Statius and Virgil: The Thebaid and the Reinterpretation of the Aeneid

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S TAT I U S A N D V I RG I L

At the end of the Thebaid, Statius enjoins his epic “not to compete with the divine Aeneid but rather to follow at a distance and always revere its footprints.” The nature of the Thebaid ’s interaction with the Aeneid is, however, a matter of great debate. This book argues that the Thebaid reworks themes, scenes, and ideas from Virgil in order to show that the Aeneid ’s representation of monarchy is inadequate. It also demonstrates how the Thebaid ’s fascination with horror, spectacle, and unspeakable violence is tied to Statius’ critique of the moral and political virtues at the heart of the Aeneid. Professor Ganiban offers both a new way to interpret the Thebaid and a largely sequential reading of the poem. r an dall g a n ib a n is Associate Professor of Classics at Middlebury College, Vermont.

S TAT I U S A N D V I RG I L The Thebaid and the Reinterpretation of the Aeneid

R A N D A L L T. G A N I B A N

CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS

Cambridge, New York, Melbourne, Madrid, Cape Town, Singapore, São Paulo Cambridge University Press The Edinburgh Building, Cambridge CB2 8RU, UK Published in the United States of America by Cambridge University Press, New York www.cambridge.org Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9780521840392 © Randall Toth Ganiban 2007 This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to the provision of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Cambridge University Press. First published in print format 2007 ISBN-13 ISBN-10

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MATRI ET MANIBUS PATRIS

Contents

Preface List of abbreviations

page viii x

1 Introduction

1

2 Oedipus’ curse

24

3 Horror, prophecy, and the gods

44

4 Hypsipyle’s narrative of nefas

71

5 Bacchus and the outbreak of war

96

6 Dis and the domination of hell

117

7 Delay and the rout of Pietas

152

8 Spectacle, crime, and monarchy at Thebes

176

9 Pietas, burial, and clementia in a world of nefas

207

Works cited General index Index locorum

233 243 249

vii

Preface

This book began as a dissertation on nefas in the Thebaid and has evolved into a monograph that interprets Statius’ epic as a political critique of the Aeneid. Along the way a number of institutions and individuals provided invaluable help. My dissertation work benefited from the support of the Princeton Classics Department, an assistant mastership (under Bob Hollander and Ted Champlin) at Princeton’s Butler College, a Ford Foundation dissertation fellowship, and the helpful counsel of those who at various times served on my dissertation committee: Elaine Fantham (director), Denis Feeney, Georgia Nugent, and Alessandro Schiesaro. More recently, Jim O’Hara offered helpful suggestions as I was reconceptualizing the project. Generous support from Middlebury College in the form of academic leaves and funding for conference travel gave me the time to transform the dissertation into the present work. Eve Adler, Antony Augoustakis, Neil Bernstein, Charles McNelis, Karla Pollmann, and Marc Witkin read various chapters and gave me many helpful and insightful comments, as did the readers for Cambridge University Press. Tony Woodman offered wonderful advice at an important moment. Rebecca Scholtz and Sarah Miller, my research assistants at Middlebury, helped track down articles through interlibrary loan, and my advanced Latin class on the Thebaid in the Fall of 2004 carefully considered a number of my interpretive arguments. The hospitality of the Harvard Department of the Classics, where I was a visiting scholar during the academic year 2005–6, enabled me to finalize this manuscript efficiently and comfortably. Michael Sharp of Cambridge University Press has been unfailingly kind, helpful, and supportive throughout the entire process. Jane Chaplin, my colleague at Middlebury, and Elaine Fantham, my graduate school advisor, have both been unstinting with their time and advice. Finally, Elizabeth

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Preface

ix

Ennen and Claire Ennen Ganiban have provided unceasing support and encouragement. To all of these institutions and people, I give many thanks. They have helped improve this monograph greatly. Whatever errors or flaws remain are mine alone.

Abbreviations

Abbreviations of classical references follow S. Hornblower and A. Spawforth (eds.) (1996) The Oxford Classical Dictionary, 3rd edn. Oxford. AJPh ANRW CJ ClAnt CPh CQ EMC GB HSCPh ICS JRS LCM MD MH OLD PCPhS PVS REL RFIC RIL SO TAPhA YclS

American Journal of Philology Aufstieg und Niedergang der r¨omischen Welt Classical Journal Classical Antiquity Classical Philology Classical Quarterly Echos du monde classique Grazer Beitr¨age: Zeitschrift f¨ur die klassische Altertumswissenschaft Harvard Studies in Classical Philology Illinois Classical Studies Journal of Roman Studies Liverpool Classical Monthly Materiali e discussioni per l’analisi dei testi classici Museum Helveticum P. G. W. Glare (ed.) (1962–82) Oxford Latin Dictonary. Oxford. Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society Proceedings of the Virgil Society Revue des ´etudes latines Rivista di filologiae e di istruzione classica Rendiconti dell’Istituto Lombardo, Classe di Lettere, Scienze morali e storiche Symbolae Osloenses Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association Yale Classical Studies x

chapter 1

Introduction

The sparks that warmed me, the seeds of my ardor, were from the holy fire – the same that gave more than a thousand poets light and flame. I speak of the Aeneid; when I wrote verse, it was mother to me, it was nurse; my work, without it, would not weigh an ounce.1

So says Statius about the Aeneid ’s influence on him. These words, however, come not from his verse but from The Divine Comedy. When the character Statius encounters Dante and Virgil in Purgatory 21, he praises Virgil’s work and explains its religious importance for him. When living, Statius had secretly converted to Christianity because of Virgil’s Fourth Eclogue, which he took to foretell the birth of Christ.2 As a result, Virgil was not only a defining poetic influence but a significant religious one as well: “Through you I was a poet, through you a Christian.”3 Dante’s reinterpretations of Virgil’s Eclogue and of Statius’ religious life are of course anachronistic: Virgil’s Fourth Eclogue could not have foreseen the birth of Christ,4 nor was Statius a Christian convert.5 If, however, we set aside these ahistorical elements, the passage articulates ideas about poetic influence that are important for the study of the Thebaid. First, the encounter in the Purgatory dramatizes the influence that Virgil in fact had on Statius.6 Second, it exemplifies how poems can offer reinterpretations of earlier works. And finally, it illustrates how poets can engage in artistic rivalry even as they praise their predecessors and models. 1 3 4 5

6

2 Purgatory 22.70–2. Purgatory 21.94–9. Translation from Mandelbaum (1984). Per te poeta fui, per te cristiano (Purgatory 22.73). Virgil’s poem was written roughly four decades earlier. There is no convincing ancient evidence to suggest this. Dante’s reinterpretation of Statius’ religious life must have been based on a reading of Statius’ poetry. See W. R. Hardie (1916) and Ramelli (1999): 425–32 for discussion of the tradition of Statius’ conversion. Cf. the passages from the Thebaid discussed below.

1

2

Statius and Virgil

In this book, I will explore the relationship between the epics of Statius and Virgil, and argue that Statius’ Thebaid offers a critical reinterpretation of the politics and moral virtues of kingship in the Aeneid. The Thebaid uses the literary resources Virgil provides to examine the inadequacy of his presentation of one-man rule, as idealized in the figures of Aeneas and Augustus, the first princeps of Rome. the t h e b a i d and the a e n e i d We do not have to rely on Dante for evidence that the Aeneid influenced Statius deeply. The epilogue of the Thebaid provides explicit testimony:7 durabisne procul dominoque legere superstes, o mihi bissenos multum uigilata per annos Thebai? iam certe praesens tibi Fama benignum strauit iter coepitque nouam monstrare futuris. iam te magnanimus dignatur noscere Caesar, Itala iam studio discit memoratque iuuentus. uiue, precor; nec tu diuinam Aeneida tempta, sed longe sequere et uestigia semper adora. mox, tibi si quis adhuc praetendit nubila liuor, occidet, et meriti post me referentur honores.8 (12.810–19)

Will you endure far off in the future and, having survived your master, will you be read, my Thebaid, on whom I have toiled through the night for twelve years? Surely attendant Fame has already laid a welcoming path for you and begun to show you, though young, to future generations. Already great-hearted Caesar deigns to know you; already Italian youth eagerly learn and recite you. Live on, I pray, and do not compete with the divine Aeneid. Rather follow at a distance and always revere its footprints. Soon, if any envy still spreads clouds in front of you, it will die, and deserved honors will be conferred after I am gone.

In this “perhaps the most explicit intertextual reference in Latin epic,”9 Statius likens his poem to Virgil’s: both were composed in twelve years’ time; both are somehow connected to the emperor.10 The image of the 7 8 9 10

For the epilogue’s function as one of several closural devices in book 12, see Braund (1996), Hardie (1997), and Dietrich (1999). Throughout I use Hill’s edition of the Thebaid (1996a) and Mynors’ edition of Virgil (1969). Translations are mine, unless otherwise noted. Nugent (1996): 70. In addition to the direct mention of Domitian himself (Caesar, 12.814), McGuire (1997): 240–1 and Pollmann (2004): 286 suggest that domino (12.810), while primarily indicating Statius, may also refer to the emperor, who liked being called dominus et deus (cf. Suet. Dom. 13.2). For use of this phrase, see Griffin (2000): 80–3.

Introduction

3

Thebaid trailing the Aeneid contains echoes of Virgil’s Eurydice following Orpheus out of the underworld (Georgics 4) and of Creusa following Aeneas out of Troy (Aeneid 2).11 The seeming power of and reverence for the Aeneid, however, should not blind us to the ambitions that are also expressed.12 Statius acknowledges the acclaim the Thebaid has already received, and he expects the epic to achieve its own well-deserved fame. In this assertion, he conveys something of the bravado that Ovid voices in the epilogue of the Metamorphoses, where he predicts his own immortality as a result of his epic.13 This is not the only passage where Statius places his poem next to the Aeneid. His epitaph on the fallen warriors Hopleus and Dymas challenges us even more directly to evaluate his epic against Virgil’s. In book 10, the two men cross enemy lines at night to recover the bodies of their princes. The story is modeled particularly on the Nisus and Euryalus episode of Aeneid 9.14 In addition to their thematic and structural similarities, Statius points to the Virgilian background of his tale: uos quoque sacrati, quamuis mea carmina surgant inferiore lyra, memores superabitis annos. forsitan et comites non aspernabitur umbras Euryalus Phrygiique admittet gloria Nisi. (10.445–8)

You too will be revered and outlive the years that remember, although my poems rise from an inferior lyre. And perhaps Euryalus will not scorn your shades as comrades, and the glory of Phrygian Nisus will welcome you.

Again, despite the self-deprecation (455–6), Statius plays with the possibility that the Hopleus and Dymas episode will rival that of Virgil’s Nisus and Euryalus. By setting his poem alongside the Aeneid, the poet invites us to read and interpret these two episodes – and poems – against one another.15 11 12

13

14

15

See Malamud (1995): 26–7, Nugent (1996): 70–1, Dietrich (1999): 50, Pag´an (2000): 445–6, Dominik (2003): 97–100, and Pollmann (2004): ad loc. Some scholars, including G. W. Williams (1978): 150 and Quint (1993): 132–3, take the epilogue as a statement of inferiority. More recently, however, its competitive aspects have been given greater emphasis. Dominik (2003), for example, examines the epilogue to show its “self-conscious, selfreferential acknowledgement of the Thebaid’s own belatedness in the poetic and epic traditions and . . . its self-positioning, self-memorialising statement regarding the Thebaid’s own contribution to these traditions” (108). See also Hinds (1998): 91–8. Cf. Dominik (1994a): 174, Braund (1996): 7–8, and Newlands (2004): 136. For the complex blending of models in the epilogue, see especially Malamud (1995): 24–7, Hardie (1997): 156–8, Dominik (2003), and Pollmann (2004): ad loc. See, e.g., Legras (1905): 115–17, Krumbholz (1955): 94–101, Willliams (1972): 76–86, Markus (1997), and Pollmann (2001). The “Doloneia” of Iliad 10 is another important model. See Legras (1905): 115–17 and Juhnke (1972): 144–7. The Hopleus and Dymas episode will be discussed in chapter 6.

4

Statius and Virgil

Not surprisingly, Statian scholarship has always been concerned with the Thebaid’s relationship to the Aeneid.16 Over the past twenty years, however, the nature of this interest has evolved. While earlier research concentrated on identifying Statius’ sources,17 often as a way to learn more about the structure and style of his poetry, more recent studies explore how the Thebaid engages in a creative dialogue with the Aeneid and other predecessor texts.18 Gordon Williams, for example, described this dynamic interaction as follows: In a curious way [Statius’] communication with the reader is not mediated at the level of the text; instead the poet is somehow in direct contact with the reader, above the head, as it were, of the text. Poet and reader are in a mutually agreed-on conspiracy concerning the text which exists, for this purpose, at the same level as a series of similar texts. The process of aemulatio demands this constant extraction of the reader from the imaginative world created in the text so that he can notice the manner of its creation and evaluate that manner against a series of predecessor texts.19

Though Williams downplays the significance of this relationship for the poem’s meaning,20 scholars such as Denis Feeney and Philip Hardie have shown the interpretive possibilities that an intertextual dialogue offers for our understanding of the Thebaid.21 Hardie’s Epic Successors of Virgil, in particular, demonstrates that we must see epicists after Virgil as post-Virgilian, not just in their use of poetic elements from Virgil but in their dialogue with, their criticism of, and their reaction to the Aeneid:22 The successors to Virgil, at once respectful and rebellious, constructed a space for themselves through a “creative imitation” that exploited the energies and tensions called up but not finally expended or resolved in the Aeneid.23

16 17

18

19 21 22 23

Cf. the comments in Keith (2002): 381 and Newlands (2004): 135, though they both explore the influence of Ovid on the Thebaid. Two such important works are those of Legras (1905): 30–144, which examines the epic’s primary models, and of Juhnke (1972): 51–162, which is focused on the influence of Homer on Statius but also includes much on Virgil. Cf. also Venini (1961b). The complexity of Statian allusion is well demonstrated by Hardie (1990a), Dewar (1991), Smolenaars (1994), and Pollmann (2004). Knauer (1964), though on Virgil and Homer, is also an invaluable resource for studying the Thebaid because of Statius’ interaction with both of these predecessors. 20 Ibid., 222. Williams (1986): 223. Feeney (1991): 337–91 and Hardie (1993). For the interpretive ramifications of the Thebaid’s interaction with the Aeneid, see also Hill (1990), Braund (1996), and Pollmann (2001). See also Hinds (1998): 52–98, who discusses the value judgments that go into the construction of Rome’s (or any culture’s) literary history. Hardie (1993): xi.

Introduction

5

Though applicable to all of the epicists writing in the century after Virgil, this statement is especially important for the study of Statius, who announces his relationship with his great predecessor so explicitly. Indeed the interaction between the two epics has also affected the way that modern critics approach the Thebaid. Just as readings of the Aeneid so often depend on how we understand Aeneas’ slaying of Turnus, so readings of the Thebaid rest on how we view Theseus’ slaughter of Creon, as Susanna Braund has shown.24 Two poles of Statian interpretation have resulted that mirror those of Virgilian scholarship:25 one (“pessimism”) sees Theseus as a disturbing character, and the Thebaid as commenting negatively on contemporary political issues. Dominik and McGuire provide the strongest articulations of this position.26 The other pole (“optimism”) reads Theseus at the end of the Thebaid as a positive force and often associates him to some extent with the emperor Domitian or the Flavian restoration of peace after the civil wars of 69 CE. This second view is dominant now, particularly in the major book-length studies of Vessey, Ripoll, Franchet d’Esp`erey, and Delarue.27 The last three represent an apparent trend in French criticism of the Thebaid that views the end of the epic as a return to morality, an adaptation of Virgilian pietas to a Flavian world, where humanitas is the defining ideal. Both sides of the debate have compelling arguments, but neither is fully satisfying. In part, this is because they are predicated, implicitly or explicitly, on Statius’ attitude toward Domitian’s reign or that of the Flavians.28 Dominik, for example, argues from a “pessimistic” stance that the Thebaid offers a withering critique of Domitian the tyrant.29 But to do so, he downplays the potentially positive ramifications of Theseus’ actions and reads the seemingly laudatory statements about Domitian in Statius’ Silvae 24 25 26

27 28 29

Braund (1996): 16–18. Ibid. For more on the “optimistic” and “pessimistic” poles of Virgilian scholarship, see discussion below. Dominik (1994a): 130–80 (especially 156–8) is particularly interested in the connections to Domitian; McGuire (1997): e.g. 35–6, does not name names, so-to-speak, but he is still centrally concerned with the interaction between the Thebaid and the political oppressiveness of the Flavian era. Hershkowitz (1998a): 296–301 provides a pessimistic view of Theseus and the end of the epic, though she does not make political connections. Fantham (1997) also sees the poem in dark colors. Ahl (1986) makes political connections (see, e.g., 2832), but ultimately opts for a “pluralistic” reading of the poem (2904). Criado (2000): 141–230 provides an extended examination of the problematic nature of the Thebaid’s Jupiter but is more interested in critiquing Stoic interpretation of the king of the gods. See also Braund (1996): 18 with n. 53, Pollmann (2004): 26, and below. Vessey (1973): 64, 315, Ripoll (1998): 497–502, Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 396–7, and Delarue (2000): 373. See also Braund (1996) 16–18 and Pollmann (2004): 26. Cf. Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 20. Dominik (1990) and (1994a) offer the most powerful of the political readings of the epic.

6

Statius and Virgil

and Thebaid as heavily ironic.30 Conversely the “optimistic” interpretation views the Flavian restoration after the civil wars of 68–9 CE as such a great achievement that, despite any of Domitian’s shortcomings, Statius would support the emperor to safeguard Flavian peace. They thus minimize the seemingly troubling aspects of Theseus, Jupiter, and the ending of the Thebaid, and offer what amounts to a positive Flavian interpretation.31 There is of course a range of readings between these poles, represented by Ahl, Feeney, Hardie, Henderson, and others.32 The meaning of the poem is therefore still contested. Interpretation of the Thebaid is thus centrally concerned with the epic’s engagement with the Aeneid,33 yet there is no consensus on what that engagement means.34 It is my contention that the need to understand the Thebaid as a reflection (either positive or negative) of Domitian detracts from a more fundamental dialogue. There is a significant political component to the Thebaid. It lies, however, not in the immediate context of Statius’ irretrievable historical attitude toward Domitian and the Flavians, but in the Thebaid’s interaction with the presentation of kingship and the Principate at the heart of the Aeneid. I will show that the Thebaid offers a critique of the Aeneid, one that is based on the moral virtues so important in the “optimistic” readings of the poem, yet also deeply implicated in the political dialogue about monarchic power, which is central to the “pessimistic” line of interpretation. The debates about virtue and power are inextricably entwined. statian intertex tualit y To make such an argument requires certain assumptions about how one poem interacts with another – that is, about its allusive or intertextual 30 31

32 33 34

For the potential difficulties of ironic readings or “double-speak,” see Newmyer (1995) and Newlands (2002): 18–19, who discusses the important article by Ahl (1984) on “safe criticism.” It should be noted that Ripoll (1998) and Delarue (2000) have complicated views on the epic’s political relevance. Delarue (2000) can talk about the positive connections between Theseus and Domitian (373), yet still disavow political significance in them: “the lesson of the Thebaid is not political, but moral” (432). Ripoll (1998): 519 also reads the Thebaid as primarily about moral issues. Yet the premise of the book is that the moral transformation of the epic hero is related to the new Flavian (i.e. political) regime. See Braund (1996): 18. This is not to deny the importance of other predecessors for Statius’ epic. One can see, e.g., in Legras (1905) the importance of the entire Classical tradition for the Thebaid. Pollmann (2001): 13 suggests, “we can come nearer to solving this problem [i.e. of the epic’s meaning] when we take Statius’ evocations of Vergil seriously, and look more closely at the similarities and differences of the two epics.”

Introduction

7

quality. In interpreting this well-demonstrated aspect of the Thebaid,35 I start from the position that to make sense of allusions or intertexts,36 it is not necessary to discover Statius’ intentions,37 which are ultimately irretrievable and thus cannot be used to endorse one understanding of an intertext over another. Rather the reader identifies intertexts and then ponders how they affect the meaning of the primary (or “target”)38 text. The heightened role of the reader that results does not mean that any interpretation can thus be validated, since interpretation is still limited by its ability to convince.39 When reading the Thebaid, we have at least one crucial guideline: if we are to search for intertexts, we must be centrally concerned with the Aeneid. This is the work that the passages in Thebaid 10 and 12 point us to, and this is the text that had the greatest impact on early Imperial epic. We might conceive of the relationship between Statius and Virgil as comparable to that between Virgil and Homer. Just as Homer’s epics had a defining influence on the nature, structure, and theme of Virgil’s, so the Aeneid had a similar effect on Statius’ poem. Joseph Farrell has described the intertextuality of the Aeneid in terms that could be transferred profitably to the Thebaid: Vergil sets in motion a process whereby he actively enlists the reader’s cooperation in creating, or better, discovering intertextual relationships between the texts in question. He will not have foreseen them all himself, but he will have “deliberately” set in motion a process that extends his imitation of Homer well beyond his conscious design and will by implication have given his authorial approval to whatever the reader may perceive. The reader still has the burden of making sense out of whatever s/he notices, and this can be done well or badly, and other readers may accept or deny what s/he comes up with. But the apparent fact that Vergil’s poetry encourages the perception of intertextual phenomena seems to me the factor that liberates the reader from concern with nothing but what s/he can feel the poet “intended” his allusion to accomplish, or even whether he intended all of them at all.40

If for “Homer” and “Virgil” we read “Virgil” and “Statius” respectively, we have an important way of understanding the intertextual relationship between the Aeneid and the Thebaid: Statius’ epic itself gives us the freedom 35 36

37

38 40

See above. The two terms are often used interchangeably, though I will generally prefer the latter. For possible distinctions between “allusion” and “intertextuality,” see especially Fowler (1997a) and Gale (2000): 4–6. For the difficulties that such distinctions involve, see Hinds (1998): 17–51. For this position on intentionality in the study of intertexts, see especially Fowler (1997a), Gale (2000): 4–6, and Edmunds (2001): 153–4. On intertextuality in general, see Allen (2000); in Latin poetry, see Conte (1986): 23–95, Farrell (1991): 3–25, Hinds (1998), and Edmunds (2001). 39 See, e.g., Gale (2000): 4. Fowler (1997a): 27. Farrell (1995), an e-mail quoted in Edmunds (2001): 154.

8

Statius and Virgil

to discover and make sense of intertexts from the Aeneid, even if Statius the poet had not consciously employed them. It is thus up to the reader to present compelling and convincing arguments about their interpretive significance. To be sure, the Thebaid is an immensely erudite poem that has many other important intertexts, most notably Homeric epic, Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Lucan’s De Bello Civili, and Greek and Senecan tragedy.41 These works will contribute to any intertextual reading of the poem, and their influence could be fruitfully pursued on their own. But while I will consider these and other texts, they will be brought to bear on the larger question of how the “meaning” of the Thebaid is affected when it is read primarily against the Aeneid with its moral and political concerns. In arguing for such an intertextual interpretation of the Thebaid, I am by necessity assuming a reading of Virgil’s epic to which Statius’ poem reacts. But which Aeneid – the optimistic or pessimistic? Or one somewhere in between? This question is particularly pressing because of the intense debate over the meaning of Virgil’s epic that has been conducted over the past forty years. There can be no doubt that the Aeneid has an “Augustan”42 (“optimistic” or “public”) voice.43 It offers an ordered and teleological view of the world, in which Jupiter provides control over the cosmos, Rome rises to world domination, and Augustus represents an idealized ruler. This reading has clearly dominated the poem’s reception since antiquity. And even if the poem was written during (and thus only witnessed) the beginning of Augustus’ reign, it was generally taken by posterity to idealize the entire Augustan age. But there are elements in the Aeneid that seem to work against this Augustan voice, leading to “ambivalent” (or “pessimistic”)44 interpretations. Parry saw a “private” voice, Lyne “further voices.”45 Such readings challenge the stability of the Augustan voice, and are especially interested in the 41

42 43

44

45

See notes above for works that show the Thebaid ’s highly allusive or intertextual character. For the influence of tragedy in particular, see especially Venini (1965a), Smolenaars (1994), Criado (2000): 19–139, Delarue (2000), and Pollmann (2004). I will prefer this term throughout the book, since it captures the political aspect of the question most clearly. See Thomas (2001): e.g., xiii–xiv, 53. Thomas’ book provides a powerful statement of why all readers of Virgil, even those advocating Augustan interpretations, should at least acknowledge the presence of an ambivalent voice, even if it is not viewed as dominant. I will use the term “ambivalent” throughout this book, for it captures the potential complexity of the Aeneid better than does the word “pessimistic.” For discussion of these terms, see, e.g., Thomas (2001): xii–xiii. Parry (1963) and Lyne (1987).

Introduction

9

workings of passions such as furor, in subversive figures such as Juno and Allecto, and in events that question fate, Jupiter’s control, and the moral ideals of the Augustan voice. Whether Statius read the Aeneid ambivalently or as an Augustan poem, we simply cannot know. What is clear, however, is that the Thebaid explores and expands those troubling elements that challenge the Aeneid ’s Augustan voice (which I will often, for convenience, refer to as the “Augustan Aeneid ”). I will argue in this book that the Thebaid shows the problems of this Augustan voice and its moral presentation of kingship, and it does so by exploiting troubles adumbrated in the Aeneid itself. In the remainder of this chapter, I will examine the story of Coroebus from book 1. It provides an interesting entry point into my interpretation, and I will argue that it functions as a programmatic passage that reveals some important ways that the Thebaid engages the Augustan Aeneid. the coroebus narrative Near the end of book 1, the Argive king Adrastus explains to his newly arrived guests Polynices and Tydeus why the Argives annually celebrate the god Apollo. He tells the following tale (1.557–668): long ago when Apollo came to Argos to seek expiation for his slaying of the Python, he raped the king’s daughter.46 She gave birth to a son in secret and handed him over to shepherds to raise. When she learned that the baby was killed by a pack of dogs, she was so overwhelmed with grief and guilt that she confessed the illegitimate child to her father (the king) and was subsequently executed. In mourning,47 Apollo sent a vicious child-eating monster to terrorize Argos. A heroic youth named Coroebus killed the monster. Apollo was enraged, 46

47

The names of the young woman (Psamathe), the baby (Linus), and the monster (Poine) are not included in Statius but can be supplied from other sources and traditions. Pausanias 1.43.7–8 summarizes the story and, in conjunction with 2.19.8, provides the information. The primary source for the Coroebus narrative is generally agreed to have been Callimachus, Aetia 1. See fragments 26–31 in Pfeiffer (1949, vol. I) and fragments 26–8 in Trypanis and Gelzer (1958): 24–8. For the Callimachean background to the tale, see Taisne (1994): 245 and Delarue (2000): 121–3. For an overview of sources, see Legras (1905): 38–9, Aric`o (1960), Vessey (1973): 101, and Brown (1994): 174–87. The myth does not seem to be connected to other versions of the Theban war we know of, and, as Vessey (1973): 101 notes, the only other place it is mentioned in earlier Latin literature is Ovid, Ibis 575–6. The text is unclear as to whose death Apollo mourns – that of the baby, of the young woman, or of both. Moreover, Apollo’s intent in using Poine (see note above) is equally ambiguous. Poine in Greek means “Revenge,” and we would therefore assume, as Pausanias says (1.43.7), that Apollo sent Poine against the Argives because of the death of his son. In Statius, however, Adrastus suggests that the god brings forth the monster as a solace to himself: sero memor thalami maestae solacia morti,/ Phoebe, paras monstrum . . . (“Phoebus, remembering your coupling [i.e. with Crotopus’ daughter] too late, you prepare a monster as a solace for her grievous death . . . ,” 1.596–7).

10

Statius and Virgil

cast a plague upon the city and demanded the monster’s killer. Coroebus dutifully presented himself to Apollo, offering his life in return for the safety of his people. Apollo was stunned. He drove the plague from Argos but decided to spare the youth. As a result, the Argives instituted an annual festival for Apollo. It is a horrifying tale whose meaning has generated much debate.48 Though earlier critics objected to its presence as a digressive impertinence,49 it has more recently been taken as foregrounding important events of the epic as a whole.50 Interpreters of the Coroebus episode have read the story as a demonstration of the immorality of Apollo and the gods,51 as an exhibition of the power of pietas,52 and as a message to Adrastus and the Argives that they should not participate in the Theban war.53 While this tale certainly has important ramifications for the narrative, and while there are many connections between it and the Thebaid as a whole,54 these interpretations leave an important question largely unaddressed: Why do the Argives so proudly celebrate Apollo as their protector (1.552–5, 694–5) when, in Adrastus’ inset narrative, the god is depicted as exceedingly violent and thoroughly indifferent to the suffering of the Argives? I will argue that the answer to this question has important implications for the role of pietas throughout the Thebaid because the Coroebus tale signals the irrelevance of pietas in this post-Virgilian epic world.55 Moreover, through its intertextual dialogue with Virgil (that focuses especially on the ambivalent potential of Aeneas’ slaying of Turnus), the episode offers a critique of the Aeneid ’s representation of Aeneas and of kingship. 48

49 50

51 52 53 54

55

For interpretations of the Coroebus narrative, see Legras (1905): 38–9, Heuvel (1932): ad loc., Aric`o (1960), Caviglia (1973): 22–6 and ad loc., Vessey (1973): 101–7, Ahl (1986): 2853–4, Kytzler (1986): 2916–24, Hill (1990): 113–15, Brown (1994): 164–74, Dominik (1994a): 63–70, Ripoll (1998): 303–4, and Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 376–82. E.g. Legras (1905): 152 and Aric`o (1960): 277 argue that the episode undermines the poem’s unity, but see Brown (1994): 164–6 and Delarue (2000): 122. That is, the tale is read as mise en abyme, or what Bal (1997): 58 would call a “mirror-text”: “When the primary fabula and the embedded fabula can be paraphrased in such a manner that both paraphrases have one or more elements in common, the subtext is a sign of the primary text.” Hill (1990): 114 and Dominik (1994a): 63–70. E.g. Vessey (1973): 106–7, Hill (1990): 115, and Ripoll (1998): 303–4. E.g. Ahl (1986): 2853–5 and Dominik (1994a): 69–70. One connection between the Coroebus tale and the rest of the Thebaid that at least should be mentioned here is that the death of the baby Linus looks forward to the death of the baby Opheltes in book 5. Indeed both infants are described as sidereus (1.577, 5.613). See Vessey (1973): 104 and Brown (1994): 182–4. Brown (1994): 161–87 explores how the two stories are complexly joined by the depiction of Linus’ death on a tapestry at Opheltes’ funeral pyre (6.64). Cf. Burgess (1971–2): 58.

Introduction

11

Pietas and Nefas Pietas, the quintessential Roman virtue meaning “duty to one’s family, state, and gods,” lies at the heart of Adrastus’ narrative. Psamathe, the woman raped by Apollo, is introduced as a character closely associated with this virtue: pios seruabat . . . penates (“she maintained a pious home,” 1.572),56 and Coroebus’ slaughter of Apollo’s monstrum is described as an act of pietas by the narrator Adrastus (non tu pia degener arma/ occulis, “you do not disgracefully hide your pious weapons,” 1.639–40). Moreover, Coroebus lays special claim to pietas at the climax of the episode (1.644).57 But throughout the tale, acts of pietas and those who embody this virtue are set in conflict with acts of nefas (“unspeakable crime”)58 and those who would commit them. Nefas and related words such as the adjectives nefandum and infandum (“unspeakable”) are central to the Coroebus narrative.59 Pious Psamathe is sentenced to death by her father (the Argive king Crotopus), an act called infandum by Adrastus (1.595). The monster that Apollo sends against Argos is a product of the unspeakable bed of the Furies (monstrum infandis . . . conceptum Eumenidum thalamis, 1.597–8). In death, she emits an uterique nefandam/ proluuiem (“unspeakable discharge of the womb,” 1.617–18) and is called nefas at 1.646.60 The resulting conflict between pietas and nefas structures the tale, suggesting that the question at stake is whether pietas has any power in a world so infected by nefas. This struggle is explicitly and self-consciously voiced by Coroebus at the end of the tale, when he offers himself up as a victim to Apollo: non missus, Thymbraee, tuos supplexue penates aduenio: mea me pietas et conscia uirtus has egere uias. ego sum qui caede subegi, Phoebe, tuum mortale nefas, quem nubibus atris et squalente die, nigra quem tabe sinistri quaeris, inique, poli. (1.643–8) 56 57 58 59 60

Here pios, modifying penates, is a transferred epithet that really describes Psamathe. See the discussion below. For discussion of the word nefas and its importance for the Thebaid more generally, see chapter 2. The adjective infandum is etymologically related to the noun nefas and conveys the same idea (cf. also nefandum). This monstrum is a perfect symbol of nefas (i.e. that which is not allowed), since she is a hybrid creature, who has the face and chest of a woman with a snake rising from her head (1.598–600). Her close association with the Furies, in both her birth and appearance, is furthered by her characterization as a dira lues; Dira is another name for a Fury. Note also that the madness of the dogs that destroy Psamathe’s son Linus is described as dira (dira canum rabies, 1.589).

12

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I do not come to your home, Apollo, on order or as suppliant: my pietas and conscious valor (uirtus) have compelled this journey. I am the one who slaughtered your mortal nefas, unjust Phoebus; the one whom you seek with black clouds and squalid daylight, with the black corruption of the unlucky sky.

To Coroebus, the situation is one in which his pietas (and uirtus) have been pitted against Apollo’s nefas.61 Interpreters usually claim that because Apollo ends up sparing Coroebus, the ideal of pietas is vindicated and valorized. Hill, for example, writes: “Salvation can be achieved only by the most vigorous acts of personal piety and the only true source of moral strength is man himself, certainly not Jupiter or Apollo.”62 But is it really the case that pietas (Coroebus) wins out over nefas (Apollo’s monster)? Adrastus explains Apollo’s reaction as follows: sors aequa merentes respicit. ardentem tenuit reuerentia caedis Letoiden, tristemque uiro submissus honorem largitur uitae; nostro mala nubila caelo diffugiunt, at tu stupefacti a limine Phoebi exoratus abis. (1.661–6)

Justice respects the deserving. Misgiving about slaughter restrained the burning son of Leto, and, yielding, he grants the sad honor of life to the hero. The evil clouds flee from the sky, but you, reconciled, leave the threshold of stunned Phoebus.

The god is stunned (stupefacti, 665) by Coroebus’ words, but he is restrained from killing Coroebus, not because of an appreciation of the youth’s pietas, but by his own reuerentia caedis (662). The word reuerentia here means something like “a feeling of misgiving at some prospect”;63 and reverentia caedis, “a misgiving about slaughter.”64 But whose slaughter? Apollo’s potential slaughter of Coroebus? Coroebus’ slaughter of Apollo’s monster? 61

62

63 64

Although pietas is the dominant concept in the episode, uirtus plays an important part here and throughout the poem. Personified versions of both Virtus and Pietas appear in the last part of the epic. See Feeney (1991): 382–5, Fantham (1995), and chapter 6 for discussion of the unusual nature of Statius’ Virtus/uirtus. Hill (1990): 115. Kytzler (1986): 2920 offers a similar judgment. See also Ripoll (1998): 304. Aric`o (1960), in one of the few articles devoted exclusively to the Coroebus episode, focuses less on the thematic importance of the episode and more on Statius’ adaptation of his sources in order to show that the poet’s style is baroque. OLD s.v. reuerentia 2. It should be noted, however, that Ripoll (1998): 304 and Lesueur (1990): 25 take caedis with ardentem (i.e. “dans son ardeur a` tuer”), a construal that seems less natural.

Introduction

13

Apollo’s earlier slaying of the Python? Or even Apollo’s general tendency to violence?65 One point, however, is clear: Statius nowhere states that the god cares about pietas.66 Apollo never acknowledges it in Coroebus, although it is the mortal’s prime virtue.67 Nor do characters in the tale think that pietas will appease Apollo’s anger.68 The narrator Adrastus feels that the youth had every reason to expect execution despite his pietas (non tu pia degener arma/ occulis aut certae trepidas occurrere morti, “you do not hide your pious weapons ignobly, nor are you afraid to meet certain death,” 639–40). And Coroebus says as much to Apollo: “merui ne parcere uelles” (“I have not deserved your clemency,” 657). Pietas is ultimately an irrelevant concept, unappreciated and unrewarded in this embedded narrative. co roebus and the a e n e i d The centrality of pietas in this episode by itself invites a comparison with the Aeneid, where this virtue is the defining characteristic of Aeneas and, by extension, of Augustus.69 But there are other ways that Virgil’s presence is felt. Most notably Coroebus’ encounter with Apollo’s monster evokes the Hercules and Cacus story of Aeneid 8, which brings with it important associations among Hercules, Aeneas, and Augustus. I will argue that Statius’ narrative of Coroebus draws on Virgil’s Cacus episode and its connections to Aeneas’ slaying of Turnus in Aeneid 12 to underscore still further the irrelevance of pietas in the Thebaid. Virgil’s Cacus episode provides an important structural model for the Coroebus narrative.70 In Aeneid 8, Aeneas arrives in Pallanteum while rites 65 66

67 68

69 70

Adrastus also uses caedis to describe Apollo’s slaying of the Python at 1.569, while Coroebus refers to his slaying of the monster with the word caede at 1.645. This view of course runs counter to the standard interpretation that Coroebus’ pietas and uirtus lead to Apollo’s clementia. See, e.g., Vessey (1973): 105–7, Hill (1990): 115, Ahl (1986): 2854 (at least in part), and Dominik (1994a): 69. Kytzler (1986) would seemingly endorse this view, though he does not specifically address the issue of clementia. Ripoll (1998): 302 sees the positive interpretation of Coroebus as so clear that he uses it as evidence to refute the argument of Burgess (1971–2) that the Thebaid is an epic of despair. See also Delarue (2000): 82 and 318 on Ripoll’s interpretation. Ripoll (1998): 289. In fact Ahl (1986): 2854 questions whether clementia is involved at all: “Instead of killing Coroebus, Apollo spares him – though it is by no means sure that this is last-minute clementia . . . If Apollo kills Coroebus now, every charge the hero has made will be proved true.” Even so, Ahl concludes that because Coroebus (like Oedipus) admits his guilt, he “provides an opportunity for the gods to show divine ‘justice’ and ‘clemency.’” (2854). The importance of pietas for the Aeneid is, of course, a familiar concept; see, e.g., Traina (1988): 93–101. Legras (1905): 38–9, Vessey (1973): 101, Brown (1994): 166–8, Taisne (1994): 245, and Delarue (2000): 121; Hill (1990): 113, however, rejects this view.

14

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for Hercules are performed by King Evander. Evander explains the origins of the festival by telling the tale of Hercules’ slaying of a fire-breathing monster named Cacus who had been terrorizing their people (Aen. 8.185– 275). Likewise in Thebaid 1, Polynices arrives in Argos during a festival (for Apollo), and King Adrastus reveals its origins by telling the tale of how Coroebus slew a child-eating monster that was terrorizing his people.71 The two stories are linked in other ways as well, particularly by their interest in showing how heroic figures overcome terrible crime.72 Coroebus’ monster is described twice as nefas, as we saw above, while Hercules’ monster is called Cacus, a name that seems a transliteration of the Greek kakos, “evil.” Augustan interpretations of the Virgilian story usually argue that Hercules’ defeat of Cacus provides some kind of model for Aeneas and should be connected both to Augustus’ defeat of Antony and Cleopatra described on Aeneas’ shield at the end of the same book73 and to Aeneas’ slaying of Turnus at the end of the epic. Gransden, for example, argues for an Augustan significance of the Cacus episode: “Virgil emphasizes typological parallels between Cacus, Turnus and Antony, as enemies of civilisation, and between Hercules, Aeneas and Augustus as defenders of it, so that the exploit becomes a model of the ‘heroic encounter’ with evil.” 74 Statius’ Coroebus narrative taps into the network of these associations in the Cacus tale, intertextually connecting Coroebus to Hercules/Aeneas/ Augustus/pietas, and Apollo’s monster to Cacus/Turnus/Cleopatra/nefas.75 When Coroebus slays the monster, the text reminds us of the slayings of Cacus and of Turnus. The Argives’ violent reaction to the monster’s death resembles that of Evander’s people to Cacus’: 71

72

73 74

75

In addition, Aeneid 7 provides the structural backdrop for the second half of Thebaid 1. Just as Aeneas had landed in Latinus’ kingdom in Italy and is promised the princess Lavinia in marriage, so Polynices arrives in Argos and is promised a princess wife. Both marriages are prophesied, and both result in terrible and unholy wars. On the connection between Virgil’s Latinus and Statius’ Adrastus, see, e.g., Bernstein (2003): 368–9. Another connection between Coroebus and Aeneas of Aeneid 8 comes when Coroebus offers Apollo his own life to save the Argives further suffering: me, me, diuum optime, solum/ obiecisse caput fatis praestabat (1.651–2). These words echo Aeneas’ appeal to Evander for help (me, me ipse meumque/ obieci caput . . . , Aen. 8.144–5). They may also recall Nisus at Aeneid 9.427, as he attempts to prevent the slaying of Euryalus. See Caviglia (1973): ad loc. Sequiturque (nefas) Aegyptia coniunx (“his Egyptian wife follows (unspeakable crime!),” Aen. 8.688). Cf. also Augustus’ subduing of Furor impius at Aen. 1.294. Gransden (1976): 107, also quoted in Morgan (1998): 176. Others read this nexus of associations but find it more troubling. Lyne (1987): 28, for example, argues that the associations show that Aeneas and Hercules are perhaps not quite that different in their violence from Cacus and Turnus – thus undermining more positive interpretations such as those of Gransden (see above), Galinsky (1966), and others. Cf. Brown (1994): 167. For these types of oppositions in the Aeneid, see especially P¨oschl (1962): 13–33.

Introduction

15

nequit iram explere potestas (Theb. 1.623)

The power [i.e. to defile the monster’s corpse] cannot sate their anger. nequeunt expleri corda tuendo terribilis oculos (Aen. 8.265–6)

They cannot sate their hearts with looking at the terrible eyes.

In addition, Coroebus’ slaughter of Apollo’s monstrum is described in terms that recall Aeneas’ slaying of Turnus at the end of the Aeneid: hoc dicens ferrum aduerso sub pectore condit feruidus. (Aen. 12.950–1)

Saying this, he violently buries his sword in his enemy’s chest.

ferrumque ingens sub pectore duro condidit (Theb. 1.613–14)

And he buried his huge sword in her pitiless chest.

Not only is Coroebus, as he kills the monster, another exemplum of pietas, but he also resembles Aeneas at the climactic moment of Virgil’s epic; he uses Aeneas’ intertextual sword (ferrum . . . sub pectore condit, 12.950) to kill Apollo’s nefas. Coroebus even outdoes Aeneas. While Aeneas is overcome with furor and ira (12.946), passions central to ambivalent readings of the Aeneid, Coroebus is untroubled by such emotions. Coroebus’ destruction of the monster (as opposed to Aeneas’ slaying of Turnus) is thus relatively unproblematic: the monster is irrefutably nefas, and the slaying is necessary for the salvation of the city. Nonetheless the Statian episode goes on to complicate both Coroebus’ deed and his relationship to Aeneas. Whereas the Aeneid simply ends with Turnus’ death, leaving the reader to approve or disapprove of Aeneas’ final action,76 Coroebus must justify his action to Apollo. As Coroebus is in the midst of doing so, he suddenly changes course, and we see that his intertextual association with Aeneas is gradually subverted: 76

This of course is one of the central concerns of Virgilian interpretation. The literature on the ending of the Aeneid is naturally immense, but for opposing viewpoints, see, e.g., Stahl (1990) and Putnam (1984), reprinted in Putnam (1995): 152–71.

16

Statius and Virgil “sed quid fando tua tela manusque demoror? expectant matres, supremaque fiunt uota mihi. satis est: merui ne parcere uelles. proinde moue pharetras arcusque intende sonoros insignemque animam leto demitte; sed illum, pallidus Inachiis qui desuper inminet Argis dum morior, dispelle globum.” sors aequa merentes respicit. ardentem tenuit reuerentia caedis Letoiden, tristemque uiro summissus honorem largitur uitae (1.655–64)

“But why do I delay your weapons and hands with my talk? The mothers are waiting, and the final prayers have been made for me. This is enough. I have deserved no clemency from you. So bring on your quiver and stretch your sounding bow, and send a heroic soul to death; but while I am dying, dispel the darkening gloom hovering over Inachian Argos.” Justice respects the deserving. Misgiving about slaughter restrained the burning son of Leto, and, yielding, he grants the sad honor of life to the hero.

Coroebus stops defending his actions because he feels Apollo’s wrath is inevitable: sed quid fando tua tela manusque/ demoror? (1.655–6). Coroebus’ certainty about the inability of pietas to sway Apollo is striking, not because it is an unreasonable assumption, but because at the very moment that he expresses this idea, he seemingly alludes to Helenus, Apollo’s own priest, from Aeneid 3.77 There, Helenus cuts himself short, while addressing Aeneas’ father Anchises: uade . . . o felix nati pietate. quid ultra/ prouehor et fando surgentis demoror Austros? (“Go, fortunate in your son’s pietas. Why do I continue speaking and delay the surging South winds with my talk?” Aen. 3.480–1). In both cases, statements about pietas (i.e. Aeneas’ and Coroebus’) are made but then interrupted. Thus Coroebus asserts that Apollo will kill him even as his words allude to Apollo’s priest who is supposed to understand the will of the god best (and who is in fact one of the major prophets in the Aeneid). Could Coroebus, with his authoritative prophetic model from Virgil’s epic, possibly be wrong about Apollo? But somehow he is. Indeed, Coroebus is even “wrong” about his own role relative to the Aeneid. For just as Coroebus determines that his talk of pietas is irrelevant, he suddenly reveals his real position of powerlessness. Despite Coroebus’ intertextual similarities to Aeneas, his model now is Turnus at the conclusion of the Aeneid.78 Both claim not to be suppliants (merui ne parcere 77 78

Caviglia (1973): ad loc. As we shall see in chapters 8 and 9, the duel between Turnus and Aeneas is “replayed” several times in the Thebaid – in the duels of Eteocles and Polynices (book 11) and of Creon and Theseus (book 12), as well as in the encounter between Antigone and Argia in book 12.

Introduction

17

uelles, Theb. 1.657; equidem merui nec deprecor, “Indeed I have deserved this, nor do I ask for mercy,” Aen. 12.931), but both realize that their fate depends on the decision of their foe, who has won and exercises the power of life and death. In other words, both face the same two potential outcomes: being slain or spared. Moreover, just as Aeneas’ slaying of Turnus is described with a sacrificial metaphor (immolat, Aen. 12.949),79 so Coroebus’ death is also metaphorically represented as a sacrifice. Coroebus discovers that Apollo has demanded that the slayers of his monster be killed as an offering to it (1.636–7). And, as Caviglia notes, leto demitte in 1.659 (“send to death,” 1.659) is a variation on the sacral phrase dare leto.80 Thus Coroebus, who utters these words to Apollo, can be seen to conceptualize his own death as a sacrifice as well.81 Coroebus turns out more like Turnus, despite his initial resemblance to Aeneas. Now, if Coroebus resembles Turnus at this moment, Apollo consequently plays a role like Aeneas’, but with an important difference. Whereas Aeneas burns with fury (furiis accensus, Aen. 12.946) and kills Turnus, Apollo – even though he is burning with rage (ardentem, 1.662) – spares Coroebus. The Thebaid would thus seem to point to troubling aspects of Aeneas’ sudden and impassioned slaying of Turnus (so central to readings that would question the poem’s Augustan voice), and to show what an unproblematic response might have looked like. Thus, if the Coroebus tale is read as an intertextual critique not only of pietas in an autocratic world but also of Aeneas, then the Trojan hero loses twice: first, because his pietas means little in the Thebaid; second, because Apollo can exhibit self-restraint where Aeneas could not. coroebus and augustan ideology The Coroebus tale thus exposes the inadequacy of pietas in dealing with Apollo’s absolute power. Given the close connections between Aeneas, Augustus, and pietas in the Aeneid and during Augustus’ reign, we can sense that a political dialogue about monarchs is underway. Such a dialogue, of course, already exists in the Aeneid, and is central to Augustan readings of the epic. In the most wide-ranging discussion of this topic, Francis Cairns has argued that the Aeneid engages significantly with ancient discussions about kingship, and that Aeneas embodies many of the virtues of a good 79 80 81

Pallas te hoc uulnere, Pallas/ immolat . . . (“Pallas sacrifices you with this wound, Pallas . . .” 12.948–9). Caviglia (1973): ad loc. It also represents one death for the safety of the many, which itself suggests sacrifice. Cf. the selfsacrifices of Decius Mus (Livy 8.9) and Menoeceus (Theb. 10.628–782). For Turnus as scapegoat and his death as sacrifice, see Hardie (1993): 19–21.

18

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king. He thus offers an Augustan interpretation of Aeneas (and of Virgil’s epic more generally).82 Our passage seems to continue such a debate by suggesting an engagement specifically with Augustan ideology. Coroebus’ climactic confrontation with Apollo incorporates three other important concepts besides pietas: uirtus,83 iustitia,84 and clementia.85 The resulting quartet of ideals represents the four virtues attributed to Augustus and commemorated on the clupeus uirtutum (“Shield of Virtues”) dedicated to him in 27 BCE, and placed in the new Julian senate house.86 Given the highly charged ideological field of the Aeneid (the intertext here), Statius’ Apollo should be interpreted as a king or princeps-figure.87 The episode then offers a critique of the Augustan conception of kingship as embodying not just pietas but all four of the Augustan virtues.88 Statius’ treatment of these four virtues falls into two parts.89 Both pietas90 and uirtus91 are relevant to the hero Coroebus – that is, to the ruled. They are the two virtues that Coroebus himself claims in defending his 82 83 84 85 86

87

88

89 90

91

Cairns (1989): see especially chapters 1–3. Fish (2004) further develops Cairns’ kingship-based interpretation by exploring Philodemus’ potential influence further. Mea me pietas et conscia uirtus/ has egere uias (“my pietas and conscious uirtus have compelled this journey,” 1.644–5). I take sors aequa (1.661) as roughly equivalent to iustitia. See below. . . . et saeuo tanta inclementia caelo est (“ . . . and such great mercilessness is in the harsh heavens,” 1.650). The idea of clementia is also expressed in the phrase merui ne parcere uelles (1.657, see above). See Augustus, Res Gestae 34.2. A marble copy of this shield says it was given to Augustus by the senate and Roman people, and describes it as a clupeum uirtutis clementiae iustitiae pietatis erga deos patriamque (“a shield of uirtus, clementia, iustitia, and pietas toward gods and country”). Galinsky (1996): 88 writes: “the four Augustan virtues did not freeze into a ‘canon.’ Such routinization is more typical of the later Roman Empire; the Augustan period was more dynamic and less conformist. The virtues were, in a way, the famous ‘Augustan constitution.’” See Galinsky (1996): 87 for a picture of the marble copy and 80–140 for the clupeus uirtutum and the treatment of these ideas in the Aeneid and other works. Weinstock (1971): 228–59 offers an excellent analysis of these four virtues. Cairns (1989): 1–28 examines the important interrelationship between divine and human kingship in the Aeneid. Of Jupiter and Aeneas, he writes: “The association of divinity with royalty, and Jupiter’s status as king of the gods and the universe in particular, in part explain, and also enhance, the significance of human kingship in the epic. In one set of terms king Aeneas and king Jupiter were for Virgil equivalents on earth and in heaven in times past, just as in his lyrics Horace could portray Augustus as Jupiter’s contemporary terrestrial regent and viceroy” (21). Perhaps Apollo’s presence in this Statian passage is pointed, for we might see the connection between Apollo and the princeps implied by the associations that Augustus had cultivated with Apollo in Virgil’s own lifetime. Apollo was the god who “oversaw” Augustus’ victory at Actium in 31 BCE, and Augustus dedicated a temple to Apollo next to his own home on the Palatine in 28 BCE. With respect to the placement of pietas on Augustus’ shield, Galinsky (1996): 86 notes: “Pietas is the culminating and most quintessentially Roman virtue of the four virtues on the shield.” On pietas in the Thebaid, see especially Burgess (1971–2), Ripoll (1998): 286–312, Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 261–77, Delarue (2000): 80–3, and Pollmann (forthcoming). On fraternal pietas in Roman culture, see Bannon (1997). On uirtus in general, see Weinstock (1971): 230–3, Galinsky (1996): 84, and Roller (2001): 22–9. On uirtus in Statius, see Feeney (1991): 382–5, Fantham (1995), Ripoll (1998): 318–23, 328–49, 361–7, Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 374–82, Delarue (2000): 355–6, and Pollmann (forthcoming).

Introduction

19

actions (1.643). Pietas involves devotion to the family, the state, and the gods92 (though in the Thebaid it so often involves relations on the human level).93 Coroebus displays this ideal in his decision to rid his city of the monster and in his willingness to surrender to Apollo, when he learns that the monster’s killer is demanded by the god. In addition, Coroebus employs uirtus (here courage in battle) to enact his pietas by confronting and slaying the monster.94 Virtus and pietas are closely related,95 since uirtus will generally involve some kind of military service to the state. But since Coroebus’ uirtus is motivated by his duty to his people, pietas is the more prominent ideal at play here, as it is so often throughout the Aeneid. Iustitia96 and clementia,97 however, are associated with the god Apollo – that is, with the ruler. Iustitia is represented in our passage by the phrase sors aequa (1.661).98 In general, it comprises fairness in fighting foreign enemies as well as in creating, legislating, and administering Rome’s laws at home and abroad. In the Augustan context, it especially involved “the return to a government based on justice and just laws rather than the continuation of [Augustus’] rule in the manner of a triumvir” and “was expected to be the basis of the laws of which Augustus was auctor” and “to moderate his power.”99 Clementia, on the other hand, is an ideologically loaded word. It occurs in the Coroebus narrative, when the youth rebukes Apollo’s seeming unforgiving nature: quod si . . . saeuo tanta inclementia caelo est . . . (“But if 92 93 94 95 96 97

98

99

See, e.g., Weinstock (1971): 248–59, Galinsky (1996): 86–8, and Roller (2001): 26–8. See, e.g., Ripoll (1998): 286–94. Weinstock (1971): 230 defines uirtus as “manly behaviour in war for which [a Roman citizen] was rewarded with military distinctions and later with a political career.” See, e.g., Galinsky (1996): 84. On iustitia, see Weinstock (1971): 243–8 and Galinsky (1996): 85–6. For iustitia in Statius, see Ripoll (1998): 425–40 and Pollmann (forthcoming). On the general meaning of clementia, see Seneca, De Clementia, Weinstock (1971): 233–43, Burgess (1972): 339–43, Galinsky (1996): 84–5, Roller (2001): 182–93, and Griffin (2003), which offers the best overview. For clementia in the Thebaid, see Burgess (1972), Ripoll (1998): 440–51, Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 277–90, Delarue (2000): 109–11, 161–6, and 368–71, Pollmann (forthcoming), and the discussion in chapter 9. See below. The adjective aequa here means “fair” or “just” as it often does (cf. OLD s.v. aequum 3 and aequus 6); the noun sors means “oracular response.” Coroebus has thrown himself on the mercy of Apollo at Delphi, who must judge the case, either justly or unjustly, abusing his absolute power or wielding it with reason. Though sors aequa could refer to a particular response (thus referring only to Apollo’s present decision), the sentence conveys a more general idea: sors aequa merentes/ respicit (“fairness/justice looks out for those who are deserving”). It should be noted, however, that at Achilleid 1.252 aequa sors refers to an individual situation, not to a general idea (as here at Thebaid 1.661): si mihi, care puer, thalamos sors aequa tulisset . . . (“Dear son, if a just lot had brought me the marriage . . .”). Galinsky (1996): 85.

20

Statius and Virgil

the mercilessness of fierce heaven is so great . . .” 1.648–50).100 Originally clementia was bestowed upon the defeated by the Roman state, but with Caesar and the emperors it became “the virtue of an individual and [was] exercised towards his fellow citizens.”101 Caesar made it one of his defining qualities and Augustus followed suit.102 In the underworld prophecy of Aeneid 6, Anchises, ancestor of Caesar and Augustus, identifies clemency as a virtue that will characterize Roman rule (parcere subiectis, “spare the conquered,” 6.853). In the Coroebus episode, Apollo’s clementia is the dominant idea of the two, for iustitia is dependent upon it.103 Adrastus suggests this relationship when he comments on Apollo’s sparing of Coroebus: sors aequa merentes/ respicit (“justice looks out for the deserving,” 1.661–2). There are at least two ways to construe the meaning of this sentence: 1.) because Coroebus is spared, one can say that justice looks out for the deserving, or 2.) because justice looks out for the deserving, Apollo spares Coroebus. In other words, the issue of cause and effect must be determined. But since we are told that reuerentia caedis restrains Apollo (as we saw above), without any mention whatsoever of justice, the first interpretation makes more sense, with justice being a virtue secondary to clementia. That is, Apollo’s decision to exercise clementia is taken to support a belief that iustitia still exists – thus making the god’s clementia both generator and proof of iustitia’s existence.104 Yet Apollo does not voice a concern for objective fairness. Rather iustitia is a 100

101

102

103 104

The word inclementia has a doubly Virgilian resonance. It seems to have been coined by Virgil (Georgics 3.68) and appears only once in the Aeneid, where Venus explains to Aeneas that the gods are behind the destruction of Troy: diuum inclementia, diuum/ has euertit opes sternitque a culmine Troiam (“the gods’ mercilessness – the gods’ – overturns this wealth and lays Troy low from its height,” 2.602–3). By using this truly “Virgilian” word, Coroebus points to the passage in the Aeneid, where Aeneas comes to understand the true heartlessness of the gods in sacking Troy, at the very moment that he suggests that the inclementia of the gods in his epic world is a fact of life. On inclementia, see Delarue (2000): 317–18. In addition, we should not be surprised that Coroebus’ words at 1.650 also seem to associate him again with Aeneas at the beginning of the Aeneid, who is shown to be tormented by the goddess Juno: tantaene animis caelestibus irae? (“Can such great anger be in the minds of the gods?” 1.11). Thus in the Adrastus narrative Apollo would be the narrative’s Juno, the wrathful divinity associated with the Furies and hell, while Coroebus would be its Aeneas, the figure of pietas. Weinstock (1971): 239 (cf. also 241–3). Griffin (2003): 160 notes that “Clementia was regularly used of the mercy shown by the Roman people to a foreign enemy, and also of the gentleness shown by provincial governors in ruling Rome’s subjects.” See, e.g., Seneca, De Clementia 1.9–11. Surprisingly, as Nore˜na (2001): 156 notes in his study of imperial coinage, “Clementia and Iustitia types each represented less than five per cent of all imperial virtues on denarii minted” from 69–235 CE. He suggests that these virtues were already on display in imperial judicial contexts, and perhaps coinage was thus used to convey other virtues (157). For a more detailed discussion of clementia in the Thebaid, see chapter 9. On the complexity of sors aequa, see Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 378–80.

Introduction

21

chance side-effect of the exercise of clementia. Thus an important question still needs to be answered: Why is there so much positive emphasis on the god’s clementia, despite his ruthless violence? The explanation, I believe, is that the passage represents a re-examination of Virgil’s depiction of kingly power – of the princeps. If pietas is stripped away, clementia becomes the defining virtue. For the ruled, it offers the hope of fairness. For the ruler, however, it is a sign of political domination. Moreover, in Statius’ epic world, the exercise of absolute power, the infliction of terrible and seemingly unjust violence, though it might be questioned, is something that is both accepted and expected. The ultimate issue of the tale’s conclusion, then, is not the triumph of pietas (because it actually fails), but the tyrannical exercise of power through clementia. In these terms, Apollo can be proudly worshiped by the Argives, for he has the demonstrated ability to exercise clementia. That he is a cruel deity, seemingly blind to the suffering of the Argives, is from their perspective not particularly important. In this world of oppressive autocracy,105 clementia offers the only hope to the ruled against the immense powers of rulers. Clementia, not pietas, has become the ideal virtue in the Thebaid’s world of tyrants.106 Coroebus’ tale thus intertextually critiques the Augustan vision of kingship, by drawing on the troubling nature of Apollo’s clementia, as well as of Aeneas’ wrath and anger at the end of the Aeneid. Kingship in the Thebaid is not viewed as benevolent, as creating order from chaos, justice from crime;107 Statius’ epic discards the teleological view of the Aeneid that Aeneas’ sufferings are part of a divine plan for Rome to attain a renewed golden age under Augustus. As we shall see throughout this book, Statius gives us powerful rulers without pietas – kingship without the moderating influences of religion and the good of the state. Moreover, if we consider kingship in the Thebaid against the larger backdrop of ancient discussions of kingly virtue, as Cairns has done for the Aeneid, we see few if any such virtues at work.108 Indeed, the intense and destructive influence of the passions of kings in the Thebaid has more in common with Cairns’ analysis of Dido and Turnus, antitypes of the good ruler.109 105 106 107 108 109

See, for example, the words of the unnamed Theban, who speaks in protest of Theban tyranny at 1.173–8 and the discussion of the passage by Ahl (1986): 2828–30. This is also the case for Theseus in book 12. See chapter 9. I.e., as in the Augustan reading of the Aeneid. See especially Cairns (1989): 19–21 for a compilation of “elements of the good king stereotype.” Ibid., 26, 29–57 (Dido) and 58–84 (Turnus). Statius’ Theseus is often regarded as a major exception to the “bad” kingly type so prevalent in the Thebaid, though I will argue in chapter 9 that Theseus is still a problematic figure.

22

Statius and Virgil

In the Thebaid, kingly power means tyranny in its most abusive and abhorrent form. Pietas and praiseworthy uirtus ultimately do not matter in Statius’ new epic world. What does is the whim of kings, human and divine. Coroebus’ world is one in which tyranny, in the pejorative sense, is not only present but also an assumed reality. Clementia is consequently a result and symbol of absolute power. a d rastus and the problem of p i e ta s The problem of pietas in this epic is tragically embodied in the figure of Adrastus. He told the Coroebus tale, but it sits uncomfortably against the backdrop of his celebration of Apollo at the end of the first book (1.696– 720).110 The Apollo of the Coroebus tale is a terrible, sexually transgressive deity who displays little sympathy for the human condition. Despite this, Adrastus’ hymn to Apollo – just twenty-five lines later – celebrates the god, his punishment of the guilty, and his interest in justice and order. Adrastus does not comment upon or be aware of this contradiction,111 but it is clear to the reader and goes to the heart of the portrayal of the gods in the Thebaid. The contrast between this idealized Apollo and the Apollo experienced by Coroebus and the Argives is evocative of Adrastus’ misunderstanding of the gods and the role of pietas in his world.112 Adrastus’ worldview is fundamentally flawed.113 It is grounded in an outdated notion of pietas and ultimately contributes to his downfall. Adrastus’ interaction with Polynices between the Coroebus narrative and the hymn to Apollo suggests just this. The Argive king asks Polynices about his origin and family. Polynices reluctantly reveals that his mother is Jocasta and that he hails from Thebes. Adrastus’ response is startling and tragically 110 112

113

111 Ibid., 171. Brown (1994): 170–4. Adrastus’ contrasting depictions of Apollo have much in common with Ovid’s conflicting representations of the gods in the weaving match between the mortal Arachne and the goddess Minerva (Metamorphoses 6): the latter’s tapestry shows the gods in all of their justice and grandeur, while the former’s, unordered in presentation, exposes their sexual passions and transgressions. Feeney (1991): 191–3 identifies the weavings as representing two contrasting poetic aesthetics – one “classical” or “epic”, the other neoteric: “Minerva’s work is an exaggerated picture of divine epic decorum, Arachne’s an exaggerated picture of neoteric divine abandonment.” Thus, two competing discourses on the gods, two competing poetic styles, are set against one another: traditional epic versus neoteric. Statius’ presentation of Apollo in the Coroebus tale makes him something like an “Arachnean” (or neoteric) god, while we might say that his hymn to Apollo is written in the “traditional” mode. Thus as in Metamorphoses 6, we have a “traditional” portrayal juxtaposed against a “neoteric” one. Brown (1994): 174–84 explores the tradition of Linus in Callimachus and the Roman neoterics. See Brown (1994): 168–74 and Bernstein (2003): 369–70 for more on Adrastus’ problematic understanding of the gods and of his world.

Introduction

23

misguided: ne perge queri casusque priorum/ adnumerare tibi: nostro quoque sanguine multum/ errauit pietas, nec culpa nepotibus obstat (“Do not continue complaining and counting to yourself the misfortunes of your ancestors: pietas has also strayed often in our family, but this guilt does not harm future generations,” 1.688–90). Adrastus believes that pietas still acts as a dominant force in his world, even in the face of terrible familial crime. This stands at odds with the poem, where guilt and crime in Polynices’ family move from generation to generation.114 Adrastus is acting as if he inhabits the world of the Augustan Aeneid, where pietas seems to matter. But in the post-Virgilian world of the Thebaid, pietas means little. In this chapter, we have examined the general intertextual relationship between Virgil and Statius, and have explored the political ramifications through analysis of the Coroebus episode. We have seen not only the importance of the Aeneid in the structure and themes of the Thebaid but also the undermining of basic Augustan ideals, most importantly the virtue of pietas.115 While most scholars have interpreted Coroebus’ story as a positive example of the applicability of pietas in Statius’ poetic world, I have read it as revealing the problematic nature of pietas and kingship, and thus displaying the Thebaid’s fundamentally changed moral and political atmosphere.116 The Coroebus tale has a programmatic importance for the epic, but it recalls an event long ago that does not directly motivate the poem’s central conflict. In the next chapter, however, I will turn more directly to the origins of the strife between Eteocles and Polynices by examining Oedipus’ prayer that initiates the Thebaid. 114 115

116

Cf. Bernstein (2003): 366–9. Three other episodes are often discussed in the context of exemplary pietas: Hypsipyle’s tale, the night sortie of Hopleus and Dymas, and the suicide of Menoeceus. These episodes will be discussed in later chapters. This position comes closest to that of Burgess (1971–2): 58.

chapter 2

Oedipus’ curse

The Thebaid opens with an infernal burst of horror. Oedipus – hands bloodied, eyes torn out – prays for the Fury Tisiphone to punish his sons for their maltreatment of him. His resulting curse, filled with all the violence and horror characteristic of early Imperial epic, sets in motion the events of the Thebaid. In this chapter I will examine Oedipus’ speech at the opening of the epic both to demonstrate that it, like the Coroebus episode, is a programmatic passage that creatively engages with the Aeneid, and to show how this engagement is written into the poetics of the Thebaid. introdu cing oed ipus: impiet y, madness, and n e fa s impia iam merita scrutatus lumina dextra merserat aeterna damnatum nocte pudorem Oedipodes longaque animam sub morte trahebat. illum indulgentem tenebris imaeque recessu sedis inaspectos caelo radiisque penates seruantem tamen adsiduis circumuolat alis saeua dies animi, scelerumque in pectore Dirae. (1.46–52)

Having already dug out his impious eyes with his guilty hand, Oedipus plunged his shame damned in eternal night and was protracting his life in a long death. As he indulges in darkness in the innermost recess of his home, and occupies a dwelling unseen by the sky and the sun’s rays, the cruel daylight of his mind flies around him with untiring wings, and in his heart are the Furies of his crimes.

The Thebaid could not have opened with a more horrific figure. Oedipus is a character of impossible contradictions. He lives a life that is something like death (longaque animam sub morte trahebat, 1.48). He has extinguished the light of his eyes (lumina, 1.46) and exists in darkness (aeterna . . . nocte, 1.47; tenebris, 1.49; inaspectos, 1.50), yet the “vicious daylight of his 24

Oedipus’ curse

25

mind” (saeua dies animi, 1.52)1 continually torments him.2 Oedipus is a perplexing figure – incapable of being placed exclusively among the living or dead, of belonging in light or darkness,3 of existing in the past or present.4 Unrestrained by the normal categories that define human life, he is a thoroughly transgressive and disturbing figure. Because he is the first character to appear, his description is of the utmost significance for the interpretation of the epic.5 A defining aspect of Oedipus’ characterization is captured in the first word of this passage: impia (1.46). It aptly describes his blinded eyes (lumina), because they witnessed his unwitting crimes of patricide and incest. But despite Oedipus’ intellectual innocence, he still suffers for his physical criminality. He has already convicted and punished himself for those past crimes by putting his eyes out (1.46–8), and he still suffers because of them in the present: scelerumque in pectore Dirae (“the Furies of his crimes are in his heart,” 1.52).6 Moreover, his prayer for Tisiphone to punish his sons has nefas as its goal, implicating him, now consciously, in familial crime. His impiety and criminality are thus part of his past, present, and future. He is a patricide who married his mother, a paradigm of incest who fathered his brothers and sisters, a father who seemingly desires the deaths 1 2

3 4

5

6

I.e. the memories of his criminal past. The allusive power of the words adsiduis circumuolat alis/ saeua dies animi (1.51–2) confounds still further distinctions between light and darkness, life and death. The phrase seems Horatian in origin – at Sat. 2.1.58, it is used to describe, not light/life (as in Statius), but Death with its dark wings (Mors atris circumuolat alis). Equally, in the famous description of the younger Marcellus at Aen. 6.866, usually taken as a model here for Statius (see Heuvel (1932): ad loc., H¨ubner (1970): 83–4, and Caviglia (1973): ad loc.), dark night (i.e. death) flits about the young man with its sad shade (sed nox atra caput tristi circumuolat umbra). The very phrase that describes light in Statius thus has a double literary heritage of darkness. Saeua dies animi would thus also intertextually suggest its opposite, death and darkness. For the theme of darkness here and throughout book 1, see Moreland (1975). This portrait recalls Lucan’s inset civil war narrative when the unsuccessful executioner approaches the imprisoned Marius: uiderat immensam tenebroso in carcere lucem/ terribilisque deos scelerum Mariumque futurum . . . (“he had seen a huge light in the shadowy cell, and the terrible gods of crimes, and the Marius that would be . . . ,” 2.79–80). In both cases, an arch criminal is in isolation, described amid images of light and darkness; both are closely associated with and, in a sense, protected by the Furies (cf. terribilisque deos scelerum, Luc. 2.80; scelerumque in pectore Dirae, Theb. 1.52); and both contemplate still more crime (Marium futurum, Luc. 2.80; Theb. 1.85–7, see below). The past in the Thebaid and Lucan’s De Bello Civili represents a time of criminal violence always on the verge of repeating itself. Oedipus’ madness and impietas entail the repetition of past crime. Surprisingly, Oedipus’ appearance here has not received the degree of attention we might have expected. See Delarue (2000): 256–60 for one of the more detailed discussions of the passage; Keith (2002): 384–5 discusses some Ovidian allusions in Oedipus’ characterization that tie him to the Metamorphoses’ Cadmus and Tiresias. On Oedipus’ impiety and criminality in lines 46–8, Vessey (1973): 72 writes: “The first few words are carefully chosen. Oedipus’ blindness is the result of guilt and of his own sin; he is an accursed man, now shrouded in an eternal and deathlike darkness. In the consciousness of his own impiety, he had torn out his eyes with his own hand.”

