.

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whole. Indeed, there is no evidence suggesting Petronius intended to satirize the emperor’s incredulous displays of excess. Rather, as Vout suggests, Nero is an integral component to the construction of Petronius’ narrative, revealing “the complex ways in which Neronian culture is constructed and deconstructed.”4 As such, with regard to the Cena Trimalchionis, I contend that Neronian allusion serves as a literary device for Petronius, illuminating the nature and psychological disposition of the novel’s most eccentric character, Trimalchio. Petronius presents Trimalchio as an egotistical narcissist, in addition to being over-indulgent and boastful, who is unable to acknowledge his own identity. By reveling in contemporary Roman culture, Petronius grounds the fictitious Trimlachio in reality.

Textual Analysis From the outset, the novel showcases Trimalchio as a man who not only celebrates his abundance of wealth, but flaunts it for the world to see. The curious host of the Cena is initially seen playing ball, presumably a game of trigon, and a number of slaves serving various purposes attend him.5 Though the depiction is brief, it displays the degree to which Trimalchio lives in luxury, highlighting a principal quality that Nero valued: waste. Nero believed that the best way to enjoy one’s wealth was through “riotous extravagance,” that “the fine and genuinely magnificent gentlemen wasted and squandered.”6 Indeed, in section 27 of the Satyrica, one of the slaves attending Trimalchio carries a follem plenum [full bag] for the purpose of resupplying the players with balls, because Trimalchio cannot bear to play with any that had merely terram contiger4 Kirk Freudenberg, “Petronius, Realism, Nero,” in The Cambridge Companion to the Age of Nero, ed. S. Bartsch & C. Littlewood (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press: 2017), 107-20; Caroline Vout, “The Satyrica and Neronian Culture,” in Petronius: A Handbook, ed. J. Prag & I. Repath (Hoboken: Wiley-Blackwell: 2009), 107.

5 Schmeling, 86; confirms that the game being played is, in fact, trigon, though the game is not mentioned by name in the Satyrica.

6 Suetonius, Life of Nero, 30.

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College at [touched the ground].7 A similar instance of lavish extravagance appears in the following section, when Trimalchio and company are relaxing in the bath. Disregarding the scene’s contents, the setting alone — a Roman bath-house — further develops the motif of waste, as “the baths functioned … as places where the rich went deliberately to flaunt, show off, and thereby reinforce their claim to social superiority.”8 In the text, three iatraliptae [rubbing physicians] are attending the master, squabbling with one another and drinking Falernian wine directly in front of him. In the course of their argument, though, the masseurs plurimum rixantes effunderent [poured out very much (wine) while quarrelling].9 Rather than scold them, Trimalchio wallows in his attendants’ wastefulness, taking the opportunity to transform their mistake into a libation for himself.10 These episodes are effectively an allusion to Neronian sentiments related to grandeur and the upper-class. Trimalchio is satisfied only when he has exceeded the expectation of an activity, whether that of playing ball or relaxing in the steam-room, and has thus exhibited himself to the public. Even before the Cena begins, an egotistical desire to present his status and wealth to all around him motivates Trimalchio’s actions, exuding Neronian lavishness.

Immediately following the bathhouse scene, Petronius makes the first concrete allusion to Nero by highlighting Trimalchio’s inflated self-image. Upon exiting the bath, Trimalchio lecticae impositus est praecedentibus phaleratis cursoribus quattor et chiramaxio, in quo deliciae eius vehebantur, puer vetulus, lippus, domino Trimalchio deformior [was placed on a litter, with four decorated runners and a hand cart preceding, on which his darling was being carried, an elderly boy, bleary-eyed, uglier than his master Trimalchio].11 Moreover, following just behind Trimalchio and his procession is a musician, who quietly plays the pipes into Trimalchio’s ear toto itinere [during the whole journey].12 Caroline Vout observed that this scene and its language — particularly the use of phaleratis cursoribus quattor — closely resemble the triumph Nero held for himself upon returning to Rome from his athletic victories in Greece 67 CE.13 Strengthening this connection, Cassius Dio relates that a lyre-player named Diodorus also accompanied Nero during his quasi-triumph, just as a piper accompanies Trimalchio.14 Although Trimalchio triumphs on his way home 7 Petronius, Satyrica, § 27. All translations of Petronius’ text are my own.

8 Garrett Fagan, Bathing in Public in the Roman World (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1999), 215.

9 Petronius, Satyrica, § 28; Schmeling, 91; Schmeling remarks that such activity in the bath-house was generally perceived as impolite and ill-advised, and that drinking Falernian wine in the baths was only done by equites. Fighting in a confined, public space is sure to draw unwanted attention, and may cause the guilty party to get kicked out of the bath-house.

10 Ibid; propin is a latin contraction of the Greek infinitive προπιεῖν, meaning ‘to drink to someone’s health.’ It is unsurprising how “Greek” the Cena and its preceding episodes are, given they take place in Magna Graecia.

11 Petronius, Satyrica, § 28.

12 Ibid.

13 Vout, 105; Schmeling, 92; Schmeling relates that certain scholarship sees a parallel with Roman funeral processions, instead of triumphs, as Trimalchio leaves the baths. The Cena has been read by one such scholar as a katabasis, a descent into the Underworld, and the Cena culminates with the description of Trimalchio’s tomb and a mock funeral. For more information, see John Bodel, “Trimalchio’s Underworld” in The Search for the Ancient Novel, ed. James Tatum (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins, 1994), 237-59.

14 Cassius Dio, Epitome, 63.20.

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from the bath-house, the procession likely celebrates his athletic endeavors on the trigon court. It is important to note this relation of triumphs because of its subversion of the Roman institution.

Neither Trimalchio nor Nero have won glory for themselves or the empire on the battlefield; they triumph instead to parade their egos.

Ironically, neither figure deserves to celebrate this false glory, as the athletic praise given to both men is likely unwarranted.

Indeed, Suetonius details that, while driving a ten-horse chariot in the aforementioned Olympic games, Nero “was thrown from the car and put back in it,” but was “unable to hold out and gave up before the end of the course.”15 Nevertheless, because of his status as emperor, officials awarded Nero the crown despite actually losing the competition. In a similar vein, Encolpius recognizes an unusual scoring method used in Trimalchio’s trigon game, giving Trimalchio points when the balls in terram decidebant, “were dropping onto the ground,” thereby rewarding his poor play.16 In essence, both Nero and Trimalchio are fakes, undeserving to engage in the sacred institution of triumph on the basis of athletic merit, nevermind military merit. They utilize status or wealth to publicly celebrate unfounded glory, thus exposing their own narcissism. Therefore, the allusion to Nero’s victory procession is a clever literary mechanism that underscores and emphasizes Trimalchio’s own vanity. Furthermore, it establishes Trimalchio’s character as it relates to contemporary Roman culture, particularly Nero’s misappropriation of the triumph, casting him as an egotistical misfit of Roman society.

The following section, where Encolpius encounters autobiographical wall paintings in the entrance to Trimalchio’s home, builds upon this triumphal motif and its demonstration of Trimalchio’s inflated sense of self. Shelley Hales has linked these sprawling self-portraits to the “monumental reliefs on triumphal arches,” further fortifying Trimalchio’s connection with Nero’s misappropriations and pompous boastings.17 After being frightened by the Cave Canem portrait, Encolpius is unable to peel his eyes from the wall frescoes that depict Trimalchio capillatus caduceum tenebat Minervaque ducente Romam intrabat [long-haired Trimalchio (who) was holding a Caduceus and was entering Rome with Minerva leading].18 The ekphrastic depiction has a distinctly triumphal connotation, as Trimalchio does not simply enter the city, but Minerva — the goddess of wisdom, medicine, and the arts, no less — leads him in, while he holds the Caduceus, the staff of Mercury.

Though he is a young slave who has obviously not yet begun his professional career, the painting portrays the child Trimalchio returning home from some legendary battle, glorifying him as if a 15 Suetonius, Life of Nero, 24.

16 Petronius, Satyrica, § 27.

17 Shelley Hales, “Freedmen’s Cribs: Domestic Vulgarity on the Bay of Naples” in Petronius: A Handbook, ed. J. Prag & I. Repath (Hoboken: Wiley-Blackwell, 2009), 161-81.

18 Petronius, Saytrica, § 29; Schmeling, 95; Schmeling notes that the placement of the wall paintings can be interpreted as an entrance into the underworld because the dog portrait represents Cerberus, in accordance with Bodel’s aforementioned interpretation of the Cena. Intensifying this approach is the realization that Trimalchio’s house is a quasi-labyrinth, designed to perplex and mystify its guests. Fittingly, Trimalchio’s house chef is named Daedalus, sharing the name with the Cretan architect responsible for designing the labyrinth for King Minos.

This labyrinth motif draws parallels to Virgil’s Aeneid Book VI, as Aeneas admires the Daedalean door at the entrance of the temple of Apollo at Cumae.

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College hero in the Iliad or Odyssey. Furthermore, Trimalchio undergoes a deification in the final painting, when levatum mento in tribunal excelsum Mercurius rapiebat [Mercury lifted him up by the chin and was dragging him to his official throne].19 On this throne, Trimalchio is even attended by Fortune and the three fates who are aurea pensa torquentes [spinning the golden threads] of humanity, thus portraying him as a powerful deity who influences the course of human life.20 Again, these triumphal themes that permeate the entrance of the house further establish the link to the Neronian misappropriation of the triumph, all the while idealizing and consecrating Trimalchio. That these self-glorifying paintings are some of the first things a visitor encounters when entering Trimalchio’s house speaks volumes about his narcissism.