26

Statius and Virgil

of his sons. In this one character, the quintessential virtue of pietas and the social boundaries and duties it entails are obliterated.7 The appearance of impia here has other significance. As the first word of Statius’ narrative proper, it also announces one of the central concerns of the Thebaid. In a literary tradition overshadowed by Virgil’s epic, the word impia cannot but point to and thus instantly engage the Aeneid. The contrasting visions that these two epics offer is fundamental to any understanding of the Thebaid: while the Aeneid explores Aeneas’ pietas and its connection to the greatness of his descendants, the Thebaid is concerned with Oedipus’ impietas, and its destruction of both his family and state.8 Oedipus’ impietas, however, is oddly dissonant with his complaint about his sons’ mistreatment of him: orbum uisu regnisque carentem non regere aut dictis maerentem flectere adorti, quos genui quocumque toro; quin ecce superbi – pro dolor! – et nostro iamdudum funere reges insultant tenebris gemitusque odere paternos. (1.74–8)

Though I was robbed of my sight and deprived of my throne, they whom I fathered (in which bed does not matter) did not attempt to guide me, or to solace me with words as I grieved; worse, in their arrogance (oh, the pain!) and as kings because of my death long since, they mock my blindness and loathe their father’s groans.

Oedipus, a man who killed his father and slept with his mother, demands a filial respect that he himself failed to show.9 Though his complaints might therefore seem ironic, they could be justified if the sons had indeed mocked their father’s blindness (insultant tenebris, 1.78) and misfortune. But this claim is not substantiated elsewhere in the text.10 Jupiter comes close, 7

8 10

Indeed when his sons have killed each other in book 11, and he feels remorse for the very first time as he stands over their corpses, Oedipus exclaims: tarda meam, Pietas, longo post tempore mentem/ percutis? (“Pietas, do you strike my mind late, after so long a time?” 11.605–6). Oedipus self-consciously points to his lack of pietas throughout the fraternal war (and thus the epic). 9 Ahl (1986): 2825. See Vessey (1973): 80–1 and Pollmann (2001): 14–16. This fact is even more surprising because of the various explanations of Oedipus’ curse in the Greek tradition. See Davies (1989): 23–9, Watson (1991): 14–15, and Gantz (1993): 502–6. For discussions of the Roman and Greek traditions behind the curse, see Vessey (1973): 71–4 and Criado (2000): 21–4. The Cyclic Thebaid describes two specific insults committed against Oedipus: Polynices set Cadmus’ silver table and wine cup in front of Oedipus; the brothers gave Oedipus an inappropriate portion at a sacrifice (fragments 2–3 in West (2003): 44–7). In Aeschylus’ Seven Against Thebes 785–90, the chorus complains of the wretched care Eteocles and Polynices have given Oedipus. (Here, I follow the reading of Watson (1991): 14 n. 66, contra Hutchinson (1985): xxv.) The Sophoclean Oedipus at Oedipus at Colonus 421–60 is bitter because Eteocles and Polynices have let him suffer banishment

Oedipus’ curse

27

when he responds to Oedipus’ prayer: at nati (facinus sine more!) cadentes/ calcauere oculos! (“but the sons – a crime unprecedented – stomped on/made fun of his eyes as they fell out,” 1.238–9). This imagistic language, however, may simply echo Oedipus’ prayer (insultant tenebris, 1.78): both tenebris and cadentes oculos refer to Oedipus’ blindness;11 both insultant and calcauere can involve the metaphor of stomping the feet to indicate mockery.12 Moreover, throughout the epic the sons do not discuss any insult they have committed against their father.13 With no further elaboration of Oedipus’ complaints, we really know only what Oedipus himself tells us. The Thebaid thus focuses not so much on whatever outrages Eteocles and Polynices have committed that might justify their father’s revenge but rather on the intense inner turmoil that Oedipus feels.14 The rage we sense from the very beginning of the prayer thus takes on rich and fascinating psychological importance for the entire poem.15 The ferocity with which Oedipus requires respect from his sons – at the very moment he calls for familial crime (nefas, 1.86) – reveals that irrationality and anger combine to motivate the epic (and indeed will dominate it from beginning to end). These are the passions that the Aeneid seeks to control.16 Oedipus’ impiety, however, has implications that go beyond the criminal dynamics of his family. Because his bloodline rules Thebes, Oedipus’ curse of his sons also affects the political life of the city. Oedipus’ prayer continues:

11

12 13 14 15

16

from Thebes; he utters a curse upon them after the Argive expedition against Thebes is already underway. This is the only Greek version in which the curse does not give birth to the expedition. And in Euripides’ Phoenissae, Polynices and Eteocles have imprisoned their father, who invokes a curse in response (63–8, 327–36, and 872–7). In this version, the brothers divide the rule of their own volition in order to avoid their father’s curse of fraternal strife (69–74). As we shall see below, the Statian Oedipus is closer to his counterpart in Seneca’s Phoenissae and to his model in Virgil’s Juno. On the relationship between the Statian and Senecan Oedipuses, see Delarue (2000): 144–52. That we should take cadentes/ calcauere oculos (1.238–9) metaphorically instead of as describing a specific, physical act is suggested by Statius’ only other use of the phrase cadentes oculos, where it describes eyes enfeebled by the process of dying (Silv. 3.5.39). This would also point once again to Oedipus’ status between the living and the dead. Likewise, the phrase nostro iamdudum funere (“because of my death long since,” 1.77) cannot be taken literally; rather it implies the same liminality. OLD s.v. insulto 3 and calco 7 b and c. It should be noted, however, that Jocasta (11.345) and Polynices (11.504–5) refer to Oedipus’ prayer for nefas just before the duel takes place in book 11. Vessey (1973): 74 goes so far to comment: “The reasons [for the curse] are indefinite enough and need be no more than bitter fantasies . . .” Vessey (1971c): 380 displays some ways that Statius has modified the Euripidean version so as “to explain events in psychological terms.” Cf. also Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 57–62 on the psychological element of Oedipus’ characterization and of the Thebaid more generally. Consider, e.g., Aen. 1.148–53 and 294–6. Of course it is the perceived success or failure of these attempts at control throughout Virgil’s epic that give rise to the divergence of Augustan and ambivalent interpretations. See also the discussion in chapter 1.

28

Statius and Virgil indue quod madidum tabo diadema cruentis unguibus abripui, uotisque instincta paternis i media in fratres, generis consortia ferro dissiliant. (1.82–5)

Put on this crown dripping with foulness that I pulled off with my bloody nails, and, roused by a father’s prayers, go between the brothers. Let the bonds of family be severed by the sword.

The image here is striking. Oedipus offers Tisiphone his bloodied crown (the symbol of Theban power) as her authorization to foment crime within his family. Tisiphone thus becomes something of a surrogate for Oedipus himself,17 and she will bring about the moral disruption of his family that he desires (generis consortia ferro/ dissiliant, 1.84–5). But the destruction of the sons has a much broader significance, because the sons have become kings. Thus filicide is also regicide. Through his call for violence, Oedipus collapses the distinctions between private and public, family and state. The horror of Oedipus’ curse is not only that he will destroy his sons but also that his desire expands to devastate two cities, Argos and Thebes. Oedipus’ actions here and those of his sons throughout show that there is a close association between kingly power and crime; that autocracy allows rulers to indulge their criminal longings. Tisiphone and the powers of hell, in an important sense, become the ultimate guarantors of autocratic desire. Oedipus’ mixing of the familial and political spheres culminates in the curse of his sons: da, Tartarei regina barathri, quod cupiam uidisse nefas, nec tarda sequetur mens iuuenum; modo digna ueni, mea pignora nosces. (1.85–7)

Grant, queen of Tartarus’ abyss, the nefas I would desire to see; the minds of the young men will not follow slowly; come now, worthy one, and you will recognize them as my children.

He is explicit in his yearning for crime, for nefas. As Vessey writes: “Oedipus’ hopes and prayers are all centred on violence and impiety (quod cupiam . . . nefas, 86). Oedipus is yearning for blood and cruelty.”18 The violence of this call for what will amount to the fratricidal deaths of his sons 17 18

The relationship between Oedipus and Tisiphone may even be reciprocal, since she both inspires him (1.60–72) and is inspired by him (1.83). Vessey (1973): 74.

Oedipus’ curse

29

is reinforced by its resemblance to that of his counterpart in Seneca’s Phoenissae:19 agite, o propago clara, generosam indolem probate factis, gloriam ac laudes meas superate et aliquid facite propter quod patrem adhuc iuuet uixisse. facietis, scio: sic estis orti. maiusque quam quod casus et iuuenum furor conatur aliquid cupio. (Phoen. 334–8, 353–4)

Come on, brilliant offspring; prove your noble character with your deeds, exceed my glory and fame, and do something to make your father happy he has lived up to now. You will accomplish this, I know: you were born to do so. I desire something greater than anything chance and the young men’s fury venture.

As in Statius, Seneca’s Oedipus desires fraternal strife (cupio, Phoen. 354; cf. cupiam, Theb. 1.86), he stresses his family’s inherent disposition for crime (Phoen. 334–5; cf. Theb. 1.86–7),20 and he asks for something terrible to happen (Phoen. 353–4; cf. Theb. 1.86).21 But an important difference between the two intensifies the criminality of Statius’ character. Whereas Seneca’s Oedipus merely reacts to a fraternal war that has already been initiated, Statius’ Oedipus calls for the fratricidal war himself, raising the nefas of his prayer to a higher level of impiety, and thus hinting that the Thebaid’s Oedipus will outdo his poetic models. If Oedipus appears very different from Aeneas,22 so do their poetic worlds. The Aeneid, with its insistence on fate and the future success of Rome, could at least offer a (potentially) positive explanation for the suffering that Aeneas and the Trojans must endure; the Thebaid provides no such glorious goal. Oedipus wants nefas, and the Fury Tisiphone, something like a patron goddess (1.60–74), promotes and enacts his desires. Oedipus inhabits a universe that has gone wrong, one in which the heavenly gods are implicated in crime. Even he, in his state of madness, has 19 20 22

On the scene in Seneca, see Fantham (1983) and Frank (1995): 164–76. 21 See Delarue (2000): 150–1. See Bernstein (2003): 355–61. There are also elements in this passage that would associate Oedipus not with Aeneas but with those who suffer because of Aeneas’ fate and that of Troy/Rome. At 1.60, Oedipus’ si bene quid merui recalls a Virgilian figure also in an untenable position: Dido says, si bene quid de te merui (Aen. 4.317), as she rebukes Aeneas for leaving her. And when Oedipus continues, he describes the binding of his feet (traiectum uulnere plantas, Theb. 1.61) in words reminiscent of Hector, strapped to Achilles’ chariot (perque pedes traiectus lora tumentis, Aen. 2.273). For Oedipus, the Aeneid can be a model for describing terrible violence and suffering.

30

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recognized that his world has lost its sense of morality when he criticizes Jupiter for taking no action against his impious sons: et uidet ista deorum/ ignauus genitor? (“And does the craven king of the gods see these things?” 1.79–80). Hell becomes his final resort. oedipus and the virgi lian juno Nowhere is the interaction between the Thebaid and the Aeneid suggested more clearly than in the prominent role that Virgil’s Juno plays for Oedipus. As scholars have noted, Oedipus’ prayer is modeled on Juno’s invocation of the Fury Allecto in Aeneid 7.23 Statius’ use of this passage,24 as we shall see, will have significant political and cosmic ramifications. The connections between Oedipus and Juno are marked from the start. Juno abandons any earthly or heavenly possibility of stopping the fulfillment of Aeneas’ fate, and resorts to the underworld (Acheronta mouebo, “I will stir Acheron,” Aen. 7.312), summoning the Fury Allecto to help. Oedipus has also given up on Jupiter and the heavenly gods for relief from the insult he has suffered from his sons (Theb. 1.79–80). He therefore prays to the Fury Tisiphone.25 These actions motivate major sections of each epic: Juno brings about the Italian war of Aeneid 7–12, while Oedipus sets in motion the fraternal war that culminates in book 11.26 Oedipus shares many of the characteristics of Virgil’s goddess. His anger is Junonian in character – obsessive,27 violent,28 and subversive.29 Both are essentially concerned with their honor (Aen. 7.332–3; Theb. 1.74–8). In addition, they articulate similar requests to the Furies who will do their bidding: 23

24

25

26

27 28 29

See, e.g., Schetter (1960): 23–4, Vessey (1973): 75, Hardie (1993): 62–3, and Hershkowitz (1998a): 54, 247–8, and 261–2. Virgil’s Juno will provide a model for other characters in the Thebaid as well: cf. Bacchus in books 4 and 7 (see chapter 5), Dis in book 8 (see below and chapter 6), and Tisiphone in book 11 (see below and chapter 7). For models other than Aeneid 7, see Taisne (1994): 18–20 on allusions to Seneca’s Thyestes, Lucan, Apollonius, Hesiod, Petronius, and Homer’s Iliad. Delarue (2000): 67 compares this scene with Juno’s actions in Aeneid 1, as does Hill (1990): 102–4. This is the Fury that Juno invokes at Met. 4.432–511, a passage also modeled on the Juno–Allecto scene from the Aeneid. Ovid is “the first extant classical author to identify the Theban Fury by this name,” as Keith (2002): 395 notes. By resorting to hell, both Oedipus and Juno pose a serious challenge to Jupiter. See Delarue (2000): 259. Hershkowitz (1998a): 248 has captured especially well the interaction between the Statian and Virgilian passages. See also Vessey (1973): 71–4 and Ahl (1986): 2822–5. See, e.g., Aen. 1.25–6 and 1.662. One just needs to recall the violent storm Virgil’s Juno has Aeolus cast on Aeneas and the Trojans in book 1 or the Italian war she incites in book 7 with Allecto’s assistance. See, for example, Jupiter’s rebuke of her (and Venus) at 10.104–13, and of Juno alone at 12.793–806.

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Juno: tu potes unanimos armare in proelia fratres atque odiis uersare domos, tu uerbera tectis funereasque inferre faces, tibi nomina mille, mille nocendi artes. fecundum concute pectus, dissice compositam pacem, sere crimina belli; arma uelit poscatque simul rapiatque iuuentus. (Aen. 7.335–40)

You are able to arm like-minded brothers for battle and to overturn homes with hatred; you can bring lashes and funeral torches to houses; you have a thousand names and a thousand ways of harming. Beat your fertile chest, destroy the compacted peace, sow the crimes of war; let the young men want, demand, and seize arms all at once. Oedipus: tu saltem debita uindex huc ades et totos in poenam ordire nepotes. indue quod madidum tabo diadema cruentis unguibus abripui, uotisque instincta paternis i media in fratres, generis consortia ferro dissiliant. da, Tartarei regina barathri, quod cupiam uidisse nefas, nec tarda sequetur mens iuuenum: modo digna ueni, mea pignora nosces. (Theb. 1.80–7)

At least, my owed avenger, come here and set in line all my descendants for punishment. Put on this crown dripping with corruption that I have pulled off with my bloody nails, and, roused by a father’s prayers, go between the brothers; let the bonds of family be severed by the sword. Grant, queen of Tartarus’ abyss, the nefas I would desire to see; the minds of the young men will not follow slowly; come now, worthy one, and you will recognize them as my children.

The influence of Virgil here, as a structural and thematic model, is central to the Thebaid. Oedipus directs his curse to a Fury, as does Juno.30 In the same order, both Oedipus and Juno seek to break bonds that hold people together (consortia . . . dissiliant, Theb. 1.84–5; dissice compositam pacem, Aen. 7.339), call for crime (nefas, Theb. 1.86; crimina belli, Aen. 7.339), and make statements about the willingness of youth to fulfill their wishes (nec tarda sequetur/ mens iuuenum, Theb. 1.86–7; arma uelit poscatque simul rapiatque iuuentus, Aen. 7.340). Moreover, the abilities that Juno attributes to Allecto are those that Oedipus is effectively requesting from Tisiphone. 30

Note that Oedipus’ call for fraternal crime at Sen. Phoen. 334–47, 350–8 is not directed to a Fury. Rather it occurs in dialogue with a messenger reporting the beginning of the war.

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In particular, Juno remarks upon Allecto’s skill at inciting fraternal war (Aen. 7.335–6), and her more general skill at violence (Aen. 7.336–8).31 Oedipus does not spell these things out, but we might see Virgil’s Juno intertextually doing it for him. Oedipus’ desire for fratricidal nefas will be a fundamental element of the poetic world of the Thebaid. Statius indicates the expanded horror of his epic universe in other ways as well. Both Allecto and Tisiphone do their bidding with great efficiency, but Statius’ Tisiphone responds even more terrifyingly (Theb. 1.88–113).32 The checks to the Fury Allecto in the Aeneid are no longer in place. There the heavenly gods maintain control over hell; in Statius’ world, the Furies dominate. And whereas the Virgilian Fury (Aen. 7.540–71) performs her tasks and eventually returns to the underworld, Statius’ Tisiphone operates unchecked.33 Neither Juno (as in Aeneid 7) nor Jupiter (as in Aeneid 12) controls this Fury. Even the immediate physical description of her reaction to Oedipus’ prayer suggests her expanded power. She moves faster than even Jupiter’s thunderbolt: ilicet igne Iouis lapsisque citatior astris/ tristibus exiluit ripis (“she leapt immediately from the sad banks, faster than Jupiter’s lightning or shooting stars,” 1.92–3).34 The detail is important, because it once again indicates that the balance of power in this universe has shifted from that in the Aeneid. Statius’ Fury ranges freely throughout the Thebaid, inspiring violence and crime with an abandon that eclipses that of her Virgilian counterpart.35 Oedipus’ significant use here and elsewhere of Juno of Aeneid 7 instead of, say, Juno of Aeneid 1 is also important for understanding the intensity of his criminality. Juno’s actions in Aeneid 7 are expansions of her actions in book 1. There she sends a storm against Aeneas and shipwrecks the Trojans. In book 7, however, she realizes that this act was insufficient, and she increases the horror by appealing to the underworld. Thus Statius’ Oedipus starts not with the first Junonian attempt, but rather with the second, already 31 32 33

34

35

Vessey (1973): 75. See Taisne (1994): 19. For Tisiphone’s role here in destroying pietas between Eteocles and Polynices, see Bannon (1997): 183–4. On Tisiphone’s pervasive importance, see Gossage (1969): 81–2, Vessey (1973): 75, and Hershkowitz (1998a): 261. The Ovidian Tisiphone is also controlled by Juno and returns to hell after she has completed her tasks (Met. 4.481–511). On the influence of the Ovidian episode, see Hill (1990): 117 n. 11 and below. Feeney (1991): 346–7, Hershkowitz (1998a): 261. Hershkowitz argues that the ease with which Tisiphone infects the brothers makes her action anti-climactic – particularly given her elaborate introduction. For the triple motivation of the action, see Feeney (1991): 345–50. On the nature of Statius’ Tisiphone, see Schetter (1960): 21–9, H¨ubner (1970): 80–2, Venini (1970): 20–1, Dominik (1994a): 33–48, Feeney (1991): 376–8, Hershkowitz (1998a): 48–61, Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 322–9, and Delarue (2000): 65–71. See chapter 7 for discussion of Tisiphone’s increased power in the Thebaid.

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an escalation in violence from her first. He thus initiates the Thebaid at a much more terrifying level. These intertextual increases in horror and crime have important political ramifications. As Hardie in particular has shown, “The Aeneid is dominated by scenes which depict conflict, the attempt by the forces of Rome, of order, of civilisation, to defeat the forces of barbarism and chaos.”36 The victory of the former is central to Augustan readings of the epic. The strongest opponent to this order, however, is Juno and those forces allied with her – e.g. the Furies and more generally passions such as furor and ira. If in the Thebaid we find that she is the prime model for action, and that her fury will be given free rein, then the Thebaid in an important sense represents a world of very different divine politics. Whereas the Augustan voice of Virgil’s epic would have Aeneas, Augustus, and Jupiter ultimately overcoming Juno’s resistance, and thus upholding a sense of justice, fate, and pietas in the monarchic world it describes, Statius’ Thebaid fully adopts and expands the Aeneid’s opposing voices, creating a world where there are no such restraints on vile divine or human desire, where autocracy and morality do not (and do not have to) coexist. Statius’ cooption of Virgil’s Juno intertextually expands the subversive force of her actions and makes Juno’s unspeakable war (infandum . . . bellum, Aen. 7.583) the world of his epic (nefas). the poetics of n e fa s And so when Oedipus, a figure of impietas, prays for nefas, he recalls Aeneid ’s Juno and thus undermines the ideal of pietas. His prayer is immediately fulfilled by the Fury Tisiphone,37 and his call for crime will occupy the epic through book 11. Yet he will only make four other appearances in the poem, all fairly brief.38 Oedipus thus exerts an unusual influence on the theme and direction of the epic, given that he himself will be virtually absent from its action. Debra Hershkowitz has forcefully shown that Oedipus serves a programmatic function for the Thebaid, much as Juno does for Virgil’s epic. His curse “establishes madness inextricably in the epic’s very foundations,” and madness provides the creative energy of the poem: 36 37 38

Hardie (1986): 135. See 1.197–302 and the discussion in chapter 3 of Jupiter’s late response to Oedipus’ prayer. 7.468–9, 8.240–58, and 11.580–633, 665–756. The book 11 passages occur after Oedipus’ curse has been fulfilled with the brothers’ duel.

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the Thebaid unfolds, both in a narrative and meta-narrative sense, by means of madness: it is an epic about madness, pervaded by madness, dependent on madness not only for its initial impetus but also for its continued movement – for without the dynamic processes of madness driving characters and action forward, nothing would happen in this poem . . .39

For Hershkowitz, Statius’ epic is thus built upon a “poetics of madness,” whereby narrative action is energized by excessive bursts of furor, which eventually dissipate, leading to enervation and quiet.40 This formulation has advanced our understanding of madness in the epic and in Oedipus’ role in promoting it, but I will argue that his prayer involves still other ramifications. I too believe that Oedipus should be construed as a metapoetic force, and that his curse of his sons both defines and explains the nature of the Thebaid’s poetry. But I will argue that the greater significance of Oedipus lies not so much in his madness (which is certainly important), but rather in his call for nefas: his prayer gives voice to a poetics of nefas.41 In what follows, I will first look at the meaning of the word nefas and its use as a poetic theme, and then examine its centrality for the Thebaid. The word nefas is a compound formed by the combination of the negative ne and fas, an indeclinable noun derived from the verb fari (“to speak”). Fas denotes something sanctioned by divine or religious law. Consequently, nefas (“something not to be spoken or allowed”) originally indicated an action in violation of a divine or religious order, a meaning it always retains.42 As a poetic idea, nefas (“unspeakable crime”) dates to the end of the Republic.43 During the Triumviral period and the beginning of the Augustan age, nefas and the related word scelus become important synonyms for civil war 39 41

42

43

40 Ibid., 268–71. Hershkowitz (1998a): 248. See Masters (1992): 205–12 and Schiesaro (1994) for the idea of a poetics of nefas/scelus in Lucan and Seneca (respectively). Oedipus plays a metapoetic role similar to that of Tantalus at the opening of Seneca’s Thyestes. On this Senecan scene and its metapoetic significance, see Schiesaro (1992), (1994), and (2003): 26–36. See De Lingua Latina 6.30, Ernout (1959): 217, Walde and Hoffman (1965): 458, and Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 233. For the difference between ius and fas, see Wolff (1951): 50–4. For the relationship between fas and nefas in poetry, see, e.g., Georgics 1.505, Catullus 64.405, Aeneid 1.543, Ovid, Metamorphoses 6.585–6, and Seneca, De Ira 2.9.2. The word nefas appears only a few times in Republican poetry down to Catullus. See Accius, fragments 232, 267–8, and 651 (though the authenticity of the last is in doubt) in Warmington (1935–40, vol. II) and Catullus 68.89. Republican poets seemingly prefer adjectival forms of nefas, though these are also scarce. Nefastus: Plautus, Poenulus 584, on which, see Michels (1967): 62; Nefantia: Lucilius, fragments 136–7, 886 in Warmington (1935–40, vol. III). (Interestingly, fragment 136–7 uses the word nefantia in reference to the Tantalids, who perpetrated the most horrific of familial crimes; the context of fragment 886 is unclear.) Nefandus describes incest at Catullus 90.1 and an immoral world at Catullus 64.397 and 405.

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(though their political connotations vary from author to author),44 and are usually motivated by excessive passions. Virgil’s Aeneid, as we have already seen, gives prominence to these ideas and the passions that generate them (e.g. furor and ira). They are especially connected to Juno and most often work against the fulfillment of fate.45 In an Augustan interpretation of the epic, such destabilizing forces are overcome by the positive kingship displayed by characters such as Aeneas, Jupiter, and Augustus, who bring peace and stability to the world. Ambivalent interpretations, however, question the ultimate success of the Augustan order, and focus especially on the ability of furor to undermine it. Interpretive energy has concentrated especially on the end of the epic, where Aeneas slays Turnus in a frenzy of passion: furiis accensus et ira/ terribilis (“aflame with fury and frightening in his anger,” 12.946–7). Recently, scholars have applied Stoic, Aristotelian, and Epicurean theory of the passions to provide a richer understanding of this final confrontation (as well as of the epic more generally).46 And it is Virgil’s use of the passions that seems to have so fascinated his poetic successors. In many ways, the literature of the early Empire explores the destructive potential of the passions as adumbrated in the Aeneid and their artistic 44

45

46

Virgil, Eclogues 9.17 and Georgics 1.505. In Horace, Epodes and Odes 1–3, we find nefas as or somehow related to civil war at Epodes 16.14, 26 and Odes 1.35.35 (nefasti); scelus as civil war at Odes 1.2.29, 1.35.33 and in Epode 7, which is focused on this idea. These words also describe familial violence: at Ars Poetica 186, we find nefarius Atreus, while the Danaids’ murder of their husbands is scelus at Odes 3.11.25, 39 (scelestas). In general Horace has nefas as part of a system of right and wrong (fas nefasque) that is based most probably on religious belief and that helps to structure a moral and religious framework for viewing actions: cf. Odes 1.18.10 and Epodes 5.87. In addition, activities or actions in Horace are nefas if they threaten the established divine order, whether this is by physical assault or the implementation of magic (Odes 1.3.26, 2.13.9, 3.4.68; Epodes 5.87). Finally, it is nefas to seek knowledge of the future or change things that have been divinely pre-ordained (Odes 1.11.1 and 1.24.20). Scelus, on the other hand, does not normally have the supernatural element characteristic of nefas. Instead, it figures in mortal actions with repercussions primarily in the human realm (i.e. they do not threaten any type of divine order as nefas so often does). Scelus, perhaps in its most general sense, can be used to describe character (Odes 1.22.1, 2.4.17, and 3.24.50). It can, however, also implicate a religious framework (cf. 1.3.39 and 3.2.31). Perhaps most infamously, she draws on the Fury Allecto (and thus hell) to promote a war in Italy that is an infandum . . . bellum (7.583), one in which Latinus fights impiously (arma impia sumpsi, 12.31). Gransden (1984): 70 calls her speech to Allecto an “anti-prophecy, standing in structural and thematic antithesis to Jupiter’s vision of peace” in book 1, when he reveals the mandates of fate to Venus. For the interpretation of the Italian conflict as civil war in some sense, see Putnam (1965): 158, Johnson (1976): 138–41, Cairns (1989): 92–3, Quint (1993): 79, Hardie (1993): 74, and Schiesaro (1994): 202. Johnson (1976): 148 writes: “In Vergil’s poem, for the first time, the possibility that hell can triumph is found to be worth pondering.” On the Stoic perspective, see Putnam (1995): 172–200 and Gill (1997). On the Aristotelian perspective, see Galinsky (1988) and Wright (1997). On the Epicurean perspective, see Galinsky (1988, 1994), Erler (1992), Fowler (1997b): 30–5, and Indelli (2004). For a more general analysis of the influence of all three philosophical schools on anger in the Aeneid, see Gill (2003).

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potential for the creation and depiction of crime. The type of control that the Augustan readings of the Aeneid advocate, based as they are on the ideals of pietas and the glory of fate, is usually defeated by the passions in Virgil’s successors, creating poetic worlds dominated by unspeakable crime – where pietas is often absent or insufficient to resist furor, and where nefas and scelus result. This post-Virgilian tradition has been well described by Alessandro Schiesaro in his book on Seneca’s Thyestes as one “of Juno-inspired poems (and actions) whose authoritative model [Seneca] traces back to Virgil: these poems are characterized by the violent subversion of an ordered world structure guaranteed by Jupiter, and allied with the chthonic (and, crucially, female) forces of ‘irrational’ passions and desires.”47 We can see this tension between pietas and furor/crime at play in two of Statius’ most important epic predecessors, Ovid and Lucan.48 Ovid’s Metamorphoses includes a number of prominent tales that describe the triumph of crime over pietas. Most obvious are the tales of Tereus, Philomela, and Procne (6.412–674) and Myrrha (10.298–502). In the former, crime and pietas become inseparable.49 Procne is ready to commit nefas as revenge against her husband (in omne nefas ego me . . . paraui, “I have prepared myself for every nefas,” 6.613), and she declares that pietas is crime for her husband (scelus est pietas in coniuge Tereo, 6.635).50 In the latter tale, Myrrha ultimately fulfills her forbidden desire for her father, which is repeatedly called scelus and nefas, and set against the idea of pietas.51 Myrrha herself even (half-heartedly) calls upon Pietas to help her resist it: di, precor, et pietas sacrataque iura parentum,/ hoc prohibete nefas scelerique resistite nostro (“Gods, I pray, and pietas and the sacred laws of parents, prevent this nefas and stand in the way of my scelus,” 10.321–2).52 These tales thus describe the defeat of the Aeneid’s quintessential virtue, pietas, and they do so by unleashing the power of the passions and the allure of crime.53 47 48

49 50 51 52 53

Schiesaro (2003): 35. See also Hardie (1993): 58. See also the brief examination of nefas in Ovid and Seneca in Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 232–5. Her discussion of Ovid focuses on the phrase omne nefas at Metamorphoses 1.129. On nefas in Seneca, see Opelt (1972) and Schiesaro (1994, 2003). Instances of words related to pietas and to crime in this episode: nefas/nefandus: 6.524, 540, 585, 601, 613; scelus: 6.473, 578, 635; pietas/pius: 6.474, 496, 503, 535; impius: 6.482. See Schiesaro (1994) and (2003): 70–83 for discussion of this episode as an intertext for Seneca’s Thyestes. Nefas: 10.307, 322, 352, 404; scelus: 10.314, 315, 322, 323, 342, 413, 474; impia: 10.345, 469; pietas/pius: 10.321, 324, 333, 366, 431, 451. Nagle (1983): 301 calls the Myrrha episode “a melodrama of ‘pietas perverted.’” For the conflation of pietas and nefas/scelus, see ibid.: 307–8 and Tissol (1997): 14–15. For a reading of the Theban books of the Metamorphoses as a potential “anti-Aeneid,” see Hardie (1990b).

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The centrality and political ramifications of nefas become still more emphatic in Lucan’s De Bello Civili, an epic about the criminal victory of Caesar in his civil war with Pompey. Lucan describes a world imbued with nefas (1.174), one where, in the words of the Etruscan uates Arruns, unspeakable crime becomes synonymous with uirtus: scelerique nefando/ nomen erit uirtus (1.667–8). Indeed, as Bramble notes in discussing Cicero’s presence at Pharsalus in book 7, “historical accuracy . . . is subordinated to the theme of the triumph of nefas.”54 On this level, the De Bello Civili is engaged in a polemic dialogue with the Augustan Aeneid.55 A critique of Julius Caesar and portrayal of his victory as the destruction of Rome necessarily call into question his legacy – including the establishment of the Principate under Augustus.56 Nefas and the domination of Caesar and the Julio-Claudians are thus inseparable in Lucan’s epic. Moreover, recent studies by Fantham, Roller, and Sklen´ar have shown how fighting civil war in Lucan’s poem results in the complication (if not subversion) of traditional Roman and Augustan values such as pietas and uirtus.57 In this post-Virgilian tradition crime/nefas results from the indulgence of excessive and destructive passions, often discussed in terms of furor, but encompassing a gamut of emotions including ira, amor, odium, inuidia, and pauor.58 Because this theme is so greatly influenced by the Aeneid, the political implications of nefas are always present, implicitly (as in the Ovidian episodes mentioned above) or rather explicitly (as in Lucan). But what, I believe, sets the Thebaid apart from these other poems is the degree to which the ethical and moral dimensions of crime receive virtually no discussion or opposition. The Ovidian episodes, on the one hand, are centrally concerned with the morality of nefas, even if crime wins out. Lucan’s poem, on the other, is also very interested in the problematic nature of nefas,59 but offers numerous instances of the critique of civil war, whether they be Lucan’s own, Pompey’s (at times), or Cato’s. Indeed the poem can be read as an exploration and moral denunciation of Caesar’s nefas. Masters even sees a poetic conflict in Lucan himself: “Lucan is at war with himself, torn between a tradition his pietas demands that he respect, and 54

55 56 57 58 59

Bramble (1982): 544. For nefas as meaning or involving civil war in Lucan, see, e.g., 1.6, 2.4 and 286, 7.242 and 699. On the significance of nefas in Lucan, see Bramble (1982): 539–40, 544, O’Higgins (1988): 217 n. 28, and Masters (1992): 205–15. On Lucan’s reading of Virgil, see Thomas (2001): 83–92. Lucan also sardonically refers to the tendency of Caesar’s descendants, the Julio-Claudians, to become gods (7.455–9). Note that Augustus was immediately deified upon his death. Fantham (1995), Roller (2001): 29–63, and Sklen´ar (2003). In addition to the work on furor and the passions cited above, see also Fantham (1997, 2003), and Braund and Gilbert (2003). See, e.g., Feeney (1991): 276–7 and Masters (1992): 212–13.

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the requirement of innovation, whose price is the nefas of parricide, of destroying what gave him birth.”60 In Statius, there is no such struggle on Oedipus’ part.61 He calls for crime and it is set in course. The passions that motivate him are infernal, closely aligned with the Furies. They are excessive on any philosophical account, and have goals that are explicitly criminal (cf. peruersaque uota, 1.59; nefas, 1.86). They also lead him to question the authority of Jupiter and the heavenly gods (et uidet ista deorum/ ignauus genitor? see above, 1.79–80), and to seek out the more powerful forces of the underworld. As a result, I will argue that the greater concern of the poem has shifted from the morality and workings of furor to the creation and description of the crime, the nefas, in which that furor results. Oedipus’ curse of his sons is therefore emblematic of the even more deeply criminal world of the Thebaid. In addition, because Statius is working within a sophisticated literary tradition that has already loaded nefas with significant (and potentially subversive) political force, Oedipus’ call for nefas independently engages the epic in the larger intertextual dialogue I have thus far outlined. In fact I will argue that the appearance of the word nefas at what I will argue is a programmatic moment for the epic ties the critique of the Aeneid’s Augustan voice and view of kingship to the very poetics of Statius’ epic. The opposition between nefas and pietas is thus central to the Thebaid.62 oed ipus’ curse When Oedipus prays to Tisiphone, he asks for nefas, the brothers’ strife: da, Tartarei regina barathri, quod cupiam uidisse nefas, nec tarda sequetur mens iuuenum; modo digna ueni, mea pignora nosces. (1.85–7)

Grant, queen of Tartarus’ abyss, the nefas I would desire to see; the minds of the young men will not follow slowly; come now, worthy one, and you will recognize them as my children. 60

61 62

Masters (1992): 215. Schiesaro (2003) is largely concerned with these types of issues as well in analyzing Seneca’s Thyestes, and demonstrates that the poem is structured upon a recurring conflict between those who would promote nefas/scelus and those who would counsel against it and try to resist it (though in vain). Or on the part of his two major divine supporters, Dis and Tisiphone. See below for further discussion of the similar functions that Oedipus, Dis, and Tisiphone serve in the epic. It should be noted as well that earlier in Rome it seems as if pium and fas could be used as virtual synonyms in a pium est or fas est construction – both words here indicate “what can be done without committing a religious offence,” as Weinstock (1971): 248 notes. This would suggest that taking nefas (the opposite of fas) also as a rough opposite of pietas might have deep cultural roots.

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But it is more than a call (da) for crime (nefas). In an important sense, his prayer also functions as a request for the Thebaid. The nefas that Oedipus requests will become the theme and narrative of the Thebaid. That is, the progress and fulfillment of his prayer essentially become the Thebaid.63 Oedipus also reveals an important characteristic of the nefas, both for himself and for the poem. He does not pray simply for nefas, but for nefas of a specific type: quod cupiam uidisse (86). It is nefas of a visual quality, the witnessing of which brings some kind of satisfaction or pleasure.64 Of course Oedipus is blind, so such gratification is literally impossible.65 We are therefore not to take this prayer also as a request for sight. Though he might desire to witness the requested nefas, Oedipus can experience it only through what he is told about it, and what his imagination allows him to visualize. That is, he can “see” only through narrative.66 The clause quod cupiam uidisse, in turn, suggests important aspects of the poetry of the Thebaid. The vivid language, the graphic violence, the fullness of expression, the difficult and startling phrases that are well-known parts of Statius’ style must reflect, on some level, the poem’s overall attempt to convey the horrifying crime of Oedipus’ curse and thus of the poem’s theme and plot.67 To describe the nefas, and to do it in a way that evokes all the horror, hate, and criminality involved require a narrative of enargeia. As a result, nefas and horrifyingly vivid narrative are inseparable both for Oedipus and for Statius’ epic. 63 64 65 66

67

See also Franchet d’Esp`erey (2001), who examines the causality in this scene and in the passage describing Polynices’ departure from Thebes at 1.312. Oedipus’ self-blinding itself suggests a connection between sight and the crimes he committed. His self-blinding in punishment for his (unwitting) crimes is the basic fact of his existence with which he is introduced at 46–8. See discussion above. Oedipus’ prayer, however, does not have to involve simply a desire for a visual experience that Oedipus cannot enjoy. Oedipus does possess a special kind of “sight” that is consistent with his physical blindness: his imaginative capacity for horror. He began his prayer to Tisiphone as follows: di, sontes animas angustaque Tartara poenis/ qui regitis, tuque umbrifero Styx liuida fundo,/ quam uideo . . . (“Gods, you who reign over guilty souls and Tartarus, which is too narrow for punishments, and you, river Styx, which I see, dark with your shade-bearing depths . . . ,” 1.56–8). Oedipus obviously cannot see (uideo, 1.58) the physical river Styx both because he is blind and because he is not in the underworld. Yet his emphasis on sight here, as at 1.86 (uidisse), points to an important characteristic, as Vessey (1973): 74 n. 1 has remarked upon: “The two occurrences of video in Oedipus’ speech should not go unnoticed: ‘tuque umbrifero Styx livida fundo/ quam video’ (58–9); ‘da, Tartarei regina barathri,/ quod cupiam vi [sic] vidisse nefas’ (86–7). All that the blind Oedipus sees is the world of the dead, all he wishes to see is the destruction of his sons.” Oedipus can still desire and vividly imagine impious crime. And since nefas is especially opposed to Virgilian pietas, we might compare the “nefas” of Statius’ poetic style to the “fas” (i.e. the relative “classicism”, as it is sometimes called) of Virgil’s. Statius’ style has been described as mannerist or baroque by Vessey (1973): 7–14 and others. But, as Ahl (1986): 2809–10 has shown, to speak of Statius in these terms is both anachronistic and unfairly prejudicial against him.

40

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Oedipus’ words, taken from a slightly different perspective, also contribute to our understanding of the narrative dynamics of the Thebaid. A prayer, by definition, expresses a desire for something. Here Oedipus’ call for nefas sets the poem in motion but is not immediately satisfied. Instead his wish is both heightened and hindered through numerous delays, prophecies, omens, diversions, and divine interventions that ultimately lead to the brothers’ duel in book 11. Moreover, because the prayer is directed to the Fury Tisiphone, the energy that propels the narrative toward the nefas is predominantly infernal, and it is the underworld that will dominate the epic.68 Oedipus defines the criminal and infernal character of the poem, generates the narrative direction of the Thebaid, and verbalizes the dynamics of the poem, the strategy by which his curse becomes and creates the narrative of the epic.69 In short, Oedipus articulates what we might call the poetics of the Thebaid – a poetics of nefas that combines the craving for criminal revenge (da . . . nefas) that propels the narrative and reader forward toward the brothers’ fratricidal duel, with a desire for vivid, hellish nefas. Oedipus prays for horrifying and spectacular nefas, and the poetry of the Thebaid revels in the fulfillment of this wish. While Oedipus thus displays a close connection to the poet in the generation of the plot and poetry of the epic, he also exhibits an interesting relationship to the reader. Oedipus’ desire for nefas must in some sense become the reader’s. By being enticed to experience the curse (i.e. the Thebaid), the reader is seduced into sharing Oedipus’ call for revenge. That is, his curse sets up expectations for the nefas of the brothers’ strife, and we read the epic to learn about the gradual fulfillment of that curse. Moreover, we, like Oedipus, can experience the events of the war only through language, and thus can “see” only through narrative. Oedipus’ words set up expectations for the brothers’ nefas that we as readers share. We read – and watch – as the narrative of the fraternal war unfolds, the story of the crimes fomented by Oedipus.70 This is not to suggest that we crave or admire the horrors that the poem will describe; even Oedipus has an ambivalent reaction to them. On the one hand, he will long to have his eyes back in book 7 so that he can watch the 68

69 70

Though the heavenly gods help orchestrate the Theban–Argive war, they do not see it as nefas. In fact when the presence of the Furies and thus the criminal nature of the war are finally revealed to them in book 11, Jupiter is horrified and commands the gods to avert their eyes (11.122–33). See chapter 8. For the role of curses in Greek and Roman tragedy and poetry more generally, see especially Watson (1991). See chapter 3 for further development of this idea.

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fraternal violence (procul ille penatibus imis/ excitus implorat Furias oculosque reposcit, “far off he is excited deep inside his home, calls on the Furies, and demands his eyes back,” 7.468–9).71 But on the other, he will despise the ultimate result in book 11.72 He is more attracted by the working-out of the curse, by the unfolding of the terrible war, and the spectacular nature of the events that transpire. This is what seems implied when Oedipus appears in book 8: natum hortaturque probatque/ nec uicisse uelit (“he urges on and approves of his son, but would not like him to win,” 8.251–2). He gains pleasure not so much or simply from the victory of one son over the other. Rather the process of the fraternal war brings him satisfaction (sed primos comminus enses/ et sceleris tacito rimatur semina uoto./ inde epulae dulces ignotaque gaudia uultu, “but in silent prayer he searches for the first strike of sword against sword and the seeds of crime; from this come feasts that please and joys unfamiliar in his expression,” 8.252–4). It is somewhere in these conflicting responses of excitement and revulsion that the pleasures of poetic nefas lie.73 oed ipus, dis, and tisiphone The importance of spectacular nefas for the structure and movement of the epic is further shown by the reworking of Oedipus’ curse at key moments in the poem. Both Dis, the king of the underworld, and the Fury Tisiphone will take up Oedipus’ role as promoter of vivid crime and will thus renew and expand the importance of nefas for the poetics of the poem. When Amphiaraus fantastically descends to the underworld at the end of book 7, he triggers a wrathful and vengeful response from the king of the underworld, who becomes a divine counterpart to Oedipus. Like Oedipus, Dis possesses a brooding and paranoid psychological disposition and responds to perceived violence against himself by invoking Tisiphone for revenge:74 71

72

73 74

Oedipus is caught up in the frenzy and calls on the Fury to spread still further the madness of war. Smolenaars (1994): ad loc. suggests that excitus might refer to “the maddening influence of Tisiphone on his mental state.” After the fratricidal duel has taken place, he wishes he could scoop his eyes out again in another act of self-punishment: o si fodienda redirent/ lumina et in uultus saeuire ex more potestas! (11.614–15). On Oedipus’ literary self-consciousness in this passage (cf. ex more), see Feeney (1991): 341 and chapter 3. Cf. Segal (1992). Dis also shares something in common with Hypsipyle (see chapter 4). As he lists the mortals or demi-gods who have also violated his realm, he realizes he is digressing. He thus stops himself by saying, sed quid ego haec? (“But why do I say these things?” 8.65) – the precise words that Hypsipyle uses at book 4.781, when she recounts the painful experiences of her past and her need to retell them.

42

Statius and Virgil i, Tartareas ulciscere sedes, Tisiphone; si quando nouis asperrima monstris, triste, insuetum, ingens, quod nondum uiderit aether, ede nefas, quod mirer ego inuideantque Sorores. (8.65–8)

Go, avenge Tartarus’ home, Tisiphone; if you were ever at your most savage with strange monsters, bring forth unspeakable crime (nefas), grievous, unusual, huge, something the sky has not yet seen, something for me to admire and the Sisters envy.

Dis specifically calls on Tisiphone for nefas (68), and, by doing so, orchestrates the very crime for which Oedipus had prayed – the fratricidal violence of Eteocles and Polynices (1.86).75 In addition, just as Oedipus had called for fraternal nefas of a visual or graphic nature (uidisse, 1.86), Dis orders acts of nefas that are enormous, more horrific than anything the heavens have witnessed before (nondum uiderit, 8.67), so spectacular that even he will stand in awe (68).76 As a result, Dis, in echoing and taking up Oedipus’ call for nefas, goes even farther than his mortal counterpart. He has elevated what was originally a father’s assault on his sons into a struggle of cosmic proportions, implicating all participants in the Theban war in a divine conflict. In book 11, Statius reaffirms and expands the infernal intensity of Dis’ and Oedipus’ desires. There Tisiphone calls up her sister-Fury Megaera from the underworld and asks for help in orchestrating the brothers’ crime: tibi pareat impius exul,/ Argolicumque impelle nefas (“Let the impious exile obey you; incite Argive nefas,” 11.109–10). Moreover, Tisiphone strives specifically for the visual component that Dis and Oedipus desire. She points to the spectacular nature of the crimes she has already brought about (11.85–7) and makes clear that her final goal will be still more horrific (11.97–100). Tisiphone’s call for crime further intensifies the challenge both to Jupiter’s control within the poem and (intertextually) to the Aeneid ’s Augustan conception of kingship that the theme of nefas entails.77 75 76

77

Henderson (1993): 174 notes that Dis is “rewriting father Oedipus’ mandate.” Note the syntactic and metrical echoes between the two passages as well. Both Oedipus and Dis characterize the visual component of the nefas in relative clauses that contain uideo. In addition, the opening of Dis’ command to Tisiphone (i, Tartareas ulciscere sedes, 8.65) echoes Oedipus’ request to her (da, Tartarei regina barathri, 1.85), with the imperatives (i and da) and the adjective Tartareus occupying the same metrical positions. The nature and ramifications of the actions of Dis and Tisiphone are discussed further in chapters 6, 7, and 8.

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Oedipus is thus a complex, rich, and important character for the epic. He not only straddles the human boundaries of death and life, darkness and light; he also exists somewhere between the human and divine. He is mortal, yet he acts like a horrifying divinity both intertextually (in that he is modeled on Virgil’s Juno) and intratextually (in that he is the model for Dis in book 8 and Tisiphone in book 11). Every infernal propulsion of Oedipus’ desires thus enriches and expands his call for nefas. The fascination of nefas that the Thebaid offers is not simply aesthetic, for it has important moral and political implications. The poetics of the Thebaid is built upon the vivid representation of nefas, and nefas, as we have seen, is part of a poetic tradition that has already challenged the power of pietas and the Augustan reading of the Aeneid. Moreover, when Oedipus, the Thebaid’s symbol of impietas, utters his prayer for nefas, he intertextually represents an “anti-Aeneas,” an embodiment of impietas, a Junonian figure of wrath and resistance to heavenly control and cosmic order. His call for a criminal war, like Juno’s in Aeneid 7, challenges the moral and political authority of Jupiter, while at the same time it suggests the irrelevance of pietas in his criminal world. At the heart of the Thebaid, then, we find an engagement with Augustan ideals that is voiced both through intertextual connections (especially) to Juno and Allecto of Virgil’s epic and through a larger poetic tradition of nefas. Pietas, fate and Jupiter had been closely associated in the Aeneid. In the Thebaid, this is not the case, and meaningfully so. As I shall argue throughout this book, Statius’ Thebes represents an anti-Rome, a place where the imperial ideology of the Augustan Aeneid has gone terribly wrong. Oedipus’ call for nefas, repeated and amplified by Dis and Tisiphone, poses a metaliterary challenge to the moral, political, and religious justification of Aeneas, Augustus, and the Principate. The Thebaid gives poetic voice to the horrifyingly spectacular disruptions that autocratic power inflicts on all levels of the cosmos.

chapter 3

Horror, prophecy, and the gods

In chapter 2, we saw that Oedipus programmatically announces nefas as the major goal of the epic. But his prayer represents only one way that the Thebaid creates expectations of the poem’s criminal content. In this chapter, I will show how the reader’s prior experience of the literary tradition also heightens the anticipation of the crimes Statius’ poem recounts, while it also underscores, by contrast, the ignorance of characters concerning the criminal nature of the Theban war. An ironic disjunction consequently arises between the reader’s understanding of the fraternal war and that of characters (both human and divine) who promote or endure the war but seemingly lack the moral insight given to the reader. I begin with the prologue of the epic to show the extent to which the poem advertises its criminal content (both through previews and through reference to the literary tradition) and reveals the creation of horror as a major effect of the epic. I will then focus on the divine and prophetic events in books 1–4 that precede the start of the Argive expedition against Thebes to demonstrate how the criminality of the brothers’ conflict, always known to the reader, is continually suppressed or ignored by characters. I will argue that the resulting disjunction creates for the reader a sense of horror, one of the essential pleasures of the Thebaid. Central to the reader’s higher level of understanding and appreciation of the war is the intertextual element of these divine and prophetic events, which reinforces the inevitability of nefas in the Thebaid and the strength or weakness of characters in confronting it. the prologue: foregrounding the crimes of the war The prologue of the Thebaid opens with a revealingly condemnatory statement of its theme:1 1

For an examination of the Hellenistic elements and literary polemic involved in Statius’ prologue, see Carrara (1986).

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45

Fraternas acies alternaque regna profanis decertata odiis sontesque euoluere Thebas, Pierius menti calor incidit. (1.1–3)

Pierian fire kindles my mind to tell of fraternal battle-lines, and alternating reigns fought over with profane hatred, and guilty Thebes.

We are far from the world of the Augustan Aeneid,2 in which the deeds of pius Aeneas lead eventually to the birth of Rome, and to a golden age under Augustus.3 Instead, Statius places his poem in the tradition of Lucan, who described Rome’s suicide.4 But if Lucan’s epic was horrifying because it was about cognatas acies (1.4), Statius goes one step further in violence by narrating fraternas acies.5 By doing so, he memorializes his horrific theme6 but never lets us forget its criminality (profanis . . . odiis and sontes . . . Thebas, 1–2).7 In this section, we shall see that this insistence on simultaneously promoting and condemning the theme becomes a pervasive dynamic of the poem and is central to the enjoyment of it,8 which is enhanced by the reader’s knowledge of the literary tradition of Oedipus and Thebes. After a recusatio explaining the decision to sing of Thebes rather than embark on an epic celebrating the deeds of the emperor Domitian,9 Statius announces in more detail the violent events his poem will depict: 2 3

4 5

6

7

8 9

For a general contrast between the prologues of the Aeneid and Thebaid, see Hill (1990): 101. For the influence of Lucan, see Henderson (1998): 219–20 and Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 28–9. See, e.g., Aen. 1.1–7 and Anchises’ speech at 6.756–853, in which he says of Augustus: Augustus Caesar, diui genus, aurea condet/ saecula (“Augustus Caesar, son of a god, will found a golden age,” 6.792–3), though Thomas (2001): 1–7 sees lingering ambiguities or dissonances even here. Cf. populumque potentem/ in sua uictrici conuersum uiscera dextra (“a powerful people turned against its own vitals with its victorious hand,” Luc. 1.2–3). Vessey (1986): 2969. Henderson (1993): 165 argues that Statius “trumps” Lucan with fraternas, though he “loses the edge of Lucan’s Bellum Civile, its ambition to represent the ultimate epic amplification, ‘Bella . . . plus quam civilia.’” Perhaps the only thing worse might be parricide – but of course Thebes has that too. On Laius’ slaying, see 1.64–6 and 4.630–2. On the relevance of the Theban fraternal war for Rome, see especially Ahl (1986): 2812–16 and Henderson (1998): 218–22. Dominik (1994a): 167–73 suggests a number of features of the prologue that are potentially subversive of Domitian. The city of Thebes offers a potentially endless array of characters and crimes that would make for violent epic material, because its rulers are inherently terrible, but Statius limits himself to the house of Oedipus (1.16–17). Henderson (1993): 169 emphasizes the repetitiousness of crime at Thebes as conveyed in these lines. See also Ahl (1986): 2817. Statius’ use of decertata in line 2 also intensifies the nature of odiis. Decertare in the military context often signifies fighting to the very end (OLD s.v. decerto 1) as opposed to certare, which does not necessarily imply an outcome. This dynamic is related to that found in Lucan. See Henderson (1988) and Masters (1992). This passage is probably modeled on Lucan’s praise of Nero at De Bello Civili 1.36–45. See Vessey (1986): 2972 on laudes Caesaris in epic prologues. The composition of the middle portion of the prologue from 17–31 is particularly disputed. Kytzler (1960) suggests that it was written later than the other two sections (1–17, 32–45) – at the time of the poem’s publication (91/2 CE). Venini (1961a): 59–60, Schetter (1962) in his article on the unity of the prologue, and Ahl (1986): 2818 n. 22 dispute

46

Statius and Virgil tempus erit, cum Pierio tua fortior oestro facta canam: nunc tendo chelyn; satis arma referre Aonia et geminis sceptrum exitiale tyrannis nec furiis post fata modum flammasque rebelles seditione rogi tumulisque carentia regum funera et egestas alternis mortibus urbes, caerula cum rubuit Lernaeo sanguine Dirce et Thetis arentes adsuetum stringere ripas horruit ingenti uenientem Ismenon aceruo. quem prius heroum, Clio, dabis? inmodicum irae Tydea? laurigeri subitos an uatis hiatus? urguet et hostilem propellens caedibus amnem turbidus Hippomedon, plorandaque bella proterui Arcados atque alio Capaneus horrore canendus. (1.32–45)

There will be a time when, braver in Pierian inspiration, I will sing of your deeds. Now I tune my lyre. It is enough to tell of Theban weapons, the scepter that brought destruction to two tyrants, madness that endured after death, flames that rebelled in the strife of the pyre, kings’ bodies deprived of graves, and cities exhausted by alternating deaths, when blue Dirce grew red with Lernaean blood and Thetis shuddered at the Ismenos, which was accustomed to graze its thirsting banks but was instead flowing with a great heap of corpses. Which hero will you grant me first, Clio? Tydeus, unrestrained in anger? The sudden chasm of the laurel-bearing prophet? Wild Hippomedon also presses me onward as he drives forth the hostile river with corpses. And I have to lament the battles of the reckless Arcadian, and sing of Capaneus with a different horror.

With its chilling list of violence and destruction, this passage details the major events of the Argive–Theban confrontation: the fight over the rule of Thebes (33–4); the fury of the brothers that survives even on the funeral pyre (35–6); the numerous deaths of both Argives and Thebans, and the burial prohibition (36–7); Dirce and Ismenos flowing with blood and gore (38–40); the anger of Tydeus (41–2); the katabasis of Amphiaraus (42); Hippomedon’s defeat at the river Ismenos (39–40, 43–4); the deaths of Parthenopaeus (44–5) and Capaneus (45). While such introductions might be found in tragedy or comedy,10 Statius’ prologue, viewed within the classical epic tradition, is unusual because it is so synoptic.11

10 11

Schetter’s argument, while Vessey (1973): 60 writes that the “theory may well be correct, but it is not essential.” Consider, e.g., Aphrodite’s prologue speech at Eur. Hip. 1–57, where the goddess essentially lays out the plot of the tragedy, or Palaestrio’s speech at Plaut. Mil. Glor. 79–155. Homer, Apollonius, and Lucan do not offer such initial descriptions of their poem’s contents. Virgil speaks of Aeneas’ ultimate founding of Rome’s mother city but does not itemize the intermediate events of the Aeneid. This is not to say that these epics do not preview events that will take place later. Indeed, prodigies and portents are important elements. Consider, for example, Celaeno’s prophecy

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Statius seemingly wants us to know the crimes of his poem from the very start.12 But even before the prologue, Statius’ contemporary audience (as well as the modern reader) will already have had some experience with the Theban cycle of myths and thus know what to expect from the epic. The house of Oedipus and the Argive expedition against Thebes were wellworn themes by the time Statius took them up.13 Full-scale Greek epic versions of the Thebaid are known – the Cyclic Thebaid and that of the fourth-century poet Antimachus. In addition, the Greek tragedians were particularly intrigued by the war between Eteocles and Polynices, as we see, for example, from Aeschylus’ Seven Against Thebes, Sophocles’ Antigone and Oedipus at Colonus, and Euripides’ Phoenician Women and Suppliants. The Latin tradition also attests to Thebes’ enduring allure. We have fragments of Accius’ Antigona, Phoenissae, and Thebais. Propertius alludes to an epic by Ponticus on the war between Eteocles and Polynices at 1.7.1–2 (perhaps the first Roman epic on this theme).14 Ovid devotes a section of his Metamorphoses to Theban myths and makes explicit reference to the Argive expedition at 9.403–12.15 Seneca composed his Oedipus and Phoenissae, plays that were clearly influential for the composition of the Thebaid, probably within Statius’ own lifetime.16 And as we know from Juvenal, Statius’ Thebaid experienced its own popularity.17 The Thebaid continually reminds us of the terrible elements of the fraternal war both by looking forward to them and by making us recall their 12

13

14

15

16 17

in Aeneid 3, and see Feeney (1999): 178–9. Where the Thebaid’s prologue stands out is in its vivid word-pictures of the crimes that will occur. It should be noted, however, that the events are slightly out of order. See Vessey (1973): 65. See also Georgacopoulou (1996b): 95–6 who argues that the Argive heroes are mentioned in the order they appear and disappear. For Statius’ predecessors, see Vessey (1973): 69–71, Henderson (1993): 166–7, Brown (1994): 1–4, and especially Pollmann (2004): 28–31, who offers an excellent survey of treatments of the Theban war in the Greek and Roman traditions. Dum tibi Cadmeae dicuntur, Pontice, Thebae/ armaque fraternae tristia militiae . . . (“While Cadmaean Thebes is being told of by you, Ponticus, and the grievous weapons of fraternal war . . . ,” 1.7.1–2). Henderson (1993): 167 suggests that Propertius might have interpreted Ponticus’ treatment as having contemporary relevance. Statius interestingly omits the stories of Cadmus, Ino, and Athamas at 1.4–16 – major episodes in Ovid’s treatment of Thebes in Metamorphoses 3–4 (though he seemingly refers to Pentheus’ tale at Theb. 1.11). For Statius’ engagement of Ovid’s Theban books throughout the Thebaid, see Keith (2002). See Venini (1965a) for echoes of Senecan tragedy (and of Lucan’s epic) in the Thebaid, particularly concerning the treatment of tyranny. Curritur ad uocem iucundam et carmen amicae/ Thebaidos, laetam cum fecit Statius urbem/ promisitque diem: tanta dulcedine captos/ adficit ille animos tantaque libidine uolgi/ auditur (“When Statius has made the city happy by promising a day, people run to hear his pleasing voice and the poetry of his seductive Thebaid. He stirs hearts, captivated by such great sweetness, and is heard with the great pleasure of the people,” Juv. 7.82–6). For discussion of this passage, see Markus (2003): 432–3; for the function of epic recitals in the first century BCE, see Markus (2000).

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literary pasts. It foregrounds for the reader the major actions and themes of the poem through various means: the pronouncements of the gods, the visions of seers, Statius’ own comments on the significance of events for the future, and allusions to other poems.18 The text also self-consciously plays on the Theban tradition, by assuming a knowledge of it on the part not only of readers but also of characters. Jupiter, from the start, points to the notoriety surrounding Oedipus’ family when he addresses the gods in book 1: quis funera Cadmi/ nesciat . . . ? (“Who would not know about the ruin of Cadmus . . . ?” 1.227–8).19 Familiarity with Theban myth also helps make sense of unexpected or unexplained details.20 For example, the Thebaid refers suddenly to Oedipus’ reliance on Antigone as the repeated audience of his complaints at the end of book 11 (580–761), though Antigone’s caring for Oedipus is not earlier described in the Thebaid.21 This is the Oedipus (and Antigone) of Seneca’s Phoenissae (or Sophocles’ Oedipus at Colonus).22 In fact, as Denis Feeney has shown, an awareness of the literary tradition extends even to Statius’ characters, who act as if they themselves are familiar with their poetic pasts.23 When Oedipus, for example, finds the corpses of his sons whose deaths his curse caused, he wishes he could rend his eyes out again (11.614–15) – ex more (“as is his custom”); that is, as he had in the Greek and Roman literary traditions.24 Foreknowledge of this criminal material, however, does not detract from the pleasures of the epic, because the representation of events unknown to the audience is not the main goal of the narrative. The reference to the criminal death of Capaneus at the end of the prologue points to a major aesthetic effect at which the Thebaid aims: alio Capaneus horrore canendus (45). Capaneus must be described with a different horror, but the line of course has significance for all of the Argive heroes (as well as the entire poem).25 The valor and deaths of the Argive princes, already 18 19 20 21

22

23 25

On foregrounding as a unifying element of the poem, see Venini (1961a): 66–8 and Williams (1978): 252. Feeney (1991): 344. Some scholars view Statius’ interaction with the literary tradition as much more stifling. See e.g. Dihle (1994): 177. Antigone even acts to lessen Creon’s fury at Oedipus’ insolent words. Up until book 11, Statius has given the impression that Oedipus has been living in isolation from others. In fact, his sudden appearance among the Thebans in book 8 is represented as a first (8.240–2) – no mention is made of Antigone in this passage. Seneca’s Phoenissae opens with Antigone leading Oedipus. Oedipus, in fact, addresses her as Caeci parentis regimen et fessi unicum/ patris leuamen (“Guide of your blind parent, and sole comfort of your weary father,” 1–2). 24 Ibid., 341. See Feeney (1991): 340–4. Henderson (1993): 163 characterizes this line (45) as a promise “to ‘sing a horror-show.’” Markus (2003): 457–8 points out that Thetis is described a few lines earlier as reacting with horror (horruit,

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known to the reader, must all be narrated by Statius not simply to relate terrible events but to create the thrill of horror.26 The fratricidal duel will represent a culmination of this characteristic, since Dis and Tisiphone both will specifically strive for it to be unusual nefas.27 The thrill of horror is connected to conflicting urges involved in the narrative: the desire to see and prevent crime, to memorialize and condemn it. There is a pleasure in witnessing things that should not be seen, hearing things that should not be told. It is a cognitive phenomenon that Plato describes in Republic 4, where Leontius cannot restrain himself from looking at corpses lying in the street, though he is repulsed by them and the very desire to do so (439e–440a).28 It is also an important element in modern studies of horror fiction and film, where an object of horror is normally something that breaks various kinds of boundaries – physical, social, and political. Because of its subversiveness, horror fascinates the viewer/reader. No¨el Carroll in his important study The Philosophy of Horror29 argues that things that cause horror for a reader (or audience) are “impure” in that they are “interstitial, categorically contradictory, incomplete or formless” and can be “imbued with awesome powers in virtue of their impurity.”30 As a general phenomenon, “horror attracts because anomalies command attention and elicit curiosity.”31 Influenced by Aristotle’s treatment of tragedy in the Poetics, Carroll shows how elements of plot create this experience of horror in the reader.32 There are other approaches as well. For example, Rosemary Jackson explores the Fantastic (to which horror is closely related)

26

27 28 29 30 31 32

40) at the river Ismenos, and suggests that Statius surely “expects to evoke the same reaction from his historical audience as well.” Burgess (1971–2): 54 writes: “Statius . . . is concerned as much with the horror of violence as with traditional impiety.” A century ago, the Thebaid’s horrific violence was precisely what Butler (1909): 207–8 objected to so vehemently: Statius “was handicapped by his choice of a subject. The Theban legend is unsuitable for epic treatment for more reasons than one. In the first place the story is unpleasant from beginning to end. Horror accumulates on horror, crime on crime.” Cf. Theb. 8.66–8; 11.97–9, 110. We can, of course, see the influence of the portrayal of pathos from the rhetorical schools in the vividness of the poem’s horrifying spectacles. A connection suggested to me by D. Feeney (per litteras). Plato uses this example as part of the argument for the theory of the tripartite soul. See also the study of Freeland (2000) on horror in film, which shares Carroll’s cognitive perspective on the effect of horror in the viewer but, unlike Carroll, argues for ideological and feminist readings. Carroll (1990): 32, 34. This is an idea influenced by the work of Mary Douglas on impurity. See, e.g., Douglas (1966): 7–40. Carroll (1990): 195. As I will argue, the seeming anomaly of nefas becomes what one can expect in the world of the Thebaid, where pietas is rarely (if ever) celebrated. Freeland (2000): 8, in a discussion of Carroll (1990), writes: “We enjoy following a narrative as it shows how characters learn about and confront a monster.” But Freeland goes beyond Carroll’s aesthetic concern with plot, “considering monsters as beings that raise the specter of evil by overturning the natural order . . . The spectacles of horror . . . may be more central even than plot to forcing our confrontation with evil.”

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from a psychoanalytic perspective, and sees an inherently subversive aspect in such writing that makes “visible the un-seen, of articulating the un-said” and “is concerned with limits, with limiting categories, and with their projected dissolution.”33 While I would not claim that the Thebaid functions quite like a modern work of horror,34 there is an interesting connection between the transgressive nature of nefas and things that arouse horror, both in their subversive potential and in the fascination and disgust that entices us to experience them vicariously through literature.35 Indeed since nefas is literally “that which should not be said,” it has subversiveness inscribed in its etymological origins. jupiter’s (mis)representations of the f raternal war Although the reader, from the start of the epic (and even before, as we saw above), is fully prepared for the horror of the theme, major characters within the poem are not, for the interpretation of the Argive expedition as nefas is so often hindered, if not avoided.36 Nowhere is the disjunction of knowledge clearer yet more problematic than in the episodes where Jupiter takes action in response to Oedipus’ prayer in book 1. Jupiter’s divine councils are known to the reader but not to human characters within the epic. Thus the machinations of the heavenly gods, for the reader, represent an important source of knowledge concerning the war’s certainty. But they also display the problematic nature of the Thebaid ’s Jupiter, and thus of the heavenly gods. Indeed the initial actions of Jupiter as king of the gods do not display his moral or divine authority, though he might claim they do. Rather their criminality allies him closely with Oedipus, Tisiphone, and the Virgilian Juno. Jupiter’s attempts to guide the epic do not succeed largely because of this dissonance and his inability to acknowledge it throughout 33 34

35 36

Jackson (1981): 48. On the Fantastic in literature, see especially the seminal work of Todorov (1975), as well as Heller’s elaboration of it in his study of terror tales (1987). These theories often function on the gradual revelation of the object of horror, whereas in the Thebaid we learn of the terrible nature of the crimes that will be involved and those who will commit them from the start. I should note that Carroll does not see horror as necessarily subversive, though Freeland and Jackson (with respect to the Fantastic) are inclined to do so. There are, however, minor human characters that understand the criminality. Take, for example, the unnamed critic of Eteocles and Polynices at 1.173–96, and see Ahl (1986): 2828–30 on this passage. Nonetheless, the Argives, as we shall see, are roused for war by the time it actually begins.

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the epic. And this failure, especially apparent on the intertextual level, is available to the reader as another element that makes the crime of the war still more inevitable and horrifying. When Jupiter addresses the superi in response to Oedipus’ prayer for nefas, he does not remark upon its criminality, though Oedipus himself called his desires depraved (peruersa . . . uota, 1.59). Nor does Jupiter understand his response as unwarrantedly violent or as implicating him in familial nefas.37 Instead he takes Oedipus’ request as an appropriate opportunity to punish the Argives and Thebans for their past crimes (1.225–47).38 But to do so, he devises an elaborate human scenario in books 1–3 that will enable the Argives to demand war and the brothers to play out their hatred (1.299–302): Tydeus will be sent to Eteocles to demand the throne for Polynices, and will be treacherously ambushed on his way back to Argos by Eteocles’ band of fifty men (cf. 3.235–8). This act of treachery will provide an international and moral justification of the fraternal war.39 (Tydeus will even go on to argue that the war should be fought to protect fas and pietas!)40 But Jupiter’s reasoning is problematic. For all his bluster about pursuing justice, the king of the gods does not communicate his rationale for the war to the Argives, who initiate the war, nor do they seem aware of his wrath or of the fated nature of the expedition. Despite his moral assertions, he is still promoting a fraternal war and thus undermining the type of values he claims to uphold. Moreover, he expresses essentially personal motives for taking up Oedipus’ cause with an action that exceeds what even Oedipus 37

38

39

40

There is no indication that Jupiter ever understands the moral implications of his participation in the war. Nor does he realize that Tisiphone has already responded to Oedipus by infecting the Theban brothers. Jupiter’s autocratic and perhaps hypocritical measures have been well noted by Ahl (1986): 2837–41, Feeney (1991): 353–5, and Dominik (1994a): 1–33, though Vessey (1973): 82–5 argues that Jupiter acts with a kind of Stoic justice. See, however, the direct response of Hill (1990): 105–6 to Vessey’s interpretation. This does not mean, however, that individual characters might not also have other personal perspectives on their participation in addition to the justifications I have listed here. See Henderson (1993): 170–1. See 3.350–5, especially 350–1: nusquam pietas, non gentibus aequum,/ fas aut cura Iovis (“Nowhere is there pietas, nor among nations is there justice, right, or concern for Jupiter”). The nefas and impiety of Thebes will be recurring themes. Tydeus also intensifies the sense of Eteocles’ criminality: multumque et ubique retexens/ legatum sese Graia de gente petendis/ isse super regnis profugi Polynicis, at inde/ uim, noctem, scelus, arma, dolos, ea foedera passum/ regis Echionii; fratri sua iura negari (“often and everywhere repeating that he, a legate from a Greek race, had gone to seek the kingdom of the exile Polynices, but that he then suffered violence, night, crime, weapons, trickery – these the compacts of the Echionian king; the brother’s own rights were denied,” 3.338–42). Mars and Fama also act to encourage belief in Tydeus’ account and thus encourage the war (3.343–4).

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had prayed for. Jupiter, as we learn, nurses a deep-seated resentment for these cities, particularly Argos:41 hanc etiam poenis incessere gentem decretum; neque enim arcano de pectore fallax Tantalus et saeuae periit iniuria mensae. (1.245–7)

I have also decided to assail this race with punishment, for deceitful Tantalus and the insult of the savage meal have not perished from deep in my heart.

Like Oedipus, Jupiter incites the fraternal war (at least in part) because of memories of harm previously done to him. Moreover, as Jupiter calls for the punishment of Argos and Thebes, he explicitly states that he is the progenitor of both cities (quis sanguinis auctor/ ipse ego, 224–5). Jupiter’s decision to contrive war between Argos and Thebes is thus not altogether different from Oedipus’ desire to punish his sons. Like Oedipus, Jupiter becomes another father-figure who wishes to destroy his offspring. By supporting Oedipus, Statius’ Jupiter will be very different from Virgil’s. Oedipus, as we have seen, is introduced as impius and explicitly calls for nefas – yet Jupiter still willingly acts in response to the prayer. The Thebaid’s Jupiter is consequently implicated in the subversion of pietas entailed by Oedipus’ actions. That questions of nefas and fraternal strife do not enter into Jupiter’s plans here or elsewhere shows his ignorance of his world and the weakness of his moral authority. Statius’ Jupiter will thus not be cast in the mold of the Augustan Aeneid ’s Jupiter, who supports pius Aeneas and more closely (though not unproblematically)42 represents fate and the cosmic order by ultimately controlling the subversive forces of Juno and the Furies.43 In fact Statius’ Jupiter turns out to have much in common with Virgil’s Juno:44 he is the Thebaid’s wrathful divinity, while Statius’ Juno (though still not a paragon of virtue) is relatively weak. This reversal of roles becomes clear when Jupiter decides to implicate Argos in a war with Thebes at the opening of the epic. It is a completely irrational decision. Jupiter does not explain why these two cities should be so connected, and Juno questions 41 42 43

44

See Ahl (1986): 2834–41 on the influence of Ovid and Virgil in this passage. For the potentially problematic nature of Virgil’s Jupiter in Aeneid 1, see, e.g., Hershkowitz (1998a): 106–12. Statius’ Jupiter is closer to the Jupiter of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, who is willing to destroy the human race because of one man’s sin against him. See Ahl (1986): 2834–9, Feeney (1991): 354, and Dominik (1994a): 8. Dominik (1994a): 4–7 provides a comparison of Jupiter in council with the gods in Homer, Virgil, and Ovid. Feeney (1991): 354.

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his arbitrariness (1.259–70). Her objection, however, is quickly dismissed. Echoes of the Aeneid suggest the changed roles that Juno and Jupiter will play in the Thebaid. When the Virgilian Juno sees Aeneas and his fleet setting off from Sicily, she is wrathful and decides to take action against her foe: Talia flammato secum dea corde uolutans (Aen. 1.50)

The goddess inwardly turning over such things in her burning heart

She then has Aeolus create the storm that will shipwreck Aeneas and his fleet. Statius’ Juno, as she is about to voice her objections to Jupiter, is described in similar fashion: ast illi saucia dictis flammato uersans inopinum corde dolorem (Theb. 1.248–9)

But she, wounded by his words and turning over the unexpected pain in her burning heart

She thus intertextually “attempts” to be the powerful goddess of wrath she was in the Aeneid. But these very lines are preceded by Jupiter’s words that allusively suggest that he has already taken up Juno’s role from the Aeneid and is acting as the epic’s wrathful divinity (Theb. 1.246–7, see translation above): neque enim arcano de pectore fallax Tantalus et saeuae periit iniuria mensae.

Jupiter’s words resonate with Juno’s deep-rooted ira in the Aeneid:45 necdum etiam causae irarum saeuique dolores exciderant animo (Aen. 1.25–6)

moreover, the causes of her wrath and her bitter anguish had not yet escaped her mind

and also: cum Iuno aeternum seruans sub pectore uulnus (Aen. 1.36)

when Juno, preserving an everlasting wound in her heart

Juno’s attempts to oppose Jupiter by recovering her literary past of ira will be in vain, because Jupiter has usurped that role.46 Indeed, the three words that 45

Ibid., 354 n. 137.

46

See also chapter 5.

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come between these Statian passages (i.e. 1.245–7, 248–9) seem to highlight this development sic pater omnipotens (“so (spoke) the all-powerful father,” Theb. 1.248).47 This is not to say that Juno represents a force of justice, concerned about the criminality that a fraternal war would entail. This passage does show, however, that Statius’ Jupiter shares not only in the Virgilian Juno’s obsessive wrath but also in her need for revenge.48 Jupiter’s untrustworthiness is suggested in other ways as well. Despite his claims about morality and justice in Thebaid 1, he is undermined by his connection to Ovid’s version of Jupiter.49 Jupiter’s divine council and punishment of Lycaon in Metamorphoses 1 provide important models for the punishment of Argos and Thebes in Thebaid 1. Indeed Statius’ Jupiter seems to allude to his Ovidian counterpart at Thebaid 1.216–23 in expressing his weariness at the punishments (including flood and conflagration) he has already (i.e. in Ovid) meted out to humankind: taedet saeuire corusco fulmine, iam pridem Cyclopum operosa fatiscunt bracchia et Aeoliis desunt incudibus ignes. atque adeo tuleram falso rectore solutos Solis equos, caelumque rotis errantibus uri, et Phaethontea mundum squalere fauilla. nil actum, neque tu ualida quod cuspide late ire per inlicitum pelago, germane, dedisti. (1.216–23)

I am tired of raging with my flashing thunderbolt; long ago the toiling arms of the Cyclops were exhausted, and the fires of the Aeolian anvils died. I had even allowed the Sun’s horses to be set loose with a false driver, the sky to burn while the wheels wandered, and the earth to be covered with Phaethon’s ashes. Nothing was achieved, not even when you, my brother, with your powerful trident sent the sea flowing far and wide over forbidden areas.

Statius’ Jupiter is misleading here. While the Ovidian Jupiter had considered setting the earth on fire, he decided on a flood instead, believing that a fire would have the infelicitous side-effect of destroying the heavens. Moreover, he asserts that the Fates have already planned a conflagration sometime in the future (Met. 1.253–61), which Ovid goes on to describe in the tale 47 48

49

Omnipotens is a common epithet for Jupiter (cf., e.g., Aen. 1.60, 3.251, 4.25, and 6.592), but it nonetheless may be pointed here. Though she questions Jupiter’s intentions about Argos’ involvement in the war (1.248–82), she will not be able to offer any major support to Argos, nor will she be able to gain any concessions from Jupiter, as she does in the Aeneid. On Jupiter’s concessions in the Aeneid, see Johnson (1976): 123–7 and Feeney (1984). Statius’ version of the divine council also has roots in Homer, Lucilius, and Virgil. See Schubert (1984): 76 n. 20, 102–3, Ahl (1986): 2837–8, Feeney (1991): 353–5, and Dominik (1994a): 7–8.

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of Pha¨ethon (Met. 1.747–2.366), an event that happens without Jupiter’s directive.50 Statius’ Jupiter, however, seems to assume responsibility for both the flood (Theb. 1.222–3) and the conflagration (Theb. 1.219–21).51 By “misrepresenting” his literary historical role in administering justice (Theb. 1.215–18), Statius makes his Jupiter appear untrustworthy because he overestimates his power and moral authority. On a metaliterary level, he may try to be like Virgil’s (Augustan) Jupiter but is constantly hampered by his closer models in Virgil’s Juno and Ovid’s king of the gods.52 Jupiter’s pronouncements add an important dimension to the reader’s understanding of the war. If the reader knows that Jupiter is orchestrating a criminal war, while internal characters do not, the horror of the war and of the ignored prophecies becomes still greater. Not only do we know that the war is inevitable because of the machinations of Tisiphone and now of Jupiter, but we also understand that there are no divine figures who will stop it by thwarting the will of either. prophecy and intertex t at argos Despite Jupiter’s seeming ignorance of the inherent crime of the war he promotes, the Thebaid continually advertises and enhances our understanding of the war as nefas, while simultaneously suppressing it for characters within the text. The epistemological disjunction that results is especially apparent in the attempts of the Argives and Thebans to discern the will of the gods with respect to the war they are about to initiate. In the next two sections, I will argue that the major prophetic scenes that precede the war contribute significantly to the creation of horror. On one level, they show that the criminal war might have been halted if clear portents had been heeded. But on another, they point to intertextual backgrounds that reveal the inevitability of the fraternal war and suggest the epic’s continuing dialogue with the Aeneid. As a result, our horror is heightened by seeing the failure of opportunities to prevent crime, and by watching the war move ever closer to the violent conclusion we are always expecting, both because of the numerous previews Statius provides and because of our intertextual understanding of events.53 50

51 52 53

At Met. 2.50–102 the Sun-god (Sol) warns Pha¨ethon of the inherent dangers of riding his (i.e. the Sun’s) chariot. This implies that the conflagration is a result both of Pha¨ethon’s foolhardy request and of the Sun’s own rashness in granting it before it had been spoken. The frantic action to strike down Pha¨ethon from the sky (Met. 2.304–15) also suggests that Jupiter is not behind the conflagration. This is, I believe, the implication of tuleram in Theb. 1.219. This point will be developed further in chapter 5. Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 122 writes that the reader wants the defeat of the plans of Jupiter and Tisiphone, and that the reader is justified in this.

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The Argive king Adrastus hesitates before fully committing his people to war. Although he does not understand or is not permitted to grasp the pain Polynices and his cause will bring to Argos, he is nonetheless reluctant to fight. He calls upon the seers Amphiaraus and Melampus to divine the will of the gods (3.440–55). The resulting signs revealing the war’s disastrousness and criminality could have short-circuited the expedition but are instead suppressed. As we saw in chapter 1, Adrastus is significantly modeled on Virgil’s Latinus, and just as Latinus’ reservations are overwhelmed by the fury for war among his people, so are Adrastus’. But we also see that the influence of Virgil and Homer in the auspicy scene further underscores the inevitability of the fratricidal war and thus heightens the horror of nefas. The Argive seers make two attempts to discover the gods’ will that both reveal the catastrophe of the expedition against Thebes. The first, haruspicy, explicitly portends nefas (diraque nefas minitantia uena, 3.458), while the second, auspicy, conducted anachronistically in Roman style,54 yields a remarkable sign of seven eagles attacking seven swans: inuasere globum niuei gregis uncaque pandunt caedibus ora nouis et strictis unguibus instant. cernis inexperto rorantes sanguine uentos, et plumis stillare diem? quae saeua repente uictores agitat leto Iovis ira sinistri? hic excelsa petens subita face solis inarsit summisitque animos, illum uestigia adortum maiorum uolucrum tenerae deponitis alae. hic hosti implicitus pariter ruit, hunc fuga retro uoluit agens sociae linquentem fata cateruae. hic nimbo glomeratus obit, hic praepete uiua pascitur inmoriens; spargit caua nubila sanguis. (3.534–45)

They have assailed the throng of the white flock, and open wide their hooked beaks for new killing, and attack with talons extended. Do you see the winds trickling with unaccustomed blood, and the day dripping with feathers? What harsh anger of hostile Jupiter suddenly spurs the winners to death? One eagle seeking the heights is set aflame by the sudden fire of the sun and has moderated his arrogance; another is brought down by his delicate wings as he pursues the trail of larger birds. Another, entangled with his enemy, falls together with him; flight with its driving force turns another backward, leaving his allied army to its fate. Another enveloped in a cloud dies; another dies feasting on a living bird; blood spatters the hollow clouds.

The battle of birds allegorically represents the Argive attack on Thebes, incited by Jupiter’s wrath (537–8), and foretells the fates of the Argive 54

Snijder (1968): 188.

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leaders in the most explicit terms since the prologue: Capaneus (539–40), Parthenopaeus (540–1), Polynices (542), Adrastus (542–3), Hippomedon (544), and Tydeus (544–5).55 As the passage continues, Amphiaraus claims he sees his own death in that of a bird falling from the sky (546–7). Although the reader has received numerous indications about the war from Statius’ comments and descriptions of divine actions, the Argives have not. The seers’ ornithoscopy, however, leaves no doubt about the catastrophe of the expedition, something that is understood by Amphiaraus but ignored by the Argives. This scene represents the most graphic example of the Thebaid’s insistence on revealing the violence of the war and thus of its plot. Amphiaraus and Melampus are consequently terrified by the future that has been revealed (3.547–9), but juxtaposed to their overwhelming sense of dread is the seeming inevitability of the violence. When Amphiaraus hides himself to avoid revealing the result of his auspicy, the Argives are already clamoring for war (3.568–9, 592–3), at least in part under the influence of the gods Jupiter and Mars (3.575–80).56 Capaneus ultimately drives the seer out of seclusion (3.598–618) to reveal his interpretation of the signs (3.620– 47), counters the seer’s misgivings with scorn, and successfully incites the Argives to war (3.648–77). But the inevitability of the conflict is driven not only by characters within the poem, but also by intertextual forces that point to the futility of Amphiaraus’ misgivings and hesitation. When Amphiaraus hides after his auspicy (bissenos premit ora dies populumque ducesque/ extrahit incertis, “he shuts his mouth for twice six days and keeps the people and leaders in suspense,” 3.574–5), he acts much like the seer Calchas in Aeneas’ inset narrative in Aeneid 2.57 These resonances, however, do not strengthen his action but instead suggest his ultimate defeat. In the Virgilian passage, Calchas, coerced by Odysseus, hides so as not to reveal Apollo’s demand: a human sacrifice in exchange for the Greeks’ departure from Troy (bis quinos silet ille dies tectusque recusat/ prodere uoce sua quemquam aut opponere morti, “for twice five days he remains silent, and shut up in his tent he refuses to betray or condemn anyone to death with his own voice,” Aen. 2.126–7). Just as Odysseus’ eventual overpowering of Calchas ultimately leads to a continuation of the Trojan war, so Capaneus’ domination of Amphiaraus leads to the Theban war. But the intertextual model undermines Amphiaraus’ case in another way as well. As we learn from Aeneid 2.129 (composito rumpit vocem, “by their agreement he breaks 55 56

57

Ibid., ad loc., Vessey (1973): 155, and Dominik (1994a): 121. Dominik (1994a): 118 attributes the desire for war among the Argives fully to the intervention of Mars in 3.577–80. It is true that Mars is forcefully involved here (3.580), but as we learned earlier at 3.448–9, the Argives had already come to desire war. Legras (1905): 49 and Snijder (1968): ad 571.

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forth into speech”), Odysseus had conspired with Calchas to name Sinon as the necessary human victim.58 Amphiaraus’ model is a character who himself had encouraged (not deterred) war through treachery. In addition, the general Argive passion for war has telling models in the civil war passage of Georgics 1 and in the description of the outbreak of war in Aeneid 7. These echoes hint at the injustice of the war. Just as the Italian farmers eventually unearth the rusty javelins that had been used in the Roman civil wars (exesa . . . scabra robigine pila, “javelins eaten away by corrosive rust,” Geo. 1.495), so the Argives recondition their rusty javelins for their imminent war (fessa putri robigine pila, “javelins worn out by rotting rust,” Theb. 3.582). The Theban war thus echoes the Roman civil wars where nefas becomes fas: quippe ubi fas uersum atque nefas (“since here fas and nefas have changed places,” Geo. 1.505). But more significant for the Statian passage is the outbreak of Virgil’s Italian war. The frenzied preparations of the Argives (Theb. 3.580–91) resemble those of the Latins (Aen. 7.623–40), who have been roused to war by Juno and Allecto.59 The Argives rush to the palace of their king Adrastus in the hope that he will consent to battle, just as the Latins wait at King Latinus’ house for his declaration of war: inrupere Argos maestique ad limina regis bella animis, bella ore fremunt; it clamor ad auras (Theb. 3.592–3)

They rush into Argos and, at the doorstep of the grim king, they clamor for war with their hearts, for war with their voices; the shouting rises into the air. ilicet infandum cuncti contra omina bellum, contra fata deum peruerso numine poscunt. certatim regis circumstant tecta Latini. (Aen. 7.583–5)

Immediately all demand unspeakable war by some perverse inspiration in opposition to the omens, in opposition to the oracles of the gods. They gather eagerly around the house of King Latinus.

Both kings, however, have grave misgivings: Adrastus’ motivate Amphiaraus’ auspicy, while Latinus denounces the war and relinquishes power (Aen. 7.595–600). Both passages are followed by similes that involve water (Theb. 3.594; Aen. 7.586–90). The kings’ opposition in both cases is thus silenced. 58

See Austin (1964): ad loc.

59

Legras (1905): 50.

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In other words, at the very moment that Amphiaraus’ auspicy presents the possibility that the disastrous war might be averted, Amphiaraus and the Argives “replay” literary models that make the war in Statius still more inevitable because they led to disastrous consequences: the destruction of Troy in Aeneid 2, the proto-civil war of Aeneid 7–12, and the Roman civil wars of Georgics 1. Like the auspicy of the hawks and swans, these connections intertextually doom Amphiaraus’ resistance by suggesting the dire and inevitable nature of the brothers’ war. Intertextuality, then, can help promote or undermine action. The metaliterary ability of characters to exploit their Virgilian models to achieve their wills often depends on their use of the powers of hell and Junonian madness, either inherent in their models or added through Statian innovation. Amphiaraus and Adrastus lack such skill. When Amphiaraus acts like Calchas, and Adrastus like Latinus, they ultimately hasten the defeat of their causes, I would suggest, because these Virgilian models are inappropriate for they either promoted treachery (Calchas) or provided inadequate resistance to the war (Latinus). Capaneus, however, can exploit his Virgilian and Homeric models to incite the Argives to fight. When Capaneus enters the auspicy episode in book 3, forcing Amphiaraus to speak and eventually succumb to the pressures of war (3.647), he seemingly takes on a model that will ensure his success, for he activates a structural reminiscence of Hector in his altercation with Polydamas at the beginning of Iliad 12.60 There, the Trojans, on the verge of setting fire to the Greek fleet, receive a strange omen: an eagle, clutching a snake, flies across the sky. When bitten by the snake, the eagle drops its prey amid the Trojans and flies off (Iliad 12.200–7). Polydamas takes this as a dire omen, and advises Hector not to continue the assault on the Greek ships (Iliad 12.211–29). Hector, however, relies on Zeus’ promise for success that day (Iliad 11.186–209), denounces Polydamas for cowardice, and continues the onslaught. In the Statian scene, Capaneus “assumes” Hector’s role by arguing for the necessity of the fighting, while Amphiaraus resists the impetus for war, as had Polydamas. The contrast between the Homeric and Statian scenes is informative. Amphiaraus, Polydamas’ analogue, is just as unsuccessful as his Homeric model in promoting his cause. Capaneus, however, fully “exploits” his model in Hector, and does so even though he is of a very different moral character from his Homeric counterpart. Unlike Hector, who is god-fearing, Capaneus rejects the gods. He is a superum contemptor et aequi/ impatiens 60

For the Iliadic parallels, see Juhnke (1972): 83–5.

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(“despiser of the gods and impatient of justice,” 3.602–3). The contrast is further magnified by the fact that Hector is acting on the command of Zeus, when he aggressively presses his troops to go forward.61 Capaneus, however, is a sinful character, closer to another epic warrior, Virgil’s Mezentius, also a figure of nefas and impietas. Like Capaneus (3.602–3), Mezentius rejects the gods: he is a contemptor diuum (“despiser of the gods,” Aen. 7.648). And both are associated with crime in their respective poems.62 Moreover, the fact that Capaneus relies on his martial courage instead of the support of the gods (uirtus mihi numen et ensis/ quem teneo! “courage is my divinity and the sword that I hold!” Theb. 3.615–16) aligns him still more closely to Mezentius (dextra mihi deus et telum, quod missile libro, “this right hand, a god to me, and this spear that I poise to throw,” Aen. 10.773). The irony of Capaneus’ metaliterary reliance on the god-fearing Hector becomes still greater when we consider that Capaneus will physically challenge Jupiter himself to combat at the end of book 10 – an act requested by the king of the underworld, Dis.63 The auspicy of Amphiaraus is the most elaborate revelation at Argos, but there are others, more briefly described, that the Argives receive either as a group64 or individually.65 These omens reveal to the Argives the criminality 61 62 63

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The irony, of course, is that Statius’ gods and Capaneus both support the fraternal (and thus criminal) war. On Capaneus’ characterization, see especially Ten Kate (1955): 105–13 and Klinnert (1970): 11–78. Capaneus’ nefas and uirtus in book 10 will be discussed in chapter 6. While it might be argued that Capaneus is in fact promoting the war that Jupiter wants, this confluence of interests is a result of chance. Throughout the Thebaid, Capaneus is hostile to Jupiter. At 5.584–6, Jupiter nearly strikes Capaneus dead for his slaughter of the serpent that killed Opheltes, a serpent sacred to Jupiter. In fact Capaneus will be closely associated with Dis and the Furies, for Dis in book 8 specifically asks Tisiphone to make an Argive physically challenge Jupiter (8.76–7). This is what happens, and it is something that she will take credit for (11.88–91). Several other events indicate disaster before the Argives set out for Thebes, though the Argives ignore them. For example, in book 2 a pair of horrifying omens occurs on Polynices’ wedding day: a shield on the temple of Pallas Innupta falls from its pediment, and a terrible trumpet blast emanates from deep within the temple. The Argives look to King Adrastus in fear but end up simply denying that they heard the trumpet-blast (mox audisse negant, 2.263). Nevertheless they increase their anxiety by talking about having heard it (this must be what is implied by the phrase uariisque metum sermonibus augent, 2.264). And as the Argives set out for Thebes in book 4, a priest performs a sacrifice to Jupiter and Mars. He finds that the entrails are in no way favorable, but he represses his understanding of them by feigning hope because the troops are already armed and ready for war (4.14–15). Moreover, when the Argives set out for Thebes a second time (i.e. after their delay in Nemea), they receive still more ill omens: birds, terrifying voices, ghosts, and storms (7.398–423), but once again their significance is ignored (7.402–3, 422–3). Their obsessive pursuit of the war blinds the Argives to the dire nature of their undertaking. The wrathful obsession with which they march to Thebes (it merges night and day, cf. 7.398–402) recalls the disastrous obsessiveness that characterizes Oedipus, Polynices, and Eteocles. Individuals on the Argive side also receive private omens. The necklace of Harmonia (2.265–305), for example, serves as an embodiment of evil which bodes ill for all of its owners: Harmonia,

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and violence of the Theban war but are ignored. The Thebaid thus continually foregrounds the coming catastrophe. In doing so, the poem represents the bind in which the Argives find themselves. The gods, incited by the prayer of a mortal (Oedipus), orchestrate a war that leads the human players to commit terrible acts of nefas. Seers may witness signs of infernal doom, but these revelations are continually silenced to ensure the prayer’s fulfillment. By not understanding the omens, the humans therefore commit the nefas that the gods have planned and encouraged. The mortals’ ultimate inability to prevent crime on the intratextual and intertextual levels intensifies the horror of Statius’ narrative. prophecy and n e fa s at thebes While the Argive attitude toward the war was characterized by gradual acceptance of the fiction of the expedition’s morality, the Thebans react by condemning both the war and their king. For the Thebans at large, the war with Argos is indefensible; it is nefas from the start, the product of their depraved tyrant. Maeon, the only Theban to survive the ambush against Tydeus in book 2, calls Eteocles’ war a bellum infandum (“unspeakable war,” 3.71).66 Aletes blames Eteocles for the tragedy of the ambush against Tydeus (3.206–9) and refers to the king’s nefas (multumque nefas Eteoclis aceruat/ crudelem infandumque uocans poenasque daturum, “he heaps high the many unspeakable crimes of Eteocles, calling him cruel, and monstrous, and doomed to be punished,” 3.214–15). The Thebans have little desire to fight for their crazed king (4.345–60). Thebes’ allies also recognize Eteocles’ criminality (regis iniqui, “the unjust king,” 4.361) but are bound to fight nonetheless (4.360–2). We are far from Aeschylus’ Seven Against Thebes, where the Thebans view Eteocles as their protector. Despite such expressions of discontent, Eteocles rules with an iron fist, seemingly dismissive of any dissent. Thus prophetic events portending the disastrousness of the fraternal war have a different function at Thebes from what they had at Argos. Because there is no suggestion that Eteocles would ever relinquish power to his brother and thus avoid the war, the reader is never led to believe that dire prophesies could change Eteocles’ determination to fight. Instead, foreknowledge intensifies the horror of seeing an evil king unswayed by the terrible path he has chosen for himself

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Jocasta, Argia, and eventually Eriphyle. See the excellent comments in Feeney (1991): 363–4, and in Lovatt (2002): 84–5. In addition, Atalanta observes terrible omens that make her fear for her son Parthenopaeus’ involvement in the expedition (4.330–4). On the Maeon episode, see McGuire (1990): 28–33 and (1997): 197–205.

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and his people. I will argue that the two major prophecies at Thebes (the Bacchanal’s and the necromancy of Laius’ shade) expose the nefas of Eteocles and his rule, especially through their intertextual dialogue with Virgil and Lucan, and thereby offer the reader another layer both of understanding the events described and of experiencing their horror. “Tu peior, tu cede”: rewriting the prophetic past As the Thebans prepare to fight Eteocles’ war against his brother in Theb. 4, a frenzied Bacchant rushes down from the mountains and utters a prophecy (Theb. 4.378–405). After a brief indictment of Eteocles’ criminality (bellum lacrimasque metumque/ cognatumque nefas, iniusti munera regni,/pendimus, “we pay war, and tears, and fear, and familial nefas, the gifts of an unjust regime,” 4.391–3), she envisions a “duel” between two similar bulls (similes uideo concurrere tauros, 4.397) that results in their deaths (alternaque truces moriuntur in ira, “savagely they die in reciprocal anger,” 4.400), and declares that a third bull will ultimately rule their field (4.397–404). Statius provides no discussion of this mantic vision among the people; this silence is surprising since the Bacchant is introduced in a section that describes the general state of panic at Thebes as the Argives approach (4.369–78). On the narrative level, the Bacchant foresees the fratricidal duel between Polynices and Eteocles, as well as the ascendancy of Creon to the Theban throne.67 But the prophecy also operates on the intertextual level, engaging in a literary historical and ideological dialogue. Starting from Hardie’s insightful comments on the allusions in these passages,68 I will argue that the Thebaid’s association of the brothers’ duel with both Caesar and Pompey’s civil war and Aeneas and Turnus’ confrontation, via the epics of Lucan and Virgil, ultimately suggests a subversive reading of the Augustan Aeneid as well as the inevitability of Statius’ fratricidal war. Statius’ Bacchant, as her introduction suggests, is modeled on Lucan’s at the end of De Bello Civili 1: silvestris regina chori decurrit in aequum uertice ab Ogygio (Theb. 4.379–80)

the queen of the woodland chorus rushes down from the Ogygian heights into the plain 67

Vessey (1973): 237.

68

Hardie (1993): 23–4. Cf. also Taisne (1994): 191–2.

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nam, qualis uertice Pindi Edonis Ogygio decurrit plena Lyaeo (Luc. 1.674–5)

For just as an Edonian, full of Ogygian Bacchus, rushes down from the heights of Mt. Pindus

The conclusions of the two episodes also bear some similarities: Sic fata gelatis uultibus et Baccho iam demigrante quieuit. (Theb. 4.404–5)

So having spoken, she fell quiet, as her face grew chill and as Bacchus then departed. Haec ait, et lasso iacuit deserta furore. (Luc. 1.695)

She says these things, and, deserted by the fury that had been exhausted, she lay down.

They are both deserted by furor, and after speaking, they fall silent. The parallel between the Lucanian and Statian episodes is particularly apt: in both cases a prophet foresees the disaster of a coming civil (and familial)69 war. Statius does not stop here, for the text also activates several significant passages from the Aeneid. Statius’ Bacchant resembles the infuriated Amata, who, in a Bacchic-like frenzy, rushes through the city, rousing the Latins for war: trifidamque huc tristis et illuc lumine sanguineo pinum disiectat et ardens erectam attonitis implet clamoribus urbem: (Theb. 4.380–2)

Here and there, with bloodshot glance, she savagely hurls her three-forked torch, and, burning, she fills the roused city with frantic shouts. ipsa inter medias flagrantem feruida pinum sustinet ac natae Turnique canit hymenaeos sanguineam torquens aciem, toruumque repente clamat (Aen. 7.397–400)

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The war in Lucan might be considered familial in that Caesar had been Pompey’s father-in-law.

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In their midst, she raises her blazing torch ardently and sings the marriage song of her daughter and Turnus, as she twists around her bloodshot gaze, and she suddenly calls out grimly

The reference to Amata is particularly fitting, given the pervasiveness of the Furies’ power throughout the Thebaid, as well as the criminal nature of the wars in both epics. As the Bacchant continues, her words echo two other momentous passages from the Aeneid.70 In her description of the bulls’ conflict, Statius’ Bacchant beseeches the more guilty bull to leave: Tu peior, tu cede (“You are the worse; you relent,” Theb. 4.401). The phrase recalls Anchises’ speech in Aeneid 6, where he exhorts Caesar to act first to avoid war with Pompey by laying down his arms: Tuque prior, tu parce (“And you be first; you show restraint,” Aen. 6.834). Thus in both cases prophetic speakers foretell civil and familial war, and exhort the people involved to stop their violence. The Thebaid activates an association between Caesar and Pompey’s war and Eteocles and Polynices’ through echoes of both Lucan’s epic and Virgil’s – texts that display very different views (especially on an Augustan reading of the Aeneid) of the significance of Caesar and the institution of the Principate by Augustus, his adopted son. Moreover, the bull simile employed by the prophetess has an important intertext in Aeneid 12, where Virgil describes the duel between Aeneas and Turnus: ardua conlatis obnixi cornua miscent frontibus alternaque truces moriuntur in ira. (Theb. 4.399–400)

Struggling, they mingle their tall horns with their brows butted against each other, and they die in reciprocal anger. illi inter sese multa ui uulnera miscent cornuaque obnixi infigunt et sanguine largo (Aen. 12.720–1)

They mingle wounds between each other with great violence, and, struggling, they plant their horns and with copious blood

Statius’ passage, through this network of allusion, thereby connects the Theban civil war not only to the civil strife between Pompey and Caesar but also to the (proto-civil) war between Turnus and Aeneas, initiated by the Fury Allecto’s infection of Amata in book 7. The political implications are significant. If the Aeneid ’s abrupt and violent ending has left readers with 70

Hardie (1993): 23–4.

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an uneasy or ambivalent feeling concerning Aeneas’ slaughter of Turnus, Statius’ intertextual nexus seems to suggest the negative interpretation of this act by placing it among other Fury-inspired and criminal conflicts. To view it another way, we might see Statius intertextually “rewriting” the tradition of this prophecy. Since the Thebaid precedes the Aeneid and Lucan’s epic in mythological-historical time, Statius rewrites the literary history of prophecy in the intertexts, so that the Bacchant’s prophecy in Thebaid 4 anticipates Anchises’ in Aeneid 6 (and the bull simile in Aeneid 12) as well as that in De Bello Civili 1. Statius’ foretelling of the Theban civil war thus becomes an anticipation of the victories of Caesar and Aeneas, suggesting criminal undertones in events that are crucial to the positive conception of the Principate in the Augustan Aeneid. This intertextual relationship thus offers another important way for the reader to gain a higher level of understanding of the inevitable course and character of the war, while also anticipating the Thebaid’s central theme: the overthrow of Virgilian pietas by Statian nefas. In this way, the prophecy intertextually suggests to the reader the problematic nature of the war, and thereby increases the horror of its unhindered promotion. Statius’ Laius Eteocles is somewhat frightened by the prophecy and consults Tiresias for clarification (4.406–9), though there is no indication that Eteocles is having second thoughts about his war with Polynices. Tiresias’ resulting necromancy, the climactic prophetic event of book 4, elicits the soul of Laius from the underworld to foretell the war’s outcome. The questioning of shades goes back to Homer, where Odysseus in Odyssey 11 seeks guidance from them concerning his return to Ithaca.71 It was a standard topos thereafter, but particularly important for the Roman tradition. Statius’ passage intertextually suggests this fact to the reader. As Manto is describing the unfolding scene of the underworld, Tiresias impatiently interrupts: “Immo” ait, “o nostrae regimen uiresque senectae, ne uulgata mihi. Quis enim remeabile saxum fallentesque lacus Tityonque alimenta uolucrum et caligantem longis Ixiona gyris nesciat?” (4.536–40) 71

On the literary background of the necromancy, see Legras (1905): 57, Juhnke (1972): 92–5, and Vessey (1973): 235–50. On the nature of necromantic rites in Lucan and other poets, see Ogden (2001): especially 163–90.

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“No, guide and vigor of my old age,” he says, “(tell) me not about things that are widely known. For who would not know about the returning stone, and the deceiving waters, and Tityus, food for birds, and Ixion, dizzy from his long revolutions?”

The four famous punishments dismissively described here (Sisyphus, Tantalus, Tityos, and Ixion) are precisely the four that Ovid mentions in his version of the underworld scene at Metamorphoses 4.457–61.72 There Juno, not satisfied with simply summoning the Fury Allecto (as in the Aeneid), decides to travel down to the underworld herself. Tiresias may thus be saying, “Do not tell us what is already well known from other depictions of hell; let’s hear something new.”73 These lines put the reader on notice that Statius’ version is to be read against the underworld prophecies of his predecessors. In particular, the scene’s interaction with book 6 of Virgil’s epic and of Lucan’s De Bello Civili (as an intermediary) further develops the Thebaid ’s reinterpretation of the Augustan Aeneid.74 The Augustan voice of the Aeneid describes the underworld as a place of greatness foretold. Aeneas travels there at the behest of the shade of his father, who plans to reveal the future of their descendants to him (Aeneid 5.724–39); the journey is therefore an act of pietas. What results is an extended account of Trojan–Roman history (Aeneid 6.724–853), predicting ever-increasing power for Aeneas’ descendants that culminates in the reign of Augustus (6.788–807). All the suffering that Aeneas endures in the epic is explained and justified by its ultimate result – the golden age of Rome under Augustus.75 Lucan creates a different vision of the underworld, but one developing intimations of unrest or voices of ambivalence already present in Aeneid 6.76 It does not show a major character journeying to the underworld. Instead, Sextus Pompey consults the Thessalian witch Erictho who performs necromantic rites on the body of a slain Pompeian soldier. The conjured soul utters Lucan’s version of the underworld prophecy (6.777–820). There is no pious meeting here between father and son, as in Virgil.77 The episode, with its witchcraft and necromancy, is characterized more by impietas and nefas. Moreover, Lucan’s underworld is fractured by civil strife. We find 72 73

74 75 76 77

Feeney (1991): 343 n. 102 and Keith (2002): 399. The question quis . . . nesciat (4.537–40) echoes that of Jupiter at the beginning of the epic: quis funera Cadmi/ nesciat . . . ? (“Who could not know about the ruin of Cadmus?” 1.227–8). See above and Feeney (1991): 342–3. For the influence of Seneca’s Oedipus, see Taisne (1991). Though see Thomas (2001): 1–7 for a very different reading of this passage, as well as Feeney (1986) for dissonances in Anchises’ speech. See especially Feeney (1986): 16–19 and Thomas (2001): 83–4. Sextus Pompey will, however, ask about his father’s fate. See below.

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not a parade of heroes, all working toward Rome’s greatness, but Roman shades divided roughly into the political factions operating in Pompey and Caesar’s war: the respectable optimates (6.784–92) set against the insane populares (6.793–9). The future of Rome is thus defined not by progress and golden age prosperity but by strife and destruction. Lucan’s corpse views Rome under Julius Caesar as disastrous. Moreover, while Aeneid 6 depicts a future under the direction of the gods and fate, all striving to ensure Rome’s grandeur, Lucan’s underworld lacks fate and a divine plan. Instead, the corpse suggests that civil war is the one certainty of Rome’s past and future.78 In short, whereas Anchises displays a teleological view of Rome, always working toward the greatness of Rome, Lucan’s corpse reveals a circular view of Rome, in which civil wars not only recur but also seem to be Rome’s ever-present fate. Statius’ description of the shades in the underworld is much closer to Lucan’s. As Lucan’s underworld displays the Romans divided into two factions, so Statius’ finds shades roughly grouped according to their sides in his war: the Theban shades, called forth first (4.553–78), are followed by the Argives (4.587–91). Both sides are populated by perpetrators and victims of familial crimes: thus both sides are guilty. Moreover, Tiresias’ prophecy of Thebes’ victory (4.592) suggests that partisanship exists between the Argive and Theban shades that corresponds to that in the fraternal war. If that were not enough, Statius goes a bit farther still than Lucan by having characters who had died earlier in the Thebaid appear: Tiresias describes the shades of the Theban fifty slain in their ambush of Tydeus at the end of book 2 rushing forward in anger (quid . . . nobis in sanguine multo/ oraque pectoraque et falso clamore leuatas/ intendunt sine pace manus? “Why . . . do they direct at us their blood-soaked faces and chests, and their hands raised with a false clamor, without peace?” 4.592–6). If nobis is taken to mean “us,” and thus includes Eteocles, who is present at the necromancy, then the fifty may be suggesting the criminality of their king who made them fight and die unjustly. The communication between father and son that ultimately takes place in Statius, however, is more closely related to Aeneid 6 in an important way, though the results are opposite. Just as Aeneas receives the prophecy of his father Anchises, Eteocles hears the prophecy of his grandfather Laius. But instead of Virgilian pietas, Laius engages in Statian impietas. He is in many ways the opposite of Virgil’s Anchises, just as Oedipus (and now Eteocles) are in many ways the reverse of Aeneas. For when Laius speaks, 78

This is also the implication of the inset narrative told in Lucan 2.67–233. See especially lines 221–33.

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instead of reinforcing his family’s greatness as had Anchises, he strengthens his family’s intimate connection with the Furies and with terrible crime. He claims that he can foretell the future only insofar as Lachesis and the Fury Megaera will allow him (4.636–7), and his prophecy is so loaded with ambiguity that it essentially goads Eteocles on even more: “bellum, innumero uenit undique bellum agmine, Lernaeosque trahit fatalis alumnos Gradiuus stimulis; hos terrae monstra deumque tela manent pulchrique obitus et ab igne supremo sontes lege morae. certa est uictoria Thebis, ne trepida, nec regna ferox germanus habebit sed Furiae; geminumque nefas miserosque per enses (ei mihi!) crudelis uincit pater.” haec ubi fatus, labitur et flexa dubios ambage relinquit. (4.637–45)

“War, war with countless troops comes from everywhere. And Mars, in accordance with fate, drives forth with his goads Lerna’s children; the earth’s prodigies, the gods’ weapons, glorious deaths and illegal delays from the final fire are in store for them. Victory is certain for Thebes; do not fear. Nor will your fierce brother hold sway; the Furies will. By twin nefas and wretched swords (woe to me!) your cruel father wins.” When he has said this, he descends and leaves them behind confused by his convoluted riddle.

Laius declares the criminality of the war (nefas, 643) and even makes glancing allusions to Amphiaraus’ katabasis and Creon’s burial edict (639–41). Thebes will be victorious, and Polynices the loser. But all of this is couched in calculated ambiguity about the fate of Eteocles himself.79 The geminum nefas, the Furiae, and the victorious pater are all cryptic from Eteocles’ perspective. Laius makes his revelation so murky that he is able to reveal enough of the future to encourage his grandson to fight (i.e. Thebes will be victorious), while suppressing Eteocles’ own fate (i.e. Eteocles will die by Polynices’ hand).80 Indeed, Laius soothes Eteocles’ anxiety that Polynices might win the war, for he implies that this will not be the case (642). Thus, Laius plays on Eteocles’ self-destructive desire to see Polynices defeated and humiliated; like the Fury-inspired Oedipus, he encourages the fraternal 79

80

When the prophecy ends, Eteocles, Tiresias, and Manto are puzzled (645), presumably by the enigmatic references to the pater (644, i.e. Oedipus) and to the geminum nefas (643). Somehow, Oedipus will end up winning (crudelis uincit pater, 644). The ambiguity seemingly involved in the reference to pater might also suggest Eteocles’ ignorance of Oedipus’ hatred of him – thus substantiating the claim made in chapter 2 that, as far as we know from the text, Oedipus’ charges against his sons may result simply from his madness. On the suppression of the negative aspects of the future in prophecy in the Aeneid, see O’Hara (1990).

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nefas, and this encouragement aids in another act of familial crime to which the family of Oedipus is so prone.81 Laius, in essence, participates in the destruction of his stepsons/grandsons,82 thereby repeating the violence that characterizes his family. By clouding the dire nature of the future, while simultaneously satisfying Eteocles’ fratricidal drive, Laius’ prophecy resembles that of the corpse in Lucan 6. There, the dead soldier speaks with calculated ambiguity as well, revealing the disastrousness of the overall civil war for Sextus Pompey and his family, while at the same time suggesting that the imminent battle of Pharsalus might not be so bad for them – toto nil orbe uidebis/ tutius Emathia (“you will see nothing in all the world safer than Emathia,” 6.819– 20). The reality, however, will be that Sextus’ father (Pompey the Great) is fully defeated at Pharsalus, though his death comes later in Egypt. In the context of the larger epic, this loss spells the death of the Republic and the enslavement of Rome by Caesar and the emperors. Like the De Bello Civili, the Thebaid has recast the representation of Imperial power as destructive autocracy in its most deranged and dangerous form. In both Theban prophecies (that of the Bacchant and of Laius), Eteocles is confronted by the disaster of his fratricidal desires but is unabashed. These scenes and their intertextual register thus provide the reader with still more indications of the crime to happen. The ironic gap between reader and character is once again widened, thus heightening our thrill of seeing horrifying nefas move closer to fulfillment without the full understanding and/or concern of the king promoting it. In this chapter I have examined the role intertextuality plays for the reader’s understanding of the divine and prophetic events of books 1–4. In particular, we have seen how these episodes help create a disjunction in knowledge between the reader and Statius’ characters. They reveal a future to the reader that is seemingly misunderstood or ignored by characters within the text, and provide intertextual clues that only the reader has access to. In the process, Virgilian models and Augustan ideals are subverted. The result, I argue, is the creation of horror, an important source of pleasure in reading the Thebaid. But the challenge to the ideals of the Aeneid can be seen still more generally in the very fact that horror and nefas play such important roles in the generation and pleasure of the Thebaid. Because the horrors of Statius’ 81 82

Vessey (1973): 257 does not implicate Laius in any guilt. He sees Laius’ obfuscation as necessitated by Fate’s limitation on his ability to prophesy. Laius might also be called a posthumous stepfather, since Eteocles is the son of Laius’ wife Jocasta.

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epic are ultimately linked to the nefas requested by Oedipus (and later Dis and Tisiphone), and because nefas is an inherently destabilizing theme that already implicates Virgil’s epic, the pleasure of horror and the subversion of the Augustan Aeneid are inextricably connected. That is, Statius through his insistence on foregrounding and nearly preventing, on making us loathe and desire the very crimes he will describe, contrives to pique our interest in seeing nefas committed, with the implicit understanding that some thrill will arise. And if, on the intertextual level, nefas works to undermine the ideals of the Aeneid, particularly through the domination of nefas over pietas (as we saw in chapters 1 and 2), then to enjoy the horror of the Thebaid is to appreciate and promote (if not engage in) the poem’s overall critique of the Aeneid.

chapter 4

Hypsipyle’s narrative of nefas

As the Argives march through Nemea on their way to Thebes, they are beset by a terrible drought.1 A woman they encounter leads the army to the river Langia, where the men slake their nearly fatal thirsts. When asked about her identity, Hypsipyle, former queen now turned slave, groans, as she remembers and relives the horror of her past: redit ecce nefas et frigida cordi/ Eumenis (“Look, the nefas returns and the Fury that chills my heart,” 5.32–3). Though seemingly reluctant, Hypsipyle proceeds to tell her tale: the Lemnian women’s massacre of their men, their dalliance with the Argonauts, and her own subsequent exile and servitude in Nemea. Hypsipyle’s tale is one of nefas. To tell it, she wrests the narrative from the poet Statius for nearly 450 lines. Her narrative is embedded in Statius’; one tale of nefas replaces another being committed. The Hypsipyle episode consequently has a special relationship to the epic as a whole. Like Coroebus, Hypsipyle is a figure of pietas. But Hypsipyle plays a role that sets her apart. More than any other character in the epic, she is specifically and self-consciously modeled on Virgil’s Aeneas. Indeed she represents the most direct use of Aeneas in the Thebaid. Yet despite this important Virgilian model, her pietas is even more personally destructive than it had been for Coroebus. In this chapter I will examine Hypsipyle’s tale and argue that it displays the inability of Aeneas-figures to exist in the Thebaid. I will first show how Hypsipyle and her tale are intertextually connected to the Aeneid. I will then examine her narrative, in which she commits the only act of pietas and yet ultimately and ironically becomes a figure of nefas. I will argue that central to this transformation is a mode of intertextuality that recurs throughout the poem: a Statian figure initially seems like a Virgilian character, only to be “transformed” into that Virgilian character’s foil. Hypsipyle, for example, is originally cast as an Aeneas but ends up more like Dido. Her 1

Bacchus’ delay that creates Hypsipyle’s entrance will be the focus of chapter 5.

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direct engagement with these Virgilian models programmatically enacts the powerlessness of pietas in the Thebaid. introd ucing hypsipyle: aeneas, p i e ta s , and the allure of n e fa s When Hypsipyle wanders into the Thebaid at the end of book 4, she participates in a long and well-known epic tradition of scenes involving the unexpected meeting of a hero in need of help and a woman who can provide it.2 Odysseus, recently shipwrecked, meets Nausicaa who leads him to safety among the Phaeacians (Od. 6), while Aeneas, also recently shipwrecked, meets Venus disguised as a huntress, who directs him to Dido’s kingdom (Aen. 1).3 Statius’ version of this scene, however, contains important differences. While Odysseus and Aeneas almost drown at sea, Adrastus and the Argives suffer an opposite fate: they nearly die of thirst. And while Alcinous will eventually ask the hero Odysseus to tell his tale (Od. 8.572–86), and while Venus (Aen. 1.369–70) and later Dido (Aen. 1.753–6) will ask Aeneas to recount his, it is not Adrastus, Polynices, or any of the Argive warriors who relate their stories to their benefactress. Instead, the Thebaid ’s inset narrative will be told by the benefactress Hypsipyle herself, a character who, up until now, has not appeared in the epic, and who will have no further role in the expedition, once the Argives leave Nemea.4 Statius plays with our intertextual expectations,5 and in the process his Hypsipyle masterfully entices her audience to hear her tale. Like her epic predecessors, Hypsipyle has a compelling story, and when she meets the Argives, she can hardly contain it.6 She hints at her suffering but initially withholds her identity.7 By doing so, she captivates her 2 3 4

5

6 7

Hypsipyle’s encounter with the Argives en route to Thebes is also part of the tragic tradition as early as Euripides’ Hypsipyle. See note below. See Frings (1996): 151–2 for a comparison of these scenes in the Aeneid and the Thebaid. The discussions in Aric`o (1991): 198, Brown (1994): 99–102, and Gruzelier (1994): 154 also take Homer into account. The unique nature of Hypsipyle’s narrative is well brought out by Henderson (1993): 183: “This promotion of the Woman’s Voice to tell the underside of virtus displaces the site of the epic from within: it is as if Virgil’s Andromache were to step out of her narrated inclusion within Aeneas’ perspective and take over the telling of Aeneid 2 and 3 for a Troades-style narrative.” Newlands (2004): 141–2 points to the influence of Ovid both in Statius’ use of an internal female narrator and in his description of a Nemean landscape in which “the Ovidian pattern of reversal, whereby a place of apparent safety becomes the site of violence, is tragically displayed.” Nugent (1996): 47–8. In this way, she resembles Odysseus. He makes some suggestive comments about his tribulations (e.g. Od. 6.170–7) but keeps his identity hidden until Alcinous specifically asks for his story at the end of book 8. It is only at Od. 9.19 that Odysseus identifies himself, even though he has been among the Phaeacians since book 6. See Frings (1996): 148. At the same time she is unlike Aeneas. When he is

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audience.8 When she is finally asked to relate her story, she does so, much as Aeneas had – an intertextual identification that will be central to her tale and self-presentation.9 The give-and-take preceding Hypsipyle’s inset narrative pointedly recalls the beginning of Aeneid 2:10 Infandum, regina, iubes renouare dolorem (Aen. 2.3)

Queen, you bid me to renew an unspeakable pain inmania uulnera, rector, integrare iubes, Furias et Lemnon et artis arma inserta toris debellatosque pudendo ense mares. (Theb. 5.29–32)

Savage wounds you bid me to revive, master – the Furies, Lemnos, weapons thrust into narrow beds, men defeated by shameful swords.

Aeneas’ infandum dolorem (“unspeakable pain,” Aen. 2.3) becomes Hypsipyle’s immania uulnera (“savage wounds,” Theb. 5.29), a phrase that both increases the proportions of the pain and gives them a more physical manifestation.11 Hypsipyle expands Virgil’s infandum dolorem further by indicating that her story involves nefas: redit ecce nefas (“the nefas returns,” 5.32). Unspeakable crime becomes the conceptual center of Hypsipyle’s tale. Indeed, only after nefas is mentioned, does she even reveal her identity (5.38–9). The relative effectiveness of Hypsipyle’s teasing, as set against Aeneas’, is suggested by the differing reactions of their audiences. In both cases, the Carthaginians and Argives pay close attention,12 but their desire to hear the tale is conveyed differently:

8 9 10 11

12

asked about his identity by his mother Venus, who is disguised as a huntress (Aen. 1.369–71), Aeneas immediately identifies himself as pius Aeneas (1.378) and begins to bemoan his suffering (1.378–85). Venus cuts him short and essentially tells him to stop complaining since he is, after all, favored by the gods (1.387–401). See also Gruzelier (1994): 156, Frings (1996): 148–52, and Nugent (1996): 47–52 for further discussion of how Hypsipyle entices her audience to hear her tale. See, e.g., Brown (1994): 114 and Delarue (2000): 334. Legras (1905): 64, Vessey (1986): 2989, Gruzelier (1994): 157, Frings (1996): 146, and Nugent (1996): 49–50. Brown (1994): 115 n. 71 comments: “Ironically, the narration of these immania vulnera will end in Opheltes’ physical metamorphosis into ‘wound’: totumque in vulnere corpus, V 598.” The use of uulnera may be influenced by Heroides 6.39–40. In this Ovidian passage, Hypsipyle also associates emotional pain with wounds (uulnera nostra) and narration (narrat, though someone else’s narration is involved). Conticuere omnes (Aen. 2.1); aduertere animos (Theb. 5.40).

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Statius and Virgil sed si tantus amor casus cognoscere nostros (Aen. 2.10)

But if you so desire to learn of our misfortunes cunctis tunc noscere casus ortus amor (Theb. 5.41–2)

Then a desire grew in all to learn of her misfortunes

Aeneas himself (not the poet Virgil) asserts that Dido and her people desire to hear his tale (Aen. 2.10), while in the Thebaid the epic narrator Statius claims that the desire had arisen in the Argives (Theb. 5.41–2). The “objectivity” of the narrator’s observation is another signal of the effective way that Hypsipyle has enticed her audience to listen. And when Adrastus makes the formal request for Hypsipyle’s tale, he does so in language that not only recalls Hypsipyle’s model in Aeneas but also underscores the nature of her theme: immo age . . . pande13 nefas laudesque tuas gemitusque tuorum, unde hos aduenias regno deiecta labores. (Theb. 5.43, 46–7)

But come . . . retell the nefas and your praiseworthy deeds, and the sorrows of your people, whence you were ousted from your kingdom and have come to these toils. “immo age et a prima dic, hospes, origine nobis insidias” inquit “Danaum casusque tuorum erroresque tuos.” (Aen. 1.753–5)

“But come, my guest, tell us from the very beginning about the treachery of the Greeks,” she says, “the misfortunes of your people, and your wanderings.” 13

Statius uses language that seems to suggest Hypsipyle’s status as a poet. The verb pandere, which Adrastus employs to request her tale (5.46), is often used of artful language, whether that be prophetic utterance, prose, or narrative. (Cf., e.g., Pliny, Natural Histories 14.1.3: Hesiodo agricolis praecepta pandere orso). Adrastus also begins his Coroebus narrative in book 1 with this verb: animos aduertite, pandam (1.561). As Vessey (1986): 2993 puts it, Adrastus’ request (5.43–7) can be read “at a secondary level as an invitation to compose a poem.” Elsewhere, Hypsipyle herself uses the verb pando to describe her special narrative role. When she finds her father at home as the massacre is taking place in the city, she tells him of the crimes being committed by the Lemnian women: scelus . . . pando (“I reveal the story of crime,” 5.244). Moreover, Hypsipyle, in a highly self-conscious manner, refers to her act of narration as pando at lines 218–19. In short, both Hypsipyle and her prospective audience imply that her speech will be artful.

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In Statius, Virgil’s insidias . . . Danaum (“treachery of the Greeks,” Aen. 1.754) is replaced by the programmatic nefas – thereby revealing that Hypsipyle is successful in arousing in her audience a desire specifically for the representation of nefas and its effects (gemitusque tuorum, “sorrows of your people,” Theb. 5.46).14 Adrastus’ request for Hypsipyle’s tale (5.46), however, reveals another important aspect: while nefas and gemitus tuorum refer to the slaughter and its terrible ramifications, laudesque tuas (“your praiseworthy deeds,” Theb. 5.46) invokes Hypsipyle’s heroic saving of her father, her act of pietas.15 This introduction suggests that the central tension in Hypsipyle’s tale is between the nefas that all the Lemnian women around her commit and her lone act of pietas that not only sets her apart from the other Lemnians but eventually necessitates her exile. hypsipyle’s narrative and the defeat of virgilian p i e ta s The story Hypsipyle proceeds to tell is full of horror. The Lemnian women are abandoned by their husbands for a war against Thrace, and seek revenge. Polyxo rouses the women to kill their husbands when they return, and, in a fit of fury, they swear oaths to commit this nefas. Upon the men’s homecoming, Hypsipyle is the only woman on the island to refrain from the slaughter. Instead she saves her father (the Lemnian king) by sending him away on a raft. After the murderous night, the women make Hypsipyle their queen and rebuild their city. As they are in the midst of doing so, Jason and the Argonauts land on Lemnos and mate with the women. Their stay, however, is only temporary, for they must leave in pursuit of the Golden Fleece. Hypsipyle’s abstention from nefas on the night of slaughter (i.e. her pietas) is then discovered, and she must flee Lemnos. 14

15

Because Hypsipyle entices the Argives to hear the tale of nefas she hints at, she may be seen as a character of some guile. This may also be suggested by intertextual echoes of Sinon’s artful manipulation of the Trojans to hear his deceitful tale about the wooden (i.e. “Trojan”) horse. Note the similarities in language: sed quid ego haec autem nequiquam ingrata reuoluo,/ quidue moror? (Aen. 2.101–2) and sed quid ego haec, fessosque optatis demoror undis? (Theb. 4.781); Tum uero ardemus scitari et quaerere causas (Aen. 2.105) and cunctis tunc noscere casus/ ortus amor (Theb. 5.41–2); quo gemitu conuersi animi (Aen. 2.73) and ingemit . . . aduertere animos (Theb. 5.28, 40). For the possibility of Hypsipyle’s unreliability as a narrator, see Brown (1994): 113–23 and Nugent (1996). Although Hypsipyle, unlike Aeneas (e.g. Aen. 1.378), does not explicitly apply the word pia to herself or her actions within the narrative, pietas is certainly understood because of the nature of her heroic deed and of several references to the other Lemnian women, who committed the massacre, as impia (5.190, 300, and 488). Moreover, Hypsipyle will continually associate nefas with the Lemnian slaughter (5.32, 54, 162, 202, and 328).

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We have already looked at the literary heritage of the build-up to this tale. Hypsipyle’s narrative itself, however, draws on a wider range of works. While the tragic tradition of Hypsipyle and the Lemnian massacre is largely lost,16 with the exception of fragments from Euripides’ Hypsipyle,17 major sources still survive for Statius’ version: Homer’s Odyssey, Apollonius’ Argonautica, Virgil’s Aeneid, Ovid’s Heroides 6,18 and Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica. In this section I will briefly review these sources and argue that all of them must ultimately be read through a Virgilian lens. Thus when Hypsipyle speaks, she is engaged in a tradition that has already incorporated and been transformed by the Aeneid.19 Thus the theme of pietas is all the more important for interpreting her tale. Of extant20 epic representations of the Lemnian massacre and the Argonautic tradition (i.e. the two halves of Hypsipyle’s narrative), Apollonius and Valerius Flaccus provide the most important models. In both, the Lemnian massacre is retold as a prelude to the Argonauts’ arrival at Lemnos. But whereas Apollonius’ Argonautica gives a relatively small amount of space to the slaughter (1.609–32), with an understandably more developed treatment of the Argonauts (1.633–913), Valerius Flaccus (2.72–427) greatly expands both parts of the story, but reverses their relative proportions, dedicating more space to the horrors of the massacre (2.72–310).21 Statius’ version follows the lead of these precursors. It resembles Valerius’ more closely, though, by providing a lengthier treatment of the two episodes (5.49–498), but dedicates even more space to the gruesomeness of the violence (5.49–334). 16

17

18

19 20 21

For an overall examination of the sources for Hypsipyle and the Argonautic and Theban traditions, see Legras (1905): 61–9, Aric`o (1972): 85–98, Jakobsen (1974): 94–6, Poortvliet (1991): 65–70, Gantz (1993): 345–7, 510–11, Knox (1995): 170–1, and Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 214. Poortvliet and Gantz are particularly useful. See also Delarue (2000): 130–3 on the issue of Callimachaean influence. Among the tragedians, Aeschylus composed a tetralogy relating to the intersection of the Argonautic and Hypsipyle/Lemnian massacre tales: Lemnian Women, Argo, Hypsipyle, and Cabiri, while Sophocles composed a play called Lemnian Women. None of these has survived, save for some meager fragments. Given the state of this tradition, we can therefore only conjecture about a possible tragic influence on Statius. For the fragments of the Hypsipyle, see the edition of Bond (1963). The Euripidean tragedy makes it certain that by the fifth century Hypsipyle was an important part of the myth of the Seven against Thebes, and that Hypsipyle herself had a habit of telling tales about the Argonauts (see fragment I ii.19–28), though we cannot be sure that such a tale made up part of the Hypsipyle itself – still less that it would have included the Lemnian massacre. For the potential influence of Euripides’ Hypsipyle on Statius’ Thebaid, see Aric`o (1961) and Brown (1994): 57–93 and 106–10. This is the letter from Hypsipyle to Jason. Probably composed not long after Virgil’s death, the poem takes the affair between Jason and Hypsipyle and creates something like another Dido and Aeneas episode. See Vessey (1973): 176–7 with 177 n. 1 and Hershkowitz (1998b): 139. I will largely omit this poem from the discussion below, because I do not believe it exerts a strong influence on Thebaid 5. See Hershkowitz (1998b): 138–9 on Valerius’ Hypsipyle and Dido. We have largely lost Antimachus’ Thebaid and Varro of Atax’s Argonautica, so we cannot be sure how they treated this scene. See the excellent discussions in Poortvliet (1991): 65–70 and in Dominik (1997): 30–1 and passim.

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But both Apollonius and Valerius come to Statius by way of the Aeneid.22 Virgil’s epic had used Apollonius’ Jason and Medea episode23 (and perhaps even that of Jason and Hypsipyle)24 as models for the Aeneas and Dido affair. And Valerius’ poem, coming nearly a century after Virgil, certainly looks back to Apollonius’ but through the filter of the Aeneid.25 Valerius’ Hypsipyle and Jason episode is recreated specifically in light of Dido and Aeneas’ affair in Aeneid 1 and 4.26 Thus, in Statius, the reception of the Hypsipyle tradition from Apollonius and Valerius is already deeply influenced by Virgil’s epic. Hypsipyle’s tale, however, is also part of another tradition, the epic inset narrative, wherein a character recites an extended tale of the past. Unlike its Argonautic models, the Statian narrative is told as a flashback by Hypsipyle herself, at least fifteen years after the events described.27 Statius’ Hypsipyle here follows in the footsteps of Odysseus and Aeneas.28 In the Odyssey, Alcinous asks Odysseus (at the moment an unidentified stranger) to tell his story (Od. 8.572–86); Odysseus responds with a four-book tale of his wanderings after the fall of Troy up until his arrival among the Phaeacians (Od. 9–12).29 In the Aeneid, Dido asks Aeneas to tell of the fall of Troy and his subsequent wanderings (Aen. 1.753–6), and he responds with a two-book narrative (Aen. 2–3). Hypsipyle’s tale, however, has especially close ties to Aeneas’. Her introduction to it is a careful reworking of the introduction to Aeneas’,30 as we have already seen, and her description of the Lemnian massacre is modeled on the fall of Troy and its aftermath in Aeneid 2–3. 22

23 24 25

26

27

28 29

30

My argument will follow the general assumption that Valerius’ version of the affairs at Lemnos preceded Statius’ account. See Vessey (1973): 178, Poortvliet (1991): 68, Smolenaars (1994): xvii, and Dominik (1997): 29. See, e.g., Hunter (1993): 175–82 and Clausen (1987): 40–60. Cf. Heinze (1993): 96, Hunter (1993): 179–80, and Hershkowitz (1998b): 138. Hershkowitz (1998b): 138–9, in the context of Valerius’ Hypsipyle, describes the relationship among Valerius, Virgil, and Apollonius thus: “Apollonius’ Hypsipyle is one of the antecedents for Vergil’s Dido, but as with other Valerian individuals, Hypsipyle looks to the Apollonian figure through the Vergilian one, and for this reason Dido and not Apollonius’ Hypsipyle is arguably more central to her characterization.” Cf. Aric`o (1991): 205. See Hershkowitz (1998b): 136–46. For comparisons among the versions of Apollonius, Valerius, and Statius, see Vessey (1973): 171–8, Aric`o (1991), and especially Poortvliet (1991): 65–9. See the discussion below as well. We do not know exactly how much time has elapsed since Hypsipyle’s flight from Lemnos and capture by pirates (5.497–8), but, when she is reunited with her sons (5.710–30), we do learn that they are iuuenes (5.713). Frings (1996): 147–8 argues, however, that the events of Hypsipyle’s narrative are not as essential to understanding the Thebaid, since she is not a main character. Aeneas’ consequent narrative takes Odysseus’ as a model, often including similar episodes, and even outdoing his Homeric model in various places. See especially Knauer (1964): 181–99 on parallels between the wanderings of Homer’s Odysseus and those of Virgil’s Aeneas. This is not to deny the relevance of Odyssey 6–8 but to point out that Aeneas provides the stronger model both in language and in content.

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Statius and Virgil

Hypsipyle’s narrative is consequently written with a double Virgilian structural influence. The Argonautic tradition (Valerius) on which Statius relies had already recast Hypsipyle as another Dido to Jason’s Aeneas (in Aen. 1 and 4), while Hypsipyle, by taking up the role of inset narrator, places herself in the tradition of Aeneas (in Aen. 2–3).31 With such a strong literary historical heritage in the Aeneid, Statius’ intertextuality raises our expectations as to what will occur in Hypsipyle’s narrative.32 And because Virgil’s Aeneas is so important here, it should not be surprising that the theme of pietas has been central to the interpretation of Hypsipyle’s tale. Vessey, for example, claims pietas as its structural center,33 while Aric`o argues for the ultimate victory of pietas over furor.34 I, however, will argue the opposite: namely that Hypsipyle’s narrative shows the defeat of pietas, its irrelevance in the world of the Lemnian narrative (and of the Thebaid more generally). Hypsipyle’s narrative thus serves a similar purpose to that of Coroebus, but it represents a still more direct interaction with the Aeneid, because her tale and character are even more clearly modeled on those of Virgil’s Aeneas. Hypsipyle, as she “assumes” Aeneas’ role as inset narrator, also takes up his tale’s conflict between pietas and furor. By doing so, Hypsipyle continues the Virgilian struggle of pietas, and, through a rich nexus of intertextual connections, displays its total defeat. hypsipyle’s narrative i: the l emnian massacre and hypsipyle’s aeneas Hypsipyle begins her narrative with an explanation of the divine anger that her people have incurred. The Lemnians failed to worship the goddess Venus, and as a result the goddess, assisted by the Furies, took revenge by instilling in the Lemnian women resentment for their husbands, who are away fighting the Thracians (Theb. 5.49–84). As in Aeneid 2, the first 31 32 33

34

If we add Statius’ use of the Beroe episode of Aeneid 5 in depicting Polyxo’s incitement of the Lemnian crime, there are three important Virgilian models for Hypsipyle’s narrative. For the Dionysiac aspect of Statius’ Hypsipyle and for more on her rich generic characterization, see Brown (1994): 94–128. Vessey (1973): 186. Cf. also Dominik (1994a): 55 with diagram. Besides forging connections between Hypsipyle’s inset narrative and the rest of the epic and tracing its sources, scholars have also been interested in what the Lemnian massacre episode says about psychological characterization (e.g. Krumbholz (1955): 125–39), about the power of furor (e.g. Schetter (1960): 5–7), and about Statius’ narrative style as compared to that of Virgil (e.g. Frings (1996)). Legras (1905): 152 and 277, Williams (1978): 198, and other critics have viewed the Hypsipyle episode as a useless digression, but see Dominik (1994a): 55–6 with n. 78. On the general importance of episodicity in the Thebaid, see Feeney (1991): 339–40. Aric`o (1991): 208. See also Ripoll (1998): 287.

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section of the Hypsipyle narrative involves deliberations: while Aeneas had described the controversy over bringing the wooden horse inside the Trojan walls (Aen. 2.31–249), Hypsipyle recounts how Polyxo, a figure of madness,35 encourages the Lemnian women to punish their husbands for abandoning them (Theb. 5.104–42).36 And like Aeneas, Hypsipyle plays a secondary role in the deliberations; she is more an observer than a primary actor.37 But in creating this scene, Statius’ story, while still operating within the embedded narrative setting of Aeneid 2, looks more to Aeneid 5,38 where Beroe incites the Trojan women to burn the ships, while the Trojan men are at the funeral games for Anchises.39 Beroe is actually the goddess Iris in disguise and is acting on Juno’s behalf. Thus from the start of Hypsipyle’s narrative, Statius’ representative of pietas is still intertextually beset by the fury of Virgil’s Juno: Polyxo is a Junonian figure, promoting nefas that Hypsipyle, a figure of pietas, will resist.40 As Polyxo rouses the Lemnian women to commit nefas, the men return from Thrace. At a banquet celebrating their homecoming, the women begin their night of murder, killing all the island’s males (Theb. 5.170–235).41 In the midst of the slaughter, Alcideme runs through the city as she carries her father’s head. Seeing her, Hypsipyle is immediately reminded of her own father Thoas, and hurries to save him (Theb. 5.236–64).42 While they are fleeing the city, Thoas’ father Bacchus appears and reveals the dangers standing between them and their escape. He leads them out of the city and into the woods, where Thoas is placed by Hypsipyle on a “raft” (or floating box of some sort) and escapes safely (Theb. 5.265–95).43

35

36 37

38 39 40

41 42 43

Hershkowitz (1998a): 47–8 discusses Polyxo’s madness especially through the presence of maenadic imagery (cf. Theb. 5.90–7). I will be concerned more specifically with Polyxo’s connections to Juno of Aeneid 5. For the role of furor here, see especially Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 212–15. Frings (1996): 152–7 comments also on how even when she saves Thoas, Hypsipyle seems more like an observer (or one who reacts to events) than like an agent. Hypsipyle does not provide the unity of narration that Aeneas as narrator offers in Aeneid 2, whereby events are better connected and explained. Cf. also Amata at Aen. 7.385–405, who, in an Allecto-inspired frenzy, rouses the Latin women to oppose Aeneas. See Legras (1905): 65 n. 1, Aric`o (1991): 207, Nugent (1996): 59, and Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 214. Dominik (1997) shows that throughout Hypsipyle’s narrative Statius focuses on the role of the gods in inducing the Lemnian women’s madness, while the versions of Apollonius and Valerius give much more prominence to human causation and psychology. Statius provides details of specific deaths, while Valerius is more general. See Aric`o (1991): 208. Frings (1996): 155 notes that the reason Hypsipyle rushes to Thoas is somewhat unclear, especially if we read the action in light of Aeneas’ deeds. See Nugent (1996): 65 with n. 40 on the challenge in interpreting the phrase curuo robore clausum (“enclosed in curved oak,” 5.287), if the Argo is supposed to be the world’s first ship.