Soon thereafter, Encolpius encounters a large cupboard containing a small shrine in which Trimalchio keeps a dedication to the household gods and Venus. In addition to these modest offerings, there is a non pusilla [not petty] golden box in qua barbam ipsius conditam esse [in which his own (Trimalchio’s) beard had been placed].21 Such a display is overtly egotistical, both exemplifying Trimalchio’s celebration of self and subordinating the Lares and the goddess Venus to him. The “not petty golden box” seems far more impressive and expensive than either of the adjacent idols and once again is a Neronian display of needless excess. Notably, as Suetonius reports, Nero also regarded his facial hair as an object of divinity. He ritualistically shaved his first beard to the “accompaniment of a splendid sacrifice of bullocks,” placed it in an ornamented golden box, just as Trimalchio does, and dedicated it on the Capitoline.22 Therefore, Petronius once again utilizes allusion to the conceited emperor as a mechanism for highlighting Trimalchio’s primary characteristic of vanity. Trimalchio’s opinion of himself is as inflated as Nero’s, whose conceit was so extensive that, in addition to instituting an annual competition named after himself (the Neronia), he frequently indulged in public music, theatre, and poetry performances, in which the audience was forbidden to leave under any circumstances — even for childbirth or severe medical emergencies (Life of Nero 12, 21, 23).23 While it is important to note that Edward Champlin characterizes Nero as a serious artist with legitimate aspirations for advancing the musical and theatrical development of Rome, the emperor’s egomania nevertheless pervaded these endeavours.24 Moreover, the Cena itself is replete with excess, frivolity, and celebrations of Trimalchio’s ego. Trimalchio’s fashionably late en19 Petronius, Satyrica, § 29; Schmeling, 99-100; Petronius is possibly alluding to Horace’s life here, who said that Mercury saved him at the battle of Philippi, just as Mercury saves Trimalchio from poverty.

20 Petronius, Satyrica, § 29; Schmeling, 100: The weaving of golden threads was a good omen, while that of dark threads was a bad omen. Schmeling also notes that Seneca, Apoc., 4. 1 v. 7 connected similar threads with the inauguration of Nero’s golden reign.

21 Petronius, Satyrica, § 29; Schmeling, 100; The dispositio barbae was a standard Roman puberty rite for boys. Here, in the Cena, it is an imitation of imperial practice, as both Nero and Domitian dedicate their first beards in ostentatious golden boxes. Trimalchio also seems to be participating in a dedication of sorts, however, it is important to note that Trimalchio’s golden box commands the viewer’s attention, not the statue of Venus or the Lares.

22 Suetonius, Life of Nero, 12.

23 Suetonius, Life of Nero, 12; 21; 23.

24 Edward Champlin, Nero (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2003).

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trance to the feast is pompous and overdone, as his bearers bring him to his guests with the accompaniment of the household band, all the while he picks at his teeth with a pinna argentea [silver feather] and displays his right arm — on which lies a gold bracelet and ivy circlet with luminous metals — for all his guests to see.25 Most telling of Trimalchio’s ego, however, is the manner in which he introduces himself to the crowd, proclaiming: amici, nondum mihi suave erat in triclinium venire, sed ne diutius absentivus morae vobis essem, omnem voluptatem mihi negavi. Permittitis tamen finiri lusum [Friends, it was not yet agreeable for me to come into the dining room, but in order that I would not be a longer absent delay for you, I denied all satisfaction for myself. You will, however, permit the game to be finished].26 In accordance with the aforementioned quasi-triumph and wall-paintings, Trimalchio’s tone here is abundantly self-important since he addresses his guests as if he were bestowing a great gift upon them with his presence. He is the focus of every clause in the first sentence, amplifying his conceited attitude and relaying a quality of annoyance by being summoned, as if his guests had taken him away from his daily pleasures. Furthermore, he commands those seated at the dinner table to allow him to finish his game of dice — a pastime which several Julio-Claudian emperors enjoyed — like a tyrant.27 Trimalchio’s guests are not even worthy of his attention, so he continues his games of gambling. Throughout the course of the dinner, Trimalchio speaks and acts in a similarly egotistical manner, frequently making himself the sole subject of discussion, whether in regard to the food being served, his wife, or his career as a businessman. Nero acts in an especially kindred manner throughout Suetonius’s account of the emperor, putting on a show wherever he goes and ensuring that he is the center of attention at all times.

As Edward Champlin notes when commenting upon Nero’s unprecedented regulation of and participation in the 211th Olympic games, “Nero did not go to Greece to see the sights: he went to be seen.”28 This egomania culminates in the mantra he repeated while appointing men to office: “you know what my needs are,” similar in its self-centered character to the greeting Trimalchio gives to his guests.29 Further still, the driving mechanism of the dinner (the fact that the Cena is largely scripted and thus play-acted) discretely promotes Trimalchio’s egocentrism and further relates the character to Neronian cultural norms. Kirk Freudenberg comments extensively on this relationship, arguing that Petronius presents the characters in the Cena as “competing in party design, seeking to dazzle and win affection with their illusions, and playacting their way from one disaster to the next.”30 These scripted marvels were “prominent features of Nero’s own playacting,” and the common, everyday performers of “every bedazzled backwater” of Neronian Rome.31 A principal example of this ‘scriptedness’ can be found 25 Petronius, Satyrica, § 32; 33; Schmeling, 116: Toothpicks in the ancient world were typically made of wood, though, they could be more ornate, as here, and be made of quills and/or fine metals.

26 Petronius, Satyrica, § 33.

27 Ibid, 117.

28 Champlin, 54.

29 Suetonius, Life of Nero, 32.

30 Freudenberg, 117-118.

31 Ibid.

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College in sections § 54-55, when puer … Trimalchionis delabor est [the slave (an acrobat) fell over onto Trimalchio].32 As Freudenberg notes, the scene bears a striking resemblance to a description of Nero in Suetonius, when an actor playing out the story of Icarus during a pyrrhic dance “fell close by the imperial couch and bespattered the emperor with his blood.”33 While Nero’s account seems happenstance, Trimalchio’s is obviously planned, as he uses it as a springboard for attention. The allusion to Nero, therefore, serves as a reminder of Trimalchio’s foundations in the Neronian culture of egotism, particularly through the enactment of a script that glorifies him, which fulfills his desire that everything revolves around him. Immediately after the fall, conclamavit familia, nec minus convivae, non propter hominem tam putidum [the household slaves cheered together, and not any less the guests, not on account of an acrobat so rotten] but because they could not bear the dinner ending in mourning for someone they did not care about.34 Trimalchio feeds on the reaction of the crowd, trying to draw grief and support from his applauders: ipse Trimalchio cum graviter ingemuisset superque brachium tanquam laesum incubuisset [when Trimalchio himself had wailed heavily and had leaned over his arm as if injured].35 Trimalchio continues the act for some time, milking the incident for recognition, “giving it a plot and meaning and putting himself at the center of attention.”36 This plot reaches its climax with an act of scripted beneficence: Trimalchio grants freedom to the slave, but only after he has begged each of the guests to intervene on his behalf.37 Trimalchio thereby not only makes himself the star of this miniature play, but also turns himself into an altruistic hero while flaunting his magnificence since ne quis posset dicere tantum virum esse a servo vulneratum [not anyone would be able to say that so great a man was injured by a slave].38 Such a statement presents us with an ultimate dichotomy, however, as Trimalchio, a freed slave from the Orient, seems to have forgotten his own origins as a misfit and outsider.

Conclusion By alluding to Nero and Neronian culture throughout the Cena, Petronius provides historical reference and counterpoint for Trimalchio’s overtly egocentric displays, which thus intensifies the character’s vividness and grants acute insight into his psyche. Vout emphasizes that these Neronian allusions “must be seen as integral rather than external to the representational field of which the Satyrica is part; not the answer to the text’s problems, but a means of getting inside its construction.”39 Particularly, as I have displayed 32 Petronius, Satyrica, § 54; Schmeling, 222; As Schmeling notes, it is possible that Petronius employs Horatian allusion in addition to Neronian allusion in this intricate passage, as several scholars have interpreted Trimalchio’s interaction with the acrobat as a literary allusion to the canopy collapsing in the Cena Nasidieni, from Horace, Satire, 2.8.71-2.

33 Suetonius, Life of Nero, 12.

34 Petronius, Satyrica, § 54.

35 Ibid.

36 Freudenberg, 114.

37 Schmeling, 222; It is important to note Petronius’ usage of the word catastropha in this scene, as it is a technical theatrical term used to describe the end of a play. It’s inclusion in the text cements the scene’s play-actedness.

38 Petronius, Satyrica, § 54.

39 Vout, 112.

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above, these allusions function as a means of getting inside the construction of Trimalchio’s character. Furthermore, throughout the Cena, this fundamental question faces the readers: what motivates Trimalchio’s egotistical behavior and incessant need to display his wealth? The constant allusion to Nero — whether in the form of triumphal imagery, falling acrobats, or the way in which Trimalchio wretchedly abuses his wife Fortunata in § 74 — aids our understanding of Trimalchio with respect to this question, as Petronius revels in the fact that both men are misfits, socially unfit for the Roman standards that precede them. Nero’s ‘misfittedness’ is apparent when comparing the emperor to his predecessors as he has no way of being militarily distinguished within society. Instead, he invents musical and poetic competitions for himself in order to become esteemed among the Roman people, even if he must bribe and cheat his way to victory.40 Likewise, Trimalchio is plainly not part of the Roman elite despite his immense wealth, evidenced by his lack of formal education and frequent butchering of tales from Greek and Roman literature, thus making him a pretender.41 Like Nero, Trimalchio’s ceaseless boasting and egotistical behavior are born out of a sense of inadequacy and insecurity because the former slave is unable to come to terms with his own identity, his status as a freedman.