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From the start, Hypsipyle is put in a terrible and impossible predicament: she is a representative of pietas, in an inset narrative of nefas, in a larger epic world of nefas. Like Coroebus in book 1, she struggles against powers promoting nefas, on both the thematic and intertextual levels. But also like Coroebus, Hypsipyle experiences an intertextual transformation. In her narrative of the butchery at Lemnos (Theb. 5.49–334), Hypsipyle initially seems like the Thebaid’s answer to Virgil’s Aeneas of book 2, but by the end she appears closer to Aeneas’ tragic foil, Dido. In this way, pietas not only fails, but it endangers Hypsipyle as much as furor does Dido. In creating this part of the Lemnian episode, the Thebaid draws again on Aeneid 2, where Aeneas performs similar acts.44 After he sees the death of Priam, the Trojan leader is reminded of his father and family, and rushes off to find them. When he is sidetracked by the sight of Helen,45 whom he wants to kill, Venus appears and stops him. She urges him to find Anchises instead, and reveals the divine dimension of Troy’s fall. She guides Aeneas to his father’s house, from which Aeneas, his father, son, wife, and household eventually flee (Aen. 2.707–29). Aeneid 2 is clearly the intertextual model for Hypsipyle’s flight from the city with her father.46 The similarities between the two episodes, however, underscore the gap between the worlds these figures of pietas inhabit. Hypsipyle’s narrative, unlike Aeneas’, lacks a sense of fate, of divine benevolence, and of pietas as a viable concept. The reactions of Aeneas and Hypsipyle to the sight of slaughtered fatherfigures (i.e. Priam and Alcimede’s father) provide a good place to explore how Statius builds on Virgil’s evocation of horror:47 At me tum primum saeuus circumstetit horror. obstipui; subiit cari genitoris imago, ut regem aequaeuum crudeli uulnere uidi uitam exhalantem, subiit deserta Creusa et direpta domus et parui casus Iuli. respicio et quae sit me circum copia lustro. deseruere omnes defessi, et corpora saltu ad terram misere aut ignibus aegra dedere. (Aen. 2.559–66) 44 45

46 47

See Legras (1905): 64, Vessey (1973): 176, Frings (1996): 155–9, and Nugent (1996): 64–5. It is interesting to note that Hypsipyle’s narrative does not contain a scene that parallels the controversial “Helen episode” of Aeneid 2.567–88, which is cited by Servius but does not appear in the earliest surviving manuscripts. For the view that the Helen episode is not authentic, see Goold (1970), reprinted in Harrison (1990): 60–126; for the opposing view, see, e.g., Berres (1992) and Egan (1996). See Frings (1996): 152–4 for differences in the narrative styles of Aeneas and Hypsipyle. Frings argues that Hypsipyle’s narrative is more focused on horror. Valerius also includes a beheading: Venus carries around a head as a way to inspire the Lemnian women to join in the crime (Arg. 2.209–15).

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But then for the first time fierce horror surrounded me. I stood agape; the image of my dear father came to me, as I saw the like-aged king, breathing out his life from a cruel wound; then came abandoned Creusa, my plundered house, and the misfortune of small Iulus. I look back and I survey what force there is around me. Worn out, they have all left me behind, and have either leapt to the ground or given their exhausted bodies to the flames. ut uero Alcimeden etiamnum in murmure truncos ferre patris uultus et egentem sanguinis ensem conspexi, riguere comae atque in uiscera saeuus horror iit: meus ille Thoas, mea dira uideri dextra mihi! extemplo thalamis turbata paternis inferor. (Theb. 5.236–41)

But when I observed Alcimede carrying the decapitated head of her father, which was still mumbling, and a sword barely stained with blood, my hair stiffened and a fierce horror went through my inmost being: he seemed like my Thoas to me, and her dreadful right hand seemed mine. Alarmed, I immediately hurry to my father’s chambers.

At the center of these passages is a horrified reaction (saeuus horror, Aen. 2.559, Theb. 5.238–9). While Aeneas observes Priam “breathing out his life from a cruel wound” amid his family, Hypsipyle not only sees Alcimede carrying the head of her father but also notices that it is mumbling.48 The escalation in violence is also suggested in the words expressing the onset of horror. Fierce horror surrounds Aeneas (saeuus circumstetit horror, Aen. 2.559), but it penetrates into Hypsipyle’s very being (in uiscera saeuus/ horror iit, Theb. 5.238–9).49 Aeneas may talk about the image of his father, wife, and son appearing to him (imago, Aen. 2.560–3), but Thoas is conjured more directly by Hypsipyle with meus ille Thoas (“he seemed like my Thoas,” Theb. 5.239). Statius’ account involves something more like reliving than retelling.50 The immediacy and power of the scene are strengthened even more by Hypsipyle’s fear that she might be capable of the patricide she has just witnessed (mea dira uideri/ dextra mihi, Theb. 5.239–40).51 Here the historical infinitive uideri suggests that Hypsipyle can still see herself present at the massacre, re-experiencing the horrors. Hypsipyle’s reaction is consequently one of terror, confusion, and emotion, whereas Aeneas’ response, 48 49

50 51

Though Priam is eventually beheaded (Aen. 2.557–8), the act is not described in the Aeneid. Hypsipyle’s horror resembles Aeneas’, when he sees Creusa’s ghost at Aen. 2.774: obstipui, steteruntque comae et uox faucibus haesit (“I was stunned, my hair stood on end, and my voice stuck in my throat”), a line that is repeated at Aen. 3.48 and, in part, at 4.280. Cf. Hypsipyle’s recollection of the massacre as re-experience at the beginning of book 5 (quoted above): redit ecce nefas . . . (5.32). See also Delarue (2000): 335.

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while certainly conveying horror, attempts to gain some strategic control over his situation. Statius is more interested in the incomprehensibility of crime.52 Bacchus and the Virgilian Venus The confusion in Hypsipyle’s world also incorporates the divine element behind the fall of Troy, since the roles of Venus and Bacchus in the Lemnian massacre must be read against those of Venus and Juno in Aeneid 2. As we shall see, the ensuing dialogue raises an interesting point: Statius’ gods, like Virgil’s Beroe, are not quite what we might have expected. Bacchus turns out to be a relatively unhelpful divinity when set against Virgil’s Venus. Statius’ Venus is not quite herself either, for she seems to have become more like Virgil’s Juno. As a result, when Hypsipyle rushes to save her father, our expectations, based on the Virgilian scene, are changed, and the intertextual ramifications ultimately involve competing visions of fate, the gods, and pietas. When Bacchus appears to help, Hypsipyle is caught by surprise, and throughout the scene we sense something disquieting about him, particularly when compared to his Virgilian model in Venus: cum mihi se, non ante oculis tam clara, uidendam obtulit et pura per noctem in luce refulsit alma parens, confessa deam qualisque uideri caelicolis et quanta solet, dextraque prehensum continuit roseoque haec insuper addidit ore (Aen. 2.589–93)

When my kind mother revealed herself to me, more brilliant in my eyes than ever before, and shone in pure light through the night, having made her divinity known, in form and stature as she usually appears to the gods, she grasped and held me by the right hand and also went on to say these things with her rosy mouth tunc primum sese trepidis sub nocte Thyoneus detexit, nato portans extrema Thoanti subsidia, et multa subitus cum luce refulsit. agnoui: non ille quidem turgentia sertis tempora nec flaua crinem distinxerat uua: nubilus indignumque oculis liquentibus imbrem adloquitur . . . (Theb. 5.265–71) 52

Statius concentrates more on the horrors of individual scenes than on the logically developed connections between them. See Aric`o (1991): 207 and Krumbholz (1955): 133. Cf. Frings (1996): 155–6.

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Then for the first time Bacchus showed himself to us in our fear that night, bearing desperate help to his son Thoas; he appeared in a sudden burst of light. I recognized him, although he had not decorated his swelling forehead with wreaths nor his hair with yellow grapes: clouded with anxiety, his eyes dripping an unworthy shower of tears, he says . . .

Hypsipyle recognizes Bacchus (agnoui, Theb. 5.268), but realizes that he looks strange (Theb. 5.268–70). This contrasts strongly with Virgil’s description of Venus, who not only reveals herself more clearly than ever before to her son Aeneas, but appears to him as she does to the gods (Aen. 2.591–2). Moreover, while both show themselves to their children unexpectedly in a flood of light (Aen. 2.590; Theb. 5.267),53 there is a suggestion that Bacchus is still somehow hiding. He is introduced by tunc primum sese trepidis sub nocte Thyoneus/ detexit (Theb. 5.265–6). If sub nocte is understood with detexit, one possible meaning is that Bacchus revealed himself “under cover of night”;54 that is, so that Thoas and Hypsipyle would discern his identity but no one else would be able to. We might dismiss this possibility because “during/in the night” would make sense, but the uncertainty the phrase suggests is consistent with other aspects of Bacchus’ characterization. Venus not only appears pura . . . in luce (“in pure light,” Aen. 2.590), but she does so more clearly than ever before (non ante oculis tam clara, Aen. 2.589). The implication is that she had appeared to Aeneas before, and this provides a pointed contrast to Statius’ scene. Bacchus is introduced with tunc primum (Theb. 5.265), a phrase that can mean “then for the first time,”55 and, if it does so here, it creates a pointed contrast with Aeneid 2.589. Bacchus does not seem the doting parent that Venus was. Furthermore, while Hypsipyle’s Bacchus has something hesitant, or unconvincing, about him, Aeneas’ Venus is self-assured. Although both Venus and Bacchus advise their children to flee (eripe, nate, fugam, “Flee, son,” Aen. 2.619; accelerate fugam, “Hurry your flight,” Theb. 5.278) and pledge their help, Venus tells Aeneas that she will stay with him until he reaches his father’s house (nusquam abero et tutum patrio te limine sistam, “nowhere will I be away, and I will place you down safe at your father’s doorway,” Aen. 2.620); Bacchus ends his speech much more limply with a pledge to help Hypsipyle and Thoas in their troubles (succedam curis, “I will attend to your cares,” Theb. 5.284), but he does not appear again, nor does he protect Hypsipyle from her enslavement.56 Bacchus’ relative 53 55 56

54 For this meaning of sub, cf. OLD s.v. sub a4. Frings (1996): 158. See, e.g., Vir. Geo. 1.136, Val. Flac. Arg. 2.445, and Theb. 8.240. Cf. Delarue (2000): 334. Moreover, as Delarue notes, Bacchus speaks to Thoas (nate, 271) not Hypsipyle, whereas Virgil’s Venus addresses Aeneas directly.

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weakness is implied in other ways as well. Venus reveals the reality of the fall of Troy, and is fully aware of the dictates of Jupiter and fate. Bacchus, by contrast, reveals his relative helplessness. As a suppliant (supplex, Theb. 5.275), Bacchus had unsuccessfully tried to dissuade Jupiter from destroying Lemnos. Bacchus is powerless, as was Venus in the Virgilian scene, but he acts like a victim rather than a helpful divinity with the ability to save his offspring. His weakness is intensified further by the fact that it is Jupiter, not fate, who seems to have ultimate control over the Lemnian massacre: Jupiter himself has granted Venus the “unspeakable honor” of Lemnos’ destruction (infandum natae concessit honorem, Theb. 5.277). It is therefore not surprising that, even after Thoas is sent out to sea, Hypsipyle distrusts Bacchus (multa metu reputans et uix confisa Lyaeo/ dividor . . . , “thinking over many things in fear and hardly trusting Bacchus, I am separated from my father,” Theb. 5.292–3). His actions seem not only weak but also out of character. Bacchus is more ordinarily associated with the forces of madness and divine possession that have infected the Lemnian women, and against which Hypsipyle struggles. Indeed, there are several details that suggest his association with the fury and nefas of the Lemnian women. Polyxo, for example, had been introduced with a simile comparing her to a Bacchant, a crazed worshiper of Bacchus (Theb. 5.92–4).57 The connection between Polyxo and Bacchus is strengthened still further by the fact that Bacchus arrives in Nemea at midday (4.680–2), the same time of day that Polyxo rushes down into the city to incite the Lemnian women to crime (5.85–6). Bacchus is seemingly associated with the women’s furor from the start.58 But Bacchus is not the only god that plays an unusual role in this passage. Statius’ Venus acts strangely as well. Hypsipyle points to her changed appearance:59 illa, qua rere silentia, porta stat funesta Venus ferroque accincta furentes adiuuat (unde manus, unde haec Mauortia diuae pectora?) (Theb. 5.280–3)

57 58

59

Hershkowitz (1998a): 47–8. Bacchus’ inconsistent representation here perhaps reflects his ineffectiveness elsewhere in the Thebaid, where he turns out to be one of the more ignorant gods, misunderstanding the way the poem’s world of crime works. See chapter 5. Valerius Flaccus had explicitly highlighted this change in Venus’ actions and appearance (Arg. 2.101– 6). Statius’ depiction of Venus may be subtler than Valerius’, but both certainly share in Venus’ willful promotion of nefas and her Fury-like demeanor.

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At that gate, where you think there is silence, stands destructive Venus; armed with a sword, she is helping those who are raging (whence comes the goddess’ strength, whence her martial heart?)

Venus looks awkward here, not only because she is the goddess of love, not war, but also because of her counterpart in the Aeneid. There Venus helps and encourages pius Aeneas save his family and people; in the Thebaid, however, she is the god who wreaks havoc. Indeed Statius’ Venus resembles the Virgilian Juno in promoting violence and destruction. In Aeneid 2, Venus had referred to four gods behind Troy’s destruction: Neptune, Juno, Tritonian Pallas, and Jupiter (2.608–18). In the comparable Statian passage (5.280–3, quoted above), however, these four Virgilian divinities are collapsed into one – Venus, who is intertextually modeled on the Juno of the Virgilian passage: hic Iuno Scaeas saeuissima portas prima tenet sociumque furens a nauibus agmen ferro accincta uocat. (Aen. 2.612–14)

Here, foremost and most violent of all, Juno holds the Scaean gates; armed with a sword, she wildly calls her allied forces from the ships.

Note the presence of porta and of furens in the two passages. In addition, both goddesses have an army of helpers (sociumque . . . a nauibus agmen . . . uocat, “she calls her allied forces from the ships,” Aen. 2.613– 14; furentes/adiuuat, “she is helping those who are raging,” Theb. 5.281–2), and both are armed with a sword, ferro accincta (Aen. 2.614; Theb. 5.281). Consequently, the question unde manus, unde haec Mauortia diuae/ pectora? (“Whence comes the goddess’ strength, whence her martial heart?” Theb. 5.282–3) might be an intertextual play: Statius’ Venus does not seem to be the goddess of love, as in Virgil; in addition, she encourages nefas, not pietas. Statius’ Venus disturbingly resembles the Virgilian Juno. But this should not surprise us, because from the start of the Lemnian narrative, Venus has something characteristically Junonian about her: mouet et caelestia quondam corda dolor lentoque inrepunt agmine Poenae. illa Paphon ueterem centumque altaria linquens, nec uultu nec crine prior, soluisse iugalem ceston et Idalias procul ablegasse uolucres fertur. erant certe media quae noctis in umbra diuam alios ignes maioraque tela gerentem Tartareas inter thalamis uolitasse sorores

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Resentment at times agitates even a divinity’s heart and the goddesses of Punishment creep up in a slow column. Leaving ancient Paphos and her hundred altars, different in her appearance and in her hair, she, it is said, loosened her nuptial belt and drove far away her Idalian birds. There were certainly women who spread the story that the goddess in the dead of night had fluttered through bedrooms together with the Tartarean sisters, carrying torches that were not her own and larger weapons, and that she filled the private places in our homes with entwined snakes and our nuptial thresholds with fierce fear, taking no pity on the people of her faithful husband

Venus no longer appears as she usually does (5.62–4). She is a brooding, angry goddess who resorts to the Furies (5.66–7) to enact her wrath, even though her actions presumably violate her husband’s will (5.69). The transformation is even more complex, because when Venus actually attacks the Lemnian bedroom in the company of the Furies, she makes use of snakes (5.67–8), much as Juno’s minion Allecto does in Aeneid 7 when she infects Amata (7.341–53).60 Statius’ Venus has seemingly adopted the persona of Juno but has collapsed the distinction between Juno and the Furies in her seemingly never-ending battle against Virgilian pietas. Statius’ Venus not only closely resembles her most terrible foe from the Aeneid, but this new “Juno” becomes even more physically violent and Fury-like as a result. “Becoming” Dido But after Hypsipyle saves her father and returns to the city, she is not quite the same either. Whereas in the first half of the tale Hypsipyle closely resembled Aeneas in her flight from the city and display of pietas, she soon takes on the characteristics of Aeneas’ lover, the Carthaginian queen Dido, and these qualities will dominate the second half of the Lemnian narrative. Gruzelier has analyzed the Lemnian narrative with Dido in mind, but she traces elements of both Dido and Aeneas in Hypsipyle’s presentation throughout, without fully distinguishing between them.61 I will argue, 60 61

And as Ovid’s Tisiphone, modeled on Virgil’s Allecto from this same Virgilian scene, does in Metamorphoses 4.490–9. See Gruzelier (1994): 154–5. In her psychoanalytic reading of the narrative, Nugent (1996): 49–50 touches on the differences between Hypsipyle as Aeneas in the first half of the narrative and as Dido in the second half to argue that “Statius intertwines resonances of both male and female, both speaker and hearer, both survivor and victim within this one female voice” (50).

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however, that the Lemnian narrative plays with these two Virgilian models. Just as Coroebus in Adrastus’ story at first seemed like Aeneas, only to discover his real position as Aeneas’ foe Turnus, so Hypsipyle at first seems like Aeneas but in the end turns out to be more like his foil Dido.62 Hypsipyle’s transformation happens almost immediately.63 After the fury on Lemnos has dissipated, she must continue the deception that her father did not escape but actually died. She does this by building a pyre for him:64 ipsa quoque arcanis tecti in penetralibus alto molior igne pyram, sceptrum super armaque patris inicio et notas regum uelamina uestes, ac prope maesta rogum confusis crinibus asto ense cruentato, fraudemque et inania busta plango metu, si forte premant, cassumque parenti omen et hac dubios leti precor ire timores. (Theb. 5.313–19)

I too build a pyre with high flames in the hidden depths of my home. I throw on top of it my father’s scepter and weapons, and his familiar garments, the clothing of kings, and I stand sadly near the pyre with disheveled hair and a bloodied sword. In fear, I wail for the trick and empty tomb, in case they should accuse me. At the same time, I pray that this omen means nothing for my father and that uncertain fears about his death would pass in this way.

The pyre resembles that built by Dido as a part of an alleged rite to win back Aeneas, though she intends to use it for her own suicide.65 The general structure is similar: ipsa quoque arcanis tecti in penetralibus alto/ molior igne pyram (“I also build a pyre with high flames in the hidden depths of my home,” Theb. 5.313–14) echoes pyra penetrali in sede . . . erecta (“when the huge pyre had been erected deep in her home,” Aen. 4.504–5).66 Dido and Hypsipyle place clothing on the pyre: notas regum uelamina uestes (Theb. 5.315); exuuias (Aen. 4.496, 507). In both a bloodied sword is involved: ense cruentato (Theb. 5.317); ensem cruore/ spumantem (Aen. 4.664–5).67 As a result of this pyre that deceptively suggests her slaying of Thoas, Hypsipyle is named queen of Lemnos by her fellow townspeople: 62 63 64 65 66 67

I do, however, agree with Gruzelier (1994): 160–5 that Hypsipyle ends up displaying some significant differences from Virgil’s Dido. For Hypsipyle as Dido-like, see also Delarue (2000): 334. Gruzelier (1994): 160. Vessey (1973): 176, Brown (1994): 122, and Gruzelier (1994): 160. Cf. also Dido’s request to her sister Anna: tu secreta pyram tecto interiore/ erige (“In secret erect a pyre in the inner part of the house,” Aen. 4.494–5). Cf. also ensem relictum (“sword left behind,” Aen. 4.507). Gruzelier (1994): 160 cites the ensem from Aen. 4.646. See also Brown (1994): 122.

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Statius and Virgil his mihi pro meritis, ut falsi criminis astu parta fides, regna et solio considere patris (supplicium!) datur. anne illis obsessa negarem? accessi, saepe ante deos testata fidemque inmeritasque manus; subeo (pro dira potestas!) exsangue imperium et maestam sine culmine Lemnon. (5.320–5)

As belief is produced by the cunning of my false crime, these worthy deeds won me the kingdom and the right to sit on my father’s throne (what a penalty!). Could I say no, beset by these women? After repeatedly invoking the gods, my faithfulness and innocent hands, I assented; I take up (oh terrible power!) the bloodless sovereignty and Lemnos, sad without a leader.

The perversion of the moral world of Lemnos is made clear. Hypsipyle’s crimen is that she did not kill her father, but rather dared an act of pietas. As a result, that which was before a speakable (and praiseworthy) deed now becomes the unspeakable. Hypsipyle’s pietas destroys her in the eyes of her community. And just as Dido must hide her intention of suicide so as to permit it (thereby saving her reputation), so now Hypsipyle must hide her act of pietas (the saving of her father), so as to preserve her pietas. Consequently, when the Argonauts arrive in the second half of the narrative, Hypsipyle is a Dido-figure, an unmarried queen of a city, visited by heroes on their way to another adventure.68 But, as we shall see, she is a Dido with a difference. hypsipyle’s narrative ii: the argonauts From the start, the Argonautic episode has strong Virgilian resonances. The Argonauts are sailing calmly along, when they are unexpectedly beset by a terrible storm (Theb. 5.335–421), not unlike the one that initiates the Aeneid (1.81–123). Arriving at Lemnos, Jason and his comrades are treated like great heroes (5.422–44). As in the Aeneid, Venus, Amor, and Juno inspire passion for the newly arrived guests (5.445–54). The love that takes hold in Lemnos in general is not unlike that in Carthage between Aeneas and Dido: the women pair off with the Argonauts, and the Argonauts linger on the island for a year (5.454–67). But there are important differences in this overall picture that ultimately make Hypsipyle look the less blameworthy and therefore more pious, while conversely making the intertextual 68

After about a year, tranquil sailing weather returns, as in the Aeneid, and the Argonauts decide to leave the island (5.468–85). A difference here, of course, is that in the Aeneid, Jupiter (through Mercury) must twice tell Aeneas to leave. (In Valerius, Hercules’ chiding performs this function.)

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Aeneas-figures in her life that much worse. As a result, Aeneas’ heroism and pietas are undermined intertextually. Statius’ Hypsipyle, though very much in a Didoesque situation, does not make the enraged choices that destroy the Carthaginian queen, nor does she fall for and excuse Jason, as does her counterpart in Valerius.69 From the start, Statius’ Hypsipyle lets us know that she does not feel any guilt or blame from her relationship with Jason: forsitan et nostrae fatum excusabile culpae noscere cura, duces. cineres furiasque meorum testor ut externas non sponte aut crimine taedas attigerim (scit cura deum), etsi blandus Iason uirginibus dare uincla nouis. (Theb. 5.453–7)

Perhaps, leaders, you also care to learn about the ill-fortune that excuses my offence. I call to witness the ashes and Furies of my people that I did not take up a stranger’s marriage torches willingly or with criminal intent (the gods in their concern know this), even though Jason was seductive in captivating young women.

The key word here is culpa, one very important in Dido’s situation:70 ille dies primus leti primusque malorum causa fuit; neque enim specie famaue mouetur nec iam furtiuum Dido meditatur amorem: coniugium uocat, hoc praetexit nomine culpam. (Aen. 4.169–72)

That day from the start was the cause of her death, from the start the cause of her misfortunes; for Dido is moved by neither appearances nor reputation, nor does she now contemplate furtive love: she calls it marriage; with this name she hid her fault.

Hypsipyle resists not only Jason but also the powers of Amor, Venus, and Juno by refusing to fall in love with the hero. She does not make the choices of either Apollonius’ Hypsipyle or Virgil’s Dido. Also unlike Dido, Hypsipyle talks of her formal marriage to Jason (externas non sponte aut crimine taedas/ attigerim, “not willingly or with criminal intent did I take up a stranger’s marriage torches,” Theb. 5.455–6), and her unwilling participation in it. And though Dido regrets that she did not have a child by Aeneas (Aen. 4.327–30), Hypsipyle bears Jason twins, though she again emphasizes her unwillingness in doing so (thalami monimenta coacti . . . 69 70

Gruzelier (1994): 160–5, Nugent (1996): 66–7, and Hershkowitz (1998b): 146. Gruzelier (1994): 162.

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duroque sub hospite mater, “memorials of forced intercourse . . . a mother by my unfeeling guest,” Theb. 5.463–4). The contrast between Statius’ Hypsipyle and Virgil’s Dido becomes even more marked if we consider it in light of Valerius Flaccus’ version. Valerius’ epic had already cast Hypsipyle as another Dido. Our expectations that Statius will do the same are thus great, but this will not be the case.71 Valerius has represented Jason and Hypsipyle’s affair in a way that reflects that between Dido and Aeneas in tone, if not in length.72 We learn that Valerius’ Hypsipyle is awestruck by Jason and, during a banquet, asks him to tell his tale (Arg. 2.351–3). The setting resembles that at the end of Aeneid 1 where, after a sacrifice and feast, Dido asks Aeneas for his story (1.748–56). The effect of Jason’s presence on Hypsipyle also reflects the passion that Venus/Cupid inspires in Dido for Aeneas (Arg. 2.353–6). Valerius has conceived of the process of Hypsipyle’s infatuation with Jason in the framework of the Dido–Aeneas affair of the Aeneid. This is not to say that Valerius’ Hypsipyle resembles Virgil’s Dido in every way. Indeed Hershkowitz has argued as follows: “Dido is more central to the representation of Valerius’ Hypsipyle than is Apollonius’ Hypsipyle, both by providing an intermediate Roman epic reading of Apollonius’ Hypsipyle and by serving as a negative model for Valerius’ version of the Lemnian queen. Hypsipyle is the Sense to Dido’s Sensibility, and, in contrast to Dido’s increasingly barbaric character, she is presented as a Romanized daughter and wife.”73 Statius’ Hypsipyle thus stands in contrast to Valerius’: not only does she disdain Jason, but she also handles Jason’s sudden departure differently. Valerius’ Hypsipyle deals with her Didoesque abandonment in the best possible manner, even as Jason acts more coldly than Aeneas had. Valerius’ Jason, chided by Hercules, suddenly decides to leave, as does Aeneas, but he does not need two visits from Mercury (Aen. 4.238–78, 553–70): one rebuke from Hercules suffices (Arg. 2.373–84). When he is caught leaving, Valerius’ Jason does not claim that he intended to tell Hypsipyle, as had Aeneas (Aen. 4.291–4, 337–8). Moreover, in Valerius, Jason is explicitly called Hypsipyle’s husband (mariti, Arg. 2.425), though in the Aeneid, the status of Dido and Aeneas’ marriage is a point of significant dispute. Because they were not formally married, Aeneas claims that he made no pledge to stay in Carthage (Aen. 4.338–9). Valerius consequently seems to magnify Aeneas’ potential flaws in his Jason. Yet Valerius’ Hypsipyle accepts Jason’s departure with all 71 72 73

See especially Hershkowitz (1998b): 138–46 and the discussion at the beginning of this chapter. Apollonius’ version is such that Hypsipyle’s attraction to Jason is somewhat unclear until his departure. In other words, Apollonius does not describe a torrid love affair. Hershkowitz (1998b): 146. For Hypsipyle’s pietas in Valerius, see Ripoll (1998): 261–2.

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of its intertextual problems. Indeed she even brings him a gift (Arg. 2.408– 17),74 wishes him well, and presents him with the sword of her father Thoas (2.418–24). Valerius’ episode “recreates” the scene in Aeneid 4 by turning Hypsipyle into a Romanized symbol of pietas, who can accept any hardship or disappointment.75 By making Jason even colder than Aeneas, Valerius’ version, in retrospect, makes Aeneas’ abandonment of Dido seem relatively unproblematic. In other words, Valerius’ Jason acts much worse than the most negative evaluation of his Virgilian counterpart, but his deeds are not questioned or criticized. Statius’ version, however, moves in the opposite direction. Not only is Hypsipyle a blameless and unwilling victim of Jason (and thus also intertextually of Aeneas),76 but Jason also become more violent and blameworthy – he is depicted nearly as a rapist, for whom Hypsipyle has no passion.77 And when Jason departs, Statius describes him in Virgilian language that recalls not only Aeneas but also Augustus: iam rate celsus Iason/ ire iubet (“now high atop his ship, Jason orders that they go,” Theb. 5.479–80). As Aeneas returns to fight Turnus and the Latins in book 10, he is described as stans celsa in puppi (“standing on the high stern,” Aen. 10.261) as is Augustus on Aeneas’ shield (stans celsa in puppi, Aen. 8.680).78 Thus, Statius taps into this nexus of associations connecting Jason, Aeneas, and Augustus, even as he is making Jason seem more sexually violent and thoughtless than his counterparts in Apollonius, Valerius, and Virgil. Hypsipyle and the death of pietas While Statius’ Hypsipyle seems to outdo Dido in her narrative, she is undermined by subsequent events (unrelated to Jason) that make her an even more tragic version of the Carthaginian queen.79 After the Argonauts have left, fama intervenes (5.486–8). Just as fama had ruined Dido’s reputation by making widely known her affair with Aeneas, so fama spreads 74

75 76 77 78 79

Interestingly, the gift, a coverlet, may look back to Jason’s in Apollonius’ Argonautica, but, as it depicts the Lemnian massacre and Hypsipyle’s saving of her father, it might also have suggested to Statius the potential of having Hypsipyle herself narrate the Lemnian massacre. Again, see Hershkowitz (1998b): 136–46. See, e.g., Aric`o (1991): 209 on the heroic nature of Hypsipyle and her pietas in rejecting Jason’s passion. Nugent (1996): 66. Nugent also comments on how “Hypsipyle’s narrative stands in an ambivalent relation to the text of the Aeneid.” For this connection between Aeneas and Augustus in the Aeneid, see Gransden (1976): 176 and Clausen (1987): 82. Cf. also Anchises at 3.527. Gruzelier (1994): 165 points to similarities and differences between the two without suggesting thematic relevance beyond the workings of good imitatio.

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the news in Lemnos that Thoas is still alive and thus that Hypsipyle was not guilty of any crime: fama subit portus uectum trans alta Thoanta/ fraterna regnare Chio, mihi crimina nulla,/ et uacuos arsisse rogos (“News comes to the ports that Thoas had been conveyed across the sea and reigns in his brother’s Chios, that I had committed no crimes, and that an empty pyre had burned,” Theb. 5.486–8). Hypsipyle must pay dearly for her pious rescue of her father. When Hypsipyle is forced from Lemnos, she resembles Dido in still other ways: talibus exanimis dictis (et triste propinquat supplicium, nec regna iuuant) uaga litora furtim incomitata sequor funestaque moenia linquo (Theb. 5.493–5)

Frightened by such words (a harsh punishment draws near, nor does my royal authority help), unaccompanied and in secret, I follow the wandering shores and leave behind the deadly city multaque praeterea uatum praedicta priorum terribili monitu horrificant. agit ipse furentem in somnis ferus Aeneas, semperque relinqui sola sibi, semper longam incomitata uidetur ire uiam et Tyrios deserta quaerere terra, Eumenidum ueluti demens uidet agmina Pentheus et solem geminum et duplices se ostendere Thebas, aut Agamemnonius scaenis agitatus Orestes, armatam facibus matrem et serpentibus atris cum fugit ultricesque sedent in limine Dirae. (Aen. 4.464–73)

Moreover, numerous predictions of earlier seers horrify her with their frightening warnings. In her dreams, cruel Aeneas himself goads her as she rages, and she always seems left alone, always unaccompanied, walking a long road and seeking Tyrians in a deserted land – just as crazed Pentheus sees the ranks of the Furies, a twin sun and Thebes presenting itself in double, or as Agamemnon’s son Orestes is hounded on the stage, when he flees his mother, who is armed with torches and black snakes, while the avenging Furies sit at his doorway.

Hypsipyle’s exanimis (“frightened,” Theb. 5.493) captures the fear of what the women have heard and their raging. Like Dido, Hypsipyle wanders (uaga litora, “wandering shores,” Theb. 5.494; longam . . . ire uiam, “walking a long road,” Aen. 4.467–8), unaccompanied (incomitata, Theb. 5.495; Aen. 4.467); both women dread punishment (triste propinquat/ supplicium, Theb. 5.493–4; Aen. 4.469–73).80 80

See ibid., 163 for some similarities between Dido and Statius’ Hypsipyle after the narrative is over.

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Exanimis (Theb. 5.493), however, also has the meaning of “lifeless,” “halfdead,” or even “dead.” Thus just as fama and the revelation of a secret lead to Dido’s death, so the revelation of Hypsipyle’s act of pietas leads metaphorically to her own death – her loss of her life in Lemnos, and her transformation from queen to slave. But exanimis also looks forward to her life as we witness it in Nemea and in the Thebaid. Hypsipyle’s existence, like Oedipus’, hovers somewhere between life and death.81 She is like the living dead, always replaying the past in her mind and through narration, never fully able to look to the future. But if we examine the Argonautic episode through the lens of Aeneid 3 (remembering that Hypsipyle’s inset narrative is ultimately modeled on Aeneas’), we see things differently. Like Aeneid 3, the Lemnian episode is also concerned with the founding of a new city after its destruction. The problem is that, despite Venus’ claims that the women’s slaughter of their delinquent husbands would lead to better unions (Theb. 5.137–8), the Lemnians recreate the conditions that had made their lives unbearable to begin with.82 Hypsipyle points to this repetition at several points.83 As the Argonauts prepare to leave, she says: heu iterum gemitus, iterumque nouissima nox est (“Alas! Again there are groans, and again a final night,” 5.478). But in one respect, the situation is worse than simple repetition. As Hypsipyle flees Lemnos now a second time, she finds that Bacchus does not again appear to save her (sed non iterum obuius Euhan, 5.496). Indeed the repetition without change is reiterated by Statius, as soon as Hypsipyle has finished: talia Lernaeis iterat dum regibus exsul/ Lemnias et longa solatur damna querela (“While the exiled Lemnian woman repeats such things to the Lernaeans and comforts her losses with this long lament,” 5.499–500). Not only do the Lemnians and Hypsipyle repeat (iterum, 5.478, 496) their actions, but Hypsipyle’s life also becomes one of repetition/retelling (iterat, 5.499) of these repetitions.84 Thus as the tale ends, we are given the ultimate relevance of Hypsipyle’s pietas both to her life and to the Lemnians. Hypsipyle’s effective exile from her city is described in terms of pietas pitted against nefas. When the impia plebes (“impious mob,” 5.488) learn of Hypsipyle’s act of pietas, they demand a crime from her for the one she did not commit during the night of the massacre (5.489). They question how Hypsipyle, given her innocence, can rule Lemnos: 81 82 84

See chapter 2 for a discussion of Oedipus’ liminal existence in Statius. 83 See, e.g., Nugent (1996): 54–5. Cf. Aric`o (1991): 209. Ibid. Markus (2004): 109–10 develops Nugent’s ideas about Hypsipyle’s need to narrate as a kind of “talking cure,” and argues that Statius “uses Hypsipyle to act out the function of the poet’s art that provides solace both to the poet himself and to the audience by giving voice to those who otherwise are deprived of a voice” (110).

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Statius and Virgil “solane fida suis, nos autem in funera laetae? †non deus haec fatumque? quid imperat urbe nefanda?”†85 (5.491–2)

The first line means: “Is she alone faithful to her people, while we rejoice over the deaths of ours?” The second, however, is problematic, because the text is corrupt. Most editions seem to accept non deus haec fatum?: “Did not the gods and fate [mandate] these things [i.e. the massacre]?” How to take nefanda is also difficult. If it is a nominative describing Hypsipyle, then it would refer to the first half of the sentence. The sense of the line would be: if the gods and fate had mandated the massacre, how can a sinful woman rule the city? Hypsipyle would be nefanda because she did not follow through on the desires of the gods by participating in the massacre; pietas and nefas would have effectively exchanged meanings. If nefanda is ablative, which perhaps makes more sense, then it would probably refer more to the previous line, the sense being: if she acted to help her family, but we killed ours and are guilty, how can she rule a criminal city? In either case, the contrast is clear: pietas (Hypsipyle’s saving of her father) is opposed to nefas (the women’s slaughter of the Lemnian men). As a result, Hypsipyle’s pietas ends up failing twice in the overall Lemnian narrative: first, because it must be kept secret, and second, because once it is known, Hypsipyle is ruined.86 Moreover, so contagious and repetitive is the force of nefas that it creates still more nefas. As Hypsipyle is telling of the Lemnian massacre and her valiant attempts to resist it through her act of pietas, she herself unwittingly contributes to an act of nefas: a serpent kills the baby Opheltes, whom Hypsipyle was supposed to be taking care of (5.499–504). Not only is this slaying referred to as nefas,87 but it also directly results from the actions of Bacchus, her grandfather, who brought her in contact with the Argives. Pietas fails Hypsipyle, and her attempts to portray herself as a figure of pietas (through her extended narrative) result in still more nefas. The Lemnian tale, thus, is ultimately not about the valorizing of pietas but about its defeat. Hypsipyle’s narrative is engaged in a rich intertextual dialogue with the Aeneid. By operating against the backdrop of Virgil’s epic, the Thebaid has created an inset narrative that shows the incompatibility of pietas in her criminal world. In the process, we have seen what should now appear to be characteristic of Statius’ intertextuality with Virgil: the Thebaid will often 85 86

Hill (1996a) prints this line without any critical markings. For the relentlessness of Hypsipyle’s fate, see Delarue (2000): 337.

87

Thebaid 5.592, 628; 6.161.

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present a character as modeled on or closely associated with a Virgilian figure, only to be transformed into that figure’s foil in the end. It is a phenomenon that we witness in the Hypsipyle narrative on the level of both divine and human characters. This mode of intertextuality provides Statius with a powerful tool to point to the weaknesses of Virgilian characters and of the Augustan voice of the Aeneid. Scholars usually take Hypsipyle’s narrative as somehow interacting with the larger themes of Thebaid. Vessey, for example, argues: “The Argives, as they listen, are being presented with a lesson about their own fate, which they singularly fail to comprehend.”88 And Dominik has suggested: “The real importance of this mini-epic, or epic within an epic . . . lies in its ability to underscore and elaborate upon the central issues of the epic concerning supernatural malevolence and human suffering, even though it introduces a scene that does not properly belong in the main narrative.”89 I have, of course, come to a different conclusion about the effects and results of pietas. Nevertheless I would agree that the tale has significance for our overall understanding of the poem. Like Aeneas’ inset narrative, Hypsipyle’s also represents past suffering. And just as the former helps explain the central tensions and ideas of the Aeneid, so the latter sheds light on fundamental issues in the Thebaid. Hypsipyle’s tale shows the complete irrelevance of pietas in its post-Virgilian world. In this sense, Hypsipyle’s narrative serves a similar purpose as the Coroebus episode. Yet because of its even closer connection to the Aeneid, the Lemnian narrative has a special programmatic significance. Hypsipyle’s narrative implies that there is no divine superstructure that safeguards pietas, a suggestion with important ramifications. If there are no gods respecting such values in the Lemnian tale, and by extension in the poem more generally, can a moral world ever exist in the Thebaid ? Is moral kingship even a possibility? It is on such questions that the next two chapters will focus, as we turn to events that primarily take place on the divine level. 88 89

Vessey (1973): 173. See also 179 and 187. Dominik (1994a): 56. Ripoll (1998): 287 sees a continual counterpoint between acts of pietas (such as that of Hypsipyle) and the crime of the fraternal war.

chapter 5

Bacchus and the outbreak of war

The drought that Bacchus sends against the Argive army in book 4 has implications that extend beyond Hypsipyle’s narrative. When Hypsipyle finishes her tale in book 5, other events take place as a result that keep the Argives in Nemea for another book and a half: the death of the infant Opheltes and the baby’s funeral games. And when the Argives restart their march against Thebes in book 7, they are once again seen by Bacchus, who appeals to his father Jupiter for help in thwarting the attack, but to no avail (7.145–226). The war begins soon thereafter. Chapter 4 showed how one of the results of Bacchus’ actions, Hypsipyle’s narrative, enacted the irrelevance of pietas through its direct intertextual engagement with the Aeneid. This chapter will examine Bacchus’ delaying itself. His most important poetic model is Juno of Aeneid 7. But whereas Juno attacks her enemies with success by inciting a terrible war, Bacchus achieves very little. The Bacchus episodes thus display an interesting intertextual phenomenon we have seen at play already: Statius uses an epic model who succeeds in the Aeneid for a character who fails in the Thebaid. Bacchus’ failures are especially significant because there are other Statian characters (infernal figures such as Oedipus, Dis, and Tisiphone), also modeled on Juno of Aeneid 7, who are thoroughly effective. In this chapter, I will argue that the recall of Virgil’s Juno serves to expose Bacchus’ weakness and, in the process, that of Jupiter and the heavenly gods as well. Conversely, I will show that characters who successfully exploit the infernal violence of Aeneid 7 on the metaliterary level dominate Statius’ poetic world. The successful exercise of political power (divine and human) is closely associated with the subversive actions of the Virgilian Juno. bacchus and virgil’s juno in t h e b a i d 4 Bacchus’ entrance in book 4 participates in an important literary tradition in which a divinity returns home from afar, only to find his foes flourishing. 96

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This tradition has its roots in the fifth book of the Odyssey, in which Poseidon returns from Ethiopia, spies Odysseus floating on a raft from Calypso’s island (Od. 5.262–90), and sends a storm (Od. 5.291–6) that shipwrecks the hero at Phaeacia.1 Virgil uses this episode as a model for Juno in books 1 and 7 of the Aeneid, and thereby initiates both halves of the epic:2 in book 1, she sees Aeneas and the Trojans sailing peacefully toward Italy, and sends a storm that will shipwreck them at Carthage (Aen. 1.34–179); in book 7, she calls up the Fury Allecto from hell to create a metaphorical storm of furor to incite the Trojan–Latin war3 and thus delay the Trojans’ fated settlement in Italy (Aen. 7.286–571). Juno’s actions in Aeneid 7 thus represent an escalation in wrathful violence, not only when set against her model in Odyssey 5 but also when compared to her own deeds in Aeneid 1.4 By appropriating these models for Bacchus,5 Statius taps into a powerful literary tradition and thereby raises our expectations of what Bacchus will be able to achieve. Bacchus initially seems prepared for the challenge. His intervention in Thebaid 4 masterfully incorporates and reworks these Homeric and Virgilian scenes. Juhnke has detailed Bacchus’ connection here to Poseidon in Odyssey 5 and Juno in Aeneid 1,6 while Schetter and others have pointed to the similarity between the calls for delay (morae) of Bacchus (Theb. 4.677) and of Virgil’s Juno (Aen. 7.315).7 But the importance of Virgil’s Juno is still greater. Indeed the prominence of her intertextual presence in Bacchus’ actions in book 4 suggests that he will be able to engage successfully in delay as well.8 Statius’ use of Aeneid 7 is marked from the start. As Bacchus returns from Thrace, he is introduced with language that virtually announces his Virgilian model: 1

2 3 4 5 6 7

8

Later at Odyssey 13.125–64, when he sees Odysseus reaching Ithaca, he appeals to Zeus, who allows the petrification of the ship that had conveyed Odysseus to Ithaca. This scene, however, initiates no major narrative action. Instead it provides closure to the theme of Poseidon’s wrath. See Knauer (1964): 148–52, 231–3. For the storm metaphor, cf. Aen. 7.586–90, where Latinus is compared to a cliff beset by stormy waves. On the escalation of Juno’s anger from Aeneid 1 to 7, see Horsfall (2000): 207. See Brown (1994): 30–56 for possible Callimachean influence in the Bacchus episode in book 4. Juhnke (1972): 96–7, 116. See, e.g., Schetter (1960): 70–1, Juhnke (1972): 116, Vessey (1973): 165–7, Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 102–3, and Delarue (2000): 125. Delarue (2000): 124–8 also notes Ovidian and Callimachean aspects in the description of Bacchus’ arrival, while McNelis (2004): 271–5 examines the relationship between Statius’ Nemea and that of Callimachus. Statius’ invocation of Phoebus shows the centrality of the morae in the Bacchus episode: unde morae . . . Phoebe, doce (4.650–1). See Vessey (1973): 165–7 and Delarue (2000): 125 on this passage. See McNelis (2004): 267–71 for a discussion of the theme of delay before Statius.

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Statius and Virgil marcidus edomito bellum referebat ab Haemo Liber. (Theb. 4.652–3)

Bacchus was languidly bringing war back from vanquished Haemus. Ecce autem Inachiis sese referebat ab Argis saeua Iouis coniunx (Aen. 7.286–7)

But look! The fierce wife of Jupiter was returning from Inachian Argos.

Statius’ words echo Virgil’s, and the positioning of syntactic elements is roughly the same in both. The similarities between the episodes continue, as both divinities catch sight of their enemies: isque ubi puluerea Nemeen efferuere nube conspicit et solem radiis ignescere ferri, necdum compositas belli in certamina Thebas (Theb. 4.664–6)

And when Bacchus notices Nemea boiling with a dusty cloud and the sun on fire with the glistening beams of weapons, and Thebes not yet gathered for the contests of war moliri iam tecta uidet, iam fidere terrae, deseruisse rates (Aen. 7.290–1)

She sees that they are now building houses, now trusting in the land, and that they have deserted their ships

Both passages use three infinitives: the first two present tense; the third, perfect. Both gods are stunned by what they see: concussus uisis (“shaken by these sights,” Theb. 4.667); stetit acri fixa dolore (“she stood still, transfixed by bitter pain,” Aen. 7.291). Both move their heads:9 Juno from anger (quassans caput, “shaking her head,” Aen. 7.292); Bacchus from inebriation (quamquam ore et pectore marcet, “although tipsy in head and heart,” Theb. 4.667).10 And both order surrogates to take action: Bacchus calls on nymphs (perferte laborem,/ quem damus, “perform the task I give,” Theb. 4.685–6); Juno commands Allecto (hunc mihi da . . . laborem, “grant me this task,” Aen. 7.331). Statius thus has his Bacchus take up the intertextual power and efficiency of this Virgilian model. 9 10

Poseidon is also enraged and shakes his head (Od. 5.284–5). Though marceo generally means “be weak” or “languid,” here with ore et pectore it must denote “be tipsy.” In retrospect, we might take marcidus at 4.652 as “drunken,” a possible meaning suggested by Lactantius (ad loc.).

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Bacchus’ fierceness is implied in other ways that heighten his potential for violence, suggesting still further his metaliterary ability to rival his model in the Aeneid’s Juno. He displays a warlike nature.11 He has just conquered the Thracians, forcing them to worship him (4.652–5). He is accompanied by threatening deities: Ira, Furor, Metus, Virtus, and Ardor (4.661–3) – a retinue more appropriate for the war-god Mars.12 And he immediately marshals his might against the Argive army: he orders (imperat, 4.669) silence, addresses his troops (the nymphs), and implements his plan (the drought). Bacchus has become a “faux Mars.”13 Yet his actions are stunningly ineffective. While this intertextual past is activated in Bacchus, it does not benefit him in the narrative present. Bacchus’ weakness in part stems from his misunderstanding of the forces guiding his world, and this ignorance sets him apart from his model in Virgil’s Juno.14 While both call for delay (at trahere atque moras tantis licet addere rebus, “but I am allowed to drag things out and add delay to such great events,” Aen. 7.315; nectam fraude moras, “I shall weave delays with trickery,” Theb. 4.677),15 Juno understands that delay represents her only recourse because of the mandates of fate: non dabitur regnis, esto, prohibere Latinis, atque immota manet fatis Lauinia coniunx. (Aen. 7.313–14)

I will not be permitted (so be it) to keep them from the realm of the Latins, and by fate Lavinia remains unshaken as his wife.

Bacchus, however, expresses no awareness of a larger cosmic plan, or anything we can call fate.16 Rather he immediately assumes that the Argive army has been sent by his nemesis Juno:17 11 12

13 14 15 16

17

Bacchus’ martial nature goes back to the Greek tradition. At Euripides, Bacchae 302–5, he is Ares-like and instills fury on the battlefield. See Dodds (1960): 109–10 and Criado (2000): 66. Vessey (1973): 168 n. 3. cites Theb. 3.424–5, “where Mars’ attendants are Furor, Ira and Pavor; and 7.47 ff. where we find in the abode of Mars, Impetus, Nefas, Ira, Metus, Discordia, Virtus, Furor and others.” See also Delarue (2000): 126–7 and Criado (2000): 58, 65. Delarue (2000): 127. Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 117, 120 notes that Bacchus is “like the Virgilian Juno, a figure of antidestiny” (117), but he has less power. Amphiaraus had used the phrase necte moras in his prayer to Jupiter at 3.495. See Brown (1994): 56 with n. 127. Nonetheless, Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 102–3, Delarue (2000): 125, and others suggest that Bacchus, like Virgil’s Juno, knows that delay is his only option because of Jupiter and fate. To a certain extent, this is due to Bacchus’ appeal to Jupiter in book 7. But there, as we shall see below, he still attributes the war against Thebes to Juno’s ability to influence Jupiter and expresses no awareness of Jupiter’s justification of the war in book 1. Juno dislikes Bacchus because he was produced from the adulterous affair Jupiter had with the Theban woman Semele. See, e.g., 4.673–6.

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Statius and Virgil me globus iste meamque excindere gentem apparat; ex longo recalet furor; hoc mihi saeuum Argos et indomitae bellum ciet ira nouercae (Theb. 4.670–2)

That throng prepares to destroy me and my people; fury from long ago grows warm again; fierce Argos and the anger of my untamable stepmother incite this war against me.

Indeed Bacchus’ diction adds force to his conviction. Excindere resonates with the same Aeneid 7 passage already in play, where Juno vows to destroy both the Latins and Trojans: at licet amborum populos excindere regum (“but I am permitted to destroy the people of both kings,” Aen. 7.316). This verb appears six times in the Thebaid, and each instance is in some way associated with Juno, the destruction of Thebes, or both.18 Indeed Bacchus will repeat it at 7.155, when he asks if Jupiter is destroying Thebes to satisfy Juno.19 The verb excindere might therefore imply a special threat to Bacchus and his concern for Thebes. In addition, the words furor (4.671) and ira (4.672) also contain Junonian resonances since they are virtually catchwords for the goddess throughout the Aeneid. His language thus operates within the Virgilian tradition of the wrathful Juno. But as it turns out, Bacchus, unlike his counterpart in the Aeneid, does not understand what he is witnessing. Juno has not orchestrated the Argive attack on Thebes. As we know from the divine councils in books 1 and 3, Jupiter called for the war – yet Bacchus expresses no knowledge of this. Instead he seems threatened by the Juno of the literary tradition, the angry goddess who hounds her enemies.20 Statius’ Juno, however, does not adopt the role of wrathful deity that she plays elsewhere in the Roman epic tradition.21 As early as book 1, Jupiter precludes any resistance from her (1.285– 92).22 Bacchus consequently displays a violent impetuosity in accusing Juno and a seeming ignorance of Jupiter’s decision to punish Thebes. In addition, Bacchus’ assault on the Argives “misuses” his Homeric and Virgilian sources. Instead of sending rainstorms (Od. 5 and Aen. 1) or a 18 20

21 22

19 See below for discussion of this passage. Theb. 1.261, 4.670, 4.760, 7.155, 8.515, and 10.906. Bacchus’ anxiety might be increased here by an echo of Aeneid 7. When Virgil’s Juno spies the Trojans settling in Italy, she is herself returning “from Inachian Argos” (Ecce autem Inacchiis sese referebat ab Argis, Aen. 7.286). Thus at the very moment that Bacchus notices the Argives marching from Argos against Thebes, he alludes to Juno, Thebes’ great enemy, as she is coming from Argos as well. Perhaps this increases the possibility of Juno’s involvement for the reader who recalls the Virgilian passage. Cf., e.g., Metamorphoses 3–4. The tradition of the wrathful Juno in Latin poetry goes back to Ennius’ Annales, if not earlier. See Feeney (1984). Juno may still hate Thebes and Bacchus (cf. 7.193–7 and 10.896), but she is not a motivating force behind the present war. See Feeney (1991): 343 on Juno’s changed nature in the Thebaid.

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storm of fury (Aen. 7), Bacchus causes a drought – the removal of water.23 Moreover, his subsequent actions contradict his stated desire to hinder the war. Bacchus, we are told, has Hypsipyle encounter the Argives (4.746), and she leads them to water.24 Thus, Bacchus essentially ends his own delay roughly one hundred lines after it has started.25 The subsequent events that stall the war and occupy the Thebaid until the beginning of book 7 are not his contrivances.26 Bacchus’ drought may have incidentally caused a serpent to seek water and kill Opheltes, but the baby’s death and funeral games are in no way described as part of Bacchus’ plan for delay. Unlike the parallel actions of Poseidon in Odyssey 5 and especially of Juno in Aeneid 1 and 7, which cause terrible suffering for their enemies, Bacchus’ delay inconveniences the Argives briefly and leaves his nemesis Juno untouched. Even worse, he causes pain for his granddaughter Hypsipyle:27 she was nursemaid to the baby Opheltes, who is killed when Hypsipyle leaves him to go help the Argives (a meeting orchestrated by Bacchus). Despite the potential that Statius’ Bacchus had initially manifested in his resemblance to the Virgilian Juno, he ultimately is shown to be a weak and confused god, ineffectual in his poetic world. The Argives might linger in Nemea from book 5 to the beginning of book 7, but not because of Bacchus. His planned hindrance of them had ended in book 4. bacchus and virgil’s juno in t h e b a i d 7 The chain of events resulting from Bacchus’ actions in book 4 and extending into book 7 enrages Jupiter, who is annoyed at the Argives for delaying in Nemea (7.1–2). He thus orders Mars (via the messenger Mercury) to restart the expedition, and the war-god does so with great speed (nec longa moratus, 7.81). Mars takes quick action to restart the war.28 But when Bacchus reappears on the scene and observes the Argives marching against Thebes, he seems as if he might threaten more delays. His reaction again 23 24 25 26 27 28

Krumbholz (1955): 114–25 and Delarue (2000): 100–2 both discuss similarities here with Lucan’s description of the drought at Ilerda (4.292–336). Keith (2000): 58–9 shows that Hypsipyle, though a mortal and slave, is closely connected to the waters of Nemea and the nymphs there. The drought begins at 4.697, and Hypsipyle leads the Argives to water at 4.809. The delays in books 5–7, while somehow related to Bacchus’ actions, are not orchestrated by him. They seem more the product of chance. See Delarue (2000): 134. She is ultimately reunited with her sons by Bacchus’ design (5.712–14), but there is no stated connection between this event and his call for delay in book 4. The scene has important epic models both in Odyssey 5, where Zeus tells Calypso (via Hermes) that Odysseus must leave her island, and in Aeneid 4, where Jupiter prods Aeneas (via Mercury) to leave Carthage and fulfill the mandates of fate.

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harks back to Juno in Aeneid 7 but now also to his actions in book 4 – in other words, he has inter- and intratextual models. However, Bacchus’ failure to improve upon his earlier intervention and his metaliterary inadequacy in relation to the Virgilian Juno contribute to his failure to win anything for himself or Thebes. In virtual repetition of the scene in book 4, Bacchus observes the Argives moving toward Thebes: uiderat Inachias rapidum glomerare cohortes/ Bacchus iter (“Bacchus had seen the Inachian cohorts press their rapid journey,” Theb. 7.145–6). Again, his reaction resembles that of Virgil’s Juno: et laetum Aenean classemque ex aethere longe/ Dardaniam Siculo prospexit ab usque Pachyno (“And far across the sky, all the way from Sicilian Pachynus, Juno observed Aeneas being happy and his Dardanian fleet,” Aen. 7.288–9). And just as in Thebaid 4, so in Thebaid 7, Bacchus still suspects that Juno lies behind the expedition against Thebes. Now, however, he approaches Jupiter and asks if this assumption is correct: excindisne tuas, diuum sator optime, Thebas? saeua adeo coniunx? (Theb. 7.155–6)

Are you destroying your own Thebes, most excellent father of the gods? Is your wife so savage?

Again, Bacchus uses the verb excindere, which, as we have already seen, carries Junonian resonances, reinforcing his deep-seated suspicions about the goddess. His continuing attribution of responsibility for the war to Juno, however, further underscores his ignorance – not only because Juno is innocent of the charge but also because Jupiter, at the beginning of book 7, had essentially taken up the role of wrathful divinity from Virgil’s Juno.29 Bacchus’ strange appearance also hints at his helplessness: purpureum30 tristi turbatus pectore uultum: non crines, non serta loco, dextramque reliquit thyrsus, et intactae ceciderunt cornibus uuae. (Theb. 7.148–50)

his beautiful face troubled by his sad heart: neither his hair, nor his wreaths were in place, and his staff fell from his right hand; untouched grapes dropped from his horns. 29 30

Cf. iram parentis at 7.13. The issue of Jupiter’s ira is emphasized at several other points in the beginning of Thebaid 7: lines 26, 84, 199, and 210. Here I follow Lactantius, who glosses purpureum as pulchrum (“beautiful”). See also Smolenaars (1994): ad loc.

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Despite his martial pretense in book 4, Bacchus here looks disconsolate: everything about his appearance has been disturbed (7.148–50). He is crying and inhonorus (“without honor,” 7.151).31 This is a defeated Bacchus, who has no option but to appeal as a suppliant (supplex, 7.154) to his father. Indeed, Statius plays self-consciously with Bacchus’ changed nature. In book 4 he had seemed a god capable of terrible violence, when he called for delay: nectam fraude moras (“I shall weave delay with deception,” Theb. 4.677). But as he complains to Jupiter in book 7, he claims that his followers are not skilled in the arts of war; rather they know how to wreathe their hair with garlands: nectere fronde comas (Theb. 7.170). The punning is unmistakable. To Jupiter, king of the gods, Bacchus is debilitated, no longer the swaggering god he had tried to be. In the end, Bacchus’ Junonian activities are inter- and intratextual disappointments. Bacchus’ failure – his defeat, so-to-speak, by the Juno of Aeneid 7 – is suggested in another intertextual way as well. When Bacchus begins his speech to Jupiter, he recalls Amata of Aeneid 7, where she complains to her husband Latinus about Aeneas and the Trojans:32 exulibusne datur ducenda Lauinia Teucris, o genitor, nec te miseret nataeque tuique? nec matris miseret, quam primo Aquilone relinquet perfidus alta petens abducta uirgine praedo? (Aen. 7.359–62)

Is Lavinia being given in marriage to the Teucrian exiles? Oh father, have you no pity for your daughter and yourself? Nor any pity for her mother, whom the treacherous plunderer, seeking the high seas at the first North wind, will desert after he has abducted her daughter?

Statius’ echo of Amata is suggested from the start: excindisne tuas, diuum sator optime, Thebas? saeua adeo coniunx? nec te telluris amatae deceptique laris miseret cinerumque meorum? (Theb. 7.155–7)

Are you destroying your Thebes, most excellent father of the gods? Is your wife so savage? Do you have no pity for your beloved land, the deceived hearth, and my ashes?

His excindisne (Theb. 7.155) seems a play on Amata’s exulibusne (Aen. 7.359), the opening words of their respective speeches. The verb miseret occurs in 31 32

Bacchus also appears disheveled in the Lemnian episode (5.268–70). Smolenaars (1994): ad loc.

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both (Aen. 7.360; Theb. 7.157) with three genitives (nataeque, tuique, matris: Aen. 7.360–1; telluris, laris, cinerum: Theb. 7.156–7). Indeed, Statius may even point to his source in the Aeneid by including the participle amatae (7.156), the name of the speaker of the Virgilian passage. The reminiscence of Amata here may have special force. This is the Amata who has just been infected by the Fury Allecto (Aen. 7.341–58) at Juno’s command. Thus at the very moment that Bacchus suggests, on a metaliterary level, his defeat at resisting – and thus at “being” an intertextual – Juno, he takes on the language of someone who had, in fact, been overpowered by the Virgilian goddess. bacchus and ovid’s juno Statius’ Bacchus is not the only epic character to “make use” of Juno’s actions in Aeneid 7 to achieve personal revenge. Ovid’s Juno does the same in book 4 of the Metamorphoses, where she takes the Virgilian Juno as a model in using a Fury (Tisiphone) to punish Ino, Bacchus’ aunt and foster mother.33 Indeed, Bacchus is central to Metamorphoses 3–4, which depict a number of events involving him: the death of Bacchus’ mother Semele, his subsequent birth, his victories over the sailors and the Minyads, and, finally, Juno’s punishment of Ino for raising him. Thus Statius’ Bacchus and Ovid’s Juno are connected not only by a common intertextual model in Juno of Aeneid 7, but also by the theme of Juno’s hatred of Bacchus. Ovid’s Juno is thus also an important comparandum, and, as we shall see, her metaliterary ability to use and fully exploit her textual (both inter- and intra-) models for her personal ends (as had the Virgilian Juno before her) once again suggests, by contrast, the weakness of Statius’ Bacchus. Statius’ Bacchus seemingly expresses an intertextual awareness of Ovid’s Juno and her hatred of Bacchus. In Metamorphoses 3.253–315, Juno takes action against Semele, Jupiter’s mistress (paelex, 3.258), pregnant with Jupiter’s son Bacchus. Juno disguises herself as an old woman named Beroe, who convinces Semele to ask Jupiter to reveal himself in his godly form: quantusque et qualis ab alta/ Iunone excipitur, tantus talisque, rogato (“and as great as and as such as he is received by Juno on high, so great and as such, ask,” 3.284–5). Semele makes the request three lines later without specifying the nature of the favor (rogat illa Iouem sine nomine munus, “she asks Jupiter for an unnamed gift,” 3.288), and Jupiter impetuously assents to it, not only by agreeing before hearing the details but also by swearing a great oath by 33

Ovid, Metamorphoses 4.416–80, and see Anderson (1997): ad loc.

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the river Styx, which makes it the strongest possible: elige . . . nullam patiere repulsam./ quoque magis credas, Stygii quoque conscia sunto/ numina torrentis; timor et deus ille deorum est (“select (something) . . . you will suffer rejection in no way. And so you may trust me more, let the power of the rushing Styx be my witness – this god is feared by all the gods,” 3.289–91). Statius’ Bacchus seems to recall this episode, when he complains to Jupiter about Juno in Thebaid 7. There, he specifically attributes her wrath to his mother Semele: en iterum atra refers incendia terris,/ nec Styge iurata, nec paelicis arte rogatus (“Look, again you bring black flames to the lands, not because of a Stygian oath nor because you were asked by your concubine’s guile,” Theb. 7.159–60). This passage points us both to the language (e.g. paelex, rogatus, Styge iurata) and to the two central elements of Ovid’s treatment of Semele’s death (i.e. the favor requested and the Stygian oath). Metamorphoses 3–4 would thus be an intertext for Statius’ Bacchus both indirectly (through their shared use of Aeneid 7), and directly (through allusion). What makes Bacchus’ connection to Ovid’s Juno still more intriguing is the overall import of her actions: in the Semele episode Ovid’s Juno is in the process of transferring her concentrated hatred from Hercules to Semele and her family. In other words, Bacchus’ fear of Juno’s hatred is, in a metaliterary sense, a response to what happens in Metamorphoses 3–4. As we shall see, this comparison suggests even more strongly Bacchus’ ineptitude both as a god operating within the context of his poem and as an “intertextual practitioner.” Ovid’s Juno, on the other hand, is an expert, as it were, at intertextual exploitation. Her decision to resort to the Fury Tisiphone to enrage Ino is clearly modeled on Juno’s use of Allecto in Aeneid 7. But Ovid goes farther than Virgil in the way his Juno exploits the violence and evil already present in the Aeneid. Ovid’s Juno does not simply call up Tisiphone, as does Virgil’s. Instead the goddess travels down to hell to retrieve the Fury. This heightens the horror of the scene, and in the process gives us an Aeneid 6-like look at the underworld and the criminals punished there. Tisiphone in turn vows to carry out Juno’s pleas, and quickly sets about inflaming Ino and her husband Athamas, outdoing even Virgil’s Allecto in enraging her victims by forcing them to commit the horrific murders of their sons. Thus Ovid’s Juno takes her Virgilian model in Aeneid 7, but raises the stakes in horror and violence. Thus Ovid’s Juno (Met. 4) “models” her revenge against Bacchus’ foster mother Ino on Juno’s actions in Aeneid 7, whereas Statius’ Bacchus takes this very same model in Aeneid 7 to try to fight Juno, who had become his enemy in Metamorphoses 3–4. It is as if behind the Theban war an intertextual

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skirmish between Bacchus and Juno is being fought on the battlefield of Aeneid 7; as if Bacchus has stepped out of the pages of the Metamorphoses and has continued his Ovidian strife with Juno in the Thebaid. The intertextual cunning of Ovid’s Juno in her exploitation of her Virgilian counterpart can be glimpsed still earlier in the Metamorphoses. When Juno visits Semele in Metamorphoses 3, she does so in the guise of Beroe, and the resulting scene recalls Aeneid 5. There Juno has Iris dress as Beroe to incite the Trojan women to burn their ships; that is, Virgil’s Juno does not transform herself into Beroe, but has another goddess do so for her.34 Thus, just as we see the increased involvement of Ovid’s Juno in the maddening of Ino, so we can see it also in the Semele episode of Metamorphoses 3: Ovid’s Juno herself (though in disguise) meets Semele instead of sending an intermediary. As a result, Ovid’s Juno in Metamorphoses 3 and 4 can be seen, on a metaliterary level, not only to exploit her Virgilian models but also to go farther than they did in taking direct action. But Ovid’s Juno turns out also to be good at intratextual relations. She takes revenge against Ino for raising Bacchus and spreading word of his greatness (Met. 4.416–19). She consequently thinks of everything that Bacchus had been able to do to his enemies in the Metamorphoses itself (Met. 4.422–6),35 and vows to use her enemy as a model for revenge: ipse docet, quid agam (fas est et ab hoste doceri) (“He himself teaches what I should do (it is right to be taught even by one’s enemy),” Met. 4.428). She then devises the revenge that is rooted in Virgil’s Juno in Aeneid 7 (see above). As it turns out then, Statius’ Bacchus is shown up twice by his Junonian models that surpass their own inter- and intratextual sources while indulging their personal grudges. Virgil’s Juno in Aeneid 7 outdoes Poseidon of Odyssey 5 and her own acts in Aeneid 1; Ovid’s Juno “exploits” not only Bacchus of Metamorphoses 3 but also Juno of Aeneid 7. The metaliterary weakness of Statius’ Bacchus by contrast underscores and even contributes to his ineffectiveness in the Thebaid. bacchus, jupiter, and virgil’s venus in t h e b a i d 7 This, however, is not the end of Bacchus’ failures. As he complains to Jupiter about Juno and the destruction awaiting Thebes, he is clothed 34 35

This Virgilian scene also plays an important role in Polyxo’s incitement of the Lemnian women to kill their husbands. See chapter 4. This passage in fact refers back to Juno’s complaints at the beginning of the Aeneid (1.37–49). See B¨omer II (1976): 140 and ad loc.

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in another intertextual persona: Venus as she complains to Jupiter about Juno’s shipwreck of Aeneas in Aeneid 1.36 This is a striking transformation. Bacchus, whose actions have been rooted in Virgil’s Juno, comes to resemble her enemy. Venus at the opening of the Aeneid would seem to be the perfect model for Statius’ Bacchus: she is another goddess who complains to Jupiter about Juno’s wrath. But this model does not result in Bacchus’ success either. The introduction of Jupiter’s speech to Bacchus makes the Aeneid 1 model clear: Inuidiam risit pater, et iam poplite flexum sternentemque manus tranquillus ad oscula tollit inque uicem placida orsa refert (Theb. 7.193–5)

His father smiled at his jealousy, and now he calmly raises Bacchus, who was on bended knee and stretching out his hands, to kiss him, and he speaks placid words in turn Olli subridens hominum sator atque deorum uultu, quo caelum tempestatesque serenat, oscula libauit natae, dehinc talia fatur (Aen. 1.254–6)

Smiling at her with the expression he uses to calm storms and sky, the father of humans and gods kissed his daughter, and then speaks as follows

In both, Jupiter the father (Theb. 7.193; Aen. 1.254) smiles (risit, Theb. 7.193; subridens, Aen. 1.254), kisses his child (Theb. 7.194; Aen. 1.256), and calmly responds (Theb. 7.194–5; Aen. 1.255). He goes on to alleviate the fear of his child (Bacchus in the Thebaid; Venus in the Aeneid) by revealing the secrets of fate. But if Bacchus is now associated with Venus in Aeneid 1, he gets none of the reassurances from Jupiter that she does. Virgil’s Jupiter foretells the rise of Aeneas’ descendants, culminating in the peace and prosperity of Augustus’ reign (Aen. 1.257–96). The foundation of Lavinium, then of Alba Longa and of Rome will lead to world domination, introduced by the phrase ueniet lustris labentibus aetas (“a time will come as the years pass by,” Aen. 1.283). But Statius’ Jupiter, instead of revealing a great future for 36

This results when Juno, at Aen. 1.34–49, spies Aeneas sailing peacefully from Sicily toward Italy, a passage discussed above. On the parallels, see Smolenaars (1994): 73–5. Thetis’ beseeching of Zeus at Il. 1.493–530 is also in the background.