40 Suetonius, Life of Nero, 23.

41 In particular, see Satyrica, § 47; § 50; §59.

Works Cited

Bodel, John. “Trimalchio’s Underworld.” In The Search for the Ancient Novel, edited by James Tatum, 237-59. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins, 1994.

Champlin, Edward. Nero. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2003.

Dio, Lucius Cassius. “Epitome of Book 63,” in Roman History, translated by Earnest Cary, 173-219. Cambridge, Harvard University Press, 1925.

Fagan, Garrett. Bathing in Public in the Roman World. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1999.

Freudenberg, Kirk. “Petronius, Realism, Nero.” in The Cambridge Companion to the Age of Nero, edited by S. Bartsch & C. Littlewood, 107-20. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017.

Hales, Shelley. “Freedmen’s Cribs: Domestic Vulgarity on the Bay of Naples” in Petronius: A Handbook, edited by J. Prag & I. Repath, 161-81. Hoboken: Wiley-Blackwell, 2009.

Rose, Kenneth. The Date and Author of the Satyricon. Leiden: Brill Publishers, 1971.

Schmeling, Gareth. A Commentary on the Satyrica of Petronius.

Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016.

Severy-Hoven, Beth. The Satyrica of Petronius: An Intermediate Reader With Commentary and Guided Review. Norman: The University of Oklahoma Press, 2014.

Suetonius. “The Life of Nero.” In Lives of the Twelve Caesars.

Loeb Classical Library, 1914.

Vout, Caroline. “The Satyrica and Neronian Culture.” In Petronius: A Handbook, edited by J. Prag & I. Repath, 101-14.

Hoboken: Wiley-Blackwell, 2009.

Zeitlin, Froma. “Petronius as Paradox: Anarchy and Artistic Integrity.” In Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association 102. 631-84. 1971

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Melior Pietate Fideque Hannibal as Aeneas in Silius Italicus’s Punica

Dante Minutillo, Harvard University, Class of 2024

Abstract

Many have dismissed Silius Italicus’s Punica as a derivative sequel to the Aeneid with nothing interesting to examine. But Silius’s echoes of Vergil are sometimes more subtle than they would first appear. In many situations, he presents Hannibal as an Aeneas-like figure, but with several key differences. He highlights these differences in order to argue that heroism should be defined by one’s moral values, rather than just one’s prowess in war.

“There is hardly an episode or a simile in the entire Aeneid which Silius does not borrow — and spoil. Scipio, like Aeneas, represents Rome; Hannibal, like Turnus, represents the enemy.”1 With this description, classicist Moses Hadas sums up the widely-held view of Silius Italicus’s Punica: a second-rate poem by a mediocre author who copies the best scenes of Vergil’s Aeneid without adding anything interesting of his own. While it is true that the Punica, a Flavian epic on the Second Punic War, borrows heavily from the Aeneid, Silius’s interactions with his predecessor are more subtle than Hadas would lead one to believe. Though Hannibal does play a similar role to Turnus, Silius often draws parallels with Aeneas, or even portrays Hannibal as a blend of the two. By associating Hannibal so closely with the archetypal Roman hero, Silius actually brings out their differences all the more sharply.

This subtle interplay with his model allows Silius to redefine the traditional conception of an epic hero in a uniquely Roman way. To the Greeks, a hero (ἥρως) did not need to be morally righteous, and there are many instances where even figures who come across very negatively in the literary tradition receive hero-worship in their native city. Pausanias tells us that “even at the present day hero-sacrifice is offered” at Elis to Augeas, a king who double-crossed Heracles and later fought a war against him.2 The most extreme example of a villainous “hero” is Cleomedes of Astypalaea, who killed an opponent in a boxing match, attacked and destroyed a school of about 60 children, and hid in a chest to escape the wrath of his people. When the people opened the chest, he was nowhere to be found, and the oracle said that he was the “last of the heroes” (ὕστατος ἡρώων, in Pausanias’s version) and no longer mortal.3 Silius, however, builds a very different definition of heroism in his poem. By portraying Hannibal as Aeneas-like in actions, but Turnus-like in character and motivation, he highlights the moral of his epic: what distinguishes a hero is not individual might or military prowess, but virtues of loyalty (to family, country, and the gods), leadership, discipline, and forward-looking vision.

Silius begins to develop the Aeneas-Turnus dichotomy during Hannibal’s siege of Saguntum in the first two books of the epic, 1 Hadas, History of Latin Literature, 269.

2 The quote is from Description of Greece 5.4.2; his story is given starting at 5.1.9. All translations and texts are from the Loeb editions unless otherwise stated.

3 Paus. 6.9.6ff.; Plutarch, Life of Romulus 28.4ff.

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manipulating both the Aeneid and his other model, Livy’s Ab Urbe Condita. When he first describes the site of Saguntum, he tells a multi-layered origin story. He suggests that the city was founded

by Hercules (Herculei [...] muri: Pun. 1.273), then expanded by two successive waves of immigration, one from the Greek island of Zacynthos, the other from the Rutulian capital of Ardea (Pun. 1.288-293). Silius repeatedly emphasizes all three parts of this story through the epithets he uses for the city and its peoples.4 In fact, he went out of his way to insert the tradition about Hercules, something which Livy, his chief model for the historical events, passes over.5 The Greek and Rutulian origin of the city parallels Aeneas’s two major enemies in the Aeneid — the Greeks at Troy in book 2, and the Rutulians in Italy in books 7-12. Immediately, this parallel sets up Hannibal as embodying the characteristics of Aeneas.

Meanwhile, Hercules’s patronage allows Silius to simultaneously position Hannibal in the role of the villainous Turnus. When Hannibal is about to take the city, Hercules “wept over the calamities of the stricken town; but he was helpless” (illacrimat fractae nequicquam casibus urbis: Pun. 2.476) and is consoled only by Fides personified, who promises to “prolong the renown of their death” (extendam leti decus: 2.511). This scene is a direct reference to a scene in Vergil’s Aeneid, where Hercules similarly “shed[s] useless tears” (lacrimas(que) effundit inanis: Aen. 10.465) at the upcoming death of Pallas at the hands of Turnus’s ally Mezentius, and Jupiter reminds him that virtue will “lengthen fame by deeds” (famam extendere factis: 10.468). The verbal echoes of illacrimat to lacrimas and extendam to extendere heighten the connection between these scenes. Thus, in the Saguntum episode, Hannibal is an Aeneas in military skill, but in his disrespect for the gods, he is a Turnus or a Mezentius at heart.

The ekphrasis of Hannibal’s shield in book 2 of the Punica, which on the surface is very similar to the ekphrasis of Aeneas’s shield in book 8 of the Aeneid, emphasizes other aspects of Hanni4 Among many other examples, the city is called “Ausonia” (Italian) at 1.332, and its people “Rutuli” (Rutulians) at 1.584. One of its inhabitants, Murrus, is described as “Rutulo [...] de sanguine” (of Rutulian blood) on his father’s side, but Greek on his mother’s side, at 1.377. The epithets Herculeus (1.369) and Tirynthia (2.300), as well as repeated invocations to Hercules as the founder, emphasize the founding story.

5 Ab Urbe Condita 21.7 describes the migrations from Zacynthus and Ardea, but neglects any mention of Hercules.

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bal’s moral deficiency. Though Silius includes many minor verbal echoes to the description of Aeneas’s shield, Hannibal’s is almost the polar opposite of Aeneas’s.6 Whereas the shield of Aeneas is crafted by divine hands, Hannibal’s is merely “the work of Gallician craftsmen” (Callaicae telluris opus: Pun. 2.397). Aeneas’s shield shows the glorious future of Rome; Hannibal’s portrays Carthage’s past, starting with Dido and ending with himself “having broken the treaty by crossing the river” (abrupto transgressus foedere ripas: 2.451). While Aeneas is the beginning of a great race, and everything he does is for the sake of future generations, Hannibal’s efforts are all backwards-looking or focused on the present. Silius further emphasizes this contrast by placing the river Hiberus “on the outer rim of the shield” (extrema clipei [...] in ora: 2.449). In his analysis of Aeneas’s shield, John L. Penwill suggests that Vergil deliberately replaces Homer’s “fixed rim of Okeanos” (on Achilles’s shield) with a depiction of the Euphrates and other distant rivers in order to demonstrate “the (ever-expanding) boundaries of empire” and “a world in which there is nothing that is not Roman.”7 In comparison, Silius’s boundaries are incredibly narrow, embracing not even the entirety of the Spanish peninsula. When juxtaposed against Aeneas’s, this shield highlights how Hannibal’s ambitions do not extend beyond his immediate surroundings. His shield emphasizes how his motives are to avenge his ancestor Dido and father Hamilcar (both of whom appear on the shield), and to gain individual glory — he lacks the grand vision of his people’s future and a world-spanning empire which drove Aeneas and which is portrayed so vividly on his shield.