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Bacchus’ city, can say only that Thebes’ destruction will happen in another generation: non hoc statui sub tempore rebus occasum Aoniis, ueniet suspectior aetas ultoresque alii (Theb. 7.219–21)

I have not decided upon ruin for the Aonians at this time. A more troubling age will come as well as other avengers.37

The future is seen as nihilistic, exhibiting a recurring cycle of violence. It is a bleak picture – very different from the promise of future greatness at Aeneid 1.283.38 Indeed Statius’ phrasing, while reflecting the Virgilian passage, has much in common with De Bello Civili 8.869: ueniet felicior aetas (“a happier time will come”). Here Lucan expresses the hopeful idea that future ages will not believe the ignoble death and burial that Pompey had suffered in Egypt. But in this passage, like Statius’, the future will actually have no such positive effect: Lucan’s Rome will still be enslaved by Caesar’s victory and the loss of libertas, while Statius’ Thebes will suffer another war. Moreover, Jupiter’s claim that he is the one to make the final decision about Thebes’ future further undermines his reliability. Earlier in the same passage, he asserted that not he but the Fates determine events in the cosmos: inmoto deducimur orbe/ fatorum; ueteres seraeque in proelia causae (“we are led by the steadfast circle of the Fates; the reasons for war are old and belated,” 7.197–8).39 Yet his statements at 7.219 and elsewhere suggest his dominance over fate.40 In addition, Jupiter’s claim that tellus, fides, pietas, natura and Eumenidum mores demand the war (7.215–18) is nowhere supported by his actions in the text. In fact, events in the poem contradict Jupiter,41 who seems (or at least tries) to do whatever he wants in the Thebaid ’s 37

38 39 40

41

Lactantius (ad loc.) interprets ultoresque alii (“other avengers”) as referring to Theseus at the end of the epic. Most scholars now, however, agree that the phrase refers to the Epigoni, the sons of the Argive Seven who will attack Thebes to avenge their fathers. It should be noted that Ripoll (1998): 43–8 argues that this reference is not meant to be emphatic. It is true, however, that Virgil’s Jupiter glosses over Aeneas’ suffering in the short-term in his speech to Venus (Aen. 1.257–96). See O’Hara (1990): 132–63. This is an expansion of a claim that he had made at 3.241–3. At 1.212–13 we are introduced to Jupiter’s first speech of the epic thus: graue inmutabile sanctis/ pondus adest uerbis, et uocem fata sequuntur (“there is a heavy and immutable weight to his sacred words, and the Fates follow his voice”). See Ahl (1986): 2839 and Dominik (1994a): 24–9. Pietas (7.215), far from demanding the war, will try to end it in book 11 in order to prevent the duel. The Eumenides (7.218) nowhere express interest in morality or justice, and the Argives will attempt to appease Tellus (8.294–341) for the violation she incurs when Amphiaraus descends into the underworld.

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cosmos.42 As Lyne and O’Hara have shown in their studies of the Aeneid, there are significant reasons there to doubt Jupiter’s claims of subservience to fate and to avoid taking at face value his incomplete Augustan prophecies;43 Statius seems to have exacerbated the problem here – as in book 1, where personal motives ultimately seem behind his call for war.44 That Bacchus goes away from this encounter and “prophecy” seemingly satisfied is therefore surprising: his ille auditis mentemque habitumque recepit; ut, cum sole malo tristique rosaria pendent usta Noto, si clara dies Zephyrique refecit aura polum, redit omnis honos, emissaque lucent germina et informes ornat sua gloria uirgas. (Theb. 7.222–6)

When he had heard these things, he recovered his composure and usual demeanor. As when a rose garden droops, burnt by the harmful sun and the cruel South wind; if, however, a clear day and the Zephyr’s breeze have refreshed the sky, all beauty returns, buds bloom and shine, and innate glory adorns the misshapen sprays.

The simile ends with the image of flowers being reborn in the spring.45 But it seems inappropriate for Bacchus to be so reinvigorated. Even if Juno will be dissatisfied with the war’s outcome, as Jupiter claims (7.221), Thebes will still be gravely harmed in the present war, and will suffer even more in the future. As Hershkowitz has put it: “Bacchus’ response to Jupiter’s patronizing ‘there there, little one’ reply is . . . like a child’s: he does not seem to understand the words Jupiter speaks, only the soothing tone of voice.”46 It is thus as if Bacchus is hearing the reassurance from Jupiter’s reply to Venus in Aeneid 1, not the bleakness of his poetic world. Or to look at it in another way, Bacchus is completely shortsighted. He seems to be seeking a temporary advantage over Juno – but she is not his real enemy in the war against Thebes. Moreover Bacchus, as he concedes his “defeat” to Jupiter here, has taken on the intertextual persona of someone (i.e. the Virgilian Venus) who is just beginning her resistance and opposition to Juno in the 42

43 45 46

This interpretation, of course, runs counter to Vessey’s vision of the Thebaid’s Jupiter as essentially Stoic. See, e.g., Vessey (1973): 90–1. On the shortcomings of such a reading of Jupiter and of the poem as a whole, see Ahl (1986): 2840–1, Feeney (1991): 354–7, Dominik (1994a): especially 7–33 (with n. 22), Hill (1996b), and Fantham (1997): 211–12. The Statian Jupiter is much too threatening and incompetent for the type of god Vessey would like him to be. 44 See the discussion in chapter 3. Lyne (1987): 71–5 and O’Hara (1990): 132–63. On this simile, see Smolenaars (1994): ad loc. and Taisne (1994): 144, who discerns elements of Catullus, Propertius, and Virgil. Hershkowitz (1997): 50.

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Aeneid, and who, by the end of the epic, will see Juno “defeated,” as the Trojans are victorious in their war. Thus Bacchus gives in, when he should be taking intertextual heart. By the end of the scene, both Bacchus and Jupiter have revealed their lack of morality. Bacchus ultimately shows little true concern for Thebes, the city of his birth. He is rather engaged in personal strife with Juno. And Jupiter, despite his claims to justice and morality, is undermined by his Junonian nature.47 Jupiter, as we have already seen, is the Thebaid’s god of ira. Indeed, his resemblance to the Virgilian Juno goes farther than their shared wrathful natures: Juno initiates the action of both halves of the Aeneid, and Jupiter strives to do the same in the Thebaid. Despite these attempts, however, he still fails, because Tisiphone ultimately plays a more forceful and effective role. bacchus’ defeat and the power of virgil’s allecto Though Bacchus has failed to hinder the war, Jupiter does not succeed in restarting it either – despite his connections to Virgil’s Juno. Just as he seems to have gotten the war underway again, Jocasta nearly ends it by dissuading her son Polynices and the Argives from attacking Thebes (7.474–533). Her pious attempt is eventually defeated – but not by Jupiter. On the human level, Tydeus rebuts Jocasta’s arguments (7.534–63); on the divine level, the Fury Tisiphone orchestrates the outbreak of combat. The real forces driving the war (and the epic) are the powers of hell and their intertextual reliance on the incitement of strife in Aeneid 7. And as I will show, Tisiphone’s intervention and ability to take control of the war represents an affront to Jupiter’s supremacy and to Bacchus on both the divine and intertextual levels. Jocasta’s attempt to prevent the war has important models in the Phoenissae of both Euripides and Seneca,48 as well as the Latin war council of Aeneid 11.49 In tone and approach, however, Statius’ Jocasta especially resembles 47 48

49

For the problem of Statius’ Jupiter here and in Thebaid, see Schubert (1984): 102–3, Dominik (1994a): 23–9, and Hill (1996b). On Jupiter’s claim to pietas and fides, see Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 67–8. Legras (1905): 95–7 and Vessey (1973): 270–5. In a general sense, they differ from Statius’ in that they have Jocasta meet with both her sons simultaneously, whereas in the Thebaid Jocasta speaks individually to Polynices in book 7 and then to Eteocles in book 11. Smolenaars (1994): 213–17. This is the council in which Drances calls for a duel between Turnus and Aeneas that is ultimately accepted by Turnus, only to be upended by the sudden onslaught of Aeneas and his army.

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her counterpart in Seneca.50 Like Seneca’s Jocasta, Statius’ passionately unmasks the war between the brothers for what it is (i.e. fraternal nefas),51 while also acknowledging her own past guilt and rejecting the international justification which had won the participation of Argos and had been the plan of Jupiter.52 But Statius’ Jocasta fails not only because of Tydeus’ enraged rebuttal but also because of her inter- and intratextual associations with the Furies (Virgilian and Statian) that, in a sense, doom her from the start, undermining her promotion of pietas.53 Like her son/husband Oedipus, she is described as impia;54 she has committed nefas (incest), which Oedipus had explicitly associated with the Fury Tisiphone,55 and she says she has given birth to the crime of the war (nupsi equidem peperique nefas, 7.514).56 Worse still, her speech to Polynices may be laced, as Hershkowitz has argued, with disturbingly sexual suggestions,57 even as she urges a course of pietas. Moreover, Jocasta, though striving to counteract the brothers’ madness and the power of the Furies behind it, is already associated with these very forces. She is infected by furor (luctu furiata, “maddened by grief,” 7.489), 50

51

52 53 54 55

56 57

Vessey (1973): 274. See Smolenaars (1994): 213–17 and 229–30 for a treatment of the sources. The Euripidean version, on the other hand, presents a much more objective and emotionally distant Jocasta, who mediates the brothers’ “rational arguments.” She is more interested in brokering a deal between Eteocles and Polynices than in condemning the impiety of the situation. However, Jocasta’s claim that Polynices would have the better cause (causa meliore, 7.510), if Eteocles should refuse the parley, is illogical. With or without the parley, the war is fraternal and is therefore nefas. See Fantham (1983) on nefas and criminality in Seneca’s Phoenissae. The scene’s placement immediately before the outbreak of the war therefore heightens the criminality of the conflict: Vessey (1973): 271. See also Smolenaars (1994): 216. See also Markus (2004): 119–20. Just as Oedipus is introduced as impius (see chapter 2), so Jocasta begins her speech by describing herself as impia belli/ mater (“impious mother of the war,” 7.483–4). For Jocasta’s nefas, see note above. For Oedipus’, cf. si dulces furias et lamentabile matris/ conubium gauisus ini noctemque nefandam/ saepe tuli natosque tibi, scis ipsa, paraui (“If I happily entered sweet fury and lamentable marriage with my mother, endured unspeakable nights often, and produced sons for you [i.e. Tisiphone], as you yourself know,” 1.68–70). Cf. peperi nocentes in Sen. Phoen. 369. Oedipus, however, has prayed for more nefas and is described as genitor sceleris (11.580) after the brothers have died. See Hershkowitz (1998a): 280–1. Polynices’ response to his mother’s metaphorical suggestions is potent, for he seeks his mother’s kisses. But the incest suggested is even more pervasive, because Polynices also desires the kisses of his two sisters: ipse etiam ante oculos nunc matris ad oscula uersus,/ nunc rudis Ismenes, nunc flebiliora precantis/ Antigones, uariaque animum turbante procella/ exciderat regnum: cupit ire (“Before their eyes, he turned for the kisses now of his mother, now of pure Ismene, now of Antigone as she beseeches him more tearfully. And as a changing storm perplexed his mind, the kingdom fell from his thoughts: he desires to go. . .” Theb. 7.534–7). The verb cupit, as we saw in chapter 2, is used of the criminal longings of Oedipus’ family. His desire for oscula overpowers even his political ambition, thus suggesting the sexual criminality of Oedipus’ family. The overwhelming nature of this sudden passion is further underscored by the repetition of nunc in a tricolon crescendo of genitive phrases (matris . . . rudis Ismenes . . . flebiliora precantis Antigones).

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and is compared to a Fury (Eumenidum uelut antiquissima, “just like the most ancient of the Furies,” 7.477).58 Indeed, as Smolenaars has well shown, her entrance and description in book 7 recall another woman who has come under the influence of the Furies – Amata in Aeneid 7:59 ecce truces oculos sordentibus obsita canis exangues Iocasta genas et bracchia planctu nigra ferens ramumque oleae cum uelleris atri nexibus, Eumenidum uelut antiquissima, portis egreditur magna cum maiestate malorum. (Theb. 7.474–8)

Look! Like the most ancient of the Eumenides, Jocasta comes out of the gates in great majesty from her woes. Her violent eyes are covered with dirty white hair, her cheeks pale, and her arms black from beating. She is bearing an olive branch with knots of black fleece. Allecto toruam faciem et furialia membra exuit, in uultus sese transformat anilis et frontem obscenam rugis arat, induit albos cum uitta crinis, tum ramum innectit oliuae; fit Calybe Iunonis anus templique sacerdos. (Aen. 7.415–19)

Allecto throws off her savage form and raging limbs, and transforms herself to look like an old woman; she plows her hateful brow with wrinkles and dons white hair and a chaplet, and then weaves in an olive sprig; she becomes Calybe, the old priestess of Juno and her temple.

By tinging his Jocasta with suggestions of Allecto/Calybe, Statius connects the scene and the book still more closely to the frenzied outbreak of war in Aeneid 7. He also implicitly associates Jocasta with Bacchus, whose description contains echoes of Allecto/Amata from Aeneid 7, as we saw above.60 But while Jocasta (like Bacchus), struggles with the intertextual violence of Juno and Allecto, and as Jupiter (like his Virgilian counterpart) tries to retain ultimate control over events, the real forces motivating the war are the powers of hell and their intertextual reliance on Aeneid 7. To counteract Jocasta’s positive effect, Tisiphone infuriates two of Bacchus’ tigres, sacred at Thebes, to wreak havoc among the Argives, and their consequent slaying 58 59 60

See also Hershkowitz (1998a): 280–1. See the detailed discussion of these two passages in Smolenaars (1994): ad loc. In a sense, both of their attempts are undermined by an inability, on a metaliterary level, to harness the power and effectiveness of Virgil’s Juno to promote their own stated causes.

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initiates the war’s first skirmishes.61 This episode is modeled on Allecto’s orchestration of the killing of Silvia’s stag, the last of Allecto’s triple motivations that bring about Juno’s war in Italy (Aen. 7.475–510).62 We are alerted to this model from the start: errabant geminae Dircaea ad flumina tigres (Theb. 7.564)

Twin tigresses were wandering by the waters of Dirce errabat silvis rursusque ad limina nota (Aen. 7.491)

The stag used to wander in the woods, and back to its familiar door

The language here is close, and both scenes function to initiate wars. Most striking in this context is the fact that, on a metaliterary level, Tisiphone can successfully exploit the power of Juno’s delay episode from Aeneid 7, while Bacchus had failed twice. The Thebaid ’s Tisiphone thus exhibits an inter- and intratextual skill that Bacchus lacks. On the one hand, she increases her violence from Thebaid 1 by physically expanding her initial infuriation of Eteocles and Polynices into the incitement of two armies. On the other, she displays a greater efficiency in inspiring criminal war than does her model Allecto: Tisiphone requires only one of Allecto’s three actions to initiate fighting.63 And whereas Virgil’s Allecto can spend only limited time on earth,64 Statius’ Tisiphone seemingly acts without restraint. She is motivated only by her innate need to promote violence, and her desire to fulfill Oedipus’ prayer from book 1. 61

62 63 64

As if in response to this infernal action, Tydeus furthers the Furies’ call for nefas by rousing still more the indignation of the Argives at the deaths of the tigresses. He increases Eteocles’ criminality by branding the start of fighting an act of nefas and attributing it to the Theban king: num saltem differre nefas potuitue morari,/ dum genetrix dimissa redit? (“Was he not at least able to defer or delay the nefas, until his mother, who had been sent away, returned?” 7.613–14). Eteocles could not even put off the nefas of his attack until his mother had left the battlefield; he is thoroughly treacherous. As if Tydeus would want to delay the criminal war! Though he wrongly attributes the nefarious start of the war to Eteocles, Tydeus implicitly suggests that his own actions and those of Argos are fas. Note that this is the second time in this book that the Argives mistakenly attribute a real or perceived attack to the Thebans – at 7.116–26, Pauor created the illusion that the Thebans were treacherously marching against the Argives, though the latter are still completing the funeral rites of Opheltes. See, e.g., Legras (1905): 97–8, Vessey (1973): 275–6, Smolenaars (1994): 253–5 and ad loc., Taisne (1994): 305, Hershkowitz (1998a): 265–6, and Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 121. Smolenaars (1994): 253 and Taisne (1994): 334 both note that Statius’ tigres increase the horror from Aeneid 7. She operates under Juno’s supervision (cf. Aen. 7.552–60), while the two Furies (Dirae) described at 12.845–52 are obedient to Jupiter.

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Finally Tisiphone’s use of the tigresses here seems an affront to Bacchus – she employs Bacchus’ own animals (Theb. 7.564–7) to start the war that the god himself had opposed. Indeed, the episode ends with a reference to Bacchus mourning their death: maerenti . . . Baccho (7.607).65 This transformation of the Virgilian scene would seem to underscore the futility of Bacchus’ attempts at having any effect on the Theban war. In the end, Bacchus once again seems an intertextual victim of the Virgilian Juno– Allecto episode. As it turns out, Juno was a real threat to Bacchus, but it was the Juno of Aeneid 7, not of the Thebaid. the power of statius’ virgilian fury What makes the intertextual recall of Allecto in these scenes from Thebaid 7 all the more potent is the fact that they transform the Fury into a creature even more powerful than her Virgilian counterpart. Virgil’s Juno has ultimate control over the Fury Allecto and can even tell her to leave the upper world: cede locis. ego, si qua super fortuna laborum est,/ ipsa regam (“Depart from this place. If any occasion for labor remains, I will manage things myself,” Aen. 7.559–60). In starting the conflict in Thebaid 7, however, Tisiphone acts without direction from any god, certainly not Juno or Jupiter. In book 8, Dis enters the picture and takes control of Tisiphone (and of the war), but at this point in book 7, Tisiphone roams the battlefield unrestrained. She is motivated only by her innate need to promote violence, and to satisfy her virtual ward Oedipus to whose prayer in book 1 she had quickly and devastatingly responded. In fact, even before the Jocasta– tigresses episode, we could see the creative collaboration of Tisiphone and Oedipus. At 7.466–9, we learn that they are already working in tandem at Thebes to stoke the fire of war: it geminum excutiens anguem et bacchatur utrisque Tisiphone castris; fratrem huic, fratrem ingerit illi,66 aut utrique patrem: procul ille penatibus imis excitus implorat Furias oculosque reposcit. Tisiphone goes, shaking her twin snakes, and rages in both camps; she incites each brother against the other, or their father against them both: he is roused far off in the inner recesses of his home, invokes the Furies, and demands back his eyes. 65

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The phrase appears in the description of the slaying of the tigresses’ killer, Aconteus, by the Bacchic priest Phegeus (603–5). Franchet d’Esp`erey (1977): 170 argues that here Bacchus gets his revenge, but, as Smolenaars (1994): 254 shows in response, there is no indication that Bacchus had taken any part in Phegeus’ actions. As far as the text tells us, Phegeus has acted on his own. As Smolenaars (1994): ad loc. notes, fratricide is specifically described by Juno as one of Allecto’s specialties at Aeneid 7.335.

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Tisiphone’s action here thus marks a stage in her ascendancy in the Thebaid that already surpasses her sister Allecto’s violence and criminality in the Aeneid. The implications of Tisiphone’s actions are stark for our understanding of Jupiter. While one might argue that Tisiphone is effectively fulfilling his will, this is only superficially and coincidentally true, for the ramifications of Tisiphone’s intervention are devastating for the king of the gods. Though Jupiter had claimed he was acting on fate and the mandates of pietas and fides, the figures that effectively start and oversee the war (e.g. Oedipus, Tisiphone, and later Dis and Megaera) are infernal and committed to nefas. Moreover, the intertextual appropriation of Virgil’s Allecto from Aeneid 7 (where she was already acting contrary to Jupiter’s will) by the Thebaid’s Tisiphone (who acts without any restraint and represents a view of the war that Jupiter at least will not admit) underscores more strongly the challenge to Olympian authority in the Thebaid. Tisiphone’s actions here, contextual and intertextual, pose serious threats to Jupiter that will be fully realized in book 11. Bacchus is ultimately overpowered: Though he had displayed a potential for Junonian violence in book 4, he becomes a suppliant by book 7 (supplex, 7.154), begging Jupiter for help, only to receive the strange comfort that his city will not be destroyed in the present war. He has failed to learn from (and thus surpass) his first attempt to hinder the war in any significant way (book 4), and this failure is exacerbated when compared, on the metaliterary level, to the successes of his models in Homer’s Poseidon and (especially) in Virgil’s Juno. As if all of this were not crippling enough, his attempts ultimately fall victim to Tisiphone and her connection to Allecto of Aeneid 7. Statius has made Bacchus lose personally, politically, and intertextually.67 The scenes I have examined, like many others in the Thebaid, involve a struggle among the gods to commandeer, as it were, the power of Virgil’s Juno, and in particular her actions in Aeneid 7. This episode provides a poetic foundation for three of the most important moments of the epic’s plot: Oedipus’ prayer to Tisiphone (book 1), Dis’ injunction to Tisiphone (book 8), and Tisiphone’s exhortation to Megaera (book 11).68 Indeed Aeneid 7 represents the most effective model for action in the Thebaid,69 but it is one that Statius’ superi cannot exploit fully. 67

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Bacchus’ two other appearances in the action of the Thebaid come in the Lemnian narrative (5.265– 95), where he is again a relative failure compared to his Virgilian model (Venus), and at 10.886–9, where he complains about Jupiter’s slowness to strike Capaneus. See chapter 2. For the general importance of Aeneid 7 in post-Virgilian epic in general, see Hardie (1993): 60–5.

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The importance of the Virgilian Juno for Statius’ heavenly gods, however, is troubling. The political and cosmic differences in Virgil between Juno and Allecto, on the one hand, and Jupiter and the other heavenly gods, on the other, are central to the Augustan voice of the Aeneid. Yet, as we saw in this chapter, Statius’ Jupiter, by incorporating elements of Virgil’s Juno and Jupiter,70 confounds such distinctions by suggesting that both Virgilian figures are reasonable models for the Thebaid’s king of the gods.71 Bacchus is an equally destabilizing character. He clearly recalls two central characters at key moments in the Aeneid: Venus of book 1 and Juno of book 7. Yet these figures in Virgil are fundamentally opposed – one is closely aligned with Jupiter and fate, the other with the Furies and the chaotic force of furor. By using them both as appropriate models for Bacchus, Statius again intertextually collapses the potential moral and political distinctions between them. In the process, the Thebaid constructs a political vision that is rooted in but fundamentally different from that of the Augustan Aeneid. In its continual dialogue with Virgil’s epic, the Thebaid offers a vision of monarchy stripped of an Augustan voice.72 There is no longer a kindly fate or objective Jupiter; nor is there anyone on the human level to employ the moral virtue of pietas to maintain control and order. The Thebaid’s world is constructed significantly from dissonant suggestions already in the Aeneid. By privileging the Aeneid ’s ambivalent elements and downplaying the Augustan voice, Statius offers a critique of the political world of Virgil’s gods and thus of his epic’s cosmos. 70 71

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Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 104–5, 113–14. Indeed the possibility that Virgil’s Jupiter shares Juno’s associations with hell can already be glimpsed in the Aeneid, where Jupiter ends Juturna’s support of Turnus by sending down a Fury. This is of course an important element of ambivalent readings of the Aeneid. See, e.g., Hershkowitz (1998a): 112–24. The relationship between (Statius’) Thebes and Rome is debated. On the possible significance of the connection, see, e.g., Ahl (1986): 2812–16, Henderson (1998): 219–22, Dominik (1994a): 130–80, and McGuire (1997): 33–9.

chapter 6

Dis and the domination of hell

Soon after the Theban war starts, a strange event occurs. As the Argive seer Amphiaraus is raging on the battlefield, the earth gapes open and swallows him, chariot and all. Amphiaraus’ plunge into hell not only marks the first day of fighting but also initiates a new stage in the involvement of the infernal powers in the Theban war, a development with significant implications for the Thebaid’s dialogue with the Aeneid. Augustan ideology is centrally concerned with control and order, the mastering of the destructive forces of the passions that bring about political and cosmic strife and that are represented in Virgil’s epic especially by Juno and the Furies.1 But the reality of the Thebaid is that such control is elusive. As we saw in chapter 5, Jupiter and the heavenly gods, despite (or perhaps because of ) their appropriation of Virgilian models, are subject to the passions and to the intertextual power of Juno and hell. They ultimately fail to understand the war, the world, and the problematic nature of their own actions. Philip Hardie has shown well the significance both of the cosmic outlook in the Aeneid for the poem’s Augustan ideology and of the growing divide between heaven and hell, begun in the Aeneid, but expanded in its successors.2 When turning to Statius’ Thebaid, however, he is less concerned with the political aspect of these ideas,3 though it is also important. As we saw in chapter 5, Statius has his Bacchus and Jupiter ineffectively use the intertextual potential of Virgil’s heavenly gods, and this was a sign of their political weakness in the Thebaid. In this chapter, I will move from the superi to the inferi, the gods of the underworld who, by contrast with their counterparts in the Aeneid, fully dominate their poetic world. They guide the Theban war, motivate nefas, and thereby make pietas, particularly 1 3

2 Hardie (1986): 85–156 and (1993): 57–76. See chapter 2. Hardie (1986): 382: “A cosmic feel also characterizes the mythological epics of Valerius Flaccus and Statius, but without the overt political dimension of the works considered so far.” The Roman political implications of the Thebaid’s cosmos are not fully explored in The Epic Successors of Virgil (1993) either, though there is discussion of the theme of political (and poetic) succession (95, 110–13).

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toward the heavenly gods, meaningless. I will begin by showing how Dis’ response to Amphiaraus’ katabasis has important cosmic ramifications that establish a narrative framework for the action of books 8 through 11. Dis, like Oedipus earlier, is another metapoetic force4 who calls on the Fury Tisiphone to promote nefas and take control of the Theban war. The gruesome demises of the Argive warriors that ensue, framed by the deaths of Tydeus and Capaneus, become the battleground whereon the infernal dominance over the superi is made clear, a dominance underscored by the Thebaid’s interactions with episodes from the Aeneid. I will also show how attempts at Augustan ideals such as pietas and uirtus are defeated both because of the ineffective actions of the superi and because of the intertextual reach of Virgil’s Juno and the supremacy of Statius’ infernal gods. Since the realms of heaven and hell are already so politically charged in the Aeneid, I will argue that Statius’ treatment of the cosmic regions and its dialogue with Virgil’s epic have important political ramifications as well. plot, d ivine strif e, and dis’ call for n e fa s Amphiaraus’ descent into the underworld causes disruption not only on the battlefield but also in hell. The infernal gods are astounded by the priest’s incursion, so much so that the Parcae cut the threads of his life only when they see him in their realm (8.11–13). If nefas involves the confusion of a divinely sanctioned order, then Amphiaraus’ plunge into hell is profoundly nefas because it violates the demarcations of the cosmos and undermines the Fates’ ability to predetermine the future. But his katabasis also inspires still more acts of crime, entailing further and more fundamental disruptions in the universe.5 Dis’ revenge, much like Oedipus’, guides the remainder of the epic and creates a one-sided war against the heavenly gods that makes clearer Jupiter’s inability to control the Thebaid’s inherently chaotic and criminal cosmos. Still brooding over the allotment of hell as his divine realm, Dis interprets Amphiaraus’ arrival as a personal insult orchestrated by his brother Jupiter: magno me tertia uictum/ deiecit fortuna polo, mundumque nocentem/ seruo; nec iste meus (“The third lot threw me down conquered from the sky, and I watch over the guilty world; nor is that mine,” 8.38–40). To him, it is an act of fraternal strife, and he calls upon the Fury Tisiphone to respond in kind: 4 5

See chapter 2. See Hardie (1993): 76–87 on the confusion of the cosmic regions in post-Virgilian epic.

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i, Tartareas ulciscere sedes, Tisiphone; si quando nouis asperrima monstris, triste, insuetum, ingens, quod nondum uiderit aether, ede nefas, quod mirer ego inuideantque sorores. atque adeo fratres (nostrique haec omina sunto prima odii), fratres alterna in uulnera laeto Marte ruant; sit qui rabidarum more ferarum mandat atrox hostile caput, quique igne supremo arceat exanimis et manibus aethera nudis commaculet: iuuet ista ferum spectare Tonantem. praeterea ne sola furor mea regna lacessat, quaere deis qui bella ferat, qui fulminis ignes infestumque Iouem clipeo fumante repellat. faxo haud sit cunctis leuior metus atra mouere Tartara frondenti quam iungere Pelion Ossae.6 (8.65–79)

Go, avenge Tartarus’ home, Tisiphone; if you were ever at your most savage with strange monsters, bring forth unspeakable crime (nefas), grievous, unusual, huge, something the sky has not yet seen, something for me to admire and the Sisters envy. And, what is more, the brothers – let this be the first portent of our hatred – let the brothers fall by mutual wounds in happy battle; let there be one who like a wild beast savagely chews his enemy’s head, and one who keeps the dead from the final flame and befouls the air with naked corpses; let it please the savage Thunderer to see these things. Nor let this fury assail my kingdom only: seek someone to bring war to the gods, to repel with his smoking shield the fires of Jupiter’s hostile lightning. I will make sure that all fear to disturb black Tartarus no less than to pile Pelion on leafy Ossa.

By retaliating thus, Dis takes up a formal role in the Thebaid and becomes the only major god7 to enunciate the central actions of the fraternal war:8 the fratricidal duel (69–71), the cannibalism of Tydeus (71–2), Creon’s burial prohibition (72–4), and Capaneus’ storming of the heavens (75–7). Dis elevates the machinations of hell to a new level of importance, creating actions to assault the upper world. His response to Amphiaraus’ intrusion seems to be a Statian innovation, one with an important thematic result: there will now be a divine struggle between Dis and Jupiter to parallel the war between Eteocles and 6 7

8

For a stylistic reading of this speech, see Dominik (1994b): 245–8. In the first half of the poem, Jupiter, on several occasions, explains his role in starting the war and gives assurances that he will guide the remaining events, but he never offers explicit indications of what will happen once fighting breaks out. By contrast, Dis here and Tisiphone, at the beginning of book 11, clearly state the events that will happen during the war. Note, however, that these events are not listed in the order in which they actually take place.

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Polynices.9 But we can call the strife between these two brother-gods a fraternal war only with some qualification. Jupiter nowhere gives any indication that he himself is at war with his brother, and indeed, as far as we know, Jupiter played no part in Amphiaraus’ death.10 He does not speak of it in any of his councils with the gods in books 1, 3, or 7, nor is he implicated in it when the seer actually descends into the underworld. There is strife between Dis and Jupiter, but it is extremely one-sided. Jupiter’s seeming ignorance of Dis reflects the general weakness of all the heavenly gods: even though the superi may complain about their own partisan actions,11 they act in ignorance of hell’s significant involvement in the fraternal war.12 Tisiphone operates unobserved, though she has been promoting Oedipus’ call for nefas since the beginning of the epic.13 This is not to say that Jupiter and the superi are completely oblivious to the infernal realm, for Statius’ Jupiter swears an oath by the river Styx (1.290–2), and makes several general references to the Furies in the course of the epic.14 But while Jupiter may express a vague awareness of the Furies’ general 9 10 11

12

13

14

See Feeney (1991): 350–1, Hardie (1993): 80, and Dominik (1994a): 34. Cf. also Petronius’ depiction of Dis as he calls Fortuna to action (Satyricon 120–2). Vessey (1973): 264 claims that Dis’ revenge is somehow directed against Apollo, which does not seem right, as Dominik (1994a): 34 notes. It is directed against Jupiter’s brother(s). So Bacchus, as we have seen, complains to Jupiter about Juno (7.155–92); Apollo will talk to Diana about the futility of her assistance to Parthenopaeus (9.650–69); and Venus will complain to Mars about Diana’s help to Parthenopaeus (9.825–30). For example, when Tisiphone saves Eteocles from being killed by Tydeus (8.655–88) and incites the Argives to attack Thebes (7.562–627), she elicits reactions from none of the superi. Nonetheless she is the first divinity to respond to Oedipus’ prayer. She helps to orchestrate the defeat of Jocasta’s opposition to the war at 7.562–3, and saves Polynices from a premature death in the chariot race (6.513–17), thus ensuring his death by and slaying of his brother. It should be noted, however, that there is one reference to a god saving an Argive for future crime that may not involve Tisiphone. In book 5 Capaneus has killed the serpent sacred to Jupiter who in turn is ready to strike the mortal down with a thunderbolt but restrains himself. Statius explains that Jupiter would have done this, “if his anger were not less and Capaneus were not saved to earn more weighty weapons” (ni minor ira deo grauioraque tela mereri/ seruatus Capaneus, 5.585–6). But it is not entirely clear that Jupiter spares Capaneus to kill him in book 10, for seruatus Capaneus is ambiguous. Rather, the phrase probably represents another instance of Statius foreshadowing an event of the poem. Since Dis specifically calls for Capaneus’ assault on the heavens as a response to Amphiaraus’ katabasis, and since Jupiter does not refer to this action earlier, there is no evidence from these words (or from any other passage in the epic) that Jupiter has foreknowledge of the nature of Capaneus’ death. One might argue that this is because Tisiphone is really an abstraction, an allegorical representation of human fury and crime. But Tisiphone is given a very physical presence throughout the epic, and is clearly (and finally) recognized by Jupiter at book 11.119–20, as he flees the battlefield. terrarum delicta nec exaturabile Diris/ ingenium mortale queror (“I resent the sins of earth and human character that cannot be sated by the Dirae,” 1.214–15); quis funera Cadmi/ nesciat et totiens excitam a sedibus imis/ Eumenidum bellasse aciem . . . ? (“Who could not know about the ruin of Cadmus and the battle-line of the Eumenides so often roused from their homes in the underworld?” 1.227– 9); rogat hoc tellusque polusque/ et pietas et laesa fides naturaque et ipsi/ Eumenidum mores (“This is called for by earth and the heavens, by pietas, harmed faith, nature, and the practices of the Eumenides,” 7.216–18). Eumenides, Erinys, Furiae, and Dirae seem interchangeable throughout the

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existence, he seemingly subscribes to the traditional view of the Furies as exactors of just revenge, and shows no sign of understanding their true role in the Thebaid’s cosmos: they are bloodthirsty goddesses striving to commit disturbing acts of violence without any stated moral concern. What we perceive as a separation between the heavenly and infernal realms becomes more apparent when we look back to the Aeneid, where the relationship between the superi and the underworld is much more fluid. In Virgil’s world, the Furies enjoy a closer and more integrated relationship with the Olympians, operating in the service of the most powerful gods, Jupiter and Juno.15 They are capable of terrible violence, but they are part of a cosmic order controlled by the heavenly gods. Indeed, it is this use of hellish powers by the superi that is so central to ambivalent readings of the Aeneid, and, as Hardie argues, provides such fertile material for Virgil’s successors.16 Statius has expanded the power of the infernal gods, who now act with relative autonomy from the heavenly.17 Because Jupiter claims the justice of his actions,18 while Dis insists on his own right to promote nefas, we might be tempted to perceive a moral division of the cosmos between heaven and hell.19 But even if we see a war between these two realms in Statius, it does not amount to a struggle between good and evil.20 Jupiter is far from the impartial and just god he purports to be,21 since he and the heavenly gods are heavily implicated in the promotion of the brothers’ criminal war.22 By painting such a one-sided picture of the outbreak of nefas, the Thebaid strongly suggests that the issue

15

16 17

18 20

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Thebaid, though Delarue (2000): 312–13 argues for the transformation of the Furies into the more benevolent Eumenides in book 12 (see chapter 8). For the use of dira in Statius, see H¨ubner (1970): 77–100. Juno, for example, can both send Allecto to and recall her from action (Aen. 7), while Jupiter has two Furies (Dirae) at his celestial throne, ready to punish deserving cities (Aen. 12.845–52). For the role of the Furies as infectors of human characters in Virgil, Statius, and early Imperial epic, see Hardie (1993): 40–5. The role of hell in Latin epic is discussed in his chapter 3, “Heaven and Hell.” Hardie (1993): 58. This is not to say that there cannot be movement between the two realms. Mercury escorts shades between the two regions, as he does with Laius at the beginning of book 2. Moreover, Tisiphone and Megaera – two of the central infernal deities of the poem – can at least temporarily exist in the upper world. 19 See, e.g., Kroll (1932): 447–53. See, e.g., Theb. 7.216–18 and chapter 5. Schetter (1960): 29 suggests the cosmic struggle involves the concepts of Good and Evil, but Ahl (1986): 2861 shows that this view is not quite right. Feeney (1991): 350, however, rightly comments that “there is no doubt that, of all our poets [i.e. Apollonius to Statius], Statius comes closest to depicting a world where Good and Evil divine principles struggle for mastery.” See Ahl (1986): 2841 and 2861, Feeney (1991): 350 n. 124, and Dominik (1994a): 36. It should be noted, however, that the war is not viewed as nefas by him or the superi. One may argue that the heavenly gods are therefore deceptive and untrustworthy. Ahl (1986): 2838–41 suggests the disingenuousness of Jupiter in his plans, while Dominik (1994a): 25 argues for the immorality of Jupiter in his orchestration of a war that involves so many innocent people.

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at stake is rather hell’s dominance over heaven,23 and the revelation of the resulting evil. The infernal powers are engaged in an insidious campaign to inject nefas into the upper world with the specific intention of horrifying Jupiter (8.74) and thus also the superi. As a result, the authority of the heavenly gods, who view their rule as fas but who have actually been promoting nefas (i.e. fraternal war) throughout, will be severely undermined. Dis is thus a central character in the epic, but his significance is increased through his close connection to Oedipus. Dis’ appearance here harks back to Oedipus at the epic’s opening, and is an important part of the Thebaid’s poetics of nefas (see chapter 2). As a result, Dis is automatically pulled into the political engagement with the Aeneid triggered by Oedipus in book 1. But Dis also participates in a dialogue with the Aeneid through thematic and structural connections to Juno and her call for resistance to Jupiter and fate in Aeneid 7. Like Juno, Dis (as Oedipus before him) resorts to a Fury to do his bidding and thus foment a terrible war.24 And like Juno’s actions, Dis’ call for revenge motivates important events that dominate the second half of the epic. These two divinities pose serious challenges to Jupiter, and we can therefore view Dis here as the Thebaid’s Juno. But Dis outdoes his Virgilian counterpart. He brings to their logical conclusion the forces of hell that Juno activates to resist Aeneas’ fate and the epic’s Augustan voice that celebrates pietas, the rise of Rome, and its first princeps. In his metaliterary exploitation of his Virgilian models, Dis also outdoes his divine counterparts within the Thebaid, such as Bacchus and Jupiter, who achieve relatively little despite their connections to powerful Virgilian characters.25 Finally, Dis even surpasses his Statian model in Oedipus by exploiting the power of the Furies and the resources of hell to indulge personal hatred and raise his revenge to a higher level of horror. Dis’ appearance is consequently a pivotal moment; his retaliation represents an act of cosmic proportions that intertextually upsets the political order of the Aeneid’s Augustan voice. With this renewed understanding and elevation of nefas in the Theban war, the superi and all potential Virgilian ideals that characters throughout the Thebaid have been vainly (and often hypocritically) grasping at become unattainable once and for all. If nefas 23

24 25

That is, Statius does not create a full-scale war between heaven and hell, for Dis does not call for the complete overthrow of Jupiter and his sovereignty, and the heavenly gods seem ignorant of the cosmic strife in any case. Hardie (1993): 80 writes that “Amphiaraus’ downward movement into Hades is the excuse for yet another repetition of Allecto’s ascent to the upper airs in Aeneid 7.” See chapter 5.

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is so pervasive in a world that gives little regard to moral concerns, then the heavenly gods are shown to be redundant, for they are not so morally different from the inferi. t yd eus’ crime Tydeus, favorite of the goddess Pallas, is the first of the Argive Seven to meet death as a result of Dis’ commands. Though he did not specify Tydeus in his injunctions to Tisiphone, Dis graphically described a particularly criminal death he wanted committed: sit qui rabidarum more ferarum/ mandat atrox hostile caput” (“Let there be one who, like a wild beast, gnaws savagely on his enemy’s head,” 8.71–2). Tydeus’ cannibalism makes his death the most gruesome episode in the poem. It not only fulfills Oedipus’ and Dis’ call for spectacular nefas (pleasing to hell, horrifying to heaven), but it also displays the inability of the superi (here in the figure of Pallas) to understand the inherent nefas even of those warriors they personally support. In fact Tydeus, one of the leaders of the Argive expedition, is stained with nefas, past, present, and future; the ultimate revelation of his criminality to the horrified gods only underscores heaven’s lack of control in human affairs. Tydeus’ revenge against his slayer Melanippus is already extreme before Statius. The vengeful beheading of a warrior’s killer is not unprecedented, though it represents a terrible act of retribution.26 There are several calls for it in the Iliad – perhaps most important is the pledge made by Achilles to kill Hector and bring his armor and head to the slain Patroclus (18.333–5).27 What is so unusual about the Statian scene is that Tydeus, who is mortally wounded, makes this request himself, and the head is brought while he is still alive. Consequently the cannibalism seems even more perverse and criminal, for it makes literal what in the Homeric tradition was a symbolic act of appeasement for a slain warrior. Moreover, though the death of Tydeus and his gnawing of Melanippus’ head go back as far as the Cyclic Thebaid, Statius departs from the standard account in a way that heightens the impiety of Tydeus’ acts. In much of the Greek tradition, Amphiaraus engages in an intense rivalry with Tydeus and tempts him to crime with the head of Melanippus.28 In the Thebaid, 26 27 28

Segal (1971): 20–1. Cf. Il. 17.39 and 126. Segal (1971): 20 notes that decapitation in the Iliad “is not threatened as a punishment to a fallen enemy before book 17.” See also Edwards (1991): 167–8, 186. Dewar (1991): ad 1–31. In Apollodorus 3.6.8, for example, Amphiaraus decapitates Melanippus and gives the head to Tydeus to gnaw so that Athena, in disgust, would not grant the warrior immortality. In a version found in Pausanias 9.18.1–4, Melanippus kills Tydeus, and Amphiaraus kills Melanippus. For the sources of Statius’ treatment of Tydeus, see Ten Kate (1955): 82–94.

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however, Amphiaraus has already died and therefore cannot be involved. But even if he were, he would have been an inappropriate choice, because in Statius Amphiaraus is the most pious of the Argives. Thus in the Thebaid, when Tydeus asks three of his companions (Hippomedon, Parthenopaeus, and Capaneus, 8.742–4) to bring him Melanippus’ body, it is perhaps no surprise that Capaneus outpaces the others in fulfilling Tydeus’ gruesome desire.29 Capaneus, a superum contemptor (“despiser of the gods above,” 9.550), has a special inclination to acts of nefas meant to offend and violate the superi.30 Capaneus’ central role in Tydeus’ crime in itself would suggest a threat to the heavenly gods, but the aggression in Tydeus’ act is amplified in the role played by Tisiphone. As Tydeus holds and gazes savagely at Melanippus’ head (spectat atrox hostile caput, 8.755), Tisiphone intervenes and prods him to cannibalism:31 infelix contentus erat: plus exigit ultrix/ Tisiphone (“The unlucky man was satisfied, but avenging Tisiphone demands more,” 8.757– 8). Tydeus’ horrific end, prompted by a Fury, fulfills Dis’ injunction for terrible nefas, but it also satisfies his desire for spectacular nefas that offends the heavenly gods. For when Pallas arrives on the scene, bringing Tydeus immortality from Jupiter (8.759), she is so horrified by the sight that she flees (8.764).32 She is contaminated by the spectacle and must cleanse herself before returning to the heavens (8.765–6).33 The horror to both human and divine viewers is further intensified at the beginning of book 9. There Tydeus’ fellow Argives complain about his crime: ipsi etiam minus ingemuere iacentem Inachidae, culpantque uirum et rupisse queruntur fas odii (9.2–4)

Even the Argives themselves lamented the fallen warrior less; they reproach him and complain that he transgressed the law of hatred. 29 30 31

32 33

Also note that Capaneus had stifled Amphiaraus’ ambivalence toward the war in book 3. See chapter 3. See below for discussion of Capaneus’ ultimate act of impietas at the end of book 10. Ten Kate (1955): 92 argues that Statius does not ever state that Tydeus commits cannibalism of Melanippus’ head. Rather, the poet indicates only that the warrior sucks (sorbere) his victim’s blood. But see Tisiphone at 11.87–8: miserum insatiabilis edit/ me tradente caput (“When I handed over the wretched head, he ate it”). For this element of Tydeus’ myth, see Gantz (1993): 518. For Pallas’ complex relationship to Tydeus in the Theban ambush of book 2, see Georgacopoulou (1996a). Just the sight of nefas defiles those who view it. Cf. Eteocles’ denunciation of Tydeus’ nefas to the Thebans at 9.12–31 (discussed below). On the contaminating nature of criminal narrative, see Brooks (1984): 218, Masters (1992): 212–13, and Schiesaro (1994): e.g. 202.

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As Dewar notes, “fas odii, a trenchant and memorable phrase, means the limits placed on odium by fas.”34 Tydeus has exceeded the amount of hatred that is even associated with war.35 To drive home the point, Statius portrays the god of war himself overcome with disgust: quin te, diuum implacidissime, quamquam praecipuum tunc caedis opus, Gradiue, furebas, offensum uirtute ferunt, nec comminus ipsum ora sed et trepidos alio torsisse iugales. (9.4–7)

Although you are the fiercest of the gods and were raging over the exceptional work of war, they say that you, Mars, were offended by his valor and did not look him in the face but turned away your panicked horses.

Mars leaves the battlefield in horror, an act that will be universalized in Jupiter’s flight from the battlefield in book 11 as the fraternal duel rapidly approaches.36 But Mars’ revulsion at Capaneus’ valor (offensum uirtute)37 throws into question the very nature of the ideas that the superi actually promote. If Mars can be outraged by uirtus, what does it actually represent in this epic world? Not only are the gods weakened, but the very ideas they represent are also called into question.38 Tydeus’ offence of the superi thus attests to the efficacy of Dis’ call for nefas in book 8, but it is also a symptom of Pallas’ (and the gods’) more general ignorance of nefas in the very warriors (and war) they support. This is not to say that Pallas lacks all influence over human affairs. Indeed, at 2.682–90, she does prevent Tydeus from marching back to Thebes after he has thoroughly defeated the ambush of fifty sent by Eteocles, much as her Homeric counterpart restrains Diomedes (Tydeus’ son) at Iliad 10.503–14 and Achilles at Iliad 1.188–222. But Pallas’ championing of Tydeus overlooks disturbing characteristics and tendencies that are apparent throughout the Thebaid and that point to his even stronger connection to Tisiphone and thus to Dis.39 34 35

36 37

38

39

Dewar (1991): ad 3 f. Braund and Gilbert (2003): 277 note: “[Tydeus’] anger on the battlefield apparently received divine sanction when it extended to no more than gazing on the head of his enemy; it is the Fury-driven act of eating the brains that deprives Tydeus of divine approval and creates pollution.” See Feeney (1991): 356 on this passage. The phrase has troubled editors, and has therefore inspired various emendations: offensum feritate and offensa uirtute. See Dewar (1991): ad loc. The reading offensum uirtute seems apt, however, given the questioning to which Statius subjects uirtus, particularly in book 10. See below. On uirtus in Statius, see Henderson (1991): 55–6, Fantham (1995), Ripoll (1998): 361–7, Pollmann (forthcoming), and below. For the problematic nature of uirtus in Lucan, see Fantham (1995), Roller (2001): 22–54, and Sklen´ar (2003). This is not the only time that Tisiphone has interacted with Tydeus to promote nefas. When Tydeus engages Eteocles in combat in book 8, he would have ended the war quickly, if it had not been for

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In many ways, Tydeus is the perfect warrior to initiate Dis’ revenge in the fraternal war. He is a fratricide himself who has left his country in exile,40 and seems always about to recreate his earlier crime through his complex relationships to Polynices and Eteocles. On the one hand, Tydeus, as a kind of stand-in for Eteocles, meets Polynices on Adrastus’ doorstep in book 1, and the two immediately fight with an intensity that looks forward to the brothers’ duel in book 11.41 On the other hand, Tydeus, as a substitute for Polynices, travels to Thebes in book 2 to demand that Eteocles step down from power, and provokes Eteocles to violence, as if he (Tydeus) were trying to win the kingdom for himself.42 Even when Tydeus is dead, the fratricidal associations continue. Polynices recognizes that Tydeus was a kind of better brother (again, a substitute for Eteocles), whom he kills by involving him in the war with Eteocles.43 Indeed, Polynices uses the startling phrase Tydea consumpsi (“I have consumed Tydeus,” 9.60)44 – thus breaking down the boundaries between Polynices and Tydeus still further by implicating Polynices metaphorically in the nefas that Tydeus commits. In death as in life, Tydeus is a figure of crime, closely linked to the designs of hell. With the ultimate revelation of Tydeus’ true savagery at the end of book 8, Pallas and even Mars must flee the battlefield, in a sense abdicating responsibility for actions resulting from a war and warriors they themselves have promoted. Their visceral revulsion thus attests to the success of the spectacle that Dis and Tisiphone brought about45 and to the inability of

40 41 42 43

44

45

Tisiphone, who ensures the failure of Tydeus’ spear-cast against Eteocles. Tisiphone thus saves the Theban for the bloody fraternal duel of book 11: crudelis Erinys/ obstat et infando differt Eteoclea fratri (“the cruel Fury interferes and saves Eteocles for his unspeakable brother,” 8.686–7). (I assume the Erinys here is Tisiphone, since she is the only Fury who has taken action in books 1–10, as her speech to Megaera at 11.76–112 indicates.) And still earlier, Tisiphone and Tydeus were the two forces to counteract Jocasta’s attempt to stop the war at 7.538–63. Cf. 1.402–3. For the varying traditions of the person Tydeus killed, see Ten Kate (1955): 82–3. Note that Tydeus and Polynices eventually do become brothers-in-law. Ipsi ceu regna negentur (“as if the kingship were denied Tydeus himself,” 2.477). Of course they are now brothers-in-law through their marriages to Adrastus’ daughters Argia and Deipyle in book 2. The simile comparing Polynices to a bull who has lost his yoke-partner that ends the scene of Polynices’ lament for Tydeus (9.82–5) reverses that at book 1.131–6, where the Theban brothers are like two discordant bulls that cannot share the same yoke. See Dewar (1991): ad loc. on this point, and Heuvel (1932): 113–14 for other instances of bull similes in the poem. The verb consumere, as Dewar (1991): ad loc. notes, may very well have developed from a financial metaphor, but the suggestion of cannibalism cannot be ignored, given Tydeus’ mutilation of Melanippus’ head just seventy lines earlier. See also Ahl (1986): 2882. Note that Tydeus’ near slaying of Eteocles, mentioned above, is also an event that the gods watch (8.685–6). For a crucial moment all attention on the battlefield is concentrated on this one spearcast.

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the superi to uphold and safeguard the ideals of pietas and uirtus from the corrupting influence of hell.46 the deaths of hippomed on and part henopaeus, an d the helplessness of the s u p e r i But just as the powers of hell take on a more formal role in the movement of the narrative from book 8 on, the heavenly gods find themselves in increasing disarray and despair because of their inability to help their favorites. In the deaths of Parthenopaeus and Hippomedon, which were not explicitly commanded by Dis but form the focal points of book 9,47 we witness the helplessness of the gods and the ultimate meaningless of pietas. Hippomedon, the failed guardian of Tydeus’ corpse earlier in book 9, incurs the wrath of the river Ismenus with whom he will fight to his death (Theb. 9.446–539). Modeled on Achilles and his struggle with the river Scamander in Iliad 21,48 Statius’ Hippomedon and his combat with a river-god represent a marked departure from the Theban tradition, which does not mention such an episode.49 Because of this innovation, Hippomedon may be seen as competing with Homer’s Achilles on an intertextual level, but Statius’ warrior outdoes his Homeric counterpart by being able to resist his hostile divinity, at least for a time,50 a change suggesting that in Statius’ world the power of a god (albeit a minor one) might be overcome by a mortal. Moreover, when Hippomedon cries out to Mars, rebuking him for the imminent and unheroic death by drowning he is about to suffer, he echoes 46

47 48 49 50

The nefas of Tydeus’ act, however, turns out to be inherently infectious. Despite the recognized criminality of Tydeus’ deed, the Thebans, who condemn Tydeus’ foulness, call for more crime. When Eteocles inflames them to fight for the corpse and arms of Tydeus, he perversely justifies his criminal war by recasting it as a punishment of Tydeus (and the Argives by extension). Eteocles emphasizes the bestiality and perversity of the Argive warrior: et nunc ille iacet . . . ore tenens hostile caput, dulcique nefandus/ inmoritur tabo; nos ferrum inmite facesque:/ illis nuda odia, et feritas iam non eget armis (“And now he lies . . . holding his enemy’s head with his mouth; he dies monstrously with this sweet gore. We have hard swords and torches; they have bare hatred, and their brutality no longer requires weapons,” 9.17–20). The oxymoronic dulcique nefandus shockingly captures the depravity of Tydeus and the allure of nefas. Those infected by furor find nefas “sweet” or “pleasurable.” The collocation of nefas and desire, so fundamental to the poem, is here condemned, yet also exploited by the Theban leader: Eteocles’ indignant words thoroughly enrage his troops (furor omnibus idem, “the same fury is in them all,” 9.25), and Statius compares the Thebans to vultures in their disgusting zeal to defile Tydeus’ body (9.27–31). They too will stoop to dehumanizing activity. These deaths are, however, indicated in the first half of the poem on several occasions. See, e.g., 1.38–45 and 3.536–45. See the extended discussion in Juhnke (1972): 24–44. Dewar (1991): 103: “the only known tradition about Hippomedon’s death asserts that he fell to Ismarus in a battle before the gates (Apollod. 3.74).” Ibid., 102. Dewar also notes Punica 4.570–703 as an important model for Statius, one that also looks back to the Homeric episode.

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his Homeric counterpart at Iliad 21.273–83. But while Achilles’ prayer is directly answered when Athena and Poseidon rescue him,51 Mars offers no response to Hippomedon. Though Juno will appeal to Jupiter and eventually make the river’s waters subside (9.510–21), this action only prepares for the warrior’s slaying. After he has died, Hippomedon is not avenged by the heavenly gods. When the Theban Hypseus strips Hippomedon of his helmet, Capaneus (not one of the gods but a superum contemptor) kills him (9.540–65). Hippomedon thus both poses a physical threat to the gods (though they do not view his actions as such) and represents a rebuke of them for their inaction.52 The superi themselves express an awareness of their own inadequacy, as the encounter between Apollo and Diana concerning Parthenopaeus demonstrates. Apollo warns Diana of the fruitlessness of her endeavor – recalling with shame his own inability to save his most devoted priest, Amphiaraus:53 nec tenui currus terraeque abrupta coegi, saeuus ego inmeritusque coli. lugentia cernis antra, soror, mutasque domos: haec sola rependo dona pio comiti; nec tu peritura mouere auxilia et maestos in uanum perge labores. finis adest iuueni, non hoc mutabile fatum, nec te de dubiis fraterna oracula fallunt. (9.656–62)

Nor did I stop his chariot and force together the parting of the earth; I am cruel and do not deserve to be worshiped. Sister, you see my grottoes in mourning and my mute home: these are the only gifts with which I reward my pious follower. So do not persist in giving useless help and grievous labors in vain. The youth’s end is here. His fate is unalterable, nor do your brother’s oracles deceive you about uncertain things.

Apollo can offer only mourning to his pio comiti, Amphiaraus, and therefore believes that he no longer deserves to be worshiped (immeritusque coli, 9.657). He also emphasizes the gods’ inability to resist the Fates, and thus 51

52 53

Though Achilles addresses his prayer to Zeus (Il. 21.273), he does so to ask why none of the gods is helping him. Thus Athena and Poseidon are indirectly called upon. In Statius, Hippomedon asks for Mars’s aid only, while it is Juno (with Jupiter’s assent) who takes action, though that action is limited: unlike Achilles, Hippomedon is killed immediately. Consider also the river-god Ismenus’ complaints that Jupiter, to whom Ismenus had given much aid in raising Bacchus, was not repaying him by repulsing Hippomedon’s assault (9.421–45). The scene has models in Zeus’ grief over Sarpedon’s fate (Il. 16.431–61) and in Aen. 10.464–73, when Hercules laments Pallas’ imminent death and is comforted by Jupiter. See Juhnke (1972): 138–9, and Dewar (1991): 179–83. On the relationship between the Homeric and Virgilian passages, see Barchiesi (1984): 16–30, Jenkyns (1985): 65–6, and Harrison (1991): 191.

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advises Diana to give up her support of Parthenopaeus, since the warrioryouth is doomed to die. Apollo thus suggests that Amphiaraus’ pietas ultimately brings him inadequate rewards or recognition.54 Moreover, Apollo’s insistence on the immutability of fate (non hoc mutabile fatum, 9.661) ironically points to his misunderstanding of it.55 If anything, what Amphiaraus’ death shows us is that fate does not govern the seer’s descent into hell, for the Parcae (the very goddesses Apollo invokes at 7.774) are caught by surprise (8.11–13). Thus not only does Apollo reveal the weakness of his divinity to honor and reward pietas, but the god of prophecy also seems to misunderstand the workings of fate and of those forces that truly guide his universe. Diana’s response to Parthenopaeus is equally revelatory of the uselessness of pietas toward the gods. Like Apollo, Diana also views assisting her favorite warrior as a moral issue and feels that she can at least grant some final honor to Parthenopaeus: “sed decus extremum misero” confusa uicissim uirgo refert, “duraeque licet solacia morti quaerere, nec fugiet poenas, quicumque nefandam insontis pueri scelerarit sanguine dextram impius, et nostris fas sit saeuire sagittis.” (9.663–7)

The troubled maiden says in turn, “But I am allowed to seek this final honor for this wretched warrior and solace for his harsh death, nor will whoever impiously defiles his right hand with the innocent youth’s blood elude punishment. Let my arrows also be permitted to rage.”

Whoever kills Parthenopaeus will be both nefandus and impius, while she herself will rage rightfully (fas) for Parthenopaeus. This response suggests that the youth’s pietas might ultimately be rewarded. Indeed, after Parthenopaeus is killed at 9.869–74, his slayer Dryas dies immediately (9.875). Parthenopaeus is thus avenged. But is he really? The slaying of Parthenopaeus’ own killer, an act that Diana had specifically intended to be an honor to the youth, happens anonymously:56 tum cadit ipse Dryas (mirum!) nec uulneris umquam/ 54 55 56

Apollo did, however, grant him some strength and distinction in the aristeia directly preceding his death (7.690–793). This is a claim he had also made just before Amphiaraus’ death at 7.774–5 (inmites scis nulla reuolvere Parcas/ stamina, “You know that the harsh Parcae unwind no threads”). In addition, Diana’s moral claims at lines 9.663–7 (see above) are questionable. She, like all the superi, seems to ignore or be ignorant of the fact that the war they are engaged in is nefas from the start. Her protestations about what is impius (or nefandam) are thus compromised.

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conscius: olim auctor teli causaeque patebunt (“Then Dryas himself dies (wondrous!), nor is he ever conscious of the wound: the author of the missile and the reason will be revealed at some future time,” 9.875–6). Dryas does not know who has hit him, and Statius nowhere says that it was Diana. And if that were not enough, he speaks equally uncertainly about when in the future the identity of Dryas’ slayer will be known. Diana’s seeming weakness here is increased on the intertextual level. Her actions are modeled on those of her counterpart in the Aeneid who attempts to bring a final honor to her favorite, the warrior-maiden Camilla.57 Diana orders Opis to kill Camilla’s slayer: haec cape et ultricem pharetra deprome sagittam: hac, quicumque sacrum uiolarit uulnere corpus, Tros Italusque, mihi pariter det sanguine poenas. (Aen. 11.590–2)

Take these things and draw an avenging arrow from your quiver: with it let whoever – Trojan or Italian – violates her sacred body with a wound pay me a penalty of blood in equal measure.

The language closely resembles Diana’s promise to avenge Parthenopaeus (quoted above): “sed decus extremum misero” confusa uicissim uirgo refert, “duraeque licet solacia morti quaerere, nec fugiet poenas quicumque nefandam insontis pueri scelerarit sanguine dextram impius, et nostris fas sit saeuire sagittis.” (Theb. 9.663–7)

But Camilla’s slaying is explicitly avenged by Diana through the actions of Opis. As Opis kills Arruns, Camilla’s slayer, she specifically refers to Diana’s role: non tamen indecorem tua te regina reliquit extrema iam in morte, neque hoc sine nomine letum per gentis erit aut famam patieris inultae. (Aen. 11.845–7)58

Nevertheless your queen has not abandoned you [i.e. Camilla] in dishonor now at the final moment of dying. Your death will not be without glory among nations nor will you suffer the reputation of a woman unavenged.

57

Legras (1905): 112 and Dewar (1991): 183.

58

Cf. also Aen. 11.855–7.

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Statius, however, does not identify Diana as Dryas’ slayer. Consequently Parthenopaeus dies doubting the goddess’ power. Indeed he even utters a rebuke of her, as he commends his final rites to Dorceus: haec autem primis arma infelicia castris ure, uel ingratae crimen suspende Dianae. (9.906–7)

Burn these weapons that were unlucky in their first campaign, or hang them as a reproach to Diana for her ingratitude.

Parthenopaeus – a character within the text – accuses Diana of ingratitude, of allowing his death. In the end, he feels his pietas has meant nothing to her. And with these words, book 9 ends.59 hopleus and dymas: the problem of p i e ta s The futility of pietas is perhaps most emphatically displayed in the Hopleus and Dymas episode of book 10. These two Argive warriors attempt what may be the purest act of pietas in the poem (10.347–448).60 They venture into enemy territory at night to recover the bodies of their fallen leaders, Tydeus and Parthenopaeus. They manage to find the corpses and almost make it back to their camp, but a Theban cohort catches them. Hopleus is immediately killed. Dymas, however, resists. When his hand is cut off, the Thebans offer him his life if he betrays his Argive army. Dymas refuses and commits suicide, falling on the corpse of Tydeus. The episode’s primary model is the story of the Trojans Nisus and Euryalus in Aeneid 9 (which is in turn a reworking of the “Doloneia” in Iliad 10). Nisus and Euryalus volunteer to travel through enemy territory to find Aeneas, who is away in Pallanteum, and bring him back to the beleaguered Trojan camp. They almost reach Aeneas, but along the way they are caught. Euryalus is killed. Nisus, who could have escaped, tries to avenge his comrade’s death and himself dies.

59 60

For more on the weakening of the superi, see Newlands (2004): 152–4. She explores this issue in the context of Statius’ interaction with Ovidian landscapes. They are not inspired by a god, nor is there any suggestion that they are infected by madness (so often an explanation for action in Statius’ poem). They are motivated to act piously completely from within. Menoeceus’ suicide, often viewed as the most pious act in the poem, is marred by hints of self-aggrandizement and the presence of the Furies/fury (see below), as is the burial of Polynices by Antigone and Argia in book 12 (see chapter 9). We have also seen the problems of pietas involved in the Hypsipyle episode (chapter 4).

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The similarities between these episodes are clear just from these summaries,61 but Statius goes out of his way to draw our attention to this intertextual relationship in the coda to his tale, as we saw in chapter 1. Given this highly charged connection, as well as the centrality of pietas (the quintessential virtue in the Aeneid) in Hopleus and Dymas’ story, I will argue that Statius, through his reworking of the Virgilian scene and its Homeric model, makes a resounding statement about the irrelevance – if not impossibility – of pietas in the Thebaid. To make this argument, I will focus on the ending of his tale, where Hopleus has died, and Dymas is confronted by the Thebans. Just after Dymas has appealed to the Thebans to permit the burial of his leader Parthenopaeus, he is faced with a decision that recalls that of Nisus in the Aeneid (i.e. flee or die). Dymas remains but is offered his life by the Thebans if he betrays the Argives. The Theban Amphion presents this tradeoff in terms of cupido: regem si tanta cupido/ condere (“if you have so great a desire to bury your king,” Theb. 10.431–2). Dymas, however, refuses to allow his cupido to betray his state, and thus commits suicide. His rejection of fulfilling his cupido resonates with the Virgilian passage. There Nisus had recognized the destructive power of cupido in Euryalus’ rage for slaughter: sensit enim nimia caede atque cupidine ferri (“for Nisus sensed that Euryalus was carried away by excessive desire for slaughter,” Aen. 9.354). He thus restrains Euryalus so that their mission for the Trojans (i.e. find Aeneas and bring him back) is not compromised. Yet, when faced with a related decision (either save Euryalus out of private devotion to him, or flee and complete the mission to Aeneas), Nisus privileges his impassioned loyalty to his friend over that to his people and dies in the process. As a result, Nisus, in a sense, fails in his pietas toward his country and gods: although he could have escaped from the enemy to find Aeneas (the purpose of his night mission), he instead avenges his friend’s death and dies. In contrast, Dymas refuses to harm his city.62 By acting so, Dymas seems, on a metaliterary level, to have “learned a lesson” from the Virgilian episode. Dymas’ pious actions toward his state seem all the more pointed if we look farther back to the comparable decision of Dolon in Iliad 10, 61

62

The many parallels between the Statian episode and its Homeric and Virgilian precursors have been well documented. See Legras (1905): 115–17, Krumbholz (1955): 93–108, Kytzler (1969): 209– 19, Juhnke (1972): 144–7, Williams (1972): ad loc., Williams (1986), Markus (1997), and Pollmann (2001). For Homeric echoes in the Virgilian episode, see epecially Knauer (1964): 166–72 and Hardie (1994): ad loc. Pollmann (2001): 23 writes: “Dymas manages to get out of the moral dilemma successfully, whereas the self-sacrifice of Nisus came too late for his friend Euryalus, and appears to be rather a rash and ineffective action.”

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Nisus’ Homeric model (and thus also Dymas’).63 In Homer’s “Doloneia,” Diomedes volunteers with Odysseus to infiltrate the Trojan camp on reconnaissance. In the process, they capture Dolon on a similar mission for the Trojans (Il. 10.313–464). Odysseus assures Dolon of his safety, if he offers information about the Trojans’ plans. Dolon betrays his city, but is still killed by Diomedes, who will not abide treachery, though the Greeks benefit from it. Statius’ Dymas is placed in a situation similar to Dolon’s (Theb. 10.409–34). He is offered his life and Parthenopaeus’ body, if he reveals to the Rutulians the plans of the Argives – and thus betrays his own army (as Dolon had).64 He is given a choice between death and self-preservation through nefas. Dymas, however, surpasses his Homeric model. Instead of betraying the Argives, he kills himself (Theb. 10.435–41). Dymas thus outdoes both Dolon and Nisus, and acts with courage and pietas toward his country.65 Like Hopleus, he has done nothing wrong but still dies.66 In this epic world, pietas is not rewarded in these two most pious men. This dialogue with Aeneid 9 showing the failure of pietas is especially potent because Statius tells us to read his episode against Virgil’s in his epitaph to the two fallen Argive warriors (Theb. 10.445–8).67 The recall of the Aeneid at the conclusion of a story that presents pietas as thoroughly unrewarded and insufficient to guarantee success, places the Hopleus and Dymas tale in tension with the Augustan ideals of the Aeneid.68 The Hopleus and Dymas episode, far from being an inspiring exemplum of pietas, is rather a resounding statement of its utter futility. Lines 384–5, near the beginning of the night sortie, point to this interpretation: inuida fata piis et fors ingentibus ausis rara comes.69 Fate is hostile to the pious and good fortune is a rare companion of great undertakings. 63 64 65 66

67 68 69

Ripoll (1998): 403–4. Unlike Dolon, however, Dymas first attempts physical resistance. When his hand is cut off, the Thebans make this offer. Ripoll (1998): 404. Dymas even claims that in death he is able to provide Parthenopaeus burial, and throws his corpse on top of the youth’s (Theb. 10.441). This is surely in imitation of Nisus’ similar act at Aeneid 9.444–5. Taisne (1994): 72 suggests that Hopleus buries the corpse of Tydeus in the same way, but Statius has not described it thus. See chapter 1. Of course the Nisus and Euryalus episode is already in tension with the Augustan voice of the Aeneid because both warriors in some sense privilege their private passion over the good of the state. The phrase may recall Lucan 1.70–1, as Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 351 notes, but Statius goes farther than Lucan. See Ripoll (1998): 303 who views Statius’ line as “un fragment de discours tragique,” and see n. 229.

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Not only is pietas difficult, but fata itself stands in its way.70 Fate’s ill-will toward acts of pietas consequently puts the opening line of the entire episode in an interesting light: uenerat hos inter fato Calydonius Hopleus Maenaliusque Dymas (Theb. 10.347–8)

By fate Calydonian Hopleus and Maenalian Dymas had come among them.

Fate, inherently ill-disposed to pietas, brings these two together on their mission, but also brings about their failure. This is the reverse of the situation so often found in the Augustan Aeneid. For Aeneas and the Trojans, fata and pietas are closely interlinked. One does not exist without the other. The implication in the Hopleus and Dymas episode is that fate is fundamentally hostile to pietas. In retrospect, then, the Hopleus and Dymas mission is doomed from the start. Not only do individual characters impede acts of pietas, but fate brings these characters together only to see their pietas fail. Aeneid 9, however, is not the only Virgilian model here. Just as Hardie has shown that there are a number of underworld images that permeate the Virgilian episode,71 so we can see such images in Statius’ story that are drawn particularly from book 6 of the Aeneid. The trek of the Argive warriors through the fields of the dead recalls that of Aeneas as he journeys with the Sibyl through the underworld to meet his father Anchises (i.e., another expedition of pietas that involves a “land” of the dead). After Hopleus and Dymas have found the bodies and journey back to their camp, they are described in language that echoes this Virgilian passage: eunt taciti per maesta silentia magnis passibus exhaustasque dolent pallere tenebras. (Theb. 10.382–3)

They go quietly, taking great steps through the sad silence, and are pained that the exhausted shadows grow faint. Ergo iter inceptum peragunt fluuioque propinquant. nauita quos iam inde ut Stygia prospexit ab unda per tacitum nemus ire pedemque aduertere ripae, sic prior adgreditur dictis atque increpat ultro (Aen. 6.384–7) 70 71

See Burgess (1971–2): 59, Williams (1972): xviii, and Pollmann (2001): 19. Hardie (1994): 27 and notes.

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Therefore they continue the journey they had begun and approach the river. When the boatman, from where he was on the Stygian water, spotted them going through the silent grove and directing their feet toward the bank, he hails them unasked, and rebukes them.

And just as Aeneas and the Sibyl approach the river Lethe (fluuioque propinquant, Aen. 6.384), so Hopleus and Dymas realize they are near the Argive camp (animisque72 propinquant, “they approach in their minds,” Theb. 10.385). The parallels with the Aeneid 6 episode continue in Hopleus’ death, for when Hopleus dies, he is described thus: et saeuas talis descendit ad umbras. (Theb. 10.404)

and in this way he descended to the savage shades.

This line also echoes Virgil’s episode: Troius Aeneas, pietate insignis et armis, ad genitorem imas Erebi descendit ad umbras. si te nulla mouet tantae pietatis imago, at ramum hunc . . . agnoscas. (Aen. 6.403–6, 407)

Trojan Aeneas, renowned for pietas and weapons, descends to the deepest shadows of Erebus to visit his father. If this image of such great pietas does not move you, at least recognize this bough.

Here the Sibyl convinces Charon, who conveys shades across the river Lethe, to take on Aeneas. Aeneas is on a journey of pietas, and the Sibyl here refers to Aeneas’ virtue, as she persuades Charon. The Sibyl in a sense poses a question: is Aeneas’ pietas enough to enable his trek to the underworld? The answer, however, is essentially negative: Aeneas’ pietas is not in fact enough, for the Sibyl must give Charon the golden bough (ramum, Aen. 6.406). If we accept this connection, then Statius’ Hopleus activates this Virgilian passage where, as it turns out, pietas is not itself sufficient, at the very moment that Hopleus’ death shows that pietas does not matter, for Hopleus not only perishes because of his pious attempt at burial, but he also dies with the knowledge that Tydeus’ corpse has been lost. 72

There may be a wordplay here: animis can also mean “spirits” or “ghosts” (cf. OLD s.v. anima 6a) and may thus represent another allusion to Aeneas as he travels to the land of the dead.

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Hopleus’ failure is also underwritten by its impious interaction with Iliad 10. When Hopleus and Dymas are caught, Amphion throws a spear at them, intending it to miss: tunc mortem trepidis minitatur et hastam expulit, ac uanos alte leuat eminus ictus, adfectans errare manum. (10.395–7)

Then he threatens death to the fearful men and throws his spear, and from afar casts high his shot meant to miss, pretending that his hand errs.

Amphion’s action is modeled on that of Diomedes, who in Iliad 10 throws a spear with the intention of missing Dolon:
           !  "#$ % &'() )! * & +-, &# - (Il. 10.372–4)

He spoke and cast his spear, but he missed the man on purpose. The tip of the polished shaft went over his right shoulder and was planted firmly in the ground.

Statius’ echo of this event is laced with irony, for Diomedes is Tydeus’ son. Indeed Diomedes refers to his father’s great deeds at Thebes (i.e. an earlier “version” of the Thebaid) in his prayer to Athena before he sets out on the night sortie with Odysseus (Il. 10.283–94). Thus the Homeric Diomedes intertextually “prevents” the burial of his own father, by providing the intertextual spear that prevents Statius’ Hopleus from burying Tydeus. This reverses the ideals of the Aeneid once again. Indeed, pietas is overturned not only because Tydeus’ burial is intertextually “prevented” by his son, but also because this happens while the Aeneid 6 intertext is also at play – an episode where pius Aeneas is traveling to the underworld to visit his father. Thus Hopleus and Dymas’ attempts at burial are doomed on a number of levels. Though they surpass their Virgilian (and Homeric models) in numerous ways, they still fail. They inhabit an epic world that has lost its moral grounding: fate is hostile to pietas. menoeceus and capaneus Although the deaths of Parthenopaeus, Hippomedon, Hopleus, and Dymas were not specifically demanded by Dis in book 8, they still point to the seeming irrelevance of the superi and pietas. In book 10, however, we witness the spectacular demise of Capaneus, which, like that of Tydeus, is

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specifically commanded by Dis in book 8. Dis calls not only for a cannibalistic death (i.e. Tydeus’) but also for a challenger of Jupiter and the heavenly gods: praeterea ne sola furor mea regna lacessat,/ quaere deis qui bella ferat, qui fulminis ignes/ infestumque Iovem clipeo fumante repellat (“Moreover let not fury assail my realm alone; seek someone to bring war to the gods, to repel with his smoking shield the fires of the lightning bolt and hostile Jupiter,” 8.75–7). Capaneus’ death plays this role, but its meaning is more complex, because it also functions as a response to Menoeceus’ suicide that precedes and is intermingled with it.73 The deaths of these two warriors – one Theban (Menoeceus), the other Argive (Capaneus) – offer a human battleground on which Dis’ war on Jupiter and the superi is fought. Along with this cosmic struggle, we also see two central (Virgilian) ideals under siege: uirtus and pietas. I will argue that in the Menoeceus and Capaneus episodes both virtues succumb to the forces of hell. Virtus is perverted both on the contextual level (through the contrasting characters of Menoeceus and Capaneus), and on the intertextual level (through the influence of the Virgilian Furies in particular).74 At the same time, the ideal of pietas is weakened. In the end, the heavenly gods are compromised by their own “intertextual pasts,” and this undermines their claims (and those of humans) to Augustan ideals.75 In a world in which the heavenly gods can no longer maintain those values central to (and perhaps even contested in) the Aeneid, the Furies have the power to dominate. The suicide of Menoeceus has for most readers of the Thebaid represented an act of self-sacrifice for the good of the city, a positive example of pietas and of uirtus. The Thebans learn through the seer Tiresias that Mars demands the sacrifice of the latest born of the original founders of Thebes, the Sown Men.76 Menoeceus, the descendant indicated, is visited by the goddess Virtus (disguised as Manto) who inspires him to the act of self-sacrifice. Menoeceus subsequently stabs and hurls himself from the walls of Thebes, thereby becoming, in Vessey’s words, “the highest example of pietas in the Thebaid.”77 73

74 75 76 77

Capaneus himself draws the connection, when he chooses to climb a section of Theban wall from which Menoeceus had fallen (10.845–6). On the connections between these two heroes, see, e.g., Ripoll (1998): 232. Fantham (1995) notes that “it is in fact in Turnus that we see the seeds of a devaluation of virtus that will sprout sinister flowers in Lucan and bear its bitter fruit in Statius.” See chapter 1 on uirtus and pietas as part of the Aeneid’s Augustan voice. They sprouted from the sown teeth of Mars’ serpent, which Cadmus slew. For the implications of the recall of Cadmus and the Sown Men here, see Heinrich (1999): 175–9. Vessey (1973): 117.

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This heroic and patriotic reading is also suggested by Statius’ intertextual models in Euripides’ Phoenissae78 and Livy’s history.79 In the tragedy,80 Menoeceus is viewed and regards himself as the savior of Thebes, an idea echoed throughout the text.81 But there are also important cultural resonances in Menoeceus’ verbal and thematic similarities to the devotio described at Livy 8.9,82 where the consul Decius Mus devotes himself and the enemy to the gods of the underworld, and rides into the opposing army in order to win the safety of his troops.83 Just as Decius is conspectus ab utraque acie, aliquanto augustior humano uisu (“seen by either army, somewhat more august than his human appearance,” Livy 8.9.10), so Menoeceus is iam sacer aspectu solitoque augustior ore (“now sacred in his appearance, more august than his usual countenance,” 10.757).84 And while Decius rides his horse into the middle of the enemy (se in medios hostes immisit, Livy 8.9.10), Menoeceus leaps to his death, directing his body into the midst of the Argive soldiers: seque super medias acies . . . iecit (10.778–9). Menoeceus, therefore, appears in the Thebaid with a significant intertextual heritage of both pietas (Decius Mus) and .-+ (Euripides’ Menoeceus). Indeed as he rushes to the Theban walls, the people hail him as auctorem pacis seruatoremque deumque (“creator of peace, protector, and god,” 10.684), and, having ascended the walls to sacrifice himself, he is described by Statius as pius Menoeceus (10.756).85 In the larger context of the epic tradition, we are reminded of Aeneas. When the goddess Virtus visits Menoeceus, he reacts to her much as Aeneas responds to Mercury, who appears to the Trojan in Carthage. Aeneas 78 79

80 81

82 83

84 85

See, e.g., Legras (1905): 117–21 and Vessey (1973): 119–21, 123–4. See, e.g., Schetter (1960): 13, Williams (1972): ad 757, and Vessey (1973): 121–2. For Homeric resonances, see Legras (1905): 117–18 and Juhnke (1972): 148–51. For Virgilian, see Legras (1905): 118. Taisne (1994): 57–8 also suggests a Callimachean influence for Statius’ Virtus from the Hymn to Demeter, and some possible Lucanian influence from the Vulteius episode of book 4. Mastronarde (1994): 28–9 strongly argues that the episode of Menoeceus’ self-sacrifice in Euripides’ Phoenissae should be viewed as an innovation. Menoeceus views himself as saving the city: ./. (997), &0)1/. (1012); the Messenger refers to him as .-+ (1092). In general, see Phoenissae 911–14, 931–5, 947–52, 997–8, 1009–12, 1090– 5, and 1206–7. Heinrich (1999): 185–6, however, offers some evidence suggesting that Menoeceus’ self-sacrifice in Euripides does not actually have the effect of saving the city that the Messenger claims at 1090. See, e.g., Vessey (1971b): 239. Interestingly, as Taisne (1994): 58 notes, Juvenal connected the selfsacrifices of Decius Mus and Menoeceus (Juv. Sat. 14.238–43). On the ritual of devotio in general, see Versnel (1976, 1981), Barton (1993): 40–6, Beard, North, and Price (1998): 35–6, and Heinrich (1999): 180–4. See also Feldherr (1998): 85–92 for a discussion of the ideological significance of spectacle in Livy’s retelling of Decius’ self-sacrifice, and Leigh (1997): 128–43 for its presence in Lucan. Schetter (1960): 13. For the Stoic reading of Menoeceus, see Vessey (1973): 117–22 and Billerbeck (1986): 3143–5.

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replies: sequimur te, sancte deorum,/ quisquis es, imperioque iterum paremus ouantes (“We follow you, sacred one of the gods, whoever you are, and, rejoicing, we again obey your command,” Aen. 4.576–7); Menoeceus says: sequimur, diuum quaecumque uocasti,/ nec tarde paremus (“I follow, whichever of the gods you are who have called me, and I do not obey slowly,” 10.680–1).86 Menoeceus is thus associated with pietas, the allimportant Augustan ideal through intertextual resonances with both Virgil and Livy. If that were not enough to suggest the importance of pietas in this scene of uirtus, we discover that, as Menoeceus leaps from the Theban walls, his body is caught and carried gently to the ground not just by the goddess Virtus, who inspired him from the start, but also by Pietas (10.780–1). Thus Menoeceus becomes a representative of both uirtus and pietas – perhaps reminding us of the hero Coroebus, who was also defined by these two ideals (cf. 1.644). But there are problems on multiple levels with this interpretation of Menoeceus. Within the terms of the narrative itself, Menoeceus’ death does not achieve its larger aim. Though his self-sacrifice is immediately celebrated, it is not understood as saving his city, as is the case in Euripides and Livy.87 Nor will Thebes in any effective sense achieve victory, as Apollo and Virtus had seemingly promised (10.610–15, 668). Thebes is in shambles by the time the brothers fight their fratricidal duel in book 11. The consequent withdrawal of the Argives does not provide a triumph for the Thebans. Instead it leads immediately to the madness and tyranny of Creon, who criminally prohibits the burial of the Argive dead (11.661–4). And when the Thebans exit the city the following morning to care for the dead, they fall immediately into strife upon finding the corpses of their loved ones (12.33– 4). Further, the future holds few pleasures for Thebes. Theseus will attack the city on behalf of Argos soon thereafter, and, as we know from Jupiter (7.221), the descendants of this war (i.e. the Epigoni) will fight another war. To say that Menoeceus’ event is a victorious moment in this text is to read the Thebaid but to import the meaning of the self-sacrifices in Euripides and Livy. Moreover the motives and description of Statius’ Menoeceus introduce fraternal rivalry. When Virtus rouses him, she concludes with an 86 87

Fantham (1995). Heinrich (1999): 182–4, drawing on sources concerning devotio, and comparing the representations of Menoeceus’ suicide in Euripides and Statius, shows that the Thebaid’s scene ends up undercutting its “claim” to be devotio. He argues that there is a conflation of consecratio and mactatio: “while the consul consecrates himself (along with the enemy troops) to the infernal gods, the actual killing of the consul, the mactatio, is reserved for the enemy” (182–3) but this “episode breaks down such a distinction between consecratio and mactatio” (184).

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exhortation not to the ideals of uirtus or pietas, but to the fear that his brother Haemon might act first (i.e. fraternal competition):88 i, precor, adcelera, ne proximus occupet Haemon. (10.671)

Go, I pray; hurry, lest Haemon, who stands next to you, does it first.

This expands an intimation of fraternal competition twenty lines earlier, when the brothers are described in battle: inmensae reserato limine portae sternebas Danaos, pariter Mauortius Haemon. sed consanguinei quamuis atque omnia fratres, tu prior. (10.652–5)

By the opened door of the huge gate, you together with Mavortian Haemon were striking down the Argives, but though related by blood and brothers in everything, you were better.

While both brothers excel in the slaughter of war, Menoeceus is slightly better, as implied by tu prior.89 Indeed in tu prior, we may see another familial war reference, because of its evocation of Anchises’ exhortation to Caesar to take the initiative to avoid familial strife with Pompey:90 tuque prior (Aen. 6.834). Statius’ suggestion of familial strife in words that look to passages urging pietas is already jarring, but it becomes even more so when set against Euripides’ Phoenissae, where such strife is unnecessary.91 There Menoeceus is younger than Haemon, thus making Menoeceus literally the generis . . . nouissimus . . . uiperei (“the youngest of the snake race,” Theb. 10.613–14). Moreover, the Euripidean Haemon is barred from self-sacrifice because he is engaged to Antigone (Phoen. 944–6).92 In Euripides, then, Menoeceus seems the only possibility, and this fact reveals that there may be no need for an element of fraternal strife to appear in the Thebaid’s episode: by adding it, Statius’ version suggests associations between the fraternal strife of Menoeceus and Haemon and that of Eteocles and Polynices. 88 89 90 91 92

Fantham (1995). Moreover, the goddess’ ensuing possession of the youth further draws on Allecto’s infuriation of Turnus at Aen. 7.415–74. See Fantham (1995). Pompey had been married to Caesar’s daughter, Julia. As we saw in chapter 3, this Virgilian passage is also at play in Laius’ prophecy of book 4: tuque peior (“You are worse,” 4.401). On this point, see also Pollmann (forthcoming). The authenticity of these lines, however, is disputed. See the comments of Mastronarde (1994): ad loc., who does not bracket them.

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In addition, for an act of alleged pietas, Menoeceus’ self-sacrifice entails a remarkable amount of metaphorical violence against his family.93 When Creon hears Tiresias’ prophecy and realizes that Menoeceus is meant, he is described as a man struck by lightning and a spear: grandem subiti cum fulminis ictum,/ non secus ac torta traiectus cuspide pectus,/ accipit (“when he receives the powerful blow of sudden lightning not otherwise than if he had been pierced in his chest by a hurled spear,” 10.618–20). And Eurydice, Menoeceus’ mother, in mourning her son’s death, asks him accusatorily: tu, saeue Menoeceu,/ tu miseram ante omnes properasti extinguere matrem (“You, harsh Menoeceus, you hurried before all to destroy your wretched mother,” 10.802–3). Why were you so quick to kill me, your mother? In addition, Menoeceus, as he rushes to climb the walls of Thebes for his leap, lies to his father Creon by claiming that Haemon has been wounded, and that a battle rages for his body: gemit Inachia mihi saucius Haemon cuspide; uix illum medio de puluere belli inter utrasque acies, iam iamque tenentibus Argis – sed moror. (10.728–31)

Wounded by an Inachian spear, my Haemon is moaning; barely from the dust of battle, between the two battle-lines, the Argives are now just about to seize him – but I delay.

That he deceives his father is not in itself remarkable, as Euripides’ Menoeceus also does so to prevent Creon from hindering him.94 The Statian innovation, however, is the fratricidal content of the lie. To avoid his father’s resistance, Menoeceus invents his brother’s wounding and near death. Not only is fraternal competition involved, as Virtus herself suggested, but Menoeceus contrives the wounding of his brother to deceive their father, and thus ensures that Haemon will not beat him to the act of self-sacrifice. By doing so, Menoeceus succeeds in having Creon’s fears over the invented wounding of Haemon override his sense of pietas (10.736–7). This interplay between pietas and impietas is also glimpsed in Menoeceus’ words and actions as he leaps to his death. On the one hand, as he ostentatiously calls for silence among the Argive and Theban armies, he claims the purest of motivations: 93 94

Heinrich (1999) reads the episode as a regressive repetition of the original fratricide of the Thebans. Eur. Phoen. 991–8.

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Statius and Virgil armorum superi, tuque o qui funere tanto indulges mihi, Phoebe, mori, date gaudia Thebis quae pepigi et toto quae sanguine prodigus emi. (10.762–4)

Gods of battle, and you, Phoebus, who allow me to die by such a great death, grant Thebes the joys I have stipulated for and which I have extravagantly bought with all my blood.

On the other, when Pietas and Virtus convey Menoeceus’ falling body to the ground, his soul is already occupied in another endeavor: ast illum amplexae Pietas Virtusque ferebant leniter ad terras corpus; nam spiritus olim ante Iouem et summis apicem sibi poscit in astris (10.780–2)

But Pietas and Virtus embraced him and brought his body gently to the ground; for his soul had long since appeared before Jupiter and demands for itself a crown among the highest stars.

Menoeceus’ soul appears before Jupiter and, instead of appealing for Thebes’ safety (the purported reason for his self-sacrifice), he demands immortality for himself. Moreover, the Theban youth seeks not just a place among the stars but a particularly special one: summis apicem . . . in astris (10.782). And whereas Menoeceus’ death had originally been demanded by the gods (sentit . . . Menoecea posci, 10.620; poscunt, 10.668), Menoeceus now makes demands on Jupiter (poscit, 10.782). Menoeceus’ self-interested actions significantly undermine the positive sense of pietas95 that his intertextual models in Euripides and Livy might have provided him. As elsewhere in the Thebaid, characters attempting to act virtuously are continually undermined on contextual and intertextual grounds. Menoeceus seems even more closely associated with the powers of hell because of the intertextual background of Virtus. As Feeney and Fantham have shown, the goddess Virtus, who incites Menoeceus to act, is an amalgam of several menacing models from the Aeneid and Iliad, even as she ostensibly promotes a positive act of uirtus and pietas: the Furies in Aeneid 12.849–68, Allecto in Aeneid 7.415–74, Fama in Aeneid 4.175–7, and Eris in Iliad 4.442– 5.96 Statius describes as an intertextual Fury the goddess who inspires what could have been the Thebaid’s most exemplary act of pietas.97 95 96 97

Fantham (1995) and Hershkowitz (1998a): 292 n. 91 see Menoeceus as infected with a kind of madness as he ascends the tower and leaps to his death. Feeney (1991): 383 and Fantham (1995). As we have seen, nefas implies the dissolution of boundaries. Virtus’ intertextual background that transforms her from a more celestial deity to something approaching an infernal one is also paralleled

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The models in Aeneid 7 and 12 that Fantham points to are particularly revealing of the infernal nature of Virtus,98 and suggest the problem of a patriotic reading of Menoeceus. When Virtus arrives on the scene, she is described as a companion of Jupiter: diua Iouis solio iuxta comes, unde per orbem/ rara dari . . . Virtus (“Virtus, divine companion next to Jupiter’s throne, from where she is rarely accustomed to be given to the world,” 10.632–3). This recalls the description of the twin Furies that sit beside Jupiter’s throne at the end of the Aeneid: hae Iouis ad solium saeuique in limine regis/ apparent acuuntque metum mortalibus aegris (“They serve at Jupiter’s throne and on the threshold of the fierce king, and sharpen the fear of anxious mortals,” Aen. 12.849–50). But after she addresses Menoeceus, Virtus acts like Allecto in Aeneid 7: just as Allecto infects the hesitating Turnus with madness for war (Aen. 7.448–66), so Virtus infects Menoeceus with madness for devotio.99 Clearly, Virtus has a disturbing yet fundamental intertextual identity in the Virgilian Furies.100 Though both of these models involve Virgilian Furies, they themselves participate in the more general conflict between heaven and hell that reaches its climax in books 10 and 11. While Virtus, like Jupiter’s Furies, occupies a place next to his throne, she acts differently. We learn from Aeneid 12 that the Fury is under the complete control of Jupiter, achieving his desire to punish guilty towns, when such action is justified: si quando letum horrificum morbosque deum rex/ molitur, meritas aut bello territat urbes (12.851–2). Virgil specifically employs one of the Furies at the end of book 12 to ensure the victory of Aeneas, of pietas and fate, over the forces of hindrance, of Juturna and Juno. But Statius’ Virtus, while like her Virgilian model in other ways, seems to operate with an autonomy that Jupiter’s Furies lacked. Statian Virtus is at least capable of acting independently, as we understand from the uncertainty about the goddess’ motivation for action here: seu pater omnipotens tribuit, siue ipsa capaces/ elegit penetrare uiros (“whether the all-powerful father sends her, or she herself chooses to penetrate men susceptible of her,” Theb. 10.634–5). The very recall of the Virgilian passage that displayed control and order in the Aeneid but that is transformed into

98 100

by her physical appearance that erases gender boundaries. Virtus is a female goddess dressed like a warrior, but is compared to Hercules who is dressed as a woman. In other words, we get something of a comic depiction of Virtus as a woman dressed as a man, dressed as a woman. See the excellent discussions of this scene in Feeney (1991): 382–5 and Fantham (1995). 99 See ibid. for parallels. Fantham (1995). Virtus’ troubling nature may be compounded by her association with other disturbing gods. In her first appearance in book 4, she is among the personified gods Ira, Furor, Metus, and Ardor, who accompany Bacchus as he attempts delay at Nemea (4.661–2). Later we find her at the palace of Mars associated with an even more disturbing group that includes Impetus, Nefas, Irae, Metus, Insidiae, Discordia, Minae, Furor, and Mors (7.47–53). See Feeney (1991): 383 and Fantham (1995).

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something suggesting lack of control further points to the weaker powers of the Thebaid’s Jupiter. Moreover, the references to Allecto’s infection of Turnus in the Statian scene embody two competing Virgilian visions of the world at issue throughout the Thebaid: those of Jupiter and of Juno. Here, it is clear that for all the uncertainty about Jupiter’s control over Virtus, the intertextual reach and potency of Allecto are much more fundamental and effective. For like Turnus, Menoeceus is immediately driven to enraged action, after he has been touched by the “intertextual Fury” Virtus. Indeed, when Virtus tells Menoeceus to be more ambitious and creative in seeking immortality through deeds of war (plus concipe, 10.665), we might even be reminded of Tisiphone, at the end of book 8, as she drives Tydeus to commit cannibalism: plus exigit (“she requires more,” 8.757). Both acts reflect Dis’ call for unusual violence earlier in book 8. The encounter between Virtus and Menoeceus thus becomes an intertextual site for the overpowering of Jupiter by the infernal gods and the Virgilian Juno, for the victory of Dis over the heavens, for the victory of madness over uirtus and pietas. In addition, Virtus goes on to steal Jupiter’s own thunder, for her maddening effect on Menoeceus is compared to being struck by lightning: fulminis haud citius radiis adflata cupressus/ combibit infestas et stirpe et uertice flammas,/ quam iuuenis multo possessus numine pectus/ erexit sensus letique inuasit amorem (“When blasted by lightning bolts, the cypress does not drink in the dangerous flames with root and summit more swiftly than the youth roused his emotions and seized upon love of death, when his breast was possessed by the powerful divinity,” Theb. 10.674–7). This is an act that looks forward both to Capaneus’ Fury-inspired assault on the superi and to his subsequent death by Jupiter’s thunderbolt. Indeed just as Tisiphone had responded to Oedipus’ prayer in book 1 more quickly than a thunderbolt (1.92–3),101 so here an intertextual Fury (Virtus) anticipates Jupiter by striking her victim with (metaphorical) lightning before Jupiter smites his (Capaneus). Far from being a positive example of pietas and uirtus, Menoeceus’ actions suggest the debasement of these virtues. The very fact that Pietas could be deceived into honoring Menoeceus not only speaks to her impotence in the Thebaid but also anticipates her useless leap to earth in book 11, where she again will be defeated by a Fury, but this time one in the Thebaid. In Menoeceus we see once again a potentially exemplary figure and the Augustan ideals (pietas and uirtus) he represents undermined. 101

Feeney (1991): 346–7.

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the death of capaneus The death of Menoeceus leads directly into the death of Capaneus at the hands of Jupiter.102 The two are closely intertwined. Even as Menoeceus is preparing for his self-sacrifice, Statius interweaves the aristeia of Capaneus.103 Not only are they contiguous in the text, but Capaneus’ aristeia and death are also responses and challenges to the necessity and efficacy of Menoeceus’, as Capaneus himself makes clear: “hac” ait “in Thebas, hac me iubet ardua uirtus ire, Menoeceo qua lubrica sanguine turris. experiar quid sacra iuuent, an falsus Apollo.” (10.845–7)

“This way,” he says, “into Thebes, this way lofty courage summons me to go, where the tower is slippery from Menoeceus’ blood. I will find out whether self-sacrifice does any good or whether Apollo is a fraud.”

As he scales the Theban wall, he seeks the place where the youth had fallen so as to challenge the very gods and ideals that Menoeceus had purportedly died for.104 He aims to test whether anything good will come of Tiresias’ prophecy and Menoeceus’ suicide, or whether Apollo is falsus. Just as Virtus and Menoeceus are overpowered by the intertextual power of Allecto, impius Capaneus and his brand of uirtus are guided by hell. When Dis had ordered Tisiphone to commit nefas in book 8, he explicitly called for a mortal to attack Jupiter and the heavens, and it is thus not surprising that the imagery he employs is that of the gigantomachy – the most serious challenge to Jupiter’s authority over the cosmos (8.78–9).105 He strives to make violation of the underworld as grave a violation of the cosmic structure as is any assault on the heavens. The cosmic disruption that ensues is explicitly compared to the Giants’ attempt to overthrow Jupiter: quales mediis in nubibus aether/ uidit Aloidas, cum cresceret impia tellus/ despectura deos nec adhuc inmane ueniret/ Pelion et trepidum iam tangeret Ossa Tonantem (“like the Aloidae the sky saw in the middle of the clouds, when the impious earth was rising to look down upon the gods; Ossa was already touching the panicked Thunderer, and monstrous Pelion had yet to come,” 102 103 104 105

On Capaneus’ challenge to Jupiter, see Legras (1905): 121–3, Ten Kate (1955): 105–13, Klinnert (1970): 47–64, 73–6, Juhnke (1972): 148–51, and Dominik (1994a): 29–33. Vessey (1973): 123, Fantham (1995), and Heinrich (1999): 186–7. Fantham (1995) and Heinrich (1999): 187. Vessey (1973): 123 poses the contrast between Menoeceus and Capaneus as one between uirtus (in a positive sense) and furor. On the use of the gigantomachy and cosmological ideas in post-Virgilian epic, see Hardie (1986): 381–3.

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10.849–52). Just as Tydeus had perpetrated perhaps the most terrible crime against another human (i.e. cannibalism), Capaneus commits the ultimate crime against the superi (i.e. a one-on-one challenge to the king of the gods). As Philip Hardie has shown, imagery involving assaults on the gods by the Titans, Giants, and Typhoeus serves an important ideological function in the Aeneid. The defeat of these monstrous forces of strife and disorder by Jupiter and the Olympians is connected again and again to the order imparted to the world by the rule of Rome, especially under Augustus.106 Given the significance of these myths for the Augustan voice of the Aeneid, Statius’ Capaneus, with his numerous ties to these and other destabilizing figures, becomes an even more potent and appropriate figure to assault Jupiter and thus fulfill Dis’ wishes (Theb. 8.76–7). Not only is he introduced with gigantomachic imagery, as we saw above, but he repeatedly acts as a contemptor deorum (“despiser of the gods”), an heir-of-sorts to the Giants and to Virgil’s Mezentius.107 In the catalogue of Argive warriors at the beginning of book 4, Statius describes Capaneus with a number of associations to violent creatures and beings who challenged the authority of the gods.108 He wears a helmet depicting a Giant carrying a tree for his spear (4.175–7).109 Capaneus’ troops include those from the land of Thamyris who had challenged the Muses in song (4.182–6). Moreover, Capaneus is the blasphemous enemy of Amphiaraus in book 3, where he denies the validity of the seer’s findings and challenges the very existence of the gods.110 The gods mean nothing to him. As a vehicle for Dis’ revenge on the superi, Capaneus is therefore an effective choice. By boldly challenging and disdaining the heavenly gods, he causes fear and confusion among them.111 When he calls upon the superi to respond to his violence, Statius depicts them for the first time fully interacting with one another (10.883–907). The pair of councils of the gods in books 1 and 3 hardly make us aware of the presence of more than two or three deities. In book 10, we see the gods in all their pettiness and partisanship. Their ultimate concern is not the safeguarding of fate, of pietas, of everlasting values, but rather the protection of their own spheres 106 108 109 110 111

107 See also Legras (1905): 118. See especially ibid., 84–156 and 329–35. Vessey (1973): 200 notes how Capaneus’ description here foreshadows his mode of death. For a discussion of the depiction of the Lernaean Hydra on his shield (4.165–72) and its complex intertextual background in Euripides’ Phoenissae, see Fernandelli (2000). See chapter 3. Statius emphasizes the fear they experience: gemit (886, 889), plangit (892), flet Venus metuens mariti (893), ingemuit dictis superum dolor (907).

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of power.112 Nonetheless the threat posed by Capaneus eventually unites them in their desire for punishing this hubristic mortal: ecce quierunt/ iurgia, cum mediis Capaneus auditus in astris (“Look! the insults quieted, when Capaneus was heard amid the stars,” 10.897–8). Capaneus’ rebuke of the gods soon becomes a personal challenge to Jupiter himself (10.902–6). Yet Jupiter appears surprisingly hesitant to act, and his inaction sparks questions from both the superi and Capaneus himself as to whether the king of the gods will do anything at all (888–9, 902–6, 911, 917–20). Statius’ narrative here oscillates between the fear of the heavenly gods and the serenity of Jupiter. This hesitance is all the more surprising since people elsewhere in book 10 have been metaphorically struck by thunder, Jupiter’s most potent weapon.113 Moreover, since Capaneus’ assault is likened to a Titan breaking free from hell, or a Giant again attacking the heavens (10.915–17), Jupiter’s efficacy as king and protector of the gods is put even more pointedly to the test, but he still tarries. As the gods watch the spectacle of a mortal taunting the heavens, they begin to doubt that, even if Jupiter were to act, his thunderbolt would be powerful enough to destroy Capaneus (920). The king of the gods ultimately does act and strikes him down with all his might (toto Ioue, 10.927), and the mortal wins both censure and admiration.114 In the end, Capaneus seems not altogether different from Menoeceus. In some sense, Capaneus achieves what Virtus had told Menoeceus to do: magnanime o iuuenis . . . linque humiles pugnas, non haec tibi debita uirtus: astra uocant, caeloque animam, plus concipe, mittes. (10.662, 664–5)

Great-hearted youth . . . leave behind lowly battle, this uirtus is not owed you: the stars summon you, and you will send your soul to the heavens – strive for more.

112

113 114

The contentiousness of the gods is thrown in relief. Tensions among the gods, suggested throughout the poem, find expression here. So, for example, Bacchus seems to be hounded by Juno as he addresses Jupiter (10.886–9), and Pallas rebukes the Theban gods (10.895). Cf. 10.618–19 and 674–7. For potentially positive aspects of Capaneus’ assault, see Ripoll (1998): 229–32. Interestingly, the superi have a surprising amount of praise for the mortal. On the one hand, they fulfill Dis’ plans (8.75–9; see discussion in chapter 8): they are afraid of Capaneus’ assault (which is described with imagery from the gigantomachy, 10.915–17) and are even ashamed that they feel this way (pudet ista timere/ caelicolas, 10.917–18). On the other hand, they look at the spectacle of Capaneus’ attack with amazement (mirantur, 10.920), and we are told after he has died that his deeds do not go unpraised by Jupiter himself (facta . . . ipsi non illaudata Tonanti, 11.10–11) – even as the mortal is also compared to Tityos, the Giant who had raped Apollo’s mother (11.12–17).

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Like Menoeceus, Capaneus is magnanimus (11.1); he also disdains human battle (cf. iam sordent terrena uiro taedetque profundae/ caedis, “now earthly things are foul for the warrior and he is weary of obscure bloodshed,” 10.837– 8; and humilesne Amphionis arces, “the lowly citadels of Amphion,” 10.873). Capaneus too seeks the stars by means of his uirtus; Statius’ introduction to Capaneus’ aristeia itself uses language that could suggest deification: comminus astrigeros Capaneus tollendus in axes (“Capaneus must be raised in close contest against the star-bearing sky,” 10.828), and the gods hear him amid the stars (mediis Capaneus auditus in astris, 10.898). Moreover, while Menoeceus is intertextually infected by a Fury, Capaneus’ Fury is explicit (furias uirtutis iniquae/ consumpsit, “he consumed the fury of his unconscionable uirtus,” 11.1–2). This contrast is significant. Whereas Menoeceus’ death contained elements that were suggestively subversive of the superi, Capaneus’ act of uirtus is clearly intended to undermine Jupiter. Not only had Dis demanded this in his order to Tisiphone in book 8, but Tisiphone, addressing her sister-Fury Megaera in book 11, will deride Jupiter’s pathetic blasting of Capaneus and the cowering of the gods that had preceded it: ego mixta uiri furialibus armis/ bella deum et magnas ridebam fulminis iras (“Intermingled with the crazed weapons of the warrior, I derided the battles of the gods and the great wrath of the lightningbolt,” 11.90–1).115 In the cases of both Menoeceus and Capaneus, the idea of uirtus is at play,116 and in both cases it falls victim to the power of the Furies, both Statian and Virgilian.117 tisiphone, n e fa s , and t he ascendancy of hell If Capaneus’ assault at the end of book 10 suggests the defeat of the superi and the dominance of nefas, the beginning of book 11 makes these things eminently clear. Tisiphone calls on her sister-Fury Megaera to assist her in encouraging nefas. It is an important moment in the epic, for it is the first time in the Thebaid that Tisiphone, who has been the poem’s main promoter of the unspeakable, herself speaks (11.76–112). Tisiphone’s voice here is startling, but it is made doubly so by the appearance of yet another 115 116

117

Tisiphone even regards her involvement in Capaneus’ death as one of her proudest achievements in the war (11.88–91). Heinrich (1999): 189 notes that “Menoeceus performs a failed devotio; Capaneus, a reverse devotio: the effects of Capaneus’ death match those of Decius’ death as recorded by Livy, except Capaneus brings the irae deorum against his own people.” See Fantham (1995).

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Fury, Megaera, who will help her create nefas (and who will herself utter a brief eight words at 11.201–2). The two non-Virgilian Furies118 meet in book 11 and plot the fratricidal deaths of Eteocles and Polynices – the defining act of the Thebaid.119 Tisiphone’s appearance in book 11 represents the culmination of a process which has brought the powers of hell to dominance in the cosmos and which will ultimately force an understanding of the war as nefas on all characters in the poem. If the true nefas of the war is repressed by the heavenly gods and the Argive participants in it, Tisiphone lays to rest all confusion about its criminality and thus satisfies her long-standing desire to avenge Oedipus. The fraternal aspect of the war can no longer be silenced, and the dread goddess reveals her unspeakable intentions.120 Her actions contribute significantly to the cosmic struggle waged by Dis against his brother Jupiter. By contriving the end of the war, Tisiphone carries out the commands of the infernal king (11.76–7), and, in doing so, signals the domination of hell. Tisiphone’s perverse desire to create terrible crime thus echoes and fulfills Dis’ desire to take revenge on his brother Jupiter.121 By obeying Dis’ orders, Tisiphone gratifies her own desires (11.81–91).122 Like Oedipus and Dis, Tisiphone clearly announces her goal; indeed she rejoices in the criminality of her undertaking (11.97–100). Tisiphone’s appeal to Megaera heightens the perversity of the war:123 ipsae odiis, ipsae discordibus armis aptemur. quid lenta uenis? agedum elige cuius signa feras . . . . . . tibi pareat impius exsul, Argolicumque impelle nefas: neu mitis Adrastus praeualeat plebesque, caue, Lernaea moretur. uade, et in alternas inimica reuertere pugnas. (11.100–2, 109–12) 118 119 120 121

122

123

The third Fury, Allecto, is the one employed by Virgil in Aeneid 7. Allecto’s absence in the Thebaid must surely be deliberate. For the Furies’ role in Theban myth, see Venini (1970): 20–1; in Thebaid 11, see H¨ubner (1970): 89–98. See, e.g., 11.57–9 and 110. Megaera’s ascent into the upper world is somewhat Amphiaraus-like in that it temporarily disrupts the cosmic balance and lightens the gloom of hell (11.73–4), just as Amphiaraus’ katabasis had (8.31–3). Megaera’s anabasis will contribute to the rout of the heavenly gods in the face of the terrible, infernal criminality she will inspire with her sister. Although Dis had given Tisiphone commands regarding the brothers in book 8, Tisiphone seemingly had a personal interest in fomenting strife that goes beyond her subservience to Dis. In book 1, she was the first divinity to respond to Oedipus’ call for fraternal nefas – before Jupiter or Dis had even said a word. On the enervation of Tisiphone at this point in the narrative, see Hershkowitz (1995): 62.

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Let us equip ourselves with their hatred, with discordant weapons. Why do you approach slowly? Come, choose whose standards you will carry . . . Let the impious exile obey you, and incite Argive nefas; beware lest gentle Adrastus prevail or the Lernaean mob delay. Go, and as my enemy return for mutual combat.

If the idea of the sibling war is unspeakable and horrifying to all other gods in the epic, it is so exhilarating for the Furies that they not only promote it but even take sides, as Megaera becomes Tisiphone’s “enemy” (inimica, 112). They consequently layer the fraternal war with a mock sororal one – mirroring the strife between the brothers (both mortal and divine) even as they are promoting it. We see the perversity of these two infernal deities, as well as of the poem’s climactic act. The effect of Tisiphone’s address to Megaera, then, is to inject another rush of infernal energy into the poem. In this way, the actions of Tisiphone here parallel those of Oedipus in book 1 and Dis in book 8. In all three cases, terrible acts of nefas, never before seen, are called for, and these calls provide the energy that pushes the narrative toward its nefarious goals. In all three cases, Virgil’s Juno and Allecto are dominant models. The Thebaid is always moving toward the duel between Eteocles and Polynices, but each intervention of the infernal deities serves to define further the nature of the violence and the movement of the narrative. Tisiphone and Megaera’s meeting represents a defining moment in the gradual domination of hell over the heavens. With the underworld’s complete victory comes the potential for unheard-of acts of nefas. Criminality can infect human relationships without any serious threat from the heavens. This infernal superiority and its promotion of nefas are symbolically confirmed by Jupiter’s faint-hearted response, when he sees the Furies at 11.119–20: the king of the gods departs from the battlefield, and from the poem once and for all. But it is not just Jupiter’s departure in itself that is important. Rather, it is the departure as a definitive statement of Jupiter’s inability to rule the cosmos that marks his true eclipse and that of his heavenly realm. Dis’ revenge and challenge of the superi have succeeded. Statius’ heavenly gods are intertextually undermined by the infernal powers of the Aeneid. The political ramifications of the underworld’s domination are significant. Statius has expanded the particularly violent and destabilizing elements that are ultimately controlled in an Augustan reading

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of the Aeneid to create a very different world, though one still rooted in Virgil’s epic. The Thebaid presents a cosmos in which there are no divinities to safeguard moral ideals such as pietas and uirtus. Without gods promoting them, kingship – on both the divine and human levels – devolves into nefas and autocracy.

chapter 7

Delay and the rout of Pietas

The beginning of book 11 depicts the full domination of hell over Jupiter and the heavenly gods. The brothers Eteocles and Polynices finally face each other on the battlefield, but despite the inevitability of their duel, events do not proceed unhindered. As the Furies combine forces to bring about the brothers’ nefas, the war’s criminality is fully realized by human characters who articulate their horror in the most condemnatory tones heard in the epic. The threat to hell’s domination no longer comes from the superi, who will be routed, but from humankind, in whom reside the last real vestiges of moral concern. In book 11, then, we see an escalation both in the power of the Furies on earth and in human resistance to their crimes. The theme of mora dominates much of book 11, though it is not new to the epic. In chapter 5, we saw how Bacchus emulates the Virgilian Juno in contriving delay to safeguard his honor and power. In book 11, a different type of mora takes center stage: human characters attempt to prevent the brothers from meeting in battle. Unlike the actions of Bacchus, these delays are essentially moral. As characters see that the brothers are about to fight, they are horrified and seek to stop them. The imminent spectacle of the brothers’ impending crime motivates these delays. In this chapter, I will examine the attempts to hinder the nefas that the Thebaid is always and ineluctably approaching. I will argue that this moral resistance fails not only because Dis and the Furies have uncontested control of Statius’ world but also because intertextual forces undermine these seemingly virtuous efforts. And since these unsuccessful attempts at mora ultimately culminate in the defeat of the goddess Pietas, the interplay between delay and the imminence of the brothers’ duel provides another important means by which the Thebaid creates horror and engages in a dialogue with the Aeneid. In what follows, I will first examine the Virgilian background to the Furies in book 11, and then move to the theme of delay. I will argue that intertextuality, delay, and the anticipation of crime are 152

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defining elements of the pleasure of the Thebaid’s nefas, which, as we have seen, is always engaged in a dialogue with the Aeneid. tisiphone as juno: megaera as allecto As the brothers move ever closer to their fratricidal doom in book 11, the Aeneid supplies the dominant structural model.1 Virgil’s influence is clearly felt in the orchestration and fighting of the duel and its relationship to that between Aeneas and Turnus. But it is also apparent in the influence of Virgil’s Juno. We have seen characters throughout the epic initially resemble one Virgilian figure only to become closer to that figure’s foil. In the process, the values that the initial Virgilian character represented are undermined. At the opening of book 11, we witness a variation on this phenomenon. Tisiphone, who up until this point has been most closely associated with Virgil’s Allecto, gradually takes on the role of Allecto’s superior, the goddess Juno. Juno consequently becomes a model not simply for a character who calls upon a Fury, but for a Fury herself. Tisiphone appears at the beginning of book 11, as she prepares to summon Megaera to help bring about the brothers’ final confrontation: iamque potens scelerum geminaeque exercita gentis sanguine Tisiphone fraterna cludere quaerit bella tuba.2 (Theb. 11.57–9)

Now, exercised by the blood of two races and having attained her crimes, Tisiphone seeks to conclude the war with fraternal violence.

Since she is about to rouse another Fury from hell to incite violence, we might expect Juno’s rousing of Allecto from the underworld at Aeneid 7.286–340 to be Tisiphone’s model.3 Instead we are drawn to a Juno– Allecto passage later in book 7, when the Fury, having already incited war, returns to the queen of the gods: 1

2 3

For example, the interchange between Polynices and Adrastus at the opening of 11 draws on that between another father and (potential) son-in-law, Latinus and Turnus (Aen. 12.10–53); the suicide of Jocasta (11.634–47) resembles the suicide of Amata (Aen. 12.593–611). The duel itself also bears a close resemblance to that of Turnus and Aeneas. Although we are still in a predominantly Virgilian intertextual world in book 11, other models can also be felt, most notably Euripides, Seneca, Lucan, and of course Homer Iliad 22, which is always in the background of Aeneid 12 and thus is an indirect (as well as independent) influence. See Venini (1970): passim. The text here is troubled. See Venini (1970): ad loc. The word tuba is difficult but must stand in for something that means “strife” or “violence.” Ibid., ad 60.

154

Statius and Virgil promissi dea facta potens, ubi sanguine bellum imbuit et primae commisit funera pugnae (Aen. 7.541–2)

The goddess, having attained what she had promised, when she stained the war with blood and arranged the deaths of the first skirmish

Tisiphone’s potens scelerum (Theb. 11.57) resembles Allecto’s promissi . . . potens.4 The bloody war that Tisiphone incites (geminaeque exercita gentis/ sanguine, Theb. 11.57–8) echoes Allecto’s (sanguine bellum/ imbuit, Aen. 7.541–2). At this point, Tisiphone is cut from the mold of her Virgilian sister Allecto. This Virgilian influence represents an important stage in the domination of hell. By the time we reach Thebaid 11, Tisiphone has already performed the equivalent of Allecto’s triggering of the Italian war. She has responded both to Oedipus’ prayer (book 1) and to Dis’ commands (book 8),5 and has successfully promoted the Argive–Theban confrontation. It is thus wholly fitting that Tisiphone at the beginning of book 11 should recall Allecto’s appearance in Virgil, where she has just incited war in Italy. The Thebaid, however, travels down a path that the Aeneid does not. Virgil’s Allecto may want to promote more madness (Aen. 7.548–51),6 but Juno does not allow this because Jupiter would not stand for it:7 te super aetherias errare licentius auras haud pater ille uelit, summi regnator Olympi. cede locis. ego, si qua super fortuna laborum est, ipsa regam. (Aen. 7.557–60)

The father, the ruler of highest Olympus, would not want you wandering so freely in the upper air. Depart from this place. Whatever issue of troubles remains, I myself will manage.

In the Aeneid’s cosmic order, the Furies are not permitted free rein in the upper world; Allecto must therefore return to hell. Nonetheless, this interchange raises the possibility of the Furies’ unrestrained activity on earth. What would happen if a Fury – unrestrained by the heavenly gods – were to manipulate a war on earth? 4

5 7

In addition, ibid., ad 57 notes that Ovid echoes this same Virgilian phrase in his own Juno–Fury scene: iussi . . . potens (Met. 4.510). Like Allecto, Ovid’s Tisiphone has just completed Juno’s bidding and returns to the underworld (though without consulting Juno first as in the Aeneid). This Ovidian echo further adds to the heightened horror and criminality of Statius’ reworking of the Allecto episode (see below). 6 Cf. Ovid’s Tisiphone (see note above). Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 250. Note also that Juno yields to Jupiter’s will at Aen. 12.818.

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Statius’ Tisiphone has essentially been doing just this since Oedipus uttered his prayer in book 1, but here in book 11 she goes still farther by trading her Virgilian persona. She now will act like Virgil’s Juno in calling up another Fury (in this case her sister Megaera) to help orchestrate the brothers’ duel: tibi pareat impius exul, Argolicumque impelle nefas; neu mitis Adrastus praeualeat plebesque, caue, Lernaea moretur. uade, et in alternas inimica reuertere pugnas. (11.109–12)

Let the impious exile obey you; provoke Argive nefas. Beware lest gentle Adrastus prevail and the Lernaean mob delay. Go, and return as my enemy for mutual combat.

At the same time Tisiphone outdoes her new model in violence. Unlike the Aeneid’s Juno, Tisiphone will set no limits on crime for herself or her sister, Megaera. And whereas Virgil’s Juno had allowed Allecto only to initiate the conflict, Tisiphone has Megaera join her in overseeing the criminal duel to its fruition. She fully unleashes the potential for horror and violence from Aeneid 7 that Virgil’s Juno’s had curbed. In the process, she pits another pair of siblings against each other: she and her sister Megaera will perversely take sides in the fraternal war (11.112) as they both strive to bring Eteocles and Polynices together to fight to the death.8 Statius’ elaboration of this Aeneid 7 episode creates a dynamic expansion in crime that will ultimately bring about the culminating act of the poem. And yet Tisiphone, though placed in the dominant position of Virgil’s Juno, still acts like the Virgilian Allecto as well – thus encompassing the two dominant forces of madness from the Aeneid. Like Allecto, Tisiphone intervenes three times. She influences Eteocles twice (208–9, 387–406), and then routs Pietas, an act that represents a culmination of her power in the poem.9 What could be more terrifying than a Statian character combining the violence of Virgil’s Juno and Allecto? Tisiphone thus expands the criminality of Allecto in ways already suggested as possibilities in Virgil’s text, and this has the effect of placing both Jupiter’s cosmic control and the possibility of pietas at still greater risk. The 8 9

Venini (1970): ad loc. Vessey (1973): 161 writes: “For each of the brothers there is a Fury, symbolic of the equal madness which possesses them during their fight.” Megaera, on the other hand, will act later only to promote the war more forcefully in conjunction with Tisiphone (see, e.g., 11.403). It should be noted, however, that Megaera’s effect on Polynices seems to be failing at 11.382–7, and this prompts the forceful intervention of Tisiphone on Eteocles (11.387–9) that will finally incite the brothers to initiate their duel, guided by the Furies (11.403–6).

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incitement of fraternal strife is a specialty of Virgil’s Allecto, as Juno herself states: tu potes unanimos armare in proelia fratres (“You are able to arm harmonious brothers for battle,” Aen. 7.335). Allecto does not quite do this in the Aeneid, but Tisiphone does so in Statius’ epic, thereby surpassing the unspeakable violence of her Virgilian model. Moreover, while Virgil’s Juno is ultimately reluctant to let the Fury Allecto range unimpeded in the upper world because Jupiter would not allow it (Aen. 7.557–8, see above), Statius’ Tisiphone displays no such concerns. Indeed, she is fulfilling the commands of Dis (11.76–7) to horrify Jupiter (cf. 8.65–79). Statius’ two Furies will run wild on earth without any interference from the superi. The resulting reaction from Jupiter is telling: whereas Virgil’s Juno had implicitly suggested that Jupiter would take action if Allecto were on earth too long, Statius’ Jupiter cowers in fear upon witnessing the Furies (Theb. 11.119–21). This is the first time that Jupiter seems to recognize the involvement of hell, even though Tisiphone has been at work since the beginning of the epic. He is horrified by what he witnesses (uidit), but, instead of forcing them back into hell, as does the Virgilian Juno, or controlling the Furies, as his counterpart does at Aeneid 12.845–52, he yields the battlefield to them and just refuses to watch (11.122–35). the theme of d el ay The domination of the Furies on the battlefield moves the epic ever closer to the culminating moment of the poem, the fratricidal duel between Eteocles and Polynices. Though Jupiter has declined to intervene, there are other characters who will attempt to prevent the brothers’ nefas. The theme of delay (mora), important earlier in the poem, is thus reintroduced in book 11,10 as various characters strive to avoid the fraternal duel. In other words, the vivid understanding and anticipation of its criminality generate a heightened desire for delay. Though deeply rooted in book 12 of the Aeneid and book 22 of the Iliad, the delays here are closer in idea to Lucan’s use of mora, which, like so much in the poem, comes to the Thebaid with ramifications subversive of Virgil’s epic. The theme of delay, as we saw in chapter 5, can be traced back to the Aeneid. But whereas it is most often thought of in terms of Juno’s actions 10

Schetter (1960): 115–16 has a brief discussion of the nature and effect of the mora-dynamic. He ¨ describes it as a combination of Hinderungsversuche and Uberspielung. On delay in book 11, see also Feeney (1991): 339 with n. 90. For the delay theme in other parts of the poem, see Schetter (1960): 70–1, Vessey (1973): 165–7, and Feeney (1991): 339. For Bacchus’ delaying, see chapter 5.

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to prevent the fulfillment of fate, particularly in relation to her famous summoning of the Fury Allecto in book 7, the mora-theme also plays an important role in Aeneid 12,11 particularly with respect to Turnus who refuses to delay his battle with Aeneas. Turnus’ predicament, in turn, expands on Hector’s in Iliad 22, though in Homer the idea of delay is not as prominent. Just as Hector receives appeals from his father and mother to avoid oneon-one battle with Achilles (Il. 22.25–89), so Turnus is beseeched by his would-be father- and mother-in-law (Aen. 12.18–80). Book 11 of the Thebaid represents a further development of this tradition. Adrastus, Jocasta, Antigone, and Pietas all attempt to prevent the fraternal duel. But there is a crucial difference between Statian delay and that in Virgil. In the Aeneid, delay most often means the hindrance of fate and Jupiter’s will, which are positive forces for the Trojans. In the Thebaid, the issue is not one of delaying fate but of obstructing fratricide: Statian mora involves the hindrance of nefas. The achievement of the brothers’ nefas will automatically implicate the overthrow of pietas, something that happens in various ways throughout book 11.12 Statius introduces the delay theme in book 1, when he describes the decision to alternate the rule of the city between the Theban brothers:13 haec inter fratres pietas erat, haec mora pugnae sola nec in regem perduratura secundum. (1.142–3)

This was pietas between the brothers; this was the only delay to fighting, nor would it last to a second king.

Without this mora, there would be no pietas but rather bloodshed. Indeed the two words are virtually synonymous here. For Eteocles and Polynices, pietas means only preventing fratricide – a perverse understanding, well suited for relationships in Oedipus’ family. This passage also indicates the ultimate failure of the mora, of the alternating rule – nec perduratura. What results from the breakdown of the mora pugnae and the absence of any conventional sense of pietas over the course of the epic is a series of actions that are impia and nefas – culminating in the ultimate abomination, fratricide. 11 12

13

Numerous delay words appear in Aeneid 12: mora/moror: 11, 74, 431, 541, 553, 565, 676, 699, 781, 889; cunctor: 916, 919, 940. Feeney (1991): 388–9. Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 238–41 also shows that the delays often result in a restatement of the duel’s criminality and the workings of what she calls the “the triad of Evil” – Furia, furor, and nefas. Feeney (1991): 339 and McNelis (2004): 269.

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These Statian lines seemingly look back to the beginning of the De Bello Civili, where Lucan described Crassus, while still living, as a (temporary) mora to civil war between Caesar and Pompey: nam sola futuri/ Crassus erat belli medius mora (1.99–100). Delay here is also viewed as futile, when set against the inevitability of familial strife. And throughout Lucan, mora works to hinder the criminality and evil of Caesar’s domination. In the De Bello Civili, Caesar’s victory means the death of libertas, the end of the Republic, and the birth of “slavery” under the Principate. Thus, in the famous depiction of the battle of Pharsalus in book 7, where Pompey is routed by Caesar, Lucan uses the theme of delay in its most jarring manifestation to avoid describing the armed conflict, as if he cannot bear to narrate the decisive battle that ruined his own political world a century later.14 The mora-theme thus comes to Statius with its ideological significance from the Aeneid already subverted. In Lucan, it implies resistance to the evil of tyranny and of Caesar and his descendants. Surprisingly the idea of delay in Thebaid 11 is first voiced, not by someone who champions pietas, but by the Fury Tisiphone who realizes that, as she and her sister act to bring about the fraternal nefas, there may be attempts at obstruction fueled by Pietas and Fides:15 sed fratrum (licet alma Fides Pietasque repugnent, uincentur), fratrum stringendi comminus enses. (11.98–9)

But brothers’ swords (although nurturing Faith and Pietas may resist, they will be defeated), brothers’ swords must be drawn at close quarters.

As she announces this possibility, however, she also indicates its futility. Although these forces might attempt obstruction (repugnent), they will nonetheless be defeated (uincentur). Tisiphone re-emphasizes this tension between prevention and promotion (which will structure the scenes that follow) at the end of her address to Megaera:16 neu mitis Adrastus/ praeualeat plebesque, caue, Lernaea moretur (11.110–11, see above). She thus foregrounds not only the attempts at delay but also defines the role that the powers of hell will play: the Furies will overwhelm the morae and thus ensure the 14 15 16

Bramble (1982): 540, Henderson (1988): 133–4, and Feeney (1991): 276–7. See also chapter 8. More specifically, Tisiphone also suggests pleas from Jocasta, Antigone, and even Oedipus might occur (11.104–8). See Feeney (1991): 386–7 and n. 229 on delays in book 11. Interestingly, at the very time that Tisiphone seeks to overcome delay, there is a slight suggestion of hesitation on her own part and that of her sister. Tisiphone asks Megaera: quid lenta uenis (11.101), after she has induced Megaera’s aid. And Tisiphone herself, as the sisters take sides in the conflict, says that she would hesitate to support Polynices’ army since she would not want to attack Thebes, which must be her favorite city; instead, she prefers to incite Eteocles (11.108–9).

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commission of nefas. Indeed, Tisiphone, insightful and dominant goddess that she is in Statius, even looks forward to the attempts by Antigone and Jocasta: adfatus matris blandamque precatu/ Antigonen timeo, paulum ne nostra retardent/ consilia (“I fear the mother’s entreaties and Antigone, persuasive at supplication, lest they retard our plans for a little while,” 11.103–5). The Virgilian theme of delay is thus thoroughly overturned in Statius, by way of Lucan. jocasta’s d el ay In book 11, then, we witness the development and ultimate collapse of the delaying theme and its revelation of the ineffectiveness of pietas. The rout of the goddess Pietas, with which all morae will be put to rest once and for all, entails the brothers’ final nefas. The dynamic tension leading to this culminating event structures the scenes preceding the duel – deferrals of the ultimate (and inevitable) culmination of the brothers’ (and father’s) hate.17 As a result, Statius heightens our desire finally to see the nefas, as criminal characters promote it, while playing with our revulsion at watching by describing the actions of those who would delay, if not prevent it.18 In this section I will argue that the ultimate failures of Jocasta, Antigone, and Adrastus occur not simply because of the dominance and inevitability of evil in the poem, but also because of the intertextual background to these well-intended attempts that undermines them. Jocasta appears in book 11 to dissuade Eteocles from civil war, in much the same way as she had tried to influence Polynices in book 7,19 but her effect is overpowered by the irrepressible force of the Furies.20 Jocasta acts according to pietas, and attempts to delay the duel by specifically calling for mora (11.347): adde moram sceleri et metire quod audes (“add delay to your 17

18

19 20

For this tension between forces that would prevent the crime and those that would promote it, see Masters (1992): 1–10 for its operation in Lucan’s epic, and Schiesaro (1994) on the prologue of Seneca’s Thyestes. Compare the similar effect that the suspense of the arena – not knowing when or exactly how the combat would end – might have had on the experience and enjoyment of the spectator. See Coleman (1990): 58–9. The theme of spectacle will be discussed in chapter 8. Delarue (2000): 359. Note that Jocasta and Antigone each focuses on one brother – as do the Furies at the beginning of 11 – in their attempts to prevent the duel. Vessey (1973): 274 notes well: “Whereas in the tragedies the brothers reject their mother’s advice after discussion, in Statius there is, on the surface, an apparent but illusory chance that her supplication may be successful but for the counteraction of the Fury. The impulses that drive the brothers to their death are created by the irresistible, supernatural force brought into being by Oedipus’ curse.”

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crime and take measure of what you are daring”). She operates under the assumption that if the nefas of the duel is understood, it will be prevented. She asserts to Eteocles that Polynices, by attacking Thebes, executes an “impious” war (sed pulsat muros germanus et impia contra/ bella ciet, “but your brother pounds on the walls and incites impious war against you,” 11.348–9). Moreover, if Oedipus has been impius toward them, she has not. Jocasta claims emphatically that she did not incite the Stygian gods against Eteocles (11.344–5). Rather, she begs Eteocles to respect pietas and to prevent the nefas (genetrix te, saeue, precatur,/ non pater, “Your mother (not your father) beseeches you, fierce one,” 11.346–7).21 Despite her outwardly pious claims, Jocasta is undermined by her seemingly inherent tendency to Fury and sexual crime. Hershkowitz has demonstrated the suggestions of madness and incest that cloud Jocasta’s attempt to prevent the fraternal duel.22 Instead of reiterating that exposition, I will focus on some of the intertextual aspects of Jocasta’s characterization that specifically show the intensification of her madness and nefas in Thebaid 11. Jocasta’s inability to attain the pietas she espouses is characteristic of the dissolution of boundaries caused by nefas, and the inability of pietas to exist in a post-Virgilian world, abandoned by the king of the gods and, in turn, dominated by hell. While Jocasta, as we have seen, participates in the recall of Aeneid 12, Iliad 22, and of Lucan (as do Antigone and Adrastus), she is also part of another literary tradition – the tragic tradition of Eteocles and Polynices’ duel from Aeschylus’ Seven Against Thebes, and from the Phoenissae both of Euripides and of Seneca, in which appeals by Jocasta to prevent the brothers from fighting play a central role.23 But there is an important difference between the Greek and Roman representations of her that shows Statius’ more closely resembling that of Seneca, a development that contributes intertextual reasons for the failure of Statius’ Jocasta (and that of his Antigone later). Both Aeschylus and Euripides portray the brothers’ conflict with a relative degree of moral certitude. In the Seven Against Thebes, Polynices is the 21

22 23

Note that Oedipus had prayed for the nefas (precatur, 1.55); Polynices will also (precatur, 11.503). Oedipus’ curse of his sons at the beginning of the epic is known to other characters within the poem, as Jocasta here indicates, whereas the supposed reasons for the curse – i.e., the sons’ maltreatment of him – are not supported by other characters within the poem – a fact which, as we saw in chapter 2, sharpens the characterization of Oedipus’ madness. Hershkowitz (1998a): 280–2. Statius follows Seneca and Euripides in having Jocasta still alive during Polynices’ expedition against Thebes, while another tradition has her commit suicide after learning of Oedipus’ true identity and thus of her crimes. See Venini (1970): ad 315.

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terrifying invader of Thebes, which is protected by Eteocles.24 In Euripides’ Phoenissae, the balance of moral judgment is somewhat reversed. Polynices is viewed as having a just cause, while Eteocles is cast as a power-hungry tyrant, who will not relinquish the rule of the city, even though he had promised to.25 In attempting to prevent fraternal crime, Jocasta plays an intermediary who, while recognizing the relative justice of one side over the other, nonetheless attempts a reconciliation. Seneca’s version throws such relative moral certainty into confusion. His Phoenissae does not show one side as more just than the other. If nefas as a concept means the breaking of the bounds of fas, of violating the categories that make sense and create order for human existence, Seneca’s Phoenissae and Jocasta’s dilemma in particular reflect the impossibility of just action in an unspeakable conflict. Jocasta views herself as already morally compromised, a woman whose criminality infects those around her, especially her sons (hoc leue est quod sum nocens:/ feci nocentes. hoc quoque etiamnunc leue est:/ peperi nocentes, “That I am guilty is insignificant: I have made others guilty. This is still also insignificant: I bore guilty sons,” Sen. Phoen. 367–9). With such clarity about the criminality inherent in and evinced by Eteocles and Polynices, the distinctions that both Aeschylus and Euripides had established between the brothers’ actions are thoroughly erased. But if the brothers are criminal in Seneca, how can any type of pietas be achieved in a world turned so morally upside down? Jocasta recognizes the impossibility of her situation:26 quid optem quidue decernam haut scio. regnum reposcit; causa repetentis bona est, mala sic petentis. uota quae faciam parens? utrimque natum uideo: nil possum pie pietate salua facere: quodcumque alteri optabo nato fiet alterius malo. (Sen., Phoen. 377–82)

I do not know what to wish for or what to decide. He demands the kingdom back; his cause in seeking it back is good, but in seeking it this way it is bad. What vows should I make as their parent? I see a son on either side. I can do nothing piously, keeping my pietas intact: whatever I hope for one son will harm the other. 24

25

26

See, e.g., 62–8 (where the messenger looks to Eteocles as the helmsman of their ship of state) and 78–180 (where the chorus appeals to the gods to stop Polynices’ onslaught and to prevent the defeat of Thebes). See, e.g., 74–6 and 357–635 (the parley between Eteocles and Polynices, which is conducted by Jocasta). Euripides’ Polynices, however, seems to suffer less here from his family’s curse, but when in the parley he is again refused the throne, he will not stop his attack on his own city despite his mother’s appeals. Jocasta does, however, favor Polynices’ cause nonetheless (Sen. Phoen. 384–6).

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Moreover, she conceptualizes the conflict between the brothers in terms of nefas and pietas, something she goes on to emphasize later:27 tela, qui fuerit pius, rogante ponat matre; qui non est pius incipiat a me. feruidos iuuenes anus tenebo, nullum teste me fiet nefas; aut si aliquod et me teste committi potest non fiet unum. (Sen., Phoen. 409–14)

Let the son who will be pious (pius) lay down his weapons when his mother asks; let the one who is impious begin with me. Though an old woman, I will restrain the burning young men. No crime (nefas) will occur with me a witness, or if any can be committed even with me as witness, it will not be the only one.

Here Jocasta makes the nefas of the brother’s fratricidal strife also matricidal: fratricide will occur only if matricide happens first. This Senecan conceptualization of Jocasta’s dilemma is echoed in Statius. To hinder the fight, Statius’ Jocasta threatens to block Eteocles’ way so that, if he were to attack his brother, he would first have to commit violence against her: prius haec tamen arma necesse est experiare domi: stabo ipso in limine portae auspicium infelix scelerumque inmanis imago. haec tibi canities, haec sunt calcanda, nefande, ubera, perque uterum sonipes hic matris agendus. (11.338–42)

Nevertheless you must first test these weapons at home: as an unlucky sign and monstrous image of crimes, I will stand on the very threshold of the gate. This gray hair, these breasts must be trodden upon by you, abominable one; this horse must be driven across the womb of your mother.

Jocasta becomes an ambivalent character, who would present Eteocles with a choice either to act with pietas or to repeat his father’s crimes. By going out to the battlefield, Eteocles would have to trample and kill his mother – thus reduplicating Oedipus’ crime of parricide.28 This act of violence also contains echoes of sexual violation (11.341–2): Jocasta’s body would once again become the locus of crime for Laius’ family.29 27

28 29

The opposition between pietas and nefas is also expressed a bit later (Phoen. 450–4): dexteras matri date,/ date dum piae sunt. error inuitos adhuc/ fecit nocentes, omne Fortunae fuit/ peccantis in nos crimen hoc primum nefas/ inter scientes geritur. Cf. Henderson (1994): 25–6. Hershkowitz (1998a): 58 notes that by threatening this crime Jocasta takes on a Fury-like quality.

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Jocasta seems doomed to criminality from other perspectives as well. She, like so many other characters in the epic, is described with intertextual echoes that severely undermine her attempts at pietas. Her introduction is particularly telling: non sexus decorisue memor: Pentheia qualis mater ad insani scandebat culmina montis, promissum saeuo caput adlatura Lyaeo. non comites, non ferre piae uestigia natae aequa ualent: tantum miserae dolor ultimus addit robur, et exangues crudescunt luctibus anni. (11.318–23)

Not mindful of her sex or decorum: just as Pentheus’ mother climbed to the heights of the crazed mountain to carry the head promised to savage Bacchus. Neither her comrades nor her pious daughters are strong enough to keep equal pace: her final grief provides such strength to the wretched mother, and her weak years grow fierce through her afflictions.

As she rushes to Eteocles, Jocasta in book 11 recalls her actions in book 7, where she appeals to the other brother, Polynices:30 ferens ramumque oleae cum uelleris atri nexibus, Eumenidum uelut antiquissima, portis egreditur magna cum maiestate malorum. hinc atque hinc natae, melior iam sexus, aniles praecipitantem artus et plus quam possit euntem sustentant. (7.476–81)

and carrying an olive branch with knots of black fleece, like the most ancient of the Furies, she exits the gates with great majesty from her sorrows. On each side her daughters, now the better sex, hold her up as she hurries her old woman’s limbs and goes faster than she is able.

In both scenes she is accompanied by her daughters. But whereas in book 7 Antigone and Ismene are able to keep up with her, raging though she is (natae . . . sustentant, 7.479–81), in book 11 they cannot (11.321–2).31 Jocasta, already Fury-like in book 7, now appears even more frenzied in her final attempt to prevent her sons’ crime. And in this frenzy, other differences are voiced. In book 7, the sisters are natae, melior iam sexus (7.479). In book 11, however, the sisters become piae, thus contrasting them still more 30 31

See chapter 5 for discussion of this passage. See also Venini (1970): ad 321, Vessey (1973): 273, Lesueur (1992): 234–5, and Hershkowitz (1998a): 280–1. Venini (1970): ad 315. Cf. Frings (1991): 125.