The shield reappears two books later, reinforcing the differences in character between Hannibal and Aeneas. During the battle of Ticinus River, Hannibal dramatically reveals his shield, turning the tide of the battle in his favor. On the surface, his actions are equivalent to those of Aeneas in book 10 of the Aeneid, triumphantly returning to battle after a long absence, and the passages appear very similar at first glance: isque ubi Callaici radiantem tegminis orbem extulit et magno percussit lumine campos, spes virtusque cadunt (Pun. 4.326-328) (“[And] when he raised up the beamy circle of his Gallician shield and threw a great light over the plains, then hope and courage fled”) Iamque in conspectu Teucros habet et sua castra stans celsa in puppi, clipeum cum deinde sinistra extulit ardentem. clamorem ad sidera tollunt Dardanidae e muris, spes addita suscitat iras, tela manu iaciunt (Aen. 10.260-264) (“And now, as he stands on the high stern, he had the Trojans and his camp in view, when at once he lifted high in his left hand his blazing shield. The Dardans from the

6 For instance, cernere erat appears in both Pun. 2.414 and Aen. 8.676, and both have the same general structure, with connectives such as nec non and parte alia appearing in both texts.

7 Penwill, Reading Aeneas’s Shield, 39

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walls raise a shout to the sky; fresh hope kindles wrath; they hurl their weapons”) Besides the general similarity in meaning, there are two direct verbal reminiscences of the Aeneid passage: extulit and spes. However, the surrounding context creates a sharp contrast between the two passages. Aeneas gives his own men “fresh hope” (spes addita) and inspires them to defeat the enemy through their own merits, even though “fearless Turnus did not lose his firm confidence” (haud [...] audaci Turno fiducia cessit: Aen. 10.276).8 Hannibal, however, does nothing to inspire his own men. His shield is an instrument of terror; rather than giving hope to his men, it takes away hope from the enemy. He arrives at the scene accompanied not by his comrades (as Aeneas is in 10.258-259), but by “Fear and Terror and Madness” (Metus Terrorque Furorque: Pun. 4.325). Thus, the same, bold action is a force of good in Aeneas’s case, but one of evil in Hannibal’s. Silius’s assessment of Scipio and Hannibal at Cannae rings true to his characterization of Hannibal throughout the epic: “In prowess they were well matched; but otherwise the Roman was superior — in pietas and fides” (Marte viri dextraque pares, sed cetera ductor / anteibat Latius, melior pietate fideque: Pun. 9.436-437).9 Silius repeatedly brings out this contrast in the early books of the epic: though Hannibal is Aeneas-like in military prowess, a close examination of the relevant scenes from both epics shows that he differs in the key virtues that make a Roman hero great.

In the second half of the epic, Silius Italicus adds further nuance to the Hannibal-Aeneas parallels in order to highlight his moral decline after his triumph at Cannae. There are no more moments of quasi-heroic prowess, and his attempts to channel Aeneas seem increasingly weak. In book 12, after a protracted attack on Cumae had shown no success, Hannibal attempts to exhort his men with a speech reminiscent of Aeneas’s famous “O socii” speech in book 1 of the Aeneid. Among other echoes within Hannibal’s speech (Pun. 12.68-82), his conclusion, “recall Cannae into your hearts” (revocate in pectora Cannas: Pun. 12.82)10 refers to Aeneas’s exhortation to “recall your courage” (revocate animos: Aen. 1.202).

But the resemblances do not go beyond pale echoes — Hannibal is unable to inspire his men with tales of their past deeds, as Aeneas does. Instead, he sarcastically remarks, “A mightier obstacle than the Alps, forsooth, blocks your way” (Alpibus astat / nimirum maior moles: Pun. 12.70-71), then “implore[s]” them to live up to his expectations (obtestor: Pun. 21.81), allowing his frustration to come through. This is a harsh contrast with Aeneas, who “feigns hope on his face” (spem vultu simulat: Aen. 1.209) in order to be a better leader for his men. Lastly, while Aeneas tells his men to “preserve [them]selves for prosperous times” (vosmet rebus servate secundis: Aen. 1.207),11 Hannibal has already let his men become “enervated by prosperity” (attritas(que) secundis: Pun. 12.83 — 8 The Loeb translation has “hope” instead of “confidence”. I altered the text to avoid the misleading presentation that the Latin used the same word in this quote as had been used for “fresh hope.”

9 Loeb translation, but I used the Latin terms instead of their English translations.

10 My translation, not the Loeb edition’s — in order to emphasize the verbal echo in the English as well as the Latin.

11 Again, my translation, for the same reason.

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College note the echo of secundis), something which all sources agree was a key strategic mistake on his part.12 Hannibal’s failure to inspire his men in this scene fully highlights what he lacks compared to the Romans: he lets his men go undisciplined, and gives himself over to luxury. On the other hand, the Roman leaders are “rich in unstained poverty” (castaque beatos / paupertate: 1.609-610), and Scipio rejects Voluptas (Pleasure) in favor of Virtus (Strength) in a lengthy episode from book 15. Most importantly, they know that “discipline [is] the chief glory that raises the imperial head of Rome to heaven” (summumque decus, quo tollis ad astra / imperii, Romane, caput, parere: Pun. 7.94-95). Whereas at the beginning of the epic Hannibal was at least able to imitate Aeneas externally, his vices and mistakes bring him to the point where he can only try to match up to Aeneas. Furthermore, it is noteworthy that his earlier “Aeneas moments” all echo scenes from the second half of the Aeneid, but now Hannibal cannot even live up to Aeneas’s character in the first book, at the very beginning of his journey.

There are certainly moments in which Hannibal seems to display positive moral qualities. On further examination, though, these are more disingenuous than they appear. His tenacity to his oath that he swore to his father Hamilcar (1.81ff.) is a form of pietas or fides, as Hamilcar’s ghost expresses in the Underworld (o pietas, o sancta fides, o vera propago!: 13.749). The context, however, makes clear that one cannot take these lines at face value: Hannibal’s is a twisted form of pietas which consists of “laying Italy waste with fire and striving to destroy her power” (Laurentia vastat / nunc igni regna et Phrygias res vertere tentat: 13.747-748) and acting “[against] all covenants” (contra omnia pacta: 13.740).

This is nothing like Marcellus in the Aeneid, whose praises Hamilcar echoes in that line.13 Though Gian Biagio Conte’s Latin Literature: A History states that pietas is “first of all towards one’s blood relations,” he makes clear that it also includes “fulfilling one’s duties towards the gods and other men,” both of which Hannibal neglects.14 In his initial characterization in the opening of the epic, Hannibal is “faithless to his plighted word” (fidei(que) sinister: Pun. 1.56), with “no respect for Heaven” (nullus divum pudor: 1.58). Similarly, while Hannibal is characterized as fighting boldly and staying on the front lines in a lengthy passage from book 1 (239-270), this is not inherently a good or heroic act — Silius’s literary antecedents in this topos include Sallust’s depiction of Catiline.15 Hannibal’s actions here display military prowess, but this is “wicked courage” (improba virtus: 1.58).16 As Silius has repeatedly shown with his echoes to Aeneas, virtus is nothing without the other Roman values to back it up. And even when Hannibal shows those Roman virtues of pietas and fides, he perverts them and fails to get to the core of what they really represent.

When Scipio chooses Virtus over Voluptas, the latter makes a menacing prediction about Rome’s future, heightened by a dra-

matic conduplicatio at the beginning of the Latin: “My time will yet come [...]; and then I alone shall be honoured” (venient, venient mea tempora quondam [...] et honos mihi habebitur uni: Pun. 15.125-127). To people in Silius’s day, it certainly must have seemed like the old Roman virtues were completely forgotten.

His audience would have endured the traumatic civil wars of 69 CE, a conflict in which “the only thing you could’ve known for certain was that the victor would be the worse” (solum id scires, deteriorem fore qui vicisset: Tacitus, Historiae 1.50).17 This was a time when discipline had fallen by the wayside, and soldiers would rebel against their generals just for commanding “too strict[ly] for civil war” (adductius quam civili bello: Tac. Hist. 3.7). Pietas, too, and fides had been subverted: whereas one character in the Punica commits suicide after accidentally killing his father, a soldier in 69 CE “declared that he had killed his brother [...] and actually asked the generals for a reward” (occisum a se [...] fratrem professus praemium a ducibus petierit: Tac. Hist. 3.51).18 The themes of civil war dominated Flavian epic. The fraternas acies (“fraternal warfare”) of Statius’s Thebaid (1.1) would certainly have called recent events to mind, and Conte states that Valerius Flaccus’s Argonautica “represent[s] the theme of civil war between brothers” in its description of events on Colchis.19 But Silius, breaking from the pessimism of his two contemporaries, hearkens back to a better time in Roman history to seek solutions for the troubles of his day.

By echoing Vergil’s descriptions of Aeneas in his portrayal of Hannibal, Silius invites his readers to look for differences and analyze why Aeneas and his descendants succeeded, while Hannibal did not. The answer is clear: though Hannibal may have had military strength on his side, he lacked true pietas and fides, gave himself over to luxury, and in the end was unable to inspire his men to stay behind him. This was a lesson that both would surely have resonated with readers in Silius’s day and should still resonate with readers today.

17 Translation slightly edited from that of the Loeb edition.

18 Pun. 9.66-177; the son is Solimus, the father Satricus. Both characters are invented by Silius.

19 Conte, Latin Literature – A History, 490

12 Liv. 22.51; Florus 1.22.19-22 13 Aen. 6.878: “heu pietas, heu prisca fides” 14 Conte, Latin Literature: A History, 802 15 Sall. Bell. Cat. 60: “Interea Catilina cum expeditis in prima acie vorsari, [...] multum ipse pugnare, saepe hostem ferire” (“Meanwhile, Catiline was busy in the front line of battle with his light-armed troops, [...] was fighting hard himself, was often striking down the foe”) 16 My translation, not the Loeb edition’s.