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starkly with their criminal brothers. Moreover Jocasta blurs the distinction between genders, for she is described as non sexus decorisue memor. The use of sexus, given the already strong connections between this scene and that of book 7, must surely be pointed. Whereas the sisters were melior sexus (7.479), Jocasta, in her state of frenzy, has forgotten such distinctions.32 If the urge to nefas involves the breaking of boundaries, then gender and its significance for Oedipus’ family seem to have lost meaning as well. But at the center of the book 11 passage quoted above, another allusion appears that further links books 7 and 11. The word Pentheia follows Jocasta’s description as non sexus decorisue memor (11.318). It is an adjective referring to the Theban Pentheus, who, as a character who had dressed like a woman to spy on secret rites of Bacchus, was truly non sexus decorisue memor. The phrase Pentheia mater (“Pentheus’ mother”) thus alludes to Agave, who violently killed her son with the help of other raging Bacchants.33 The significance of the adjective Pentheia is suggested not only by its thematic relevance but also by its novelty: Pentheia seems to appear here for the first time in Latin, a fact suggesting that Statius invented it especially for this line. Will Jocasta in her fury also commit violence against her son? The transgressive nature of Statius’ Jocasta is shown by the havoc she wreaks not only on gender but also on her very identity as a character. For the Pentheia qualis mater simile (11.318–20) has other intertextual ramifications. This comparison, as Hershkowitz notes, is found in Seneca’s Oedipus,34 but it is also part of Seneca’s Phoenissae.35 There Jocasta apostrophizes Agave as having a relatively lucky fate: Felix Agaue! facinus horrendum manu, qua fecerat, gestauit et spolium tulit cruenta nati maenas in partes dati; fecit scelus, sed misera non ultra suo sceleri occucurrit. (Phoen. 363–7)

Lucky Agave! She carried the horrendous crime in the same hand that had committed it, and as a bloodied maenad, she bore the spoils of her mangled son; she committed the crime, but the wretched woman did not subsequently confront her crime. 32

33

Forgetting one’s sexus often leads to crime or disaster in the Thebaid, though Argia is described as sexu relicto (12.178) when she decides to travel alone to Thebes. But as we will see in chapter 9, her burial of Polynices is tinged with intimations of madness and crime. See Venini (1970): ad 318 on Statius’ use of sexus. Lesueur (1992) examines the generally positive representation of women in the poem – with the exception of the Lemnian women. 34 Ibid., n. 151. 35 Venini (1970): ad 318. See also Hershkowitz (1998a): 38.

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Here we see an escalation in the association between these two unfortunate, cursed Theban women. Whereas the Senecan Jocasta invokes Agave, Statius’ Jocasta in a sense “becomes” Agave through the Pentheia qualis simile. The problem is that Statius’ Jocasta is compared to Agave in the midst of her crime against her son (Pentheus), even as Jocasta is presumably in the midst of saving her own (Eteocles). Thus Statius evokes Agave, a figure of crime, at the very moment he is seemingly creating a character of pietas. Again, is Jocasta on the verge of protecting her son or killing him? Her identity is further compromised as the book 11 passage continues: iamque decus galeae, iam spicula saeua ligabat ductor et ad lituos hilarem intrepidumque tubarum prospiciebat equum, subito cum apparuit ingens mater, et ipse metu famulumque expalluit omnis coetus, et oblatam retro dedit armiger hastam. “quis furor? unde iterum regni integrata resurgit Eumenis?” (Theb. 11.324–30)

And now the leader was fastening on the glory of his helmet, now the fierce darts, and he was looking at his horse, which was buoyant at the trumpets and not afraid of the cornets, when suddenly his imposing mother appeared. He and the whole crowd of his attendants grew pale from fear, and his armor-bearer withdrew the spear he had offered. “What is this madness? What makes the Fury of our kingdom rise again restored?”

The speaker of quis furor . . . Eumenis is unclear. From 11.324 to 328, before the direct speech begins, the focus is on Eteocles, who is taken aback by the sudden appearance of his mother (subito cum apparuit ingens/ mater), and reacts fearfully (metu . . . expalluit). Though the speaker of 329–30 eventually turns out to be Jocasta, the speech is presented in such a way that for more than a line we might think that Eteocles (or an attendant) is speaking, associating furor with his mother, and imagining her to be a Fury.36 This resonates with her description in book 7, where she is also described as a Fury, this time when she is beseeching Polynices: Eumenidum uelut antiquissima (7.477). What we witness, then, is a complicated intertwining of the book 11 passage with Jocasta in book 7 and in Seneca’s Phoenissae. As a result of this interaction, not only does Jocasta in book 11 appear even more crazed, but she may also seem more Fury-like than maternal.

36

Moreover, Venini (1970): ad 329 ss. notes that Jocasta’s language here is much more bitter than in the comparable Euripidean scene (Phoen. 301–635, particularly 528–85).

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Jocasta is not the only Theban woman to resort to delay. Antigone subsequently tries to stop the fraternal duel and fails, in part because she acts as disturbingly as her mother had. Antigone is also enraged (furens, 11.357), and furiously attempts to prevent the duel. Just as Antigone and Ismene (piae sorores) could not keep up with Jocasta (11.321–2), as noted above, so Antigone’s companion, Actor, cannot keep up with her as she climbs a Theban tower to address Polynices on the battlefield: senior comes haeret eunti/ Actor, et hic summas non duraturus ad arces (“her aged attendant Actor keeps near her as she goes, but he will not make it to the very summit,” 11.357–8).37 But Antigone’s intervention here is surprising. Nowhere in the extant texts of Aeschylus, Euripides, or Seneca does Antigone make such an appeal. This is Jocasta’s role.38 Thus on an intertextual level, Antigone is encroaching on Jocasta’s domain, thereby breaking down the distinction between them.39 Antigone’s intertextual nature is still more complex. When she stands atop the Theban tower overlooking the battlefields, she is described as ex muris ceu descensura profatur (11.362). In this posture she recalls Menoeceus in book 10, who, in an act of (seeming) pietas, climbs a Theban tower, and addresses the armies, just before he falls to his death.40 But as we saw in chapter 6, Menoeceus is a double-edged character, both pious and crazed, implicated in nefas through his ambivalent characterization. Menoeceus, however, is not the only character in book 10 to fall: Capaneus also crashes to the ground, when he is punished for challenging Jupiter. Thus, when we see Antigone described as ex muris ceu descensura (“as if she is about to fall from the walls,” 11.362), are we to think of her in comparison to Menoeceus (who is at least partially pius) or Capaneus (who is thoroughly nefandus)? The resonance of Menoeceus here is made still more problematic by the episode in book 7, where Antigone had already been associated with him. Just roughly one hundred lines before Jocasta makes her appeal there, Antigone appears on the Theban walls with her guardian Pherecles, who points out the various Argive warriors. This is Statius’ version of the 37 38 39 40

Frings (1991): 129. Antigone does try in Euripides, when Jocasta attempts another intervention, but it is too late: the brothers have already inflicted their fatal wounds (see Eur. Phoen. 1277–83, 1322–6, 1427–32). Hershkowitz (1998a): 291 writes: “The family motto, ‘like father, like son’, is finally able to extend itself to ‘like mother, like daughter’.” Ibid., 292 n. 91. Hershkowitz also discerns echoes of Ino’s leap into the sea (291).

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teichoscopia that Helen had performed in Iliad 3.161–244.41 Antigone prefaces her questions about the Argive warriors, by stating that she recognizes the Theban troops, for she can make out Menoeceus, Creon, and Haemon, the three humans centrally implicated in Menoeceus’ suicidal leap in book 10: nam uideo quae noster signa Menoeceus, quae noster regat arma Creon, quam celsus aena Sphinge per ingentes Homoloidas exeat Haemon. (Theb. 7.250–2)

For I see which standards our Menoeceus, which arms our Creon leads; how lofty Haemon with his bronze Sphinx exits through the huge Homolo¨ıd gates.

Antigone on the tower in 11 thus might also remind us of Antigone in book 7 as she watches this Theban family from the Theban walls. But now our impression of that earlier scene has changed because of Menoeceus’ suicidal leap from the very same walls in book 10. Her ascent of the tower in book 11 and her description as one about to fall (ceu descensura, 11.362) now seem loaded, and should perhaps make us question her moral stature. In retrospect, we might ask what Antigone, a character who seems committed to pietas in book 11, was doing on the walls in book 7. There she was a spectator, interested in learning about the combatants, but expressing no concern about the criminality of the war or of the very participants being described to her.42 She, in a sense, gains some enjoyment from the start of a war that she later comes to view as criminal, though the unspeakable nature of the conflict remains constant throughout. Just as we cannot be sure whether Antigone ceu descensura should remind us of Menoeceus or of Capaneus, we cannot tell whether she is pia or whether she has always been infected by the nefas of her family. adrastus’ d el ay Although the brothers may waver temporarily, the Furies quickly recognize their procrastination, intervene, and drive them on to their fratricidal duel. What results is the ultimate domination of hell over heaven; any hope for further attempts at delay is seemingly extinguished. The two Furies now guide Eteocles and Polynices to their final confrontation by taking control of 41 42

See Smolenaars (1994): ad 243–373. We may also see the influence of Eur. Phoen. 88–201 and Val. Flac. Arg. 6.490–751. This contrasts with what happens later in book 7: Jocasta practically drags her onto the battlefield in an attempt to stop the criminal war (7.479–81).

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their horses (11.403–8).43 In a Jovian gesture, Dis thunders three times from hell (11.410–11). Those heavenly gods of war who are still participating in the conflict now flee the battlefield (ipsi/ armorum fugere dei: Virtus, Bellona, Mars, and Pallas, 11.411–15). The Furies take their places (inque uicem Stygiae subiere44 sorores, 11.415). Dis even opens up hell, so that Theban ghosts can return to earth and watch (11.420–3). The infernal domination of earth and the heavens is complete. The superi are gone; hell now guides the events leading to the duel. Just when the duel seems irresistible, when Dis and hell control the battlefield and the brothers finally meet and prepare to fight, and when all morae seem to have been defeated, Statius throws in two more installments of delay, as if he cannot bring himself to narrate the terrible act of nefas that is the centerpiece of his poem.45 These final delays, however, signal the ultimate defeat and irrelevance of pietas and of the Augustan ideals that various characters have been grasping at since the opening of the epic. Adrastus rushes to head off the fight, realizing that shame no longer stands in the brothers’ way (sceleri nullum iam obstare pudorem . . . , 11.425). His appeal brings into focus the real nature of the brothers’ conflict: ne perstate animis. te deprecor, hostis (quamquam, haec ira sinat, nec tu mihi sanguine longe), te, gener, et iubeo; sceptri si tanta cupido est, exuo regales habitus, i, Lernan et Argos solus habe! (Theb. 11.431–5)

Do not persist in your vehemence. I beseech you, enemy (although should anger allow, you would not be far off from me in blood); I even order you, son-in-law. If your desire for a scepter is so great, I take off my kingly garments: go, rule Lerna and Argos by yourself.

Adrastus here resembles Virgil’s Latinus, the pious and just king of the Aeneid and the Argive king’s primary model, who attempts to stop Turnus from engaging Aeneas in single combat at the beginning of the Aeneid (12.18–53). Indeed, we might have observed this appeal of father-in-law to son-in-law already at work in Adrastus and Polynices’ first such meeting 43 44 45

Lovatt (2005): 303 nicely points to the metapoetic resonances here, where “the image of holding the reins represents control of the narrative.” The manuscripts read rubuere here, which makes little sense. I am therefore accepting Bentley’s emendation, which is followed by Garrod (1906) and Shackleton Bailey (2003). Feeney (1991): 339. However, we will see in the next chapter that Statius exhibits relatively little hesitation about doing so in comparison to Lucan.

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earlier in book 11, where Polynices justifies to Adrastus his decision to fight his brother (11.155–92). Though Adrastus’ attempts to calm Polynices are only briefly referred to, without a direct interchange of speech (11.196– 7), it is clear that the opening of Aeneid 12 is an important model. But while Adrastus was not given direct speech in this earlier passage, he speaks at 11.429–35 and recalls Latinus’ appeal at the opening of Aeneid 12. There Latinus suggests that Turnus be satisfied with his Father Daunus’ kingdom, the lands that Turnus has conquered, as well as Latinus’ own wealth (Aen. 12.22–3). In a similar way, Adrastus offers his own kingdoms to Polynices, as a way to avoid the fraternal duel, which the king strangely seems to believe is still simply about political power (11.433–5, see above) and not fraternal hatred.46 Adrastus’ attempt is a failure, but it is significant for a number of reasons. First, throughout the epic, Adrastus has been the most insistent believer that his world is guided by ideals such as pietas and by the Aeneid’s Augustan gods, who encourage and look out for humankind.47 He has been a Latinus stranded in Thebes. But in recalling Latinus at the beginning of book 12, both structurally and thematically, Adrastus misses the point that Latinus makes to Turnus. Latinus admits that he acted wrongly in waging the war against Aeneas and fate: uictus amore tui, cognato sanguine uictus coniugis et maestae lacrimis, uincla omnia rupi; promissam eripui genero, arma impia sumpsi. ex illo qui me casus, quae, Turne, sequantur bella, uides, quantos primus patiare labores. (Aen. 12.29–33)

Conquered by my love for you, conquered by our family blood-tie and the tears of my sad wife, I broke all my obligations; I snatched away my betrothed daughter from my future son-in-law; I took up impious arms. From that time, Turnus, you see what misfortunes, what wars follow me; how many toils you suffer foremost.

But at least Latinus has this late recognition. Adrastus does not. He still does not grasp that he has been implicated in the crime of the war since its inception. The war was always criminal. Adrastus’ lament to Jupiter and the superi (ubi iura deique,/ bella ubi? Theb. 11.430–1) goes to the heart of Adrastus’ tragic misunderstanding of his world. Jupiter has already fled by line 46 47

Lovatt (2005): 304 points to the numerous commands in Adrastus’ speech that underscore his vain attempt to take control of the duel, which is being orchestrated by the Furies. See chapter 1.

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11.135, and by line 11.415 even the heavenly war-gods have been supplanted by the Furies. The Thebaid’s gods have never really been interested in justice or morality. So belittled and weak is Adrastus that, when he leaves the battlefield in defeat, he is likened to the king of the underworld, descending there to claim his realm: qualis demissus curru laeuae post praemia sortis umbrarum custos mundique nouissimus heres palluit, amisso ueniens in Tartara caelo. (Theb. 11.443–6)

Just as the guardian of the shades, the last heir of the cosmos, dismounted his chariot after the prize of his unlucky lot, and turned pale as he arrived in Tartarus with heaven lost.

In the end Adrastus is overcome by the forces of hell and is compared to Dis through this simile.48 But even here, Statius conveys the tragedy of Adrastus’ ignorance of his world. Whereas at an earlier time Dis had lost control of the earth to Jupiter, at this moment in the poem (and in the cosmos) he is actually dominating.49 The flight of Adrastus, the poem’s most consistent symbolic advocate of an Augustan view of the Aeneid’s heavenly gods, represents, on the human level, hell’s conquest of the ideal of pietas.50 the rout of pietas The irrelevance of pietas, however, is most fully enacted on the divine level. The descent of the personified goddess Pietas to earth, directly following a brief intervention by Fortuna to delay the crime (cunctataque primo/ substitit in scelere et paulum Fortuna morata est, “Fortune stopped in hesitation as the crime got under way, and delayed for a short time,” 11.447–8), is a moment of great symbolic significance.51 It is not her first appearance on the battlefield, for she had helped Virtus catch Menoeceus’ body, as he fell from the Theban walls in book 11.52 Up to this point, book 11 has been about the 48 49 50

51 52

Delarue (2000): 332 reads this simile as implying Adrastus’ self-damnation because of his participation in a war that is so clearly criminal. See, e.g., 11.403–23. Vessey (1973): 164 suggests a similarity between Adrastus here and Oedipus (“Adrastus has been plunged into hell, like Oedipus who had once seemed his antithesis”) and views the Argive king as “utterly defeated.” See Feeney (1991): 385–9 and Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 267–8. 10.780–1. Ripoll (1998): 307, 309 describes the interrelationship between these two scenes and goddesses, and suggests that these two divinities are the spiritual parents of Menoeceus.

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final revelation of the brothers’ hatred, the forces leading to their nefarious duel, and the various attempts to prevent it. The concept of pietas has been at issue since the very opening of the poem. With the appearance of Pietas,53 we see in symbolic form what has been happening again and again.54 But whereas this is usually taken to mean attempts at pietas that might have been successful are overwhelmed by fury, my contention throughout is that pietas has never really been a possibility in this epic world. Pietas’ appearance reinforces this interpretation by showing on an intertextual level why pietas has been so elusive throughout the Thebaid. Pietas leaps from heaven onto the battlefield in order to make the Argives and Thebans understand the war’s criminality. In this she is successful, at least momentarily: uix steterat campo, subita mansuescere pace agmina sentirique nefas; tunc ora madescunt pectoraque, et tacitus subrepsit fratribus horror. (11.474–6)

Scarcely had she stood on the battlefield, when the ranks grew tame with sudden peace and the nefas was felt; then their faces and chests grow wet, and a quiet horror crept up on the brothers.

If book 11 has shown how various characters (both human and divine) come to understand the perversity of the war, the action of Pietas here ensures that the Argive and Theban armies not only grasp the nature of the war intertextually but viscerally feel the nefas that Oedipus, the infernal gods, and now even the heavenly gods have come to understand. For when the nefas is felt (sentirique nefas, 11.475), the armies weep in horror.55 But Pietas and her effect are quickly and decisively overwhelmed by the powers of hell. The Fury Tisiphone had already broken new ground by addressing her sister earlier in this book. Now, she heightens the symbolic importance of her role by confronting Pietas (and thus also the theme of delay): quid belli obuerteris ausis . . . ? (“Why do you oppose the undertakings of war . . . ?” 11.484). Tisiphone expresses an impatience with any attempt to hinder her 53

54

55

The confrontation between Pietas and the Fury seems to be a development of the theme of the opposition of pietas to furor that we see in Virgil and that is also especially important in Senecan tragedy. Another influence is found in the myth of Astraea’s departure from earth at Metamorphoses 1.149–50. See Ripoll (1998): 307 and below. Lewis (1936): 54–5, Vessey (1973): 276–7, Feeney (1991): 387–8, and Ripoll (1998): 308. Note Feeney’s rightful rejection of Lewis’ notion of “the twilight of the gods being the mid-morning of the personifications” (389). Ripoll (1998): 308 interprets Pietas here as embodying the essence of pietas in the epic. He argues (312) that Statian pietas is shorn of the transcendent aspects (e.g. fate) so important in the Aeneid and becomes something more like “a form of altruistic devotion inspired by Stoic humanism.”

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designs. She asserts that in a world dominated by hell there is no power or need for Pietas. As a result, Pietas flees. Even in her attempts at self-righteousness, Pietas shows the weakness of her power. She takes offense at the actions both of mortals and of immortals (11.457, 465–6), and even rebukes Jupiter and the Fates for allowing this duel to take place: saeuumque Iouem Parcasque nocentes/ uociferans (“inveighing against savage Jupiter and the guilty Parcae,” 11.462–3). When she does this, however, she still offers no solution. She attempts to delay the duel, though she knows that she will be unsuccessful: speculataque tempus/ auxilio “temptemus” ait “licet inrita coner” (“having watched for the time to help, she says, ‘Let me try, although I attempt to no effect,’” 11.470–1).56 Indeed, when driven from the battlefield, Pietas can think of nothing better than to complain to Jupiter about her maltreatment: deiectam in lumina pallam/ diua trahit magnoque fugit questura Tonanti (“The goddess pulls her cloak over her eyes and flees to complain to the great Thunderer,” 11.495–6).57 And she does so after she has already condemned Jupiter for allowing the nefas to happen. The irony of her action is increased by the swiftness of Tisiphone’s response: ni . . . Tisiphone . . . caelestique ocior igne/ adforet (“ if Tisiphone . . . faster than heavenly fire were not present,” 11.482–4). Tisiphone once again acts more quickly than (the thunder of ) Jupiter. The king of the gods is irrelevant here; he can offer Pietas no relief.58 Pietas, thus, has no recourse in this epic world, from which she seems to have been largely absent: iamdudum terris coetuque offensa deorum auersa caeli Pietas in parte sedebat (11.457–8)

Long now offended by the human realm and the company of the gods, Pietas was sitting in a remote part of the sky.

She has lived distant from the concerns of the heavenly gods. If this is the case, how can her self-righteous rebukes of the gods be taken at all seriously? Tisiphone does not and makes her reasons clear, as she forces the goddess from the battlefield: 56

57 58

Moreover, we were told by Tisiphone at the beginning of the book that any such attempt at delay would be defeated (11.98–9). Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 273 views Pietas as an “allegory of nonviolence,” who must be defeated by the Fury, because of her very nature. Nothing else could have been expected of her. Ripoll (1998): 310 underscores the inherently tragic nature of Pietas, her speech, and actions. Moreover, as Dominik (1994a): 39 notes, Jupiter had initially sanctioned the war in book 1. He has both promoted the war’s nefas and been made irrelevant by the Furies. Cf. Delarue (2000): 357.

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quid belli obuerteris ausis, numen iners pacique datum? cede, improba: noster hic campus nosterque dies; nunc sera nocentes defendis Thebas. ubi tunc, cum bella cieret Bacchus et armatas furiarent orgia matres? aut ubi segnis eras, dum Martius impia serpens stagna bibit, dum Cadmus arat, dum uicta cadit Sphinx, dum rogat Oedipoden genitor, dum lampade nostra in thalamos Iocasta uenit? (11.484–92)

Why do you oppose the bold deeds of war, you slothful spirit, devoted to peace? Leave, impudent one; this is our field and our day. It is too late for you to defend guilty Thebes now. Where were you then, while Bacchus was inciting wars and his orgies were infuriating armed women? Or where were you lingering, while Mars’ snake drank from the impious waters, while Cadmus plowed, while the conquered Sphinx fell, while Oedipus was challenged by his father, while Jocasta entered the marriage-bed under my torch?

Pietas has been surprisingly absent from much of Thebes’ notorious past, nor has she taken any significant action in the poem.59 Pietas/pietas has not mattered. On an intertextual level, Pietas also appears as a morally weakened goddess. When she leaps down to the earth, she resembles Juturna, who is enlisted by Juno in Aeneid 12 to resist fate further by delaying Aeneas’ ultimate victory.60 Like Pietas, Juturna selects a good time to intervene and infects the minds of her “victims” (Aen. 12.222–56). But Juturna is associated with Juno (and thus also the Furies) already, and these intertextual connections only stain the moral purity of Statius’ goddess. In addition, the departure of Pietas also contains echoes of Astraea from Metamorphoses 1.149–50: she is another goddess who has already fled the earth because of human crime, and thus underwrites the futility of Pietas’ moral endeavor.61 And finally, and perhaps most interesting of all, Statius’ Pietas has an important model from Silius’ Punica, where the goddess Fides descends to earth to help the people of Saguntum, only to find her influence ultimately overwhelmed by the power of the Fury Tisiphone (Pun. 2.475–664).62 Pietas and Fides had been mentioned by Tisiphone earlier in Thebaid 11 as two divinities who might resist her plans for nefas: licet alma Fides Pietasque repugnent 59 60 61 62

That is, beyond assisting Virtus in catching Menoeceus’ body as it falls from the Theban walls in book 10. See discussion of this scene in chapter 6. Venini (1970): 124–5. Ripoll (1998): 307 and Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 263–4, who also discern echoes of the close of Catullus 64. Venini (1970): ad 458 and Ripoll (1998): 307 n. 251.

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(11.98). By grouping them together in this line, Tisiphone acknowledges their interconnectedness not only in the cultural tradition of Rome63 but perhaps also in the literary tradition, since she will go on to rout Pietas in the Thebaid as she also had already overpowered Fides in the Punica.64 There are other indications of Pietas’ weakness as a figure who can uphold moral values. Her physical appearance is disconcerting. Like Bacchus in 4 and 7, she does not resemble her usual self: non habitu quo nota prius, non ore sereno,/ sed uittis exuta comam, fraternaque bella . . . deflebat (“not in the attire by which she was usually recognized, nor with her serene expression, but having taken the wreaths from her hair, she cried about the fraternal war,” 11.459–62). The parallel suggests that Pietas, like Bacchus, will prove unable to achieve her aim.65 Moreover, she is compared to a weeping mother or sister of the combatants: ceu soror infelix pugnantum aut anxia mater (“like an unlucky sister or anxious mother of the fighters,” 11.461). The implied resemblance to Jocasta and Antigone, also powerless characters, suggests that Pietas belongs with the defeated in Statius’ epic world. Finally, when Pietas reaches earth, we find that she is in a kind of disguise: arma etiam simulata gerens cultusque uiriles (“wearing feigned weapons and men’s attire,” 11.477). She appears dressed as a man. This detail draws her even closer to Jocasta, who was non sexus . . . memor (11.318) or perhaps even Pentheus, who dressed as a woman to view rites forbidden to males (cf. 11.318–20). Of course she also resembles the goddess Virtus in the confusion of gender (see chapter 6). In addition both goddesses leap down from the heavens in similar language (desiluit),66 and both appear at the end of the Menoeceus episode: as Menoeceus falls, he is caught by the goddesses Virtus and Pietas, and is conveyed to the heavens. Pietas’ resemblance to Virtus is thus strange, and made even more so by the deeply ambivalent presentation of Virtus, who herself resembles a Fury. No event in the poem is filled with more symbolic importance than the rout of Pietas. In it we see the defining conflict of the poem: in order for the nefas of the brothers’ duel to be achieved, the pietas of all must be silenced. But this conflict is also fundamental to our experience of the 63 64

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See Ripoll (1998): 306–7 and Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 261–2. The ability of Pietas to soothe the rage of the warriors and to have them recognize their crime (sentirique nefas, 11.475) also has a model in Lucan 4.172: deprensum est ciuile nefas (“the civil nefas was comprehended”), where the soldiers fighting a civil war in Spain temporarily understand their crime. See Venini (1965b): 155–6 and (1970): ad 475. The effect of this realization in Lucan, however, is of fleeting value, just as it is in Statius, and as even Pietas had realized it would be. Indeed, Tisiphone verbally points to the uselessness of Pietas’ actions. She derisively calls Pietas a numen iners, a powerless god. Attempts to have humans acknowledge their nefas (sentirique nefas) and combat it with pietas are completely beyond the means of Pietas. 66 10.636, 11.472. See Fantham (1995). See chapter 5.

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crime. Just as the mora-theme intensifies as the fraternal duel becomes increasingly inevitable, so does the thrill of horror for the readers, who see the most potent attempts at obstruction made against the very crime that they nonetheless have been reading to experience. Because this horror unfolds against the intertextual backdrop of the Aeneid, it has important literary historical and political ramifications. Perhaps nowhere in the poem do we see so clearly the subversion of the ideal of pietas from the Augustan Aeneid than here in book 11. The duel is the event that we are always expecting and always moving toward. Yet only in book 11 is its criminality fully realized by the characters within the epic. The consequent calls for delay to the nefas participate in an important dynamic of the Thebaid: we always expect and await the duel, though we will despise its disgusting violence and at some level hope it will not transpire. That violence is ultimately involved in a doubly political dialogue. On the one hand, Oedipus, Dis, and Tisiphone call for the brothers’ nefas in ways that involve a challenge to the power of Jupiter and his control of the universe of the Thebaid. On the other, that same call for nefas is deeply implicated in an important dialogue with the Augustan Aeneid and its kingly values, most notably pietas. If the Aeneid is in some sense structured by the conflict between pietas and furor, here we see the ultimate confrontation between the concepts in anthropomorphized form: Pietas vs. a Fury. The delays to the duel thus not only draw attention to its nefas; they also underscore still more strongly the political ideals that have been in operation since the opening of the epic. The self-conscious use of the delay theme in book 11 ultimately works to frame the central problem of the Thebaid – the amorality of autocracy. In a world in which moral values no longer concern rulers, human and divine rulers can commit any crime, while their subjects can only watch in exasperated horror.

chapter 8

Spectacle, crime, and monarchy at Thebes

The rout of Pietas by the Fury Tisiphone is a central moment in the Thebaid, but not the culminating one. It is the precursor to a more basic goal: the brothers’ fratricidal deaths. This is what Oedipus had prayed for, and what Tisiphone strives for from the opening of the epic. In this chapter I will examine the final confrontation between Eteocles and Polynices and show how its spectacular nature and its involvement in cosmic strife underpin the epic’s critique of absolute power and dialogue with Virgil. In moving from the Augustan Aeneid to the Thebaid, the duel makes clear that we have turned from a world of idealized pietas to one defined by nefas. the spectacle of n e fa s : watching the rout of jupit er As we saw in the previous chapter, the theme of delay is a major element of the build-up to the brothers’ duel, but it is intermingled with another motif, that of spectacle. Despite the continual declarations about the poem’s violent goal, despite the pervasiveness of the infernal powers, the performance and viewing of fraternal violence still pose problems – even for those who have consistently promoted it. Consequently, as the duel approaches, a basic question will face all characters: should the end of the war – should fratricide – be watched? In this section I will first discuss the importance of spectacle metaphors in book 11, and then examine how the representation of the fratricidal violence contributes to the politics and pleasures of Statius’ poetic world. When Jupiter appears in book 11, his reaction casts the brothers’ impending duel as spectacle: illas ut summo uidit pater altus Olympo incestare diem trepidumque Hyperionis orbem suffundi maculis, toruo sic incohat ore: “uidimus armiferos, quo fas erat usque, furores, caelicolae, licitasque acies, etsi impia bella 176

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unus init aususque mea procumbere dextra. nunc par infandum miserisque incognita terris pugna subest . . .” (Theb. 11.119–26)

When the father high atop Olympus sees them [i.e. Tisiphone and Megaera] defiling the day, and the trembling orb of Hyperion tinged with stains, he begins to speak sternly as follows: “Heaven dwellers, we have seen weapon-bearing fury as far as it was lawful, and licit battles, even though one man engaged in impious war and dared to fall by my right hand. Now an unspeakable duel is near and a fight unknown to wretched earth . . .”

From the start, the brothers’ final confrontation is something to be watched. The two uses of the verb uideo describe Jupiter as an observer not only of the Furies (119) but also of the Theban war more generally (122–4). When Jupiter goes on to describe the imminent violence, he employs language that resonates with that of the Roman games: both par (125) and pugna (126) could be used of gladiatorial bouts.1 His response to the duel also plays on his role and that of the other gods as spectators: instead of preventing the duel, Jupiter commands the gods to avert their gaze (auferte oculos! 11.126), and he covers the world in clouds to make sure the gods do not watch (11.130–3).2 While Jupiter reacts with horror at the impending violence, Polynices embraces it and even contrives it as a spectacle for the Argives. Explaining the necessity of the duel to Adrastus, he says that the Argives would want to watch him defeated because of the bloodshed he has caused them: spectent3 et uotis uictorem Eteoclea poscant (“Let them watch, and let them demand with their prayers that Eteocles be the victor,” 11.186).4 Polynices suggested a similar idea earlier in this same speech, when he offered the duel as 1 2 3

4

On pugna, see OLD s.v. pugna 1b; on par, see Bernstein (2004): 71, who cites OLD s.v. par3 d, and Lovatt (2005): 255. Clouds had also covered the sky during the night of the Lemnian massacre (5.183–5). See Vessey (1973): 162. Does Lemnos thus represent a similar failure for Jupiter? Like Turnus calling for his duel with Aeneas (sedeant spectentque Latini, Aen. 12.15), Polynices defines his audience – those Argives who have suffered terrible losses on his behalf. See Venini (1970): 59. Polynices thus orchestrates the spectacle (spectent, 11.186) that Oedipus had desired (1.85–7), that Dis had demanded (8.67–8), and that Jupiter had forbidden the heavenly gods to watch (11.126). While calling for the duel, Polynices also draws attention to the spectacular nature of the war (and thus the poem) up to this point. At lines 11.175–81, he provides a list of the five Argive princes who have died on his behalf. Such catalogues are not unusual in this poem. The Thebaid continually summarizes the crimes it has described. Perhaps the most interesting occurs in book 6, where steles are raised depicting the life and death of the infant Opheltes – events relating to books 4 and 5. What makes Polynices’ list so striking is its visual nature: not only did these deaths occur, but Polynices emphasizes that they are events that he himself has viewed: uidi ego me propter . . . uidi . . . , 11.175– 6). Cf. 11.85, where Tisiphone assumes that Megaera had watched Tydeus’ death and cannibalism: “uidistis (Stygiis certe manifestus in umbris).”

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retribution for the suffering he has caused: sed exige tandem/ supplicium (11.167–8). The phrase exige supplicium is an idiomatic expression meaning “to exact punishment from someone” and even “to put to death,”5 and may figure the duel as something like a public execution, which represented a form of entertainment in the Roman Empire.6 The duel assumes the status of a terrible spectacle for the Thebans as well. Bitter at the death of Menoeceus, Creon sarcastically proposes that his surviving son should take Eteocles’ place in the duel, and that Eteocles be a spectator from Thebes’ walls:7 ille [i.e. Haemon] iube subeat, tuque hinc spectator ab alta/ turre sede! (“Command that Haemon go, and you sit as a spectator from the high tower,” 11.291–2). Later, Jocasta explicitly takes up the question of viewing (haec spectanda dies, “This day must be witnessed,” 11.335), and anticipates that the sight will be so awful that she considers her husband Oedipus lucky because he can no longer see (11.333– 4).8 And as the duel approaches, the armies are terrified and fall silent (11.409–10), the wretched masses (uulgus miserabile, 11.416) watch from the rooftops (11.416–17), and mothers prohibit their small children from looking (paruosque uetant attendere natos, 11.419).9 The problem of spectating is given further expression in two climactic moments. First, just before the duel commences, Adrastus rushes onto the battlefield in a final effort to prevent the duel. In ringing tones, he questions the morality of watching: spectabimus ergo hoc,/ Inachidae Tyriique, nefas? (“Are we then to watch this nefas, Argives and Thebans?” 11.429–30). And second, Pietas, who has been viewing the progress of the brothers’ war, makes a last-ditch attempt to prevent it (11.470–1). She leaps down from heaven but is eventually routed by Tisiphone. As a result, she flees to complain to Jupiter (11.496), who has already averted his gaze and has advised the gods to do the same (11.122–35). Like the king of the gods, she will not witness the duel. Conversely, those who take a special interest in criminality are thrilled to view the fraternal bloodshed. Dis releases the shades of guilty Thebans from 5 6

7 8 9

OLD s.v. supplicium 4b. For public executions staged as entertainment, see Coleman (1990), which contains an excellent discussion of punishment as retribution (45–6). For the relationship between violence in the arena and in poetic texts, see Most (1992). As Bernstein (2004): 72 notes, this is “the traditional location in epic for the female observer’s teichoscopia.” Jocasta in fact stabs herself before the brothers kill each other (11.634–41). The open nature of the battlefield at Thebes provides a good setting for the combat: stat consanguineum campo scelus (“The familial crime stands on the battlefield,” 11.407).

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hell to watch (11.420–1).10 As they sit on the hills of Thebes, they defile the day with their presence,11 while they are enthralled by the increased criminality of their descendants (11.422–3).12 And finally Tisiphone and Megaera watch in jealous admiration as the blood flows between the brothers (11.537–8).13 The duel is clearly presented as something to be watched, but the Thebaid provides a number of perspectives from which its violence can be interpreted or, in narratological terms, “focalized.”14 One’s reaction to the impending violence depends upon one’s relationship to it.15 As a result, some spectators are thrilled (e.g. the infernal powers and Theban ghosts), while others are repulsed or terrified (e.g. the heavenly gods and most mortal characters). Individual attitudes can even shift: the armies are terrified by the imminent violence (11.409–10), but after Pietas is routed by the Fury Tisiphone, they desire to watch: uersaeque uolunt spectare cohortes (11.498). What are we to make of this diversity of perspective? And in what ways can and do reactions of spectators within the poem (i.e. the internal audience) provide interpretive guidance for the readers (i.e. the external audience)? Neil Bernstein has addressed such questions in his careful study of focalization in book 11. Analyzing the various examples of spectatorship, he argues that the poem “destabilizes the reader’s view of the fratricidal duel by either removing or compromising several kinds of authorizing gaze (including divine, regal, paternal, and narratorial) from the narrative.”16 He concentrates especially on the “disavowal of authority” by figures such as Jupiter and Adrastus, who refuse to watch and thereby disrupt an important mode by which epic can provide meaning to a duel and establish identifications among the combatants, their respective armies, and people.17 10 11

12

13 15

Dis also thunders eagerly (auidus) at 11.410–11 in response to the imminent duel and routs the heavenly war-gods. Like the Furies at line 11.120, the Theban shades infect the upper world (11.423). If Dis had wanted revenge against the superi for Amphiaraus’ violation of his realm, his ability to enable these guilty shades to breach the boundary between heaven and hell and watch the duel from the Theban hillsides achieves his goal many times over. The passage is modeled on Val. Flac. 4.258–60, where the shades of those killed by Amycus are allowed to travel back to the upper world to see the death of their slayer. See Venini (1970): ad 420 and Bernstein (2004): 77. Statius’ shades, however, are imbued with a criminality lacking in their model in Valerius: they are not watching the death of their killer; rather they are enjoying the superlative criminality of their own descendants. Once again we see the infernal realm in the Thebaid expanding its capacity for evil on the metaliterary level. 14 For the general narratological concept, see Fowler (1990) and (2001). Delarue (2000): 311. 16 Ibid., 62. 17 Ibid., 64–71. Bernstein (2004): 63.

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In the remainder of this section, I will examine the dissonance of focalization that Bernstein has well shown but from a different perspective. Instead of considering Jupiter and Adrastus as the dominant figures whose gaze especially matters to help guide the external audience, I will be concerned with the spectatorship of Dis and the Furies. I will argue that Jupiter’s loss of power (not simply his refusal to use it) is central to the politics of the epic, and that Dis and the Furies offer a unifying narrative perspective, despite the conflicting focalizations.18 The dissonance of spectatorship results from the dominance of hell and the troubling pleasure of watching (or reading about) nefas. To understand Dis’ power, we must first look at Jupiter’s weakness. It is clear that Statius’ Jupiter has lost full control of the cosmos. Throughout the epic, he never fully grasps the ramifications of his own actions, nor does he realize hell’s involvement in the war.19 When he sees the Furies promoting the fraternal violence (11.119–21), he essentially flees. His ineffectual nature is underscored on the intertextual level.20 His counterparts in the Iliad and Aeneid are both observers and facilitators of the culminating duels of Iliad 22 and Aeneid 12,21 ensuring that fate is ultimately fulfilled. As an internal spectator, Statius’ Jupiter, however, does not provide such an authoritative perspective to make sense of the Thebaid’s world.22 The failure of Statius’ 18

19 20 21 22

Lovatt (2005): 99 also concentrates on Jupiter’s gaze, and suggests that Jupiter could have assumed the type of dominant role he plays in the Aeneid. His refusal to watch “is a substitute for action. Jupiter in the Aeneid has ultimate control over the course of events, and there is no reason to suppose that Jupiter in the Thebaid has any less control. When he makes the gods into an absent audience, he is like Tiberius removing himself from them and from Rome. The only thing that makes an audience more powerless than being watched by an emperor is not being watched by an emperor. If no one watches the audience reactions, then their reactions have no meaning.” This view thus develops Bartsch’s idea of “actors in the audience” in the context of the Thebaid. See Bartsch (1994): 1–35. See, e.g., Dominik (1994a): 24–5, Hill (1996b), and chapter 3. See discussions in Bernstein (2004): 64–7 and Lovatt (2005): 83–91. For a discussion of the relationship between spectator and combatant in the duels in Homer and Vergil, see Rossi (2004): 152–5, Bernstein (2004), and Lovatt (2005): 85–91. Jupiter’s seeming helplessness in the Thebaid and refusal to take action are striking on the intertextual level in still other ways. When he enters the action in book 11, he is introduced as follows: illas ut summo uidit pater altus Olympo (11.119). The language emphasizes Jupiter’s lofty position, perhaps his highest place in the entire poem, giving him a panoramic view of events on earth, and it echoes a description of Jupiter at Aeneid 11.726: summo sedet altus Olympo, where the king of the gods gazes down upon the battlefield and prepares to intervene. These are the only places in both poems where altus and summo . . . Olympo are combined in a description of Jupiter, and we might therefore expect both from the content of the description and from its echo of Virgil, that Statius’ Jupiter would also intervene. Of course he does not. Indeed, the phrase ultimately conveys not so much his lofty authority but rather his distance from events he cannot control. In addition, Bernstein (2004): 67–8 nicely points out that when gods avert their eyes in epic, it is usually to “modify their spectatorship in response to the emotional pain of watching the death of their kin.” Yet note that Jupiter had

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Jupiter to act is thus significant,23 but it is indicative of a larger power change in the cosmos. Jupiter’s loss of authority is Dis’ gain. If the epic tradition expects a king of the gods to guide events, this role is played by the infernal Thunderer (inferno Tonanti, 11.209), the king of the underworld. It is Dis who calls for and ensures the spectacle of nefas (8.65–74, see below), both by his own actions and by those of the Furies. It is Dis who receives the prayer that Eteocles directed to Jupiter at 11.205–9.24 His thundering from the underworld at 11.410–15 causes the war-gods to flee for good,25 and his helpers Tisiphone and Megaera make sure that all resistance to the fraternal duel is overcome. Dis’ cosmic domination and his orchestration of events must therefore significantly affect our interpretation of book 11 and of the Thebaid more generally. The variety of audience responses to the fraternal duel is closely connected to Dis’ plan. Jupiter’s reaction is perhaps most significant. When Dis calls for the spectacle of the brothers’ nefas in book 8, Jupiter is, in an important sense, the primary internal audience: i, Tartareas ulciscere sedes, Tisiphone; si quando nouis asperrima monstris, triste, insuetum, ingens, quod nondum uiderit aether, ede nefas, quod mirer ego inuideantque sorores. atque adeo fratres (nostrique haec omina sunto prima odii), fratres alterna in uulnera laeto Marte ruant; sit qui rabidarum more ferarum mandat atrox hostile caput, quique igne supremo arceat exanimes et manibus aethera nudis commaculet: iuuet ista ferum spectare Tonantem. (8.65–74)

Go, Tisiphone; avenge Tartarus’ home; if you were ever at your most savage with strange monsters, bring forth unspeakable crime (nefas), grievous, unusual, huge, something the sky has not yet seen, something for me to admire and the Sisters envy. And, what is more, the brothers – let this be the first portent of our hatred – let the brothers fall by mutual wounds in happy battle; let there be one who like a wild beast savagely chews his enemy’s head, and one who keeps the dead from the

23 24 25

called for strife among his descendants (e.g. 1.224–6), but here he averts his gaze (and would have the gods do the same) to avoid the pollution that the war’s culminating act might produce. See Bernstein (2004): 68, Lovatt (2005): 99, and below. Feeney (1991): 352. Cf. also 8.82–3 where Dis commandeers Jupiter’s nod. Schetter (1960): 115. Dominik (1994a): 40 writes: “The description of Pluto impatient for the duel to occur (410) and the overshadowing presence of the Theban ghosts . . . dispatched by him to view the fratricide (420–23) serve to remind the audience that the infernal lord is ultimately responsible for the ensuing actions of the brothers.”

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final flame and befouls the air with naked corpses; let it please the savage Thunderer to see these things.

The king of the underworld here instructs Tisiphone to bring about unspeakable crime (ede nefas, 8.68), whose spectacular nature is indicated not only by Dis’ description of it as something the sky has never witnessed before (nondum uiderit aether, 8.67) but also by his use of edere, a verb that could be used of producing public games.26 Dis is like a producer or editor of spectacles, and he goes on to indicate (with a touch of sarcasm) the desired reaction of Jupiter, his primary internal spectator, to the fratricidal duel (as well as to Tydeus’ cannibalism and Creon’s burial prohibition, 8.69–74): iuuet ista ferum spectare Tonantem (“Let the fierce Thunderer enjoy [i.e. be repulsed by]27 seeing these things,” 8.74). Dis is putting on a horror show, one intended to be especially abhorrent to the king of the gods. Jupiter’s decision not to watch fulfills and perhaps even surpasses the response Dis had desired. While Dis concentrates on Jupiter’s reaction, he suggests other internal audiences as well. He ends his speech to Tisiphone by saying: faxo haud sit cunctis leuior metus atra mouere/ Tartara frondenti quam iungere Pelion Ossae (“I will make sure that all fear to disturb black Tartarus no less than to pile Pelion on leafy Ossa,” 8.78–9). Cunctis refers to an audience beyond Jupiter and must mean all in the heavenly realm (if not human as well).28 The horrors he ultimately produces are successful. The superi are terrified in book 10, fearing that Jupiter will not be able to withstand Capaneus’ onslaught (e.g. 10.917–18), and they are told by Jupiter essentially to flee the sight of the imminent duel in book 11. These reactions are echoed among mortals: Adrastus and Jocasta all refer to the duel as nefas and are horrified, as are most human characters (see above). Dis, however, also identifies internal audiences associated with the underworld for whom his spectacle of nefas will create wonder and admiration. At 8.68, he requests crime that he would admire and the Furies envy (quod mirer ego inuideantque sorores). In book 11, the Furies are so astonished by the brothers’ monstrous behavior that their admiration does indeed turn to jealousy (11.537–8). Moreover, as we have already seen, Dis releases guilty Theban ghosts from the underworld to watch the duel, and they rejoice at 26 27

28

Lovatt (2005): 274. The verb iuuet should be taken sarcastically, for Dis intends this action to be revenge against his brother for (allegedly) allowing Amphiaraus to violate his realm, and will therefore be angered, not pleased. See also ibid. Bernstein (2004): 66, however, does not take Dis’ claim as sarcastic. Dis is reacting to the violation of his realm by the katabasis of Amphiaraus, which he assumes was caused by Jupiter. See discussion in chapter 6.

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the brothers’ wickedness, thrilled that their own crimes are outdone (uinci sua crimina gaudent, 11.423). These infernal audiences clearly share Dis’ appreciation for the fratricidal violence. Such is the plan of Dis. It is perhaps not as grand as Jupiter’s vision of the future of Aeneas and of the Roman people that guides the Augustan Aeneid, but it is what underpins the duel, the culminating act of the poem. All characters, whether human or divine, recognize the inherent criminality of the duel. And all must yield to it. The decision not to watch made by Jupiter, Adrastus, and Pietas reflects the inherent nature of the violence: if the war is “unspeakable” (nefas), it is also unwatchable. Indeed the aversion of the gaze and the unspeakable nature of the theme are intertwined. The reluctance of Jupiter, Adrastus, and Pietas to watch is tied specifically to a moral conception of the world that does not exist in the Thebaid. When Jupiter sees the Furies, he says: uidimus armiferos, quo fas erat usque, furores,/ caelicolae, licitasque acies, etsi impia bella/ unus init aususque mea procumbere dextra (11.122–4, see above). He conceives of the war in terms of moral values (quo fas erat usque) that are part of a cosmic order (presumably his own) that has now been violated.29 Likewise, when Adrastus rushes onto the battlefield, he does more than simply ask whether the duel should be watched – he also appeals to a moral conception of the world that should be reflected in the war but is not: ubi iura deique?/ bella ubi? (“Where are laws and the gods? Where is war?” 11.430–1). The crime of the fraternal duel transcends the national divisions of the two cities; it is in absolute terms an abomination.30 Finally, when Pietas attempts to stop the duel by trying to promote moral values, she is routed. Her failure and flight are perhaps even more emphatic than Jupiter’s and Adrastus’: she physically covers her head and flees to Jupiter, who has already decided to take no further action (11.495–6).

29

30

As we saw in chapter 3, however, such moral claims by Jupiter are unreliable. His assertion here that up until this point the war has been fas shows an ignorance (if not hypocrisy) about the first ten books of the poem. Tydeus’ cannibalism of Melanippus, e.g., was clearly nefas, as the reactions of both Pallas and Mars indicate at 9.1–7, and as Dis had intended (cf. 8.68). Jupiter’s words here serve as a moral condemnation of the brothers’ strife, but they are inadequate for the war’s events and for his own involvement in them. Adrastus’ surprise recognition of this fact, like Jupiter’s earlier in the book when he witnesses the involvement of the Furies, displays his flawed understanding of the world. For Adrastus the question has particularly painful and almost tragic resonances, not simply because his people have suffered grievous losses in the war. Adrastus has been the poem’s main representative of an older, traditional view of Jupiter and the gods, one, as we have seen, that is more consistent with the Aeneid’s Augustan worldview, where the gods are ultimately great, and values such as pietas still matter. See chapter 1 for more on Adrastus and his misunderstanding of the world.

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The decision of these potential spectators not to watch is thus intimately tied to the overthrow of a world order associated in an important sense with Jupiter’s reign. The moral chaos that ensues results from Dis’ plan in book 8. When Dis sees that Amphiaraus has violated his realm, he views this as his own fraternal war (8.36) and says that his retaliation against Jupiter will require that all boundaries be violated (congredior, pereant agedum discrimina rerum, 8.37).31 The ensuing actions of the poem, guided by Tisiphone, do just this, and by book 11, Dis and hell have overtaken the moral world Jupiter had claimed to govern. Jupiter’s decision not to watch is especially pointed because it, in effect, represents his inability to witness the overthrow of his own cosmic domination.32 Spectacular violence in the Thebaid thus represents an important medium through which to explore the problems of the divine and political orders. The Thebaid shows the dominance of Dis, not Jupiter, and describes a world – poetic, political, and moral – that results from this possibility. It is also one that stands in contrast to the Augustan Aeneid, where chaotic and violent forces can still be controlled by Jupiter and by a monarchical system. If the Aeneid is represented especially by moral ideals such as pietas, the Thebaid is defined by nefas, and thus by the absence of moral ideals that limit individual action. In an autocratic world in which political rulers – human and divine – can pursue their unspeakable desires, crime is ultimately unavoidable. Our pleasure as external spectators of the brothers’ duel is thus problematic, yet central to the poetics of the poem. Again, when Dis calls for nefas, he says, ede nefas (8.68). As noted above, ede could be used of producing games, but it could also be used for publishing poetry.33 If we accept this nuance, then on a metaliterary level Dis describes the nature not only of the brothers’ duel but also of the poem, the medium through which his external audience (i.e. we, the readers) experiences the crime. The Argive– Theban war, the Thebaid, has always been about fraternal hatred, and has 31 32

33

Cf. Oedipus’ prayer in book 1: generis consortia ferro/ dissiliant, 1.84–5. Spectacle here destroys the political and moral order and thus in some sense achieves an effect opposite to that of the Roman arena, which helped reinforce cultural values and social structure. Kyle (1998): 269, for example, sees the function of Roman spectacle as fundamentally penal: “The enforcement of law and the production of spectacles were complementary and acted in complicity: the arena demonstrated the power of the legal system and the legal system supplied the needs of the arena.” Wiedemann (1992): 179 views the arena as “a symbol of the ordered world, the cosmos; it is the place where the civilized world confronted lawless nature.” For more on spectacle at Rome, see Hopkins (1983): 1–30, Coleman (1990), Wiedemann (1992), Bartsch (1994), Plass (1995), and Kyle (1998). For the political dimensions, see especially Beacham (1999) and K¨ohne and Ewigleben (2000). Lovatt (2005): 274, 285. Cf. OLD s.v. edo2 9.

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always been moving toward the duel, a fact that is especially obvious to the reader, who expects and must desire it in some sense. And that violence is to be spectacular in nature. Yet at the very moment in book 11 when our expectations are to be fulfilled, the text goes out of its way to present internal spectators who question the morality of its viewing – and thus by implication also of our reading. When Jupiter, Adrastus, and Pietas finally understand the nefas of the war, they flee from the spectacle in horror and disgust, reactions consistent with Dis’ plans. We always know the subversive and criminal goal of the poem, but we do not stop reading. Rather we read more quickly. For us the experience of the thrill of nefas (that we always know is going to happen) is central to our aesthetic enjoyment of this narrative. The conflicting voices or focalizations that we see in book 11 are thus part of the poetics of the epic. The simultaneous repulsion at and fascination with spectacular crime are all part of the domination of Dis and his desire for subversive nefas, creating a world – and a poem – where moral value no longer matters, where unspeakable desires can be fulfilled; a world that we, as external audience, cannot resist “watching.” the duel and oed ipal mad ness in t he t h e b a i d As Adrastus flees the battlefield, he asks whether the Argives and Thebans will watch the criminal duel (11.429–30). Statius tells us the answer after Pietas has been routed: the armies now desire to spectate (11.497–8). While the build-up to the duel revealed the problems of the divine order, the fraternal violence itself displays the problems inherent in Oedipus’ family and the repetitive nature of nefas that dissolves all familial distinctions.34 As Polynices prepares to cast his spear, he explicitly acknowledges the crime of his action and simultaneously connects himself to his father Oedipus: tunc exul subit et clare funesta precatur: “di, quos effosso non inritus ore rogauit Oedipodes flammare nefas, non improba posco uota . . .” (11.503–6)

Then the exile draws near and makes his fatal prayer in a clear voice: “Gods, whom Oedipus with his eyes dug out did not entreat in vain to inflame nefas, I make a prayer that is not unseemly . . .” 34

See Zeitlin (1990): 139–41 on the instability of identity in Theban myth; for Statius’ use of Theban myth, see Henderson (1991): 53–4.

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Polynices calls out to the Furies to guide his spear so that he can achieve the crime he has desired since the opening of the epic, the slaying of his brother. By doing so he repeats a scene that we now witness for the fourth time: that of a character invoking the Furies to incite nefas.35 His mention of Oedipus in particular (504–5) brings us back full circle to the prayer that initiated the action of the Thebaid.36 Polynices strives to create the spectacular crime that his father desires.37 In addition, Polynices’ prayer, like Oedipus’, reveals the disturbing values that characterize his family and its interactions: piabo manus et eodem pectora ferro rescindam, dum me moriens hic sceptra tenentem linquat et hunc secum portet minor umbra dolorem. (11.506–8)

I will purify my hands and cut open my chest with the same sword, as long as he dies, leaving me with the scepter, and his humbled shade carries this pain with it.

The goal of the war for Polynices is never really about holding political power, as his refusal of Adrastus’ proposed peace plan demonstrated (11.429– 35). Nor, as we see now, was it about fighting for the rule of Thebes. Rather, it is motivated by murderous hatred.38 Polynices’ goal is not so much the attainment of political power as it is the slaying and humiliation of his brother.39 These are the very types of concerns that lie behind Oedipus’ curse of his sons (see chapter 2). Statius suggests similarities between Polynices and his father in other ways as well. Having “taken up the role” of Oedipus in praying to the infernal gods for familial nefas, he is then described as “blind” (caecus, 517), thus metaphorically acquiring his father’s most notorious physical attribute. Moreover, the fatal blow Polynices deals his brother resonates with Oedipus’ twin crimes of familial and sexual violence: 35 36

37 39

Cf. Oedipus (1.56–87), Dis (8.65–79), and Tisiphone (11.76–112). See chapter 2. Indeed Statius’ Polynices is only one of several characters who seemingly acknowledge the role of Oedipus and his prayer in the war. (Cf. Jupiter at 1.239 and Jocasta at 11.344–5, where she does not explicitly name Oedipus but refers to him nonetheless.) The importance of Polynices’ reference to Oedipus is further suggested by the fact that he is not mentioned in the parallel scenes of Aeschylus’ Seven Against Thebes or of Euripides’ Phoenician Women. 38 On Polynices’ hatred of Eteocles here, see Ahl (1986): 2884. Georgacopoulou (1998): 96. Likewise, Eteocles’ decision to fight also betrays this terrible criminal hatred since the duel is unnecessary for him. The Argive expedition, by book 11, has been defeated. Eteocles has defended Thebes successfully. If Theban power were truly the issue for Eteocles, he would have no reason to fight in a duel to determine the outcome of a war he has already in essence won. See Ahl (1986): 2883–4.

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tandem inruit exul, hortatusque manum, cui fortior ira nefasque iustius, alte ensem germani in corpore pressit, qua male iam plumis imus tegit inguina thorax. (11.540–3)

Finally the exile, whose anger was bolder and nefas more just, makes a rush; he urged on his hand and drove his sword deep into his brother’s body, where the bottom of the breastplate poorly covers his groin with its feathers.

Polynices aims the deathblow at his brother’s groin (inguina, 11.543), a detail that seems deliberate. In Aeschylus, the brothers’ left sides receive the fatal wounds (Seven 888–90); in Euripides, Eteocles drives his sword through Polynices’ navel (Phoen. 1412–13), embedding it in his spine. In turn, Polynices, as he is dying, manages to stab Eteocles in the liver (Phoen. 1421–2).40 Statius strays from the tragic tradition here in a way that at least can suggest a type of sexual violence. The language at 542 may even be loaded with sexual coloring – alte ensem germani in corpore pressit.41 Such associations between father and son persist to the exact moment of fratricide. When Polynices vaunts over the dying Eteocles, he says: “bene habet! non inrita uoui, cerno graues oculos atque ora natantia leto. huc aliquis propere sceptrum atque insigne comarum, dum uidet.” haec dicens gressus admouit et arma, ceu templis decus et patriae laturus ouanti, arma etiam spoliare cupit (11.557–62)

“It has turned out well! I have not prayed in vain; I see his eyes growing heavy and his face swimming in death. Quick, someone, bring the scepter and the crown here, while he is watching.” Saying this, he goes forward, and the weapons – he even desires to strip Eteocles of his weapons, as if to bring them as ornaments for the temples of his rejoicing country.

The words non inrita uoui (11.557) echo Polynices’ prayer at the beginning of the duel (11.504–6), which, in turn, refers back to Oedipus’ prayer for nefas at the beginning of the epic. Polynices as an Oedipus-figure has fulfilled the curse that initiated the Thebaid, and he not only views his brother’s death, as Oedipus would presumably have liked to (cf. quod cupiam uidisse nefas, 1.86), but he also wants Eteocles himself to become a spectator of the 40 41

See Venini (1970): 139. The sword metaphor for the phallus was a common one in the ancient world, and the verb premo could be used of the sexual act. See Adams (1982): 19–22, 182. Even corpus in the Roman elegists could be used of genitalia. See ibid., 224.

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nefas (uidet, 11.560). It is an act of further crime that Polynices desires (cupit, 11.562). By drawing Polynices so close to Oedipus in character and action,42 the poem seems to collapse the two into a single paradigm, defined by their common desire for vengeful, transgressive crime.43 The distinctions between father and son are not the only ones collapsed. In their mad rush to kill each other, Eteocles and Polynices for a moment become indistinguishable.44 They cannot discern who is wounded and whose blood is flowing: fratris uterque furens cupit adfectatque cruorem/ et nescit manare suum (“In rage, each desires and strives after his brother’s blood and does not know that his own is dripping,” 11.539–40). Just as Oedipus is unable to use vision to understand what is happening in the duel, so the brothers are fighting blindly without being able to discern the violence they are committing against one another or to comprehend physical distinctions between themselves. Readers (or the external audience) are placed in a similar position because they too have trouble disentangling the brothers. The scene of the duel for them is also one of confusion. As the brothers battle sine more, sine arte,/ tantum animis iraque (“without custom, without skill, only with animosity and wrath,” 524–5), they become one human mass at war with itself: nil adeo mediae telluris, et enses/ impliciti innexaeque manus (“No ground lies between them, and their swords are intertwined, and hands enmeshed,” 11.527–8). Throughout this passage (518–40), Statius does not even name the brothers, another element that suggests that they have become interchangeable. That this confounding of identity was a special effect of Statius’ is suggested by its absence in Euripides’ portrayal of the fratricidal confrontation. In the Phoenissae, the duel is more explicitly described: the brothers fight with skill and are named individually (cf. Phoen. 1390, 1392, 1397, 1407, 1415, and 1422). Not so in the Thebaid. Whereas political factors may have made them distinguishable earlier, once Statius’ brothers begin their duel, their visceral hatred and desire for fratricide make them virtually identical. 42

43 44

At the same time, the wounded Eteocles also resembles Oedipus, who throughout the epic is like a person living on the borders of life and death, for he now has graues oculos atque ora natantia leto (“eyes growing heavy and face swimming in death,” 11.558). See Hardie (1993): 77–8 on the confusion between life and death in the Thebaid. Vessey (1973): 278 writes: “Statius makes it abundantly clear during the duel that both brothers are equally guilty, equally crazy in their mutual hatred.” On the overall theme of collapsed boundaries in Theban myth, see Henderson (1991): 53–4, where he quotes Barthes: “Hatred does not divide the two brothers . . . [I]t brings them closer together; they need each other in order to live and in order to die, their hatred is the expression of a complementarity and derives its force from this very unity: they hate each other for being unable to tell each other apart.”

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So confounding of natural boundaries is this violence that Statius includes a simile comparing Eteocles and Polynices to savage boars attacking each other: fulmineos ueluti praeceps cum comminus egit ira sues strictisque erexit tergora saetis: igne tremunt oculi, lunataque dentibus uncis ora sonant; spectat pugnas de rupe propinqua uenator pallens canibusque silentia suadet: sic auidi incurrunt. (11.530–5)

And just as when rash anger has driven on flashing boars against one another and raised their backs with rigid bristles: their eyes tremble with fire, and their curved faces with hooked tusks clang; a hunter, pale with fear, watches the fighting from a rock close by and induces his dogs to be quiet: in this way the brothers eagerly clash.

Their identities as humans are even threatened, as they act out their hate like wild boars doing battle on a mountainside.45 Euripides also includes a boar simile in his version of the duel, presumably the model for Statius’: 2 - ! 0030 #. #  4# 13  + 5) )6, 78 9   . (Phoen. 1379–81)

they rushed terribly against one another. They clash like boars that sharpen their savage jaws, their cheeks wet with foam.

While the sharpened teeth appear in both, Statius more fully explores the brothers’ likeness as boars and places it in a context of spectatorship. Statius’ simile puts his readers in the place of the horrified hunter (uenator pallens, Theb. 11.534), and draws attention to their role as horrified external viewers of this terrible event.46 Statius has altered the myth in one other way that confounds the distinctions between the two brothers. In Euripides, Polynices is the one who “deceptively” kills his brother (Phoen. 1419–24),47 whereas in Statius the reverse happens. Read against this Euripidean backdrop, Statius’ Polynices 45

46 47

Such a breakdown in identity also happens in Aeneid 12 with the bull simile describing Aeneas and Turnus (12.715–24). See Hardie (1993): 22–3 on this passage as well as the increasing difficulty in distinguishing the two heroes as they approach and fight their duel. Henderson (1993): 178 puts it a little differently: “the readers’ stand-in within the simile of the ‘boars’, the blenched hunter, turns spectator.” At Aesch. Seven 809–21, we are just told that the brothers kill each other in battle; there is no such “deceptive” killing as in Euripides and Statius.

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acts like Eteocles, while his Eteocles acts like Polynices.48 The Thebaid ’s scene might thus suggest an intertextual confusion of the brothers. For a brief moment, Statius suggests that Polynices’ crime was more justified, but the oxymoronic phrase nefasque/ iustius (11.541–2) referring to Polynices’ cause seems half-hearted at this point. Polynices may have had right on his side when he demanded the Theban throne that had been wrongly denied him by Eteocles,49 but the nefas of the duel is something in which they both share terrible guilt. Indeed Polynices strikes the first fatal blow and vaunts hideously over his defeated brother.50 For the rest of the poem they are morally indistinguishable. The violence of the fraternal duel thus breaks down distinctions between right and wrong, father and son, brother and brother, human and animal. Such dissolutions of boundaries are entailed by Oedipus’ curse (generis consortia ferro/ dissiliant, 1.84–5) and Dis’ commands to Tisiphone (congredior, pereant agedum discrimina rerum, 8.37). They are part of the domination of hell and thus of nefas, a word that in itself contains the idea of subversion – it describes the negation of that which is fas. the duel: death and transformat ion Confusion of identity also takes place on the intertextual level. In addition to its use of Euripides’ Phoenissae (see above), Statius’ duel also looks back to Iliad 2251 and, of course, Aeneid 12.52 That we should have the duel between Aeneas and Turnus especially in mind is unavoidable. Since the Thebaid culminates in a duel between the two main opponents in the war, we cannot fail to appreciate the model offered by the confrontation between Aeneas and Turnus. I will argue that as the duel progresses we find that Polynices, originally set up as Aeneas (on the intertextual level), comes to resemble Turnus, while Eteocles, initially the slightly more criminal of the brothers, ends up more like Aeneas.53 By making Aeneas and Turnus 48 49 50

51 52 53

For the relationship between the Thebaid’s treatment of this scene and the Euripidean version, see Legras (1905): 128–9, Venini (1970): xvi–xvii, ad loc., Vessey (1971a) and (1973): 277–9. Venini (1970): 139. Note also that Eteocles both begins and ends the fraternal duel. See Schetter (1960): 117–18. On Statius’ treatment of the brothers, Ahl (1986): 2885 writes: “The absolutes Statius introduces are more regularly undermined than reinforced as the epic evolves. Eteocles does not remain the wolf who has ravaged the flock.” And on Polynices: “Stereotypes and definitions become ridiculous when they no longer reflect the facts. That is why the picture of Polynices as a lonely exile, hungry and abandoned to the elements makes sense only for a short time in the ‘Thebaid.’” See, e.g., Legras (1905): 125–32 and Juhnke (1972): 151–7. For Virgilian influences in book 11, see Venini (1970): xviii and ad loc. Cf. the transformations at the end of the Coroebus episode (see chapter 1) and in the Bacchus and Jupiter episodes (see chapter 5).

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interchangeable as models, the duel confounds the moral distinctions that are so important for an Augustan reading of Aeneas. As a result, by showing that Turnus can intertextually substitute for Aeneas as a model for action in the Thebaid, Statius’ duel implies the ambivalent nature of Aeneas and thus also questions the nature of kingship as idealized in the Augustan Aeneid. From the start of the epic, Polynices has something in common with Aeneas, for he is also an exile who seeks military and political alliances from others and eventually fights a war. Both arrive in a city whose king has received an oracle about the marriage of his daughters, and both are believed to be the fated husbands (Aen. 7.268–73; Theb. 1.482–97). Moreover, both fight wars that can be justified on some level. The parallels could continue, but I do not mean to suggest that Polynices is a fully developed Aeneas-like character. Indeed, there is always the possibility that Polynices is more like a Turnus to Adrastus’ Latinus.54 The brothers’ intertextual identities, as we shall see, are just as volatile as their intratextual ones. When the brothers actually pursue each other, Polynices takes on Aeneas’ role.55 He strives to engage his foe, who is fighting for a besieged city. Conversely, Eteocles, like Turnus, is an enemy associated with delay. For a good deal of Aeneid 12, for example, Juturna keeps her brother Turnus from fighting Aeneas, and must be asked to stop: iam iam fata, soror, superant, absiste morari/ quo deus et quo dura uocat Fortuna sequamur (“Now, sister, now fate wins: stop delaying. Where god and where harsh Fortune call, let us follow,” 12.676–7), and Aeneas taunts Turnus for avoiding battle (quae nunc deinde mora est? “What delay is there now?” Aen. 12.889). Statius’ Eteocles is aware that such a charge might be leveled at him, and he blames his delay on his mother (as Turnus had blamed his sister): ne incesse moras, grauis arma tenebat/ mater (“Do not rebuke my delay, our stern mother was holding my weapons back,” Theb. 11.390–1). Moreover, after Polynices has fatally wounded his brother, he uses language that recalls that of Aeneas taunting Turnus: nec parcit cedenti atque increpat hostis: “quo retrahis, germane, gradus? hoc languida somno, hoc regnis effeta quies, hoc longa sub umbra imperia!” (Theb. 11.547–50)

54 55

For example, when Adrastus appeals to Polynices, he has something in common with Latinus who appeals to Turnus in Aeneid 12 (or Priam to Hector in Iliad 22). Hardie (1993): 78. Polynices also displays Oedipal characteristics. See discussion above.

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The enemy does not spare the one withdrawing and chides him: “Where are you drawing back your steps, brother? This is the result of repose, sluggish from sleep and exhausted from power; this is the result of prolonged rule in the shade!”

In words echoed by Polynices’ quo retrahis, germane, gradus? (548), Aeneas cries out: quid iam, Turne, retractas? (“Why, Turnus, do you now withdraw?” Aen. 12.889). And, as Aeneas presses on, Turnus is described as a person who, while sleeping, dreams of trying to run faster but fails and loses control of his senses: ac uelut in somnis, oculos ubi languida pressit/ nocte quies (“And just as in dreams, when sluggish quiet has pressed down on our eyes during the night,” Aen. 12.908–9). Polynices echoes this passage at 11.548–9, where he also uses the words languida, somno, and quies. But there is also similarity in thought. Though the Statian passage does not imitate the form of Virgil’s simile, both suggest a character failing because of weakness: in Virgil, Turnus is like a man in a dream who strives harder to run but whose tired body hinders him; in Statius, Polynices claims that his brother retreats because Eteocles’ extended (and unjust) reign at Thebes has weakened him. When Polynices, like Aeneas, has his victim at his mercy and believes that victory is ensured, we learn that there will be no clemency: nec parcit cedenti (Theb. 11.547). This detail will immediately remind us of the end of the Aeneid. There Aeneas must decide whether to kill or spare Turnus. Aeneas is on the verge of clemency, but is suddenly overcome with anger and slays him instead (Aen. 12.919–52). In Statius’ version, Polynices, in the midst of his role as an intertextual Aeneas, does not hesitate; the victim is ruthlessly killed. Despite the moral considerations that might have set Aeneas apart from Polynices, the ultimate outcome is the same. Both are inspired by rage; both kill their enemies. At this point, however, an important change occurs: though Polynices thinks he has won, vaunts, and begins to despoil his victim, Eteocles still has enough power to deal an unexpected and fatal blow. As we saw above, this turn of events was part of the tragic tradition, but when it is read against the Aeneid, we see that Polynices becomes more like Turnus, while Eteocles is closer to Aeneas. These transformations are of the greatest significance, for they not only suggest the intertextual inseparability of the Theban brothers, but also make by implication the characters of Turnus and Aeneas – and their actions at the end of the Aeneid – interchangeable as literary models for the Theban brothers. What results is an intertextual reading of the Aeneid’s conclusion that takes away the moral differences between Turnus and Aeneas; that makes Aeneas and Turnus reasonable models for both

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Theban brothers. Statius may be seen to exploit the troubling ending of the Aeneid, where Aeneas, in his fury and wrath, acts more as we might have expected Turnus to. When Polynices desires both to strip the armor from Eteocles and to wear it boastfully, he reminds us also of Turnus in Aeneid 10. After Pallas has been slain, Turnus stoops over the youth’s body and tears off his belt (10.495–500). Polynices desires to do the same, and, as the duel begins, he prays that he will be able to despoil his brother. So sadistic is Polynices’ desire that he wants Eteocles to watch him take hold of the Theban scepter, and thus to go down to the underworld a less powerful shade because he has seen his political power lost: dum me moriens hic sceptra tenentem linquat et hunc secum portet minor umbra dolorem. (Theb. 11.507–8)

so long as he dies, leaving me with the scepter, and his humbled shade carries this pain with him.56

This is indeed what he tries to do. Having dealt a fatal blow to his brother, Polynices demands that the kingly regalia be brought to him (propere sceptrum atque insigne comarum, 11.559). But the ostentatious stripping of Eteocles’ armor turns out to be as problematic as Turnus’ of Pallas (Theb. 11.560– 2, see translation above): haec dicens gressus admouit et arma, ceu templis decus et patriae laturus ouanti, arma etiam spoliare cupit

Polynices’ mind, however, is more set on wearing the despoiled armor as part of his fratricidal crime than dedicating it to the gods.57 Instead, he will enjoy the belt himself. Conversely, Eteocles, like Aeneas, is inflamed with anger: nondum ille peractis manibus ultrices animam seruabat in iras. (Theb. 11.562–3)

His death not yet complete, he saved his spirit for avenging anger.