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

Conte, Gian Biagio. Latin Literature: A History. Translated by Joseph B. Solodow. Revised by Don Fowler and Glenn W. Most. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1999.

Florus, Epitome of Roman History, trans. E. S. Forster, Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1929.

Hadas, Moses. A History of Latin Literature. Columbia University Pr., 1952.

Livy, History of Rome, trans. B. O. Foster, Loeb Classical Library.

Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1922.

Pausanias, Description of Greece, trans. W. H. S. Jones, Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1918.

Penwill, John L. “Reading Aeneas’ Shield.” In Iris, vol. 18, pp.

37-47. 2005.

Plutarch, Lives, trans. Bernadotte Perrin, Loeb Classical Library.

Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1914.

Sallust, Bellum Catilinae, trans. J. C. Rolfe. Edited by John T. Ramsey, Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2013.

Silius Italicus, Punica, trans. J. D. Duff, Loeb Classical Library.

Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1934.

Statius, Thebaid, trans. D. R. Shackleton Bailey, Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004.

Tacitus, Historiae, trans. Clifford H. Moore, Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1925.

Vergil, Aeneid, trans. H. Rushton Fairclough. Revised by G. P. Goold, Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1916.

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Verba non Acta The Purpose of Cicero’s Pro Marcello

Will Shu-Lun Shao, Stanford University, Class of 2021

Abstract

After six years under the dictatorship of Caesar, the Roman orator Cicero finally broke his political silence in 46 BCE, effusively praising the magnanimity of Caesar’s decision to grant clemency to Marcellus and the other senatorial Pompeians who opposed him in the prior civil war. Such unrestrained behaviour has led various scholars to question the sincerity of Cicero’s words, but this debate perhaps gains an additional perspective when we consider his peace-seeking history. Despite any excessive flattery and sarcastic remarks he may have made throughout the speech, his primary motivation ultimately appears to be driven by that very desire to maintain and advocate for peace. Furthermore, through presenting himself as a peaceful mediator and potential advisor, the orator is arguably striving for a personal objective by positioning himself well as a formidable political ally for the future of the Roman state. Therefore, this paper will argue that Cicero’s goal in delivering the Pro Marcello is simply to make the most of his current situation, depicting himself as a crucial figure of peace to maintain his political influence in this new political order.

When discussing the interpretation and politics of ambiguity, Dugan makes the astute remark that ambiguous language “can be a cautiously opaque response to precarious circumstances, make adversaries uncertain about one’s intentions, hedge bets, or offer criticism of a more powerful person in the guise of praise.”1 Such a lens of analysis has often been applied to the interpretation of Cicero’s Pro Marcello, with scholars fiercely questioning the sincerity of the Roman orator’s words. However, more important and fundamental than analysing the sincerity of the speech is understanding his potential motives. Indeed, while the scholarly views here also diverge drastically, a closer analysis of the text may advocate a perspective that adequately takes into account the evidence laid out on both sides: namely, that Cicero’s fundamental goal is to both survive and thrive as much as possible in this new world order under the dictatorship of Caesar. Therefore, this paper will seek to demonstrate that Cicero, in the delivering of the Pro Marcello, is first and foremost striving to make the most of the situation at hand, primarily through offering himself as a formidable political ally to Caesar in the potential ushering in of an era of peace. To demonstrate this argument’s validity, I will firstly begin with a brief summary concerning the historical background of the text in question. This basis will allow me to conduct a literary analysis of the orator’s aims of peace and political self-promotion in the delivery of this speech, focusing largely on the concepts of Cicero as a balanced and peaceful mediator, as well as a potential advisor for Caesar in the future development of Rome. Finally, I will seek to demonstrate how two other potential reasons as to why Cicero delivered this speech (specifically, out of compulsion and out of genuine gratitude) may be essentially linked to the notion that Cicero is seeking to make the most of the circumstances laid before him.

The delivery of the Pro Marcello in 46 BCE occurred roughly ten years after the fall of the Republic and the commencement of

Caesar’s reign as dictator of the Roman empire, with the belligerent portion of the Optimate opposition having been defeated in the battles at both Pharsalus in 48 and Thapsus earlier in 46. Cicero, although initially aligning himself with the republican leader Pompey during this civil war, had not been present at either of these battles, and in fact joined the ranks of pardoned Pompeians shortly after the first major defeat. However, these individuals, even after being reinstated in the Caesarian-dominated senate, felt the constant need to be cautious with their choice of words, even to the extent that Cicero maintained his oratorical silence, appearing in the senate “only in order not to appear to be refusing to recognize its legitimacy.”2 Furthermore, there remained certain individuals who were still hostile to the rule of Caesar and in turn chose to retire from Rome, a group of which Cicero’s dear companion Marcus Claudius Marcellus — after whom this speech takes its name — is a prime example. It would, therefore, have perhaps come as a shock to many when Caesar announced his decision to grant clemency to Marcellus and the other senatorial Pompeians, apparently so much so that Cicero finally broke his six-year long taciturnity on account of being stunned by the magnanimity displayed by the dictator.

And yet, the pitting of “Rome’s greatest master of the psychology of persuasion against Rome’s cleverest and most subtle intellect”3 that is characteristic of Pro Marcello may not have been conducted in the purely grateful manner that some may initially be led to believe. Rather, Cicero may well have been using this particular occasion and speech as a springboard for his own motives, seeking to become a crucial political player in the future development of Rome. This is particularly evident throughout the speech in his self-portrayal as a consistently peaceful and balanced mediator. Right from the beginning, he acknowledges his friendship with Marcellus, proclaiming that he was distressed when “he, my rival and imitator in my work as in my other interests — indeed I

1 John Dugan, “Cicero and the Politics of Ambiguity: Interpreting the Pro Marcello.” In Community and Communication: Oratory and Politics in Republican Rome, ed. E. W. Steel and H. Van Der Blom (Oxford: 2013), 211-225.

2 D. H. Berry, Cicero: Political Speeches (Oxford: 2009), 204.

3 H. C. Gotoff, Cicero, Caesarian Speeches: A Stylistic Commentary (Chapel Hill: 1993), xxx.

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might say my partner on life’s journey — had been torn from my side.”4 However, in spite of such an association, Cicero adamantly reiterates the notion that he has always striven to maintain peace: Quo quidem in bello semper de pace audiendum putavi semperque dolui non modo pacem sed etiam orationem civium pacem flagitantium repudiari. Neque enim ego illa nec ulla umquam secutus sum arma civilia semperque mea consilia pacis et togae socia, non belli atque armorum fuerunt.

[In the Civil War, I always thought that proposals for peace should be listened to, and I always regretted that not only peace, but even the arguments of those who advocated it, were rejected. I myself did not take up arms in that or any other civil war: my policy was always directed towards peace and the toga, not towards war and arms.]5 The polysyndetic use of the word pax [peace], which is merely reinforced by its consistent association with semperque [and always], repeatedly emphasizes the concept that Cicero has always been an advocate for peace. This in turn highlights his former disappointment when such recommendations made by either himself or others have been rejected, a stance that he has echoed in various other Ciceronian works.6 Indeed, the orator even clarifies that he chose to follow Pompey in the proceedings of the civil war privato officio, non publico [from personal allegiance rather than public duty], perhaps further stressing the idea that, with Pompey now dead and his allegiance to the man severed, there exists one less obstacle in his desires to achieve peace for Rome.7 The significance of such statements, apart from merely reflecting the peace-seeking nature of the orator, may in turn be elucidated under the lens that Cicero’s policy had seemingly always been to ensure peace rather than incite war. He had historically operated across political boundaries, on the one hand owing allegiance to the republican Pompey and being friends with Marcellus, on the other being pardoned by Caesar early on and imploring upon other republicans to seek his forgiveness. The declaration of clemency may have, therefore, provided Cicero with the perfect opportunity to offer himself as a peaceful mediator in the process of ameliorating the divide within Roman politics, a role that could have both proven useful to Caesar at that time and boosted the orator’s political career under this new regime. Therefore, we may argue that the Pro Marcello was delivered by Cicero so as to make the most out of the new regime, in which he “would mediate between Caesar and the former Pompeians” as an advocate for a new era of peace.8 In a similar vein to the above argument, we may also assert that Cicero is seeking to make the best of the situation through po4 Berry, Marcell. in Cicero, I.2; All English translations provided by Berry, Cicero: Political Speeches.

5 Berry, Marcell., V.14 6 For textual details, please see M. Winterbottom, “Believing the Pro Marcello.” in Vertis in Usum. Studies in Honour of Edward Courtney ed. Miller, J. F., et al.

(Munich and Leipzig: 2002), 27.

7 Berry, Marcell., V.14 8 Berry, 209

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sitioning himself as a potential advisory figure to Caesar, a stance that may be demonstrated in multiple different ways. Firstly, we may turn towards Cicero’s remarks contrasting his military exploits with the singular act of clemency. When initially describing Caesar’s war efforts, the orator remarks that nullius tantum flumen est ingeni, nulla dicendi aut scribendi tanta vis, tantaque copia quae non dicam exornare, sed enarrare, C. Caesar, res tuas destas possit [There is no stream of genius large enough, no tongue or pen forceful or fluent enough I will not say to embellish your achievements, Gaius Caesar, but even to record them].9 And yet, this is almost immediately contrasted with the declaration that nullam in his esse laudem ampliorem quam eam quam hodierno die consecutus es [there is no glory in all those achievements greater than that which you have this day attained], a juxtaposition that clearly elucidates for the audience Cicero’s opinion concerning the true value of war.10 Such an opinion is elaborated upon later on in the speech, when Cicero explains that success in war is contingent upon many different people and components, and as such, victory can never belong to any one man. However, the orator then goes on to declare that vero huius gloriae, C. Caesar, quam es paulo ante adeptus socium habes neminem: totum hoc quantumcumque est, quod certe maximum est, totum est, unquam, tuum [But in the glory which you have acquired by your present action, Gaius Caesar, you have no partner: all of it, however great it may be (and it is indeed the greatest possible), all of it, I repeat, is yours].11 In opposition to the Dyer interpretation of this sentence as a means of highlighting Caesar’s social isolation and in turn threatening the dictator,12 I believe that this statement seeks to demonstrate not only that the glory of war is insignificant in comparison to that which can be brought about by peaceful means, but also that the individual significance of such a glory far surpasses any that Caesar’s civil war efforts can offer. On the surface, one may identify a rather condescending and hyperbolic tone contained within this argument, and in turn conclude that at least this part of the speech is delivered in a manner that aims to mock Caesar’s dictatorship.

However, after taking into consideration the contents of the rest of the speech, the justification can indeed be made that such condescension may merely be a side effect to Cicero’s key aim, as an extension to making the most of the political circumstances before him, of subtly advising Caesar to pursue more peaceful political agendas in the future should he wish for his dictatorship to thrive.

Cicero’s potential interest in an advisory role arises again much later on in the Pro Marcello when the orator turns his attention towards a proclamation from Caesar’s past: satis diu vel naturae vixi vel gloriae [I have lived long enough for nature, or for glory]13 This is a philosophy that Cicero takes great issue with, especially given that the life of any Roman individual “is bound up with yours, and that the lives of everyone depend exclusively on yours.”14 He thus proceeds to somewhat reprimand Caesar for 9 Berry, Marcell., II.4 10 Berry, Marcell., II.4 11 Berry, Marcell., II.7 12 R. R. Dyer, “Rhetoric and Intention in Cicero’s Pro Marcello,” Journal of Roman Studies 80 (1990): 28.

13 Berry, Marcell., VIII.25 14 Berry, Marcell., VII.22

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College having held such an opinion, remarking that he may only claim to have lived long enough cum et patriae quod debes solveris et naturam ipsam expleveris satietate vivendi [when you have both discharged your obligations to your country and satisfied nature herself with your full fill of life].15 In a similar manner to the above argument concerning the glory of peace, the oratorical tone found here may be interpreted as fundamentally advisory. For as great a military leader as Caesar even was, it may have perhaps been perceived as prudent by Cicero to remind him of the knowledge that true glory as a dictator should now lie in putting the needs of the state ahead of personal gain, a value that resonates with that of the fallen republic. What is thus particularly significant about the use of such advisory argumentation is not merely its aim to make the most of the situation at hand, but also, perhaps on a deeper level, its potential in seeking to restore the balance of the old order by increasing Cicero’s political influence within a Caesarian senate.

Therefore, as has hopefully been demonstrated, it may be argued that, in the strategic positioning of himself as a potential advisor to Caesar, Cicero “does not just praise the dictator but also attempts to influence Caesar, and [perhaps] steer him towards a more republican attitude,” further highlighting how he is striving to best utilise the contemporary political circumstances to his advantage.16 Finally, various scholars have indeed suggested alternatives as to why Cicero might have delivered this speech and brought an end to his six years of political silence. There are two possibilities that I would like to focus on, both of which I shall seek to fundamentally connect back to the notion of the orator acting so as to make the most of the situation presented before him. The first possibility proposes that he was truly overwhelmed with happiness at the announcement of clemency, a declaration that was of tantam enim mansuetudinem, tam inusitatam inauditamque clementiam, tantum in summa potestate rerum omnium modum, tam denique incredibilem sapientiam ac paene divinam [such exceptional kindness, such unprecedented and unheard of clemency, such extraordinary moderation in someone who has attained absolute power over everything, and such astonishing and, one might almost say, superhuman wisdom], that he was compelled to grace the magnanimity of Caesar with the revival of his voice in the senate.17 The arguably brazen and loaded description of Caesar’s wisdom as paene divinam [almost divine] may reveal an intentionally facetious tone underlying the orator’s effusive remarks. However, regardless of the true sincerity of his words, it is worthy to note that he concludes this speech by declaring that he owes the dictator “wholly and completely, not only my preservation, but the position of honour which I now hold.”18 This relationship between the two men may thus suggest that Cicero’s career had been revived

by Caesar on account of being pardoned, and that future success could be contingent on the maintaining of amicability between the two, in turn demonstrating that such a display of happiness could very well have been indulged as a means to ensure future progress in the orator’s professional life. On the flipside, it has also been

15 Berry, Marcell., IX.27 16 K. Tempest, “An Ethos of Sincerity: Echoes of the ‘De Republica’ in Cicero’s ‘Pro Marcello,’” G&R Second Series 60, no. 2 (2013): 262.

17 Berry, Marcell., I.1 18 Berry, Marcell., XI.34

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argued that Cicero was forced to speak out, as perhaps holding his silence any longer may have been perceived as a refusal to acknowledge the legitimacy of the new regime, and in turn pose a threat to his life and career in Rome. Those who ascribe to such a view may comment on the excessive use of tam [so] and various forms of tantus [so great] as evidence of an insincere and strained exhibition of gratitude. However, one may argue that this also demonstrates how Cicero is simply seeking to make the best of circumstances through conceding to speak in the first place. Once again disregarding the true extent of sincerity, the orator’s use of these intensifiers may be aiming to reflect at the bare minimum a superficial guise of reverence to both the dictator and the potentially nonviolent future introduced by this act of clemency. Such reverence could in turn serve to boost his rapport with Caesar, and thus position himself more favourably in this new world order.

Therefore, whilst other possibilities may be suggested as to why Cicero delivered this particular speech, what seemingly remains common to each one is the orator’s underlying goal of making the most of the situation at hand.

In the opening remarks of the Pro Marcello, Cicero expresses his gratitude to the Roman dictator on account of the following: Ergo et mihi meae pristinae vitae consuetudinem, C. Caesar, interclusam aperuisti et his omnibus ad bene de re publica sperandum quasi signum aliquod sustulisti.

[So what you have done for me, Gaius Caesar, is to open up my former way of life from which I had become debarred, and for all the others here present, to raise a standard, as it were, for optimism regarding the future of our country.]19 Such a statement perhaps captures perfectly not only the effects that such an act of clemency had on Cicero, but also the potential role he may have wished to play in the subsequent development of Rome as both a political mediator and an advisor to Caesar.

Indeed, the argument may be made that Cicero is not sincere. But to labour on such a point may detract attention from what I believe to be the fundamental intention of this speech: the durability of the Caesarian regime over the past ten years highlights the Roman orator’s intentions of striving to make the most of and thriving in the circumstances presented to him. In this case, this goal could seemingly be achieved through acquiescing to the new political regime and gaining more political power in preparation for the new era of peace to come. Therefore, as has been demonstrated throughout this paper, a key motivation for Cicero’s delivery of this speech can be attributed to the orator’s desire to make the best of the situation at hand, so as to maintain influence within political sphere of Rome and even perhaps subtly attempt to revive the glorious res publica that he so adored.

19 Berry, Marcell., I.2

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College Works Cited Berry, D. H. Cicero: Political Speeches. Oxford: 2009.

Dugan, John. “Cicero and the Politics of Ambiguity: Interpreting the Pro Marcello.” In Community and Communication: Oratory and Politics in Republican Rome, edited by E. W. Steel and H. Van Der Blom. Oxford: 2013. 211-225.

Dyer, R. R. “Rhetoric and Intention in Cicero’s Pro Marcello,” Journal of Roman Studies 80 (1990): 17-30.

Gotoff, H. C. Cicero, Caesarian Speeches: A Stylistic Commentary. Chapel Hill: 1993.

Tempest, K. “An Ethos of Sincerity: Echoes of the ‘De Republica’ in Cicero’s ‘Pro Marcello.’” G&R Second Series 60, no.

2 (2013): 262-280.

Winterbottom, M. “Believing the Pro Marcello.” In Vertis in Usum. Studies in Honour of Edward Courtney, edited by J. F. Miller et al. Munich and Leipzig: 2002. 24-38.

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The ξένος (or ‘passerby’) in Attic Funerary Epigrams John Shamgochian, Colby College, Class of 2021

Abstract

The metrical inscriptions on Attic gravestones of the 5th and 4th centuries BCE are a unique and underappreciated source for the study of Ancient Greek lives. Conforming rigidly to formulas, these inscriptions read as dignified commemorations of the deceased. Frequently, they are an address or dialogue: the deceased, or the monument itself, speaks with the reader, the ‘passerby.’ This paper discusses the passerby’s role as an active agent of the perennial continuation of funeral.

“And what the dead had no speech for, when living, They can tell you, being dead: the communication Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.

Here, the intersection of the timeless moment Is England and nowhere. Never and always.”