56

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At the same time, Polynices’ hope resonates with Pallas’ desire if he should kill Turnus in Aeneid 10: cernat semineci sibi me rapere arma cruenta/ uictoremque ferant morientia lumina Turni (“Let him see me taking his bloody weapons from his half-dead body, and let his dying eyes endure me as his conqueror,” Aen. 10.462–3). Similarly, Turnus’ seeming crime is usually connected with his donning of Pallas’ sword belt instead of dedicating it to the gods. See, e.g., Harrison (1998): 228.

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After he drew in the spoils with his eyes, the reminder of his fierce grief, he, inflamed with fury, terrible in his wrath says: “Wearing the spoils of my comrade, should you be taken away from me? Pallas, Pallas sacrifices you with this wound, and exacts punishment with your noxious blood.”

Consequently the dolor of the scepter-despoiling that Polynices hoped would be Eteocles’ instead becomes the visual signal that enrages Eteocles as he kills Polynices. In the end, then, Eteocles is the warrior filled with ira (11.563, 568) and furor at the thought of despoiled armor; he resembles Aeneas exacting revenge: ultrices . . . iras, Theb. 11.563; poenam . . . sumit (Aen. 12.949).58 Finally, the spectacle of the brothers’ duel highlights not only the criminal nature of Oedipus’ family but also a central problem of autocracy. As we saw above, just before Polynices throws his spear against Eteocles, he prays that his brother will see him take up the Theban scepter. Polynices would contrive his victory in such a way that Eteocles becomes its primary internal audience. Bernstein has noted that the “personal nature of the spectacle and the selection of an ideal observer recall the climaxes of Senecan tragedy” and that Polynices “has all but forgotten the troops’ role in assisting him and their own stake in his victory.”59 For the brothers, the duel is primarily about their deep hatred of one another, and this fact alienates their public human audience from the central issue over which the two have fought. 58

59

Statius adds an interesting line, as Eteocles strikes his brother: et ensem/ iam laetus fati fraterno in corde reliquit (“rejoicing now in his own death, he left his sword in his brother’s heart,” Theb. 11.566–7). Even as Eteocles resembles Aeneas through the intertextual nexus suggested above, he is described as laetus fati. On one level, fatum just means “death,” as it often does. But given the overall connections to the Aeneid here, the reference to fati is suggestive. In Virgil, fatum is used to justify both the suffering and the violence of the Trojans. Questions about Aeneas’ handling of Turnus at the end are often interpreted in light of his fatum: Aeneas must kill Turnus to avenge the death of his ally Evander’s son, and to fulfill his fate of founding Lavinium. But fatum in the Thebaid has been largely meaningless. There is no overarching plan of the Fates guiding events. Fatum cannot be used here to explain or justify Eteocles’ actions. Given the highly intertextual relationship between the Virgilian passages and Statius’ fraternal duel, we might see this reference to fatum as encouraging us to reflect on the extent to which fatum is explicitly presented as a motivation or justification for Aeneas’ slaying of Turnus. Bernstein (2004): 73.

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Just as Oedipus had symbolically mixed the private and public,60 when he tore his crown off his head and prayed to Tisiphone for violence against his sons,61 so here the public realm is subjected to the brothers’ private passion.62 That kings can do so is central to the epic’s critique of monarchy and provides a strong contrast to the Augustan Aeneid, in which Aeneas (and thus a good king) is continually required to sacrifice his own passions for the greater public interest. oedipus, creon, and the n e fa s of theban kingship The poem has thus far been about a fratricidal war, desired, at least initially, by Oedipus. After the brothers have died, we might think pietas would return. But this is not the case. The actions of Oedipus and Creon directly following the duel make this clear. Rushing to the battlefield, Oedipus utters his second speech of the epic.63 He is initially remorseful, but his rage soon returns, and Oedipus again becomes the violent, impetuous character he was at the epic’s start. This transformation reveals the unavoidable urge to madness that Statian characters still experience even in the midst of terrible personal loss. Creon fares no better. Having ascended the Theban throne, he quickly displays the evil that had characterized Oedipus and his sons. The aftermath of the duel thus shows the enduring character of kingship even after the brothers’ death: kingship is defined by nefas, as if autocratic power and crime are inseparable. Oedipus’ connection to the crime of the epic is brought out within the first two words of his reappearance, genitor sceleris (11.580). This phrase possesses a double meaning, since Oedipus is both the father of the brothers who commit the crime and the creator (“the father”) of the crime itself, the person who called for it. Yet when it actually occurs, Oedipus’ attitude toward the strife seemingly changes to one of regret. We sensed 60

61 62

63

On the relationship between public and private in the Thebaid, see Lesueur (1996) and Markus (2004). Markus (131) writes: “The collapse of public into private, only foreshadowed in the Aeneid, becomes a reality in Statius’s world.” See discussion in chapter 2. This relationship between duelist and spectator contrasts greatly with that in Livy, where, as Feldherr (1998): 92–9 has shown, there is a strong identification between combatant and viewer, as well as a moral lesson about Roman ideology. Rossi (2004): 155–68 has shown that the duel between Turnus and Aeneas works much like duels in Livy, though she reads conflict in the reactions of spectators that partake of the civil nature of the Italian war of Aeneid 7–12. For the contrast between the spectacle of duels in Livy and Statius, see Bernstein (2004): 78–82; for duels and spectatorship in Homer, Virgil, Silius, and Statius, see Lovatt (2005): 83–99. His first speech was his prayer to Tisiphone (1.56–87). When he appears or is referred to at 7.468–9, 8.240–58, and 11.105–8, he is not given direct speech.

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this transformation underway earlier in book 11. As the destruction of the brothers approaches, Tisiphone says to Megaera: ipse etiam, qui nos lassare precando suetus et ultrices oculorum exposcere Diras, iam pater est:64 coetu fertur iam solus ab omni flere sibi. (11.105–8)

Even he, who used to tire us with his praying and demand the Furies to avenge his eyes, is now a father: they say he now cries to himself, alone, away from all the crowd.

Oedipus has once again withdrawn from public into isolation, as he weeps over the impending doom of his sons. He is now a father (iam pater est).65 This transformation seems even clearer after the duel. He laments his sons’ deaths, and wonders if pietas and clementia have returned to him (11.605–6). His subsequent actions, however, show that they have not.66 Oedipus lacks a full understanding of his role in his sons’ deaths. He acknowledges that the duel has resulted from and fulfilled his prayers (616– 17). The fraternal war was everything that Oedipus seemed to have asked for. It was spectacular, vivid, and criminal. Yet he still declines responsibility for it: quisnam fuit ille deorum, qui stetit orantem iuxta praereptaque uerba dictauit Fatis? furor illa et mouit Erinys et pater et genetrix et regna oculique cadentes; nil ego. (11.617–21)

For who of the gods was it that stood next to me as I was praying and related my rash words to the Fates? Madness brought about these things, and a Fury, and my father, and mother, and kingdom, and my falling eyes: I did nothing.

Oedipus’ rejection of personal responsibility is irrational and unsatisfactory as an attempt to make sense of unspeakable horror. Though he can 64

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66

In post-Virgilian Latin we not uncommonly find characters who attempt to live up to an almost caricatured conception of themselves. In Seneca, for example, Medea proclaims: “Medea nunc sum” (“Now I am Medea,” 910). Or consider Atreus in his dialogue with the satelles: “hoc, anime, occupa/ (dignum est Thyeste facinus et dignum Atreo,/ quod uterque faciat)” (“My spirit, take this up (it is a deed worthy of Thyestes and worthy of Atreus, one they both could do),” Thyestes 270–2). Hardie (1993): 45 further notes the irony of Oedipus’ claims to paternity: “The last word of Oedipus’ speech, ‘father’ patrem . . . points to a self-definition, but of course it is precisely in this word that the problems with Oedipus’ identity lie.” Delarue (2000): 397, however, views the seeming return of pietas to Oedipus as a turning point in the epic that ultimately strengthens the humanitas that will culminate in the actions of book 12.

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acknowledge that his prayer set into motion the terrible crime, Oedipus blames everyone but himself. He has wanted but now abhors a crime for which he once prayed. As readers of book 1, we know that his inability to distinguish fully between himself and the Furies is both the tragedy of his existence and the source of his responsibility. His rejection of culpability, however, is more than an act of irrationality; it also represents an attempt to punish himself once more.67 Through “a striking expression of self-annihilation,” he claims that he did (and perhaps is?) nothing: nil ego (621).68 In the confusion that nefas creates, personal responsibility cannot exist for Oedipus, because his life in some sense is coexistent with the Furies (cf. sclerumque in pectore Dirae, 1.52). Soon enough, however, Oedipus returns to his savage self: furit inde senex (“then the old man rages,” 11.630).69 As he berates Creon for abusing him, Oedipus becomes wrathful (irae, 11.675) and seethes menacingly (11.740–1). He rejects Creon as king and he even repudiates Creon’s power of pardon (uenia). Oedipus is once again the vengeful man he was at the poem’s opening, incapable of being ruled, either by a king or by his own self-control. With his threats and renewed anger, we may wonder whether his description as genitor at line 740 should make us think back to genitor sceleris at line 580 and expect that Oedipus will utter another call for crime.70 The war has been a complete failure. It did not give the throne to Polynices or Eteocles,71 the Argive army has been decimated, Thebes is a shambles, and Oedipus is dismayed by the success of his prayer. Creon, a third party, takes the throne, and we might think that, given his own suffering at the hands of Eteocles, he would offer some hope of relief. He had been the most vocal critic of Eteocles earlier in book 11 when he verbally assaulted the Theban king for his criminality. There Creon claimed to be incited by libertas (11.264), a word laden with Roman political connotations. As the catchword of Caesar’s opponents in the civil wars of the 40s BCE, it stands for the Republican form of government that opposed monarchy. But Creon immediately becomes a raving tyrant in characteristic Theban fashion. Oedipus’ curse has not only produced another instance of terrible 67

68 70 71

Cf. also: o si fodienda redirent/ lumina et in uultus saeuire ex more potestas? (“Oh, if only my eyes could return to be dug out again, and I had the power to rage against my face, as is my custom,” 11.614–15). 69 Cf. Vessey (1973): 280–1. Hardie (1993): 45. Moreover, the lion simile with which Statius ends his treatment of Oedipus at lines 741–7 may imply that his ability to do harm has not disappeared. Cf. Eteocles at 11.391–2: io patria, o regum incertissima tellus,/ nunc certe uictoris eris! (“Look, fatherland, a region uncertain about its kings, you will certainly be the land of the victor!”)

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nefas in his family; it has resulted in another round of criminal rule. At Thebes, nefas creates more nefas.72 Whereas the duel represents a repetition of evil within Oedipus’ family, the installation of Creon as monarch becomes a repetition of evil rule for the Theban people. The new king promptly brings more violence and war to his city. The quickness with which criminality associated with Theban rule duplicates itself in Creon is astounding: et iam laeta ducum spes elusisse duorum res Amphionias alio sceptrumque maligna transtulerat Fortuna manu, Cadmique tenebat iura Creon. miser heu bellorum terminus! illi pugnarant fratres. hunc et Mauortia clamant semina, et impensus patriae paulo ante Menoeceus conciliat populis. scandit fatale tyrannis flebilis Aoniae solium: pro blanda potestas et sceptri malesuadus amor! numquamne priorum haerebunt documenta nouis? iuvat ecce nefasto stare loco regimenque manu tractare cruentum. quid, melior Fortuna, potes! iam flectere patrem incipit atque datis abolere Menoecea regnis. primum adeo saeuis imbutus moribus aulae (indicium specimenque sui) iubet igne supremo arceri Danaos, nudoque sub axe relinqui infelix bellum et tristes sine sedibus umbras.

650

655

660

(11.648–64)

And now Fortune rejoiced that she had eluded the hopes of the two brothers and, with her malignant hand, transferred Amphion’s kingdom and the scepter to another man: Creon held the rule of Cadmus. Alas, a wretched end to the war! For that man the brothers had fought. Mars’ seed proclaims him, and Menoeceus, who had been sacrificed for the state a little earlier, wins over the people for him. He ascends the throne of weeping Aonia, fatal to tyrants. Oh enticing power and the ill-advising love of rule! Will the examples of earlier kings never endure in the minds of new ones? Behold, he enjoys standing in this monstrous place and wielding bloody rule with his hand! Kinder fortune, what can you do! He now begins to turn aside from his fatherhood, and to abolish Menoeceus from his mind, once he has been given the kingdom. First, infected by the savage character of the palace (an indication and proof of his nature), he orders that the Danaans be kept from the final fire, and that the unlucky war’s victims and their sad homeless shades be left under the bare sky. 72

Henderson (1993): 179: in the poem’s “scopic horror, we shall recognize the curse of Oedipus’ Thebes. Remade: its law of the eternal return.”

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Statius here suggests the unavoidable corruption of power. The brothers’ war has served only to bring another tyrant to Thebes (648–52). But the poet points also to the inherent infection of crime that is inextricably entwined with this political power. In the process, we again see the defeat of pietas. Though Creon has been mourning the death of his son Menoeceus, such feelings of pietas are quickly subsumed by his desire for rule. Creon immediately initiates his criminal reign (saeuis73 . . . moribus, 661) by forbidding the burial of the fallen Argive warriors (662–4), as Dis had called for in book 8.74 And it is this act of nefas that will result in the new Theban king’s death by the end of book 12. But Creon’s actions also show the futility of the poem’s hope about the power of history to prevent future tyranny. At 654–7, Statius points to the lessons of the past which bode only ill for those who rule the city and to the inability of kings, bent on exercising power, to learn from their predecessors. So far from avoiding a repetition of the past, Creon becomes a horrendous tyrant. And by the end of book 11, we see the fear that such exercise of power inflicts on his retinue. They cringe in fear of their new king, and pretend to approve of even his most criminal actions: sic ait, et ficto comitum uulgique gementis/ adsensu limen tumidus regale petebat (“he speaks thus, and he arrogantly sought his regal doorstep with the insincere approval of his retinue and of his groaning people,” 11.755–6). the f uries and kingship The scenes examined in this chapter attest to the pervasive power of the Furies in the Thebaid. Yet when the fraternal duel commenced, we were told that they were in some sense unnecessary. It is an astonishing moment, often taken to mean that the Furies exit the poem, leaving humankind to work through the terrible ramifications of the brothers’ fratricidal fight.75 But I will argue that, far from leaving because they were redundant, the Furies maintain a terrifying presence. As Creon’s actions have already intimated, the poem suggests the ever-present risk of the Furies and of the nefas inherent in the Thebaid’s political world. 73 74 75

This adjective is also used of Creon at 12.94, 218, 453, and 677. See Venini (1970): ad loc. 8.72–4. The burial prohibition is also foregrounded in the poem’s prologue (1.36–7). Hershkowitz (1998a): 268, for example, writes: “The brothers’ excessive behaviour becomes the check on the Furies. Tisiphone and Megaera do not participate in the remainder of the epic, not because, like Jupiter, they refuse to act, but because they have been too effective and have become redundant. In this way, the pattern of action and madness which Tisiphone initiated finally overtakes even her.” Cf. also Feeney (1991): 353 and Delarue (2000): 397.

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The Furies’ response to the duel occurs in the following passage: sic auidi incurrunt; necdum letalia miscent uulnera, sed coeptus sanguis, facinusque peractum est. nec iam opus est Furiis; tantum mirantur et astant laudantes, hominumque dolent plus posse furores. (11.535–8)

In this way the brothers eagerly clash; not yet do they trade lethal wounds, but the blood has been drawn, and the crime is achieved. Now there is no need of the Furies; they only wonder and stand near in praise, pained that human fury can do more than their own.

Statius does indeed say that the Furies are no longer needed, but to take this as a general statement about their superfluity does not do justice to the creative and competitive malignity of these goddesses. With the first wounds and drawing of blood (11.535–6), the Furies have in fact achieved the spectacular crime they had long sought. They do stand back and watch the culmination of their efforts as their admiration is tinged with jealousy (11.537–8), but this detail should not be taken to imply their loss of importance: jealousy is precisely the emotion that Dis had commanded Tisiphone to produce in the Furies themselves (ede nefas, quod mirer ego inuideantque Sorores, 8.68). These lines from book 11 do not suggest the Furies’ ultimate impotence in the face of inherent human evil; rather they point to the dynamic interaction between humans and hell that has succeeded in creating Dis’ horrifying nefas and that has allowed hell’s domination over the cosmos.76 The continuing importance of the Furies is conveyed in the poet’s coda to the duel: Ite truces animae funestaque Tartara leto polluite et cunctas Erebi consumite poenas! uosque malis hominum, Stygiae, iam parcite, diuae: omnibus in terris scelus hoc omnique sub aeuo uiderit una dies, monstrumque infame futuris excidat, et soli memorent haec proelia reges. (11.574–9)

Go, uncontrollable souls; stain polluted Tartarus with your death and consume all the punishments of Erebus! And you, Stygian goddesses, now spare the sufferings of humankind: in all lands and in every age, let one day have witnessed this crime; let this disgraceful atrocity be forgotten by posterity, and let kings alone remember this strife. 76

Cf. Venini (1964) on the interaction between human psychology and furor in the Thebaid.

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Statius acknowledges the Furies as the powers that not only brought about the brothers’ violence but also stand poised to incite still other terrible crimes. It is for this reason that he appeals for their clemency. His use of parcite (11.576) seems pointed and therefore significant. Jupiter had employed this verb earlier in the book, when he sought to keep the gods from watching the duel (11.131–2). But while he was concerned with the divine realm, he attempted nothing to prevent human suffering, nor did he express any interest in doing so. Statius’ apostrophe therefore implies Jupiter’s failure by suggesting that relief for humans must now be sought from the Furies themselves, the deities who have presided over the fraternal crime and have ultimately exerted the more decisive control over the war.77 In addition, the apostrophe connects the Furies to the behavior of kings (soli . . . reges, 11.579), underscoring further the relationship between kingship and nefas that we have seen throughout the epic. Kingly crime remains an enduring threat to humanity, one that resides in the domain of the Furies.78 The Furies have therefore not left the poetic world of the Thebaid; they still maintain a terrifying presence, which is suggested in two other ways. First, Statius never says that they return to hell. This silence seems especially significant given the Furies’ analogues in Aeneid 7 and Metamorphoses 4: Virgil’s Allecto and Ovid’s Tisiphone explicitly go back to the underworld once their work is done.79 Second, the influence of hell is not quite absent from the end of the Thebaid either. When Creon prohibits the burial of the Argive dead immediately after the duel (11.661–4), he commits a crime that Dis had ordered Tisiphone to bring about: quique igne supremo/ arceat exanimis et manibus aethera nudis/ commaculet (“let there be one who keeps the dead from the final fire and befouls the air with naked corpses,” 8.72– 4).80 We are not explicitly told that Creon does so at the instigation of the Furies, but as he prepares to fight Theseus’ army in book 12, we do 77

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Cf. Georgacopoulou (1998): 97. Note too that Oedipus had decided to pray to Tisiphone for relief because he questioned whether Jupiter had any moral authority, for he had not yet punished Eteocles and Polynices (1.79–80). This interpretation runs counter to that of scholars who suggest that the Furies are being transformed into their gentler manifestation as the Eumenides. Such readings place special emphasis on use of the word Eumenides to describe the Furies in book 12, but this name has been employed throughout the poem as a synonym for Furiae, and there is no clear indication that the Eumenides have taken any kindly action for humans, though characters have imagined seeing them (i.e. Creon at 12.696; see below) and have called on them (i.e. Theseus at 12.772–3); note that we are not told if the Furies do anything in response to the Athenian king). Cf. Georgacopoulou (1998) and Delarue (2000): 312–13. Aen. 7.561–71; Met. 4.510–11. Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 247 notes that the apostrophe echoes some of the language and ideas in Dis’ commands to Tisiphone in book 8.

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learn that he has visions of the dread goddesses: mediaeque in sedibus aulae/ Eumenidas subitas flentemque Menoecea cernit/ turbidus impostosque rogis gaudere Pelasgos (12.695–7). If we take them as more than hallucinations,81 then the Furies do in fact play a role in pushing Creon toward his doom.82 Whatever general hope might be contained in Statius’ appeal to them for clemency is effectively denied in Creon’s immediate assumption of the throne and of autocratic crime.83 The underworld somehow continues to achieve its will.84 Statius’ apostrophe has important models in the Aeneid and De Bello Civili. In his coda to the Nisus and Euryalus episode (Aen. 9.446–69), Virgil famously celebrates the deeds of the two warriors: Fortunati ambo! si quid mea carmina possunt, nulla dies umquam memori uos eximet aeuo, dum domus Aeneae Capitoli immobile saxum accolet imperiumque pater Romanus habebit. (Aen. 9.446–9)

Oh fortunate pair! If in any way my songs are able, no day will ever force you from the memory of time, while the family of Aeneas lives near the immobile stone of the Capitol, and the Roman father holds sway.

Like the Statian passage, Virgil’s involves the preservation of events for posterity, and espresses this idea in similar language: memor- (Aen. 9.447; Theb. 11.579), aeuum (Aen. 9.447; Theb. 11.577), nulla dies (Aen. 9.447)/ una dies (Theb. 11.578). The goals of the two poets, however, are largely opposite: whereas the Virgilian passage seeks to immortalize the Trojan warriors through the poetry of the Aeneid and ties the endurance of their memory to the Principate,85 the Statian apostrophe would want the Furies to ensure that the duel is forgotten by all except kings, thereby suggesting that this negative exemplum, if heeded, could help preserve a king’s reign.86 Statius thus radically reverses the relationship in the Virgilian passage between poetry and kingly power.87 81 83 84 85 86 87

82 Keith (2000): 99. Cf. Georgacopoulou (1998): 100 n. 27. Note that before the battle Creon declares that he also will not allow the Thebans to be buried (lex eadem uictis, 12.692). He thus repeats and expands his crimes. Dominik (1994a): 42 also suggests that 12.184–6 and 590–1 imply a role for the Furies in Creon’s crime. Pater Romanus suggests Augustus himself. See Hardie (1994): ad loc. Cf. Malamud (1995): 24. See Lovatt (2005): 77–9 for further comparison of the two passages. Lovatt (2005): 256 puts it this way: “It is an inversion of Virgil’s famous address to the souls of Nisus and Euryalus, damning Polynices and Eteocles to eternal punishment instead of blessing them with eternal paradise, wishing that his own poem may not perpetuate the evil by allowing readers to see it over and over again, rather than proclaiming the immortality of his protagonists along with the immortality of his poetry.”

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The passage from Thebaid 11 also resonates significantly with an apostrophe in De Bello Civili 7.88 In the midst of his retelling of the battle of Pharsalus, Lucan suddenly exclaims: hanc fuge, mens, partem belli tenebrisque relinque, nullaque tantorum discat me uate malorum, quam multum bellis liceat ciuilibus, aetas. a potius pereant lacrimae pereantque querellae: quidquid in hac acie gessisti, Roma, tacebo. (Luc. 7.552–6)

Flee this part of the war, my mind, and leave it to the shadows. Let no age learn how much is permitted in civil war with me the teacher of such great evils. Rather let the tears perish; let the complaints perish. Whatever you did in this battle, Rome, I will keep silent.

Lucan addresses these words to himself (mens, Luc. 7.552), as he struggles with the moral problem of retelling crime if by doing so he will thereby perpetuate it. The passage thus plays with the paradox inherent in telling a story about nefas, in speaking the unspeakable. Lucan (temporarily) decides that silence is the more appropriate response. As Feeney writes: “Instead of perpetuating and commemorating glory as do Homer and Vergil, he tries, at the moment of climax, to consign his subject to darkness by being silent . . . The victor whom he must acclaim, the victor whose name will live for ever, is evil and unworthy of eternity, and Lucan cannot escape being implicated because he has chosen to sing this tale, to speak what should not be spoken.”89 Statius’ apostrophe resonates with Lucan’s and is often read as enunciating similar concerns. There are, however, some important differences. First, while Lucan can barely come to describe the battle that essentially meant the end of the Republic and Rome’s loss of freedom, the narrator Statius shows no such hesitation about the Theban brothers’ duel,90 even though various characters voice reluctance to witness it and try to prevent it.91 Second, Statius’ apostrophe actually comes after the criminal violence has been committed, not in its midst (as in Lucan). Finally, Lucan’s 88 89 90

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Malamud (1995): 24. Feeney (1991): 277. See also Henderson (1988), O’Higgins (1988): 215–16, Masters (1992): 148, and Hershkowitz (1998a): 197–8. Statius in general does not exhibit the type of “engaged” spectatorship that Leigh (1997) has shown is so characteristic of Lucan. Cf. also Fantham (2003). Markus (2003): 442 writes that Lucan thrusts “his personality on the audience through the frequent use of the first person singular. Statius reaches further back into the epic tradition where self-effacement through language is part of the stock-in trade of the epic genre, aimed at achieving the so-called epic ‘objectivity’, even if it is illusory.” See chapter 7 for discussion of the delay theme in book 11.

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words are addressed to himself (mens, 7.552), and thus articulate a specific internal conflict about the poetic representation of nefas. The situation in Statius differs. The address is not self-directed; Statius is not struggling with whether he should describe the duel, because he just has. Rather he speaks to two different addressees: he condemns the brothers for their monstrous behavior (11.574–5), and then calls on the Furies to spare humankind by not allowing such crime to be repeated (11.576–9). Thus the requests about remembering or forgetting the duel are explicitly tied not to the power of Statius’ poetry (as in both Lucan and Virgil) but rather to the power of the Furies (Stygiae . . . diuae, 11.576). By recasting the Virgilian and Lucanian apostrophes thus, Statius involves himself intratextually in scenes from the Thebaid that have created the very crime of the duel he condemns (11.574–5). Like Oedipus, Dis, and Tisiphone before him, Statius becomes another figure who invokes the Furies because of their ability to promote crime that is both spectacular and unspeakable: the phrase uiderit una dies (11.578) plays with the theme of spectatorship that has dominated book 11 and is a defining element of crime in the Thebaid; the emphatic request that the crime of the duel should never be repeated or seen again (11.577–8) reflects the unspeakable nature of nefas. There is of course a major difference between the previous invocations of the Furies and that of Statius: the poet seeks to prevent such crime, not to promote it. And in this desire, he essentially fails, for, as we have already seen in Creon’s actions after the duel, nefas will still occur and the powers of hell will still seem to achieve their will. But like the unsuccessful delays earlier in book 11, we might view Statius’ failure as serving to heighten our experience of the nefas that follows. Statius thus adapts rhetorical features from the Lucanian apostrophe to enhance the horror of his epic. He makes the double fratricide exemplary in its evil, and emphasizes its spectacular and unspeakable nature.92 These are all defining elements of his poetics of nefas. The apostrophe 92

However, by entering into this tradition of poetry and commemoration from Virgil and Lucan, Statius’ apostrophe conflicts in some sense with the Thebaid’s epilogue, where we learn that the poem has already achieved its own popularity, and is read by Domitian and studied by the youth of Rome (12.814–15). Even if Statius’ apostrophe is explicitly addressed to the Furies, we cannot avoid the implication that the Thebaid does in fact perpetuate the memory of the duel, as is made clear by the contemporary success of the poem, expressed in the epilogue. We might, however, see the apparent contradiction as built into and in fact central to the poetics of the Thebaid. The conflict between watching and not watching the crimes, between repulsion and allure lie behind the thrill of horror. The epilogue’s claim about the Thebaid’s growing popularity perhaps attests to the success of Statius’ evocation of horror and thus of its poetics of nefas. For the conflict between the apostrophe and the epilogue, see Malamud (1995): 24–5, Georgacopoulou (1998): 97–8, and Bernstein (2004): 82.

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thus expresses well the tension between the condemnation and simultaneous commemoration of evil that stands at the center of nefas poetry. The poet denounces his subject matter, so that the crimes become all the more immoral and unthinkable, at the very moment that he preserves the memory for the entertainment of future generations. We read and enjoy the epic at some level to experience the thrill of horror.93 Moreover, as we have seen, the pleasure of horror is not simply aesthetic; it is also intertextual and political. It is tied to the critique of monarchy that the poem is engaged in, as the apostrophe itself makes clear by locating the possibility of further nefas in the context of kings and their association with the powers of hell.94 The repetition of nefas, of terrible Theban crime, thus represents the everpresent reality of Theban monarchy, and its certainty is reflected in the Thebaid’s reluctance to talk about a future that goes beyond the end of the poem. So rooted are characters in the present, in the mourning of those killed, in the burial rites, in the pain caused by evil, that it is not surprising that the poem engenders little cause for optimism.95 In this respect, the Thebaid contrasts sharply with the Aeneid. Virgil’s epic, on the level of narrative time, takes place far off during the Trojan war but is always looking forward (on any interpretation) to the foundation of Rome, its growth, and its power during the reign of Augustus. In contrast, the outlook of the Thebaid is decidedly bleak. In fact, one of the few references to events after the end of the epic involves still more nefas, more parricide: to avenge his father Amphiaraus’ death, Alcmaeon will kill his mother Eriphyle.96 She had traded his participation in the Theban war for Harmonia’s necklace.97 At Thebes, the nefas of kingship is repetitious – forever bringing more violence and grief. Indeed, Alcmaeon’s murder of

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For the importance of horror in the Thebaid, see chapter 3. Note that the last time that Statius had made such an entry into the text to memorialize characters was at book 10.442–8 where he praised the noble efforts of Hopleus and Dymas to retrieve the bodies of their princes. And as we saw, this episode displayed the impossibility of pietas in the monarchic world of the Thebaid. This is not to deny the positive forces of Theseus and the altar of Clemency at the rapid conclusion of the poem. As we will see below, however, despite the defeat of Creon, Theseus’ portrayal has problematic undertones. Two other significant references to the future: at 7.219–21, Jupiter alludes to the war of the Epigoni, and at 12.509–10, we learn that Oedipus’ Furies (Oedipodae Furias) will be overcome at the altar of Clementia in Athens. See Ahl (1986): 2814 and n. 18 for the Epigoni. Statius alludes to this act of matricide at 2.303–5 and 4.211–13. There is a further reference to Eriphyle’s crime at 8.120–2.

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Eriphyle eventually leads to the second Argive attack on Thebes – that of the Epigoni. As we see in book 11, then, the Furies do not leave the poem. They are not sent back to the realm of hell but instead are still somewhere at work. Their stunning success in fulfilling Oedipus’ curse and Dis’ orders attests to the weakness and irrelevance of the heavenly gods as moral forces. Nefas and furor are the imminent realities of Statius’ poem. They go hand in hand with monarchy.

chapter 9

Pietas, burial, and clementia in a world of nefas

By the end of book 11, the personified goddess Pietas has been routed, and the brothers’ duel has intertextually blurred the distinctions between Turnus and Aeneas. Virgilian pietas has been shown to be powerless. But is any ideal capable of countering the violence of nefas? I will answer this question by examining the attempts in book 12 to bury Polynices and the fallen Argive warriors. These episodes reveal the continuing irrelevance of pietas on the political, divine, and intertextual levels, but they also suggest that another virtue can take its place to alleviate human suffering in a relentlessly criminal world. In the end, clementia, embodied by the Athenian king Theseus, offers the solution. But the problems involved in Theseus’ clementia, particularly when analyzed in a Stoic framework, share in the overall complexities of Thebes’ nefas-infested world. In the Thebaid, where kingship is autocracy and autocracy enables crime, clementia, while a potentially positive force, is nevertheless a flawed and confused ideal, a result and symptom of absolute power. an tigone, argia, and creon’s burial prohibit ion The deaths of Eteocles and Polynices do not end nefas at Thebes. Nor do they resolve Oedipus’ madness, which had set the Thebaid in motion. Indeed the Theban world is even more terrifying because nefas outlives the brothers’ hatred. Oedipus, though he temporarily experiences feelings of pietas and clementia after the duel, reaches the end of book 11 as crazed as he was at the beginning of the epic. And Creon, who ascends the throne, repeats his vicious burial prohibition of the Argive dead with increasing vehemence as book 12 progresses.1 1

In the midst of celebrating the lavish funeral rites of his son Menoeceus at 12.60–104, Creon reinforces his prohibition against the burial of the fallen Argives, and wishes that he could commit still other outrages against them (12.94–103). The violence of his speech and thought indicate that Creon has

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Creon’s actions, however, outrage the Argive women, who naturally wish to bury their dead. After a debate, they decide to travel en masse to Athens to appeal to King Theseus; that is, all except Argia. She impatiently sets out directly for Thebes with her trusted old guardian Menoetes to find the corpse of her husband Polynices. No sooner does she arrive in Thebes and discover the body than Antigone rushes from the Theban walls to find and cremate her brother Polynices. The two women meet on the battlefield and perform these funerary rites.2 Scholars have construed Argia’s journey to Thebes and Antigone’s attempt to bury Polynices’ body as courageous acts of pietas.3 And there is reason for this view. We are told that pietas motivates Argia to travel to Thebes (hortantur pietas ignesque pudici, “pietas and pure love incite her,” 12.186).4 Antigone’s rush from the city walls is not explicitly described in terms of pietas, though it is clear from her actions later that pietas is a fundamental concern. I shall argue, developing interpretations by Hardie and Hershkowitz, that the actions of Argia and Antigone, far from resolving the nefas of the brothers and reinstating pietas, instead show the undying nature of the brothers’ hate and replay their fraternal conflict.5 In the process, they reveal the enduring madness of nefas at Thebes, where even attempts at pietas are tinged with fury. When the sisters-in-law Argia and Antigone meet on the Theban battlefield in book 12, they enact a structural repetition of the brothers’ duel with Argia resembling Polynices, and Antigone Eteocles. Argia’s determined journey from Argos to Thebes, in general terms, repeats Polynices’ own movement from Argos against Thebes (the subject of the first eleven books of the Thebaid). At the same time, Antigone duplicates the movement of Eteocles in seeking Polynices. Like Eteocles in book 11 (387–90), she rushes out of the city to find Polynices (12.349–60); both brother and sister

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become a frenzied ruler – a true successor to Eteocles and Oedipus. Lovatt (1999): 133–5 compares Creon to Lucan’s crazed Caesar, though Statius’ character surpasses Lucan’s in evil. See Hoffmann (1999): 7–11 for the mythological background and sources of this scene. Vessey (1973): 131–3, for example, argues that Statius employs Argia and Antigone (Polynices’ wife and sister respectively) in book 12 as exemplary figures who introduce piety into a city devastated by a criminal war. Most scholars would concur on some level. See, e.g., Henderson (1991): 55, Feeney (1991): 360, and Dominik (1994a): 127. For the possible influence of Statius’ wife Claudia in book 12 (especially on the characterization of Argia), see Lesueur (2003). See Pollmann (forthcoming). In fact, Argia views her hurried trip to Thebes as the only possible way to atone for the crime (nefas) of letting her husband lie unburied, or of having let someone else bury him (12.216–17). For Argia, to have done nothing yet is paradoxically a crime (nefas). Lovatt (1999): 137–8 downplays the role of pietas here by emphasizing line 12.177, in which it is uirtus that is described as inspiring Argia. Hardie (1993): 45–6 and Hershkowitz (1998a): 294–5 see continued furor in the actions of Argia and Antigone.

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are crazed.6 Other, more specific parallels suggest these repetitions as well. Argia, before she travels to Thebes, has visions of Polynices (12.187–93); Polynices in book 11 had seen a vision of Argia before he decides to meet Eteocles in combat (11.140–8). In addition, Argia addresses a group of Argive women about her intentions to recover Polynices’ body (12.196–204); this action mirrors Polynices’ request of Adrastus for permission to fight his brother (11.155–92). As Argia comes into view of Thebes, and contemplates her task, she virtually quotes her brother Polynices: improba non sunt/ uota: rogos hospes planctumque et funera posco (“My prayers are not unseemly: As a stranger, I ask for a pyre, wailing and a corpse,” 12.260–1).7 These words hark back to Polynices’ prayer for success, as he casts his javelin at his brother Eteocles: di, quos effosso non inritus ore rogauit/ Oedipodes flammare nefas, non improba posco/ uota (“Gods, whom Oedipus with his dug-out eyes asked not without effect to inflame the nefas, I make a prayer that is not unseemly,” 11.504–6). But as we saw in chapter 8, Polynices’ words look back to Oedipus’ prayer of nefas in book 1, a prayer that Oedipus himself had called peruersa (“unnatural,” 1.59). Argia is intratextually connected not only to her husband’s madness but also to that of her father-in-law. In a very strange and convoluted sense, the criminal prayers of Polynices and Oedipus thus resonate with and infect hers. Antigone, on the other hand, repeats a central element of Eteocles’ characterization as he rushed to meet Polynices in battle – that is, the theme of delay. When Antigone bursts out of the city walls in book 12, she is described in the following manner: ergo deis fratrique moras excusat et amens, ut paulum immisso cessit statio horrida somno, erumpit muris (12.354–6)

Therefore she apologizes to the gods and her brother for her delay, and, when her rough guard succumbed to sleep, she bursts forth in a frenzy from the walls

Antigone is impatient at the delay of her pious deed. She has been waiting for the chance to elude Creon’s guard so that she could escape and bury her brother despite Creon’s prohibition. In book 11, Eteocles, as he rushed out of Thebes to find Polynices, was also concerned with delay, but for a different reason: 6 7

Eteocles is under the influence of the Furies (11.387–9), while Antigone is amens (12.354). Pollmann (2004): ad loc.

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Statius and Virgil uenio, solumque quod ante uocasti inuideo; ne incesse moras, grauis arma tenebat mater. (11.389–91)

I come, and I only am envious that you called me first; do not rebuke my delays, my burdensome mother was holding my weapons back.

Eteocles complains about his mother’s attempt to prevent fratricidal crime. In describing Antigone’s frenzied rush onto the battlefield to bury her brother, Statius takes the theme of delay, which is vital to the representation of crime in book 11, and reverses its goals for book 12, where it postpones a potential act of pietas.8 Statius does this at the parallel moment in both episodes (that is, a character’s mad rush to find Polynices). Moreover, when Argia and Antigone meet on the battlefield they replay the confrontation of Polynices and Eteocles.9 But instead of committing crime, they try to reverse the brothers’ nefas by performing an act of pietas. In the process, however, these sisters-in-law engage in another form of familial strife, because the burial of Polynices is depicted as something like a contest.10 Antigone, for example, rebukes herself for not reaching Polynices’ body first: pudet heu! pietas ignaua sororis!/ haec prior – (“Alas, it is shameful! His sister’s cowardly pietas! This woman was first –,” 12.384–5).11 And just as the brothers had fallen on each other and fight as an indistinguishable mass at 11.518–36, so too do Argia and Antigone, as they fall on and embrace Polynices’ corpse: hic pariter lapsae iunctoque per ipsum amplexu miscent auidae lacrimasque comasque, partitaeque artus redeunt alterna gementes ad uultum et cara uicibus ceruice fruuntur. (12.385–8)

Here having fallen at the same time and with embraces joined over him, they eagerly mix their tears and hair, and having shared his limbs they return to his face as they groan in alternation, and in turns they delight in his dear neck. 8

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Indeed, the delay theme appears in a number of places throughout book 12. At 12.215, Argia fears that Polynices’ shade might chide her for slothfulness in performing his burial rites (tardam). Once Antigone has reached the battlefield, we see that she does not delay long (nec longa morata, 12.358), since she knows where to find her brother. And at 12.405–8, Menoetes, Argia’s companion, urges the sisters-in-law to hurry the rites lest the approaching day reveal them to the Thebans. Fantham (1997): 211 and Pollmann (forthcoming). Dietrich (1999): 46–7 sees them as positive figures. Lovatt (1999): 136 argues that “the scene of Polynices’ burial, when read through Lucan’s description of the burial of Pompey, problematises any simple endorsement of this female alternative.” Cf. the use of prior in implying fraternal strife between Menoeceus and Haemon (10.655). See chapter 6.

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Like the description of the duel at 11.518–29, this passage is remarkable for the omission of names and pronouns that would differentiate the sisters as they embrace Polynices. In addition, Statius has repeated here some of the key words from the earlier passage: pariter, miscent, auidae, alterna, uultum,12 words that contribute to the inseparability of the sisters in their frenzied actions. Statius thus suggests still more strongly that the sisters’ seemingly pious actions are tinged with shades of familial strife – at the very moment that they try to atone for the fratricidal duel. Yet as they “re-enact” the brothers’ confrontation intratextually, they end up reviving the fraternal hatred. When Argia and Antigone search for a pyre already burning on the battlefield, they find only one. By chance, it happens to be that of Eteocles. They understand this when they observe the ill omens of the flames that spike as the women throw the corpse of one brother in the ashes of the other: cernisne ut flamma recedat concurratque tamen? uiuunt odia improba, uiuunt. nil actum bello; miseri, sic dum arma mouetis uicit nempe Creon! nusquam iam regna: quis ardor? cui furitis? sedate minas (12.440–4)

Do you see how the flame recedes and nevertheless clashes? Their shameless hatred lives, it lives. Nothing was achieved by the war; miserable ones, while you fight thus, Creon has surely won! There is no kingdom for you anywhere. Why this zeal? At whom do you rage? Quiet your threats

Polynices’ last words as he fell dead on his brother expressed the hope for justice in hell. He thus suggested that the rivalry of the brothers would continue after death (11.568–73). Here in book 12 the corpses fulfill this hope by displaying the visceral hatred the brothers felt in life.13 Antigone articulates the futility of this hatred and of the criminal war it caused, when she says, nil actum bello (12.442). Criminal hatred (odia improba, 12.441) has destroyed the brothers with no constructive result. And Antigone and Argia engage in still more strife. Their cremation of Polynices is observed by guards who rush onto the battlefield. As the sistersin-law are apprehended, they immediately compete against each other to claim responsibility for Polynices’ cremation:14 12

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Cf. pariter (11.523; 12.385), miscent (11.518, 535; 12.386), auidi (11.535; 12.386), alterna (11.528; 12.387), uultus (11.526; 12.388). See chapter 8 for more on the passage from book 11. Vessey (1986): 3006 comments on the mannerism here and notes its humorous potential. 14 Ibid., 46. Hardie (1993): 45–6.

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Statius and Virgil ambitur saeua de morte animosaque leti spes furit: haec fratris rapuisse, haec coniugis artus contendunt uicibusque probant: “ego corpus,” “ego ignes,” “me pietas,” “me duxit amor.” (12.456–9)

They strive for fierce death and their spirited hope for doom rages; this one contends that she rescued her brother’s limbs, this one her husband’s, and they prove their claims in alternation: “I found his body”; “I the flames.” “Pietas led me”; “me love.”

Even in the performance of these pious rites, the actions of these sistersin-law devolve into a form of familial strife.15 It is as if the hatred of the brothers on the pyre somehow infects Argia and Antigone. In Oedipus’ family, love and violence are so intertwined that even the sisters’ attempt to bury Polynices turns into a seemingly violent and confused battle over a corpse. But in Thebes – where father is brother, sister daughter, mother wife – perhaps we should expect nothing less. Argia and Antigone’s burial of Polynices and Eteocles is usually taken as another example of the power of pietas, a type of reconciliation on the private level of the violence of the previous eleven books.16 As I have argued, this is not the case. Not only, as Hardie and Hershkowitz have shown,17 do the sisters-in-law mimic the brothers’ strife when they find Polynices and cremate him on Eteocles’ pyre, but Argia and Antigone also “repeat” the fraternal duel in the larger structure of the episode. Their purported acts of pietas really achieve nothing.18 The brothers still hate each other in death, Creon is still in power, and the sisters-in-law are led away, presumably to be executed. Though the brothers are buried, pietas does not prevail here. Rather, this episode shows its continued irrelevance. Having been routed in book 11, Pietas/pietas has not returned as an effective virtue in book 12. It might provide temporary solace on a private level, but it is not rewarded in the larger, political world.19 Indeed, it has not been throughout the epic. interpreting theseus Argia and Antigone’s encounter thus echoes the brothers’ duel even as these sisters-in-law piously seek a private conclusion to the fratricidal violence. The remainder of the book, however, deals with the public resolution of the brothers’ nefas and Creon’s burial prohibition. While Argia journeys to Thebes, the other Argive women travel to Athens to appeal to Theseus. 15 17

16 See, e.g., Vessey (1973): 131–3 and Delarue (2000): 358–9. Cf. Hershkowitz (1998a): 294–5. 18 Cf. Burgess (1971–2): 55. 19 Cf. Lovatt (1999): 144. See references above.

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Led by Evadne, Capaneus’ widow, they reach the altar of Clementia there, just as Theseus is returning from his successful war against the Amazons, who are accompanying him. Evadne appeals to Theseus for revenge (ista . . . uindicta, 570) against Creon and his burial prohibition. Theseus reacts with anger and outrage toward Creon, and vows to lead his already war-weary troops immediately against Thebes. The Athenians fully support their king, while the Thebans fatalistically act upon Creon’s call to arms. Theseus soon arrives at Thebes, and the battle is joined. He quickly slays Creon in a duel but promises burial for his victim, who had earlier denied it for the Argive dead. The war ends, and full-scale mourning begins.20 It is easy to see why a positive interpretation of Theseus is possible. By allowing burial, Theseus brings a sense of humanity back to Thebes. He punishes the evil and rewards, if not the good, at least the suffering. He is a figure of justice and order in a poem in which such qualities have been absent. Vessey, for example, interprets Theseus in Stoic terms as “the model of a clement and just king,” and reads the end of the Thebaid as “the triumph of virtue over sin.”21 But the end of the Thebaid is just as controversial as the end of the Aeneid, because Statius also includes details that undermine Theseus’ positive aspects, if not contradict them fully.22 Hardie is troubled by Theseus’ actions, though he ends up reading the Athenian hero as “here at last, perhaps . . . a self-sufficient epic ‘man,’”23 and Fantham, while finding that “characterization in the Thebaid may be grotesquely negative,” writes that the ending of the Thebaid leaves “the world to those who punish the guilty without animosity and deal with their neighbours unmoved by envy, anger, fear or the hatred which they generate.”24 The negative reading of Theseus is represented especially by Dominik and Hershkowitz. Hershkowitz, for example, concludes that “Rather than forcing the inscription of sanity and reason on mad Thebes and ending the poem with a triumphant flourish 20

21

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23

On the ending of the Thebaid, see Ahl (1986): 2894–8, Feeney (1991): 360–3, Hardie (1993): 44–8, Braund (1996), Hardie (1997): 151–8, Ripoll (1998): 426–51, Hershkowitz (1998a): 296–301, Dietrich (1999), Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 294–6, 310–14, Lovatt (1999), Pag´an (2000), and Delarue (2000): 370–4. Vessey (1973): 312, 316. Of the poem as a whole, Vessey writes (316): “The Thebaid is an epic not of sin but of redemption, a chronicle not of evil but of triumphant good.” Cf. also Burgess (1972): 348 and Braund (1996): 12–16. Dietrich (1999): 43 discusses the positive views of Theseus. As Braund (1996): 16–18 has shown, the critical debate on Theseus roughly follows the optimistic– pluralistic–pessimistic continuum of Virgilian interpretation. The ends of the Aeneid and Thebaid must be read both intertextually and metacritically. We might then see not only one text interacting with another (Thebaid with Aeneid), but also literary critic with literary critic (Statian with Virgilian). Hershkowitz (1998a): 297 also suggests that the Aeneid is a metacritical model by speaking of Theseus and his interpretation in terms of optimism and pessimism. See also chapter 1. 24 Fantham (1997): 212. Hardie (1993): 48.

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of rationality, Theseus is himself inscribed, along with the rationality he purports to represent, within the overwhelming madness of the Thebaid.”25 Those with negative views of Theseus give short shrift to the positive aspects of Theseus’ resolution to the war, while positive interpretations either do not fully address or even acknowledge Theseus’ disturbing characteristics. Attempts to find middle ground have emphasized the contradictory or ambivalent voices as an inherent part of the poem.26 But there is still another way to bring together the poles of interpretation on Theseus. I shall argue that Theseus is a good king, but only in the context of the negative interpretation of kingship that the Thebaid presents as a corrective to that in the Aeneid. That is, Theseus possesses many of the disturbing characteristics that are part and parcel of autocracy throughout the Thebaid, but within this amoral and perverse world, he represents an ideal king, though one very different from that envisaged in the Aeneid. the altar of clementia and roman c l e m e n t i a Any discussion of Theseus must begin with the altar of Clementia. This is the Argive women’s initial destination. For them, clementia represents a defining characteristic of the city (12.175),27 and by extension, also of its king, Theseus. But the relationship between Theseus and clementia is not as clear as it might at first seem. Statius’ conception of clementia is not the standard one, and his originality here will have important implications for our understanding of Theseus.28 The altar provides refuge not only from political oppression but also from the violence and crime of the preceding eleven and a half books of the epic: urbe fuit media nulli concessa potentum ara deum, mitis posuit Clementia sedem, et miseri fecere sacram; sine supplice numquam illa nouo, nulla damnauit uota repulsa . . . 25

26 27

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Hershkowitz (1998a): 301. See also Dominik (1994a): 77, who argues that “not even [Adrastus and Theseus] are untainted by the madness that afflicts participants in war . . . Theseus shows a similar eagerness for the slaughter of war (12.595).” Dominik (93) further argues that “In the end the concentration in the narrative upon the negative consequences of a seemingly just war . . . serves to undermine considerably not only the ideal of such a war but also the surface portrayal of Theseus as a truly just king.” See also Dominik (1994a): 92–8, 109–10, and 156–7. See, e.g., Feeney (1991): 362–3, Henderson (1991), and the comments in Braund (1996): 18. For further discussion of the divergent views that characterize Statian scholarship, see chapter 1. His placet Actaeae si quid clementia gentis/ adnuat (“others would like to find out what the clementia of the Athenian people might grant,” Theb. 12.175–6). Statius’ altar is probably influenced by the altar of Pity ( : ;0 ) at Athens. See Burgess (1972): 347–8, Braund (1996): 9, and Ripoll (1998): 441. On the altar of Clementia, see especially Burgess (1972), Braund (1996), and Ripoll (1998): 440–6.

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sic sacrasse loco commune animantibus aegris confugium, unde procul starent iraeque minaeque regnaque, et a iustis Fortuna recederet aris. iam tunc innumerae norant altaria gentes: huc uicti bellis patriaque a sede fugati regnorumque inopes scelerumque errore nocentes conueniunt pacemque rogant. (Theb. 12.481–4, 503–9)

In the middle of the city, there was an altar dedicated not to one of the powerful gods: mild Clementia placed her seat there, and the wretched held it sacred. She never lacked a new suppliant, nor did she reject prayers with her refusal . . . So in this place the gods had made sacred a refuge shared by all troubled beings, from which wrath, threats, and kings would stand far off, and Chance would recede from the just altar. At that time countless peoples had already known of this altar; those conquered in wars, those exiled from their ancestral land, those stripped of their kingdoms, and those guilty of crimes by mistake come here and seek peace.

It is a place where safety can be found by all suppliants, regardless of the cause of their suffering, but it seems particularly well suited for those oppressed by kings (unde procul starent iraeque minaeque/ regnaque, 12.504– 5). The importance of Clementia as an antidote for autocratic crime is further suggested by Theseus’ later response, when Evadne appeals for help. He is horrified at Creon’s insane abuse of kingly power in prohibiting burial: quaenam ista nouos induxit Erinys/ regnorum mores? (“What Fury has introduced this unheard of behavior of kings?” 12.590–1).29 Clementia and Theseus would both seem to resist autocratic crime through their sense of justice.30 This representation of the goddess Clementia does not correspond to the more usual Roman usage of the word clementia, which, as Weinstock has shown, seems to have come into common use only in the mid-first century BCE through its association with Caesar and then Augustus.31 In its basic sense clementia means the display of mercy to one’s enemy or inferior for an offense, and thus involves a hierarchy of power: an emperor, for example, could pardon a citizen, or a victor the conquered, but the reverse would not be possible. A dissonance therefore arises in Statius between the political aspects of the clementia practiced by the emperors and the unquestioned refuge-like protection offered by Clementia. Indeed for a number of scholars, the altar of Clementia represents not clementia but misericordia (“pity”). The idea itself is suggested both by the fact that Statius’ altar of Clementia seems modeled on the famous 29 31

30 Clementia’s altars are iustis at 12.505. Cf. Braund (1996): 12. Weinstock (1971): 234–40. For more on clementia, see the discussion (with notes) in chapter 1.

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Altar of Pity (9!  ;05)) in Athens,32 and by the seeming wordplay at the beginning of the description of the altar, where we are told that miseri fecere sacram33 (“the wretched have made it sacred,” 12.483).34 Burgess, for example, claims that the traditional notion of clementia involving two parties (“offending” and “victimizing or showing clementia”) does not exist in the Thebaid, where instead there are always three parties, “the inferior (not offending), the superior (victimizing) and another superior (showing clementia).”35 He argues that Statius has transformed clementia into something more like misericordia (“pity”),36 so as to rid it of many of the tyrannical connotations it had developed in the beginning of the Principate: “He has changed the applicability of the concept of clementia from arbitrary tyranny . . . to benevolent dictatorship by making it a symbol of imperial protection and help.”37 Braund moves in a somewhat different direction by suggesting that Statius has transformed the Athenian altar from that of Misericordia to that of Clementia to bring the imperial connotations of clementia to bear on book 12: “Statius is deliberately inviting us to view Theseus as a model for the (idealised) Roman emperor.”38 While these reinterpretations of Statius’ altar have gone a long way in elucidating the meaning of Clementia/clementia in the Thebaid, they both suggest that the component of misericordia in Clementia is good, and that it is to be closely associated with Theseus. I will argue, however, that Statius’ conflation of clementia and misericordia has dire consequences 32 34

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36 37

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33 Braund (1996): 9. Burgess (1972): 347. French scholars, such as Ripoll, Franchet d’Esp`erey, and Delarue discuss this change in terms of humanitas (not misericordia), and would largely remove its political resonances. Statius, however, does not use this term (or a synonym for it), nor do these scholars fully or satisfactorily explain why Statius would both choose to call it clementia, if it really is not, and expect that it can be shorn of its political connotations. See, e.g., Ripoll (1998): 446 and Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 290. In what follows, I will focus on the idea of misericordia instead of humanitas. Burgess (1972): 345. See also Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 279–81. Burgess’ assertion that all instances of clementia in the poem are actually instances of misericordia is too schematic. It does not adequately explain, for example, the relevance of inclementia in the Coroebus episode (as we saw in chapter 1) and the consequent sparing of the youth. Coroebus had killed the monster (nefas) that Apollo had sent against Argos, and had thus committed an offense against Apollo himself. Moreover, when Oedipus, mourning the deaths of his sons in book 11, asks whether pietas and clementia have finally returned to him, Burgess argues that the father is expressing pity only and not a belated sense of clemency, because the Furies caused the brothers’ death, not Oedipus himself. But this reading takes all responsibility from Oedipus for cursing his sons. Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 289–90, however, argues that this is not Stoic misericordia because Statius’ clementia (=misericordia) is, in a sense passive: “It does not have pity; it is pity.” Burgess (1972): 348, who also suggests (349) that the Thebaid has developed this concept as “a clear policy for empire appropriate to what he felt was the most immediate need of the Roman people, a need illustrated in full measure by the preceding eleven books of the Thebaid.” Braund (1996): 12.

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that undermine the figures of Clementia and Theseus. The presence, as it were, of misericordia in the representations both of Clementia and Theseus is symptomatic of the confused moral and political world of the Thebaid. Statius’ Theseus is just as much a part of the epic’s critique of Virgilian kingship as is the presentation of Oedipus and his sons, even though Theseus’ actions achieve a positive result. seneca on c l e m e n t i a Seneca’s essay De Clementia offers the most detailed extant examination of this virtue. Because it is written from the perspective of Stoicism, the philosophical school that exerted such an important influence on the Thebaid,39 interpretation of Statius’ Clementia often relies on it.40 It offers a rich vantage point from which to examine and critique Statian clementia and to distinguish it from two particular vices to which it is related, misericordia and crudelitas. Seneca defines clementia roughly as follows: clementia est temperantia animi in potestate ulciscendi uel lenitas superioris aduersus inferiorem in constituendis poenis (“clementia is temperance of the mind in the power of revenge or leniency of a superior toward an inferior in determining punishments,” De Clementia 2.3.1).41 This virtue is firmly rooted in an Imperial setting,42 and is viewed as one of the greatest virtues of a king. Two faults, however, are closely connected to it. Misericordia (“pity”), on the one hand, results if a superior focuses on the inferior’s suffering rather than its cause: misericordia non causam, sed fortunam spectat; clementia rationi accedit (“misericordia looks not to the cause but to the plight; clementia accedes to reason,” De Clementia 2.5.1). Crudelitas, on the other, is considered the opposite of clementia:43 Quid ergo opponitur clementiae? Crudelitas, quae nihil aliud est quam atrocitas animi in exigendis poenis (“What then is opposed to clementia? Cruelty, which is nothing other than the atrocity of the mind in exacting punishments,” De Clementia 2.4.1).44 That is, clementia does not inflict all the punishment that is rightly deserved (De Clementia 2.3.2), while crudelitas shows no moderation even in just 39 40 41 42 44

See Fantham (1997). She does not read the Thebaid as a “Stoic” epic, as does, e.g., Vessey (1973), but she does show well the influence of Stoic psychology on the Thebaid. See below. See, e.g., Burgess (1972), Braund (1996), Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 279–80, and Delarue (2000): 164–6. See also De Clementia 2.3.1–2 for further discussion of the meaning of clementia. 43 Pollmann (2004): ad 482. Indeed the work is even dedicated to Nero. Cf. also De Ira 2.13.2: quid clementia remissius, quid crudelitate negotiosius? (“What is more relaxed than clementia, what more troublesome than crudelitas?”)

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punishment (Illos ergo crudeles uocabo, qui puniendi causam habent, modum non habent, sicut in Phalari, quem aiunt non quidem in homines innocentes, sed super humanum ac probabilem modum saeuisse, “Therefore I will call those cruel who have a reason for punishing but do not have a limit, as in the case of Phalaris, whom they say raged not, in fact, against innocent people but in a way that exceeded what is human and acceptable,” De Clementia 2.4.3). From these formulations we see that clementia must guard against at least two faults: misericordia and crudelitas. If a monarch punishes offenses with unreasonable generosity, he will be guilty of misericordia. But if he punishes them too violently, he will be guilty of crudelitas. Thus crudelitas and misericordia are both problematically related to clementia, which occupies a position somewhere in between. In the context of the Thebaid, Creon’s burial prohibition is an instance of crudelitas,45 but are Theseus’ actions closer to clementia or misericordia? In what follows, I will use these Stoic conceptions of and distinctions among clementia, misericordia, and crudelitas as exploratory tools to help us construe both the negative and positive features of Statius’ Theseus. By suggesting their usefulness, I am not arguing for a Stoic interpretation of the Athenian hero or of the Thebaid more generally,46 but rather for the interpretive relevance of the Stoic treatment of the passions.47 The Thebaid’s “psychology and moral causality can be called Stoic, or perhaps post-Stoic, to the extent that the evil of the epic derives from the human passion run amok.”48 If we view Statius’ conflation of clementia and misericordia from such a perspective, we will see some ways that Theseus’ exercise of clementia, far from providing an ideal basis for kingly action,49 suggests the flawed nature of his autocratic power. In the end, Theseus’ debased clementia (really closer to the flawed misericordia) and the crudelitas of Eteocles and Creon are closely related, for they result from the same extralegal ability 45 46 47

48

49

Note also that Eteocles had prohibited the burial of Maeon (3.96–8), a detail that may have been invented by Statius. See Ripoll (1998): 296 with n. 196. Vessey (1973) has essentially done so, though Ahl (1986): 2810–11, Fantham (1997): 211–12, and others have shown well the weaknesses of this approach. Recent interpretations of the end of the Aeneid from the Stoic perspective have, for example, provided fruitful results. See chapter 2 and especially Gill (1997) and (2003) for the use of Stoicism (and other philosophical schools) to interpret Aeneas’ slaying of Turnus as well as the passions in the Aeneid and post-Virgilian poetry more generally. Fantham (1997): 211. Indeed it is because the Thebaid’s gods are so subject to the passions that Fantham cannot accept a Stoic reading of the epic as a whole and goes on to say: “But it is difficult to recognize either the Stoic or any other philosophical system in an action so dominated by destructive forces” (211–12). So Burgess (1972) and Braund (1996).

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of autocrats to indulge their impulses with virtual impunity. The idea that excessive forgiveness (misericordia) could devolve into a form of crudelitas was even suggested by Seneca: nam tam omnibus ignoscere crudelitas quam nulli (“for it is as much a cruelty to forgive all as to forgive no one,” De Clementia 1.2.2). Theseus’ clementia (i.e. misericordia) is just as much a part of the problematic political structure of the Thebaid’s presentation of kingship as is crudelitas. theseus, c l e m e n t i a , and moral confusion As we have already seen, Statius’ presentation of Clementia actually involves two ideas, clementia and misericordia (“pity”). But if so, this conflation raises important questions. Is Statius’ Clementia actually beneficial for this world? And should Theseus be most closely associated with Clementia, misericordia, or clementia? In this section I will argue that Clementia and Theseus’ clementia are different virtues, and that the confused nature of clementia that results (through consideration of the Stoic definitions discussed above) resonates with the contradictory nature of so many actions and characters in the Thebaid, both good and bad. The goddess Clementia does bring relief to the unrelenting horror of the epic, but she does so at some cost. Although we have been appalled by the criminality that pervades the Thebaid, Clementia does not, in the end, address the cause of terrible events or suffering. Rather Clementia offers unquestioning refuge to those who supplicate her: sine supplice numquam/ illa nouo, nulla damnauit uota repulsa (12.483–4, see above). Everyone who appeals to the altar receives relief with no distinction made between the good and the bad.50 Clementia is ultimately an amoral ideal that, while punishing the guilty, cannot address the deep-rooted problems of Theban monarchy. It is much closer to Seneca’s misericordia than to his clementia, the latter of which is specifically focused on causae. Now if Clementia does not represent the concept of clementia, as explained in Stoic terms by Seneca, what is Theseus’ connection to it? Scholarly writing so often assumes the two are closely associated; that Theseus represents the ideals expressed in the description of the ara Clementiae 50

While the phrase scelerumque errore nocentes (12.508) indicates people who have unwittingly committed crimes, the phrase does not restrict criminality to this type for two reasons. First, lines 483–4 state clearly that everyone is accepted at the altar; second, line 508 is not offered to limit those who can avail themselves of Clementia but only to describe a group of people who have already found benefit from the altar’s goddess: iam tunc innumerae norant altaria gentes (12.506).

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(i.e. Clementia as misericordia). I will argue, however, that the text does not explicitly draw that connection for us.51 When Theseus arrives, the Argive women have already come to Athens and taken their position at the altar. What we observe in the Athenian king is not quite what we might have expected from the earlier description of Clementia. Instead of a figure of compassion and understanding, we see Theseus as a figure of tremendous political and martial power. He is perched upon his axe superbo52 (“proud chariot,” 12.543) and preceded by the Amazon women he has just defeated along with his other spoils of war. The threatening nature of his appearance as general-king,53 accompanied by the conquered and their possessions, puts him at odds with the spirit of the altar as a refuge from powerful monarchs: confugium, unde procul starent iraeque minaeque/ regnaque (12.504–5, see translation above). At this point, the Athenian king is hardly a figure embodying the ideal of Clementia’s altar. And the Argive response to Theseus reinforces the dissonance between the altar and the visual impact of the king’s appearance. The women are awestruck by the spectacle of his arrival and power – so much so that they step away from the altar: paulum et ab insessis maestae Pelopeides aris/ promouere gradum seriemque et dona triumphi/ mirantur, uictique animo rediere mariti (“The sad daughters of Pelops moved a little from the altar they had sat on and they marvel at the parade and the gifts of the triumph; their defeated husbands returned to their minds,” 12.540–2). But by doing so, are they appealing to Theseus as a representative of Clementia (i.e. pity/misericordia)? Or as a successful general-king (i.e. the imperial aspect of clementia)? The women’s movement from the altar seems pointed and suggests the latter: they are awed by Theseus and the emblems of his military and political power, not by visual suggestions of his pity (i.e. Clementia/misericordia). Theseus’ words give the same impression, and his actions draw him closer to the field of imperial clementia, as defined in Seneca. With the women away from the altar, Theseus (qua king/general) questions the Argives: 51

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53

Cf. Ripoll (1998): 445 who sees Clementia and Theseus as complementary but distinct, and Franchet d’Esp`erey (1999): 284 who sees Clementia as characteristically different from Theseus, because the virtue is more a passive figure of “non-violence,” while Theseus clearly is something of a different order. Pollmann (2004): ad loc. notes that “The adjective superbus is morally flexible, as it can blame . . . but can also be used in praise.” In this passage, she interprets it in the latter sense, though perhaps a more threatening sense would capture better the martial power he represents in this scene. As Braund (1996): 12 observes, he is something like a triumphant Roman general.

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atque ubi tardauit currus et ab axe superbo explorat causas uictor poscitque benigna aure preces (12.543–5)

And when the conqueror slowed his chariot and from his proud car inquires into their causes, and requests their entreaties with a beneficent ear

He is uictor and asks for their supplications that he will hear kindly. This is more the behavior of an emperor.54 Whereas Clementia, as we saw above, is an amoral divinity, who reacts to all suffering without regard to cause, Theseus does not commit himself to help the women immediately, but instead explicitly inquires about the causes behind the women’s suffering (12.544–5). In doing so, he seems more like the Stoic ideal, acting with reason instead of passion. This disjunction between Clementia and the nature of Theseus’ actions (or brand of clementia) is also suggested by Theseus’ silence concerning the goddess and her altar.55 Nowhere does he mention them or his connection to them. Likewise, nowhere in the description of the altar is Theseus mentioned, still less as a protector of Clementia’s suppliants. Indeed, when he sees the Argive women, Theseus seems to be passing by the altar of Clementia fortuitously.56 He does not even dismount from his chariot to hear the women’s pleas. In short, Clementia and Theseus are not closely connected by the text.57 The resulting picture of clementia in Statius is even more complicated than we might have originally thought. Not only is Clementia actually misericordia, but Clementia cannot represent Theseus’ defining virtue. Indeed, Theseus’ clementia in action (i.e. his war against Thebes on behalf of the Argive women) is closer to Stoic and Roman Imperial clementia under cover of the ideals behind the altar of Clementia/misericordia.58 But even that formulation, as it turns out, does not quite work, for Theseus’ clementia also involves a confusion of ideals. Moreover, the very fact that the 54 55

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Ibid., 13. Cf. Pollmann (2004): ad 544–5, who comes to the opposite conclusion: “Theseus shows an attitude suitable for the circumstances and appropriate at the Altar of Pity, on whose behalf he is willing to act.” She cites Ripoll (1998): 440–51. His passing by the altar, even in a kind of triumph, is in no way stated as deliberate or significant. I do not mean to suggest that clementia and Theseus are completely separate or even opposite, but that the clementia Theseus represents is not what had been attributed to the goddess Clementia. Indeed, we know from 12.175–6 that the Athenians are famous for clementia, and for this reason the Argive women had decided to travel to Athens. And even though clementia is nowhere explicitly attributed to Theseus in the Thebaid, we can assume that his subsequent actions in waging war for the Argives must be a manifestation of some type of clementia. This is a different formulation from Braund (1996), who views Clementia as Misericordia but called Clementia for the latter’s Imperial connotations.

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goddess Clementia will play no further role in the epic suggests that the altar cannot be read at face value in the poem. Indeed, as I have argued, the description of the altar only underscores Clementia’s dissonance with Theseus. If we bring to bear the Stoic distinctions between clementia and misericordia discussed above, I believe we can get to the heart of the problematic nature of Theseus that many readers have found. At first, Theseus seems like a practitioner of Stoic clementia: he is a monarch who has the power to bestow clementia, and, in exercising this power, he begins by seeking the causes of the women’s suffering. But, as it turns out, Theseus’ approach to clementia seems just as confused as everything else we have witnessed thus far concerning this virtue. In the end, he relies to a remarkable degree, not on reason, but on passion – exactly what the Stoics would have condemned: dixerat; excipiunt cunctae tenduntque precantes cum clamore