(T.S. Eliot’s “Little Gidding”) In “Little Gidding,” which T.S. Eliot published in 1942 as the last of his Four Quartets, the words of the dead are alive and embodied, “tongued with fire.” This is neither fiction nor metaphor, but a truth embedded within the social and physical structure of the funeral rituals of many cultures. In ancient Attica, the voice of the dead appears with vitality in funeral inscriptions. Many of these epitaphs speak to a passerby, inviting them to pause beside the grave. Reading the words of the dead, the passerby plays a critical part: they reenact the funeral ritual and momentarily revive the spirit of the tomb. In the following paper, I draw from funerary inscriptions, mourning rituals, and literature to illuminate the role of the passerby in Attic epigrams. My focus is the mid-6th through 4th century BCE because it is then that sepulchral epigrams most flourished, surpassing what had come before and defining what came after. The incorporation of the passerby in grave epigrams represents an isolated tradition which emerged in Attica, prior to spreading across the Hellenic region.1 Epigrams written to the passerby are not separable from the larger body of funerary inscriptions; they are just the variable products of one common stylistic choice. I argue that these inscriptions imitate ritual lament, that the passerby is the mourner, and that every reading continues the funeral.

In Attica, the oldest extant epitaphs appeared during the 7th century BCE.2 Inscriptions of this era were succinct, with an epic and impersonal tone. They were as emotionless and inscrutable as the Archaic smiles of the kore or kouros figures which often marked 1 Michael A. Tueller, “The passer-by in archaic and classical epigram” (In Manuel Baumbach et al., eds. Archaic and Classical Greek Epigram. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 42.

2 Christos C. Tsagalis, Inscribing Sorrow: Fourth-Century Attic Funerary Epigrams (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2008), 3.

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the graves.3 Commencing in the 5th century BCE, the volume of epitaphs rapidly increased.4 Inscriptions on public stelai listing military fatalities (πολυάνδρια) were numerous in the wake of the Persian Wars (492 – 449 BCE). Private sepulchral monuments proliferated, especially on account of Perikles’ law of δοκιμασία (451/450 BCE), which mandated that all future Athenian citizens know the resting places of their parents.5 Sumptuary laws, which put restrictions on grave monuments, increased the importance of epigrams. Cicero’s later account of one of these laws, which presumably dated from the beginning of the 470s BCE, is useful for understanding the mindset of the Athenian people at the time: sed post aliquanto propter has amplitudines sepulchrorum, quas in Ceramico videmus, lege sanctum est, “ne quis sepulchrum faceret operosius quam quod decem homines effecerint triduo;” neque id opere tectorio exornari nec hermas, quos vocant, licebat inponi, nec de mortui laude nisi in publicis sepulturis nec ab alio, nisi qui publice ad eam rem constitutus esset, dici licebat. sublata etiam erat celebritas virorum ac mulierum, quo lamentatio minueretur; auget enim luctum concursus hominum.6 But somewhat later, on account of the enormous size of the tombs which we now see in the Kerameikos, it was provided by law that no one should build one which was grander than ten men could accomplish in three days. Nor was it permitted to adorn one with opus tectorium, nor to place upon it Hermae as they call them. It was not permitted to speak in praise of the dead except at public funerals, and then only by one who had been publicly appointed for the purpose. Large gatherings of men and women were also forbidden, in order to lessen lamentation; for a crowd increases grief.7 3 Ibid.

4 Ibid., 3-4.

5 Ibid., 7.

6 Cicero, de legibus, ii. 64 – 65.

7 Karen Stears, “The Times They Are A’Changing: Developments in Fifth-Century Funerary Sculpture” (In Oliver, J. G. ed. The Epigraphy of Death: Studies in the History and Society of Greece and Rome. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2000), 43.

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The production of private inscriptions far exceeded the production of πολυάνδρια by the end of the 5th century BCE, when the defeat of Athens in the Peloponnesian War (431 — 404 BCE) brought about major social and political changes.8 Concurrently, Attic funerary epigrams gave greater attention to vocabulary and word order. They now revealed, rather than buried, the sorrow of the bereaved. These shifts testify to the influence of oratory, sophism, and tragic poetry.9 Then, in 317 BCE, the Athenian dictator Demetrius of Phaleron outlawed the erection of any luxurious funerary monuments by private citizens. This decree impelled Hellenistic epigrammatists to abandon stone for papyri and to establish themselves as artists of a truly literary genre.10 From their birth in the 7th century BCE onwards, funerary epigrams grew in length, yet many consisted simply of the deceased’s name in the nominative.11 Occasionally the name was augmented by a identifier such as a demotic, ethnic, or patronymic, e.g. Ἀγλωκρ[ιτος] Τορωνα[ῖος].12 The donor’s name frequently occurs as well, further emphasizing the relationships and community which the dead leaves behind. More fleshed-out epigrams made mention of the merits of the dead person, the immortality of their memory, and the sorrow of those whom they had left behind. This late 6th century BCE epigram from Argos (although, being Doric, not strictly within the scope of this paper) provides an excellent illustration of some of these elements: Ϙοσίνα hυσεμάταν θάψα [π]|έλας hιποδρόμοιο ἄνδρα ἀ|[γα]θ[ό]ν, πολοῖς μνᾶμα καὶ | [ἐσ]ομένοις...

13

I, Kosina, buried Hysematas, a good man, besides the race track, a memorial for many even in the future. . . .14

Here, Kosina, the donor, highlights her name by the word order and by the use of the nominative for Ϙοσίνα, the person of the main verb. Hysematas, the deceased, is lauded as a good sort with the stock phrase “ἀνήρ ἀγαθός.” Moreover, for the benefit of the names of both the inhumer and the inhumed, the monument is predicted to remain standing in the time thereafter. For an Attic example, here is the well-known epigram of Phrasikleia, which was made sometime between 540 and 530 BCE in Merenda: Σε͂μα Φρασικλείας. | κόρε κεκλέσομαι | αἰεί, ἀντὶ γάμο| παρὰ θεο͂ν τοῦτο | λαχο͂σ᾽ ὂνομα.15 8 Tsagalis, 4.

9 Ibid., 3-4.

10 Ibid., 7.

11 B.H. McLean, An Introduction to Greek Epigraphy of the Hellenistic and Roman Periods from Alexander the Great down to the Reign of Constantine (323 B.C. – A.D. 337) (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 2002), 385.

12 SEG 50.260.

13 CEG 136.

14 Joseph W. Day, “Rituals in Stone: Early Greek Grave Epigrams and Monuments” (The Journal of Hellenic Studies 109, 1989), 26.

15 CEG 24.

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(I am or this is the) marker of Phrasikleia. I shall always be called a maiden, having received this name instead of marriage as my lot from the gods.16 In this inscription, the word αἰεί indicates the ever-lasting pathos of Phrasikleia’s memory. Notice also the use of the first-person verb κεκλέσομαι, which seems to refer not to Phrasikleia but to her monument. The shift from a neuter σε͂μα to a feminine subject adds to this effect.17 Much has been made of how the stones themselves are enlivened by words, as the stylistically-lifeless kore of Phrasikleia is by this epigram. The statue may be more a substitute than an imitation of the maiden.18 In this sense, Phrasikleia is made present by her kore, to which the inscription gives breath through its own reading.19 The ambition of every Attic sepulchral monument is to be contemplated. The location, the structure, and the inscription’s wording all reflect this aim. The graves of Athens were set along the roadsides which led from its gates, and it was just the same outside of the city’s packed cemeteries — graves proliferated besides country thoroughfares, so that travellers would stop as they passed and look at them.20 Sepulchral decorations were designed in order to attract attention. The more extravagant stelai are very ornate, with generic painted portraits, low-relief sculptures, or statues of the deceased surrounded by images and organic designs. Stone steps elevate some monuments up to a height of 4.00 meters.21 What is more, the epigrams entreat that they be read. In their simplest form, these inscriptions hail the passerby with vocatives and urge them with imperatives to not forget the dead. The inscription on the base block of the Anavyssos kouros typifies this technique (Phoinikia, c. 540 – 530 BCE): Στε͂θι καὶ οἴκτιρον Κροίσο | παρὰ σε͂μα θανόντος hόν | ποτ᾽ ἐνὶ προμἀχοις ὄλεσε | θο͂ρος Ἄρες.22 Halt and show pity beside the marker of dead Kroisos, whom raging Ares once destroyed in the front rank of battle.23 The famous Spartan epitaph of the Battle of Thermopylae (480 BCE) conveys a similar tone: ...ὦ ξεῖν ̓ ἀγγέλλειν Λακεδαιμονίοις ὅτι τῇδε κείμεθα τοῖς κείνων ῥήμασι πειθόμενοι.24

16 Day, 26.

17 Michael Squire, “Embodying the Dead on Classical Attic Grave-Stelai” (Art History 41, no. 3, 2018), 525-526.

18 Jeffrey M. Hurwitt, “Archaios” (The Art and Culture of Early Greece, 1100480 B.C.” Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1987), 29-31.

19 Squire, 525-526; Tueller, 44.

20 Day, 22.

21 Ibid.

22 CEG 27.

23 Day, 19.

24 Herodotus, Histories, 7. 228.

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The Haley Classical Journal, an undergraduate research publication affiliated with Hamilton College Stranger, tell the Lacedaimonians that here we lie, obedient to their orders.25 Some narrate the reader’s sympathy and sorrow with first-person verbs. This one, which was erected in the Kerameikos around 510 BCE, is unique for its anonymous subject: οἰκτίρο προσορο͂[ν] | παιδὸς τόδε σε͂μα | θανόντος Σμικύθ[ο] | hός τε φίλον ὄλεσε|ν ἔλπ᾽ ἀγαθέν.26 I lament as I behold this marker of the dead youth Smikythos, who destroyed his friend’s good hope.27 A handful of inscriptions even create fictitious dialogues: conversations between the unacquainted reader and the deceased, or between one of the bereft and the deceased.28 Of the following 4th century BCE Attic epigrams, the first belongs to the former type and the second belongs to the latter: ὀστέα μὲν καὶ σάρκας | ἔ[ι]χει χθὼν παῖδα τὸν ἡ | δύν, ψυχὴ δὲ εὐσεβέων | οἴχεται εἰς θάλαμον. vv | εἰ δὲ ὄνομα ζητεῖς, Θεογείτ|ων Θυμόχου παῖς Θηβα|ῖος γενεὰν κε̃μα(ι) κλειν|αῖς ἐν Ἀθήνα|ις.29 As far as the bones and the flesh are concerned, the earth holds a sweet child.

His soul has gone into the chamber of the pious ones.

If you are looking for his name, it is I, Theogeiton, the son of Thymochos, who lies in glorious Athens, though a Theban by origin.30 χαῖρε τάφος Mελίτης· χρηστ|ὴ γυνὴ ἐνθάδε κεῖται· v φιλοῦντα | ἀντιφιλοῦσα τὸν ἄνδρα Ὀνήσιμ|ον ἦσθα κρατίστη· v τοιγαροῦν ποθεῖ | θανοῦσάν σε, ἦσθα γὰρ χρηστὴ γυνή. v-| καὶ σὺ χαῖρε φίλτατ’ ἀνδρῶν, ἀλλὰ | τοὺς ἐμοὺς φίλει.31 Hail, grave of Melite; a good woman lies here.

By loving your husband Onesimos in response to his love, you were the best.

He therefore longs for you, now that you died, for you were a good woman.

Hail, you too, dearest man, and love my own.32 These dialogues suggest orality and resemble the stichomythia of 25 Tsagalis, 42-43.

26 CEG 51.

27 Day, 5.

28 Tsagalis, 257-258.

29 CEG 545.

30 Tsagalis, 258.

31 CEG 530.

32 Tsagalis, 260.

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Greek tragedy.33 The passerby becomes the actor in the role of the fictive interlocutors.34 Every reading revitalizes the inscriptions’ words as echoes of funeral.

Funeral is at the heart of Attic ideas about civilized life. As much can be gleaned from Thucydides narration of the plague of Athens during the Peloponnesian War, which depicts the foregoing of laments and proper ceremony as one of the most shocking results of the disease. ὑπερβιαζομένου γὰρ τοῦ κακοῦ οἱ ἄνθρωποι, οὐκ ἔχοντες ὅτι γένωνται, ἐς ὀλιγωρίαν ἐτράποντο καὶ ἱερῶν καὶ ὁσίων ὁμοίως. νόμοι τε πάντες ξυνεταράχθησαν οἷς ἐχρῶντο πρότερον περὶ τὰς ταφάς, ἔθαπτον δὲ ὡς ἕκαστος ἐδύνατο. καὶ πολλοὶ ἐς ἀναισχύντους θήκας ἐτράποντο...35

For when the malady pressed heavily, the people, not knowing what there was for them, turned to negligence of both the sacred and profane alike. Every law which was used before regarding funerals was thrown into confusion, and they were laying their dead to rest as each was able. And many were turning to shameless modes of burial...

These ordinances were so important to the Athenians that they were often physically reenacted. It was a practice of the cult of the dead to bathe and anoint sepulchral stelai, mimicking the bathing and anointing of corpses before committal to the earth.36 Similarly, food and drinks were placed in front of the stones as offerings like those given during funerals.37 Greek funerals incorporated many other elements, including the laments which were sung by female mourners in the funeral procession. The chief mourner would cradle the head of the corpse, reviving the lifeless ears with her touch, so that the spirit could hear the voices of the living and be appeased.38 The objective of this office was to assist their transition to the afterlife.39 Crucially, however, it indicates the liminality of the moment of funeral between life and death.

The funeral procession was a task exclusive to the family of the deceased and not open to strangers. In funeral epigraphs, according to Joseph Day, “passers-by are asked to reiterate the ritual lament in the present, but they cannot fulfill their obligation literally. They can, however, read an epitaph that narrates aspects of funerary ritual or one that becomes a mimesis of funeral.”40 Therefore, an address to a ξἐνος strives not only to preserve the memory of the dead, but to recruit mourners. An early 5th century BCE inscription from the island of Thasos represents this explicitly: 33 Susan Letzler Cole, The absent one: mourning ritual, tragedy, and the performance of ambivalence (University Park: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 1985), 23.

34 Tsagalis, 260.

35 Thucydides, Histories, 2. 52.

36 Day, 22-23.

37 Ibid.

38 Patricia Lundy, “Sacred Songs for the Dead: Women Had Few Powers in Ancient Greece - except in Death” (History Today 68, no. 1, 2018), 13.

39 Ibid.

40 Day, 27-28.

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[ὅ]στις μὴ παρ[ε|τ]ύνχαν᾽ ὅτ᾽ἐ[χσ]|ἐφερόν με θ[αν]|όντα, Νῦν μ᾽ὀ[λο]|φθρἀσθω· μν[ῆμ]|α δὲ Τηλεφ[άνε]|ος.41 Whoever was not present when they carried me out in death, let him now lament me. (This is or I am the) memorial of Telephanes.42 In particular, epigrams have clear similarities to praise poetry, which was sung during the lament.43 The sumptuary laws which Cicero describes forbade the spoken praise of the dead outside of funerals, yet they did not limit the immodesty of inscriptions.44 Like the idealized portraiture which embellished many of the more expensive monuments, the heaping praise of epitaphs was archetypal.45 It is hardly probable that, as the sepulchral inscriptions suggest, every Ancient Greek man died a hero’s death in battle and was moreover in his lifetime a truly good person, an ἀνήρ ἀγαθός.

Yet it was the task of grave monuments to memorialize them as such, undoing the interred of their individuality in the great pursuit of undying funeral. Reading the deads’ praises was akin to lamenting them during the obsequies. Even so old and lofty a source as Homer’s Iliad indicates this: καί ποτέ τις εἴτῃσι καὶ ὀψιγόνων ἀνθρώπων . . . ἀνδρὸς μὲν τόδε σῆμα πάλαι κατατεθνηῶτος, ὅν ποτ᾽ἀριστε´θοντα κατέκτανε φαίδιμος Ἕκτωρ.᾽46 Thus sometime a person, even of a later generation, might say . . .: ‘This is the tomb of a man who died of old, whom once, as he fought heroically, shining Hector slew.’47 In T.S. Eliot’s “Little Gidding,” the inspiration for this paper, the narrator finds “the intersection of the timeless moment” in the fiery speech of the dead. Likewise, beside a rustic Attic lane, a monument draws the gaze of a passerby, who stops to read its inscribed words. The speaker of the epitaph engenders a perennial intersection between the living and the dead, the past and the future. The kore of Phrasikleia, though cold stone, is given pulse by the voicing of her funeral verse. It is as if, with quickened ears, the spirit within can hear the echo of her own lament. Here, the spirit and the stranger together, in Athens and nowhere. Never and always.

Works Cited

Chaniotis, A. et al., eds. Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum.

Brill (online). https://referenceworks.brillonline.com/ browse/supplementum-epigraphicum-graecum Cole, Susan Letzler. The absent one: mourning ritual, tragedy, and the performance of ambivalence. University Park: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 1985.

Day, Joseph W. “Rituals in Stone: Early Greek Grave Epigrams and Monuments.” The Journal of Hellenic Studies 109 (1989): 16-28.

Hansen, P. A. Carmina Epigraphica Graeca, vol. I: saeculorum VIII-V a. Chr. n., vol. II: saeculi IV a. Chr. n. Berlin and New York: De Gruyter, 1983 and 1989.

Hurwitt, Jeffrey M. “Archaios.” In The Art and Culture of Early Greece, 1100-480 B.C., 15-32. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1987.

Licciardello, Flavia. “Nossis’ auto-epitaph: analysing a controversial epigram.” Acta Antiqua Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 56 (2016): 435-448.

Lundy, Patricia. “Sacred Songs for the Dead: Women Had Few Powers in Ancient Greece - except in Death.” History Today 68, no. 1 (2018): 12 – 14.

McLean, B. H. An Introduction to Greek Epigraphy of the Hellenistic and Roman Periods from Alexander the Great down to the Reign of Constantine (323 B.C. – A.D. 337).

Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 2002.

Mecklin, John M. “Some Greek Grave Inscriptions.” The School Review 12, no. 5 (1904): 383-389.

Mikalson, Jon D. Ancient Greek Religion. West Sussex: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010.

Squire, Michael. “Embodying the Dead on Classical Attic Grave-Stelai.” Art History 41, no. 3 (2018): 518-545.

Stears, Karen. “The Times They Are A’Changing: Developments in Fifth-Century Funerary Sculpture.” In Oliver, J. G. ed.

The Epigraphy of Death: Studies in the History and Society of Greece and Rome, 25-59 Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2000.

Tsagalis, Christos C. Inscribing Sorrow: Fourth-Century Attic Funerary Epigrams. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2008.

Tueller, Michael A. “The passer-by in archaic and classical epigram.” In Manuel Baumbach et al., eds. Archaic and Classical Greek Epigram, 42-60. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010.

41 CEG 159.

42 Day, 27.

43 Ibid. 22-23.

44 Cicero, de legibus, ii. 64 – 65.

45 Day 18-21.

46 Homer, Iliad, vii. 87, 89.

47 Day 27.

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gratias

The Haley Classical Journal is an academic journal affiliated with the Hamilton College Classics Department. The Haley nonetheless publishes articles written by undergraduates across the world, and does not discriminate on the basis of race, gender, sexuality, religion, creed, socioeconomic background, or any other identifying factors. The Haley is peer reviewed by undergraduate students, and is operated through the Hamilton College Classics Club.

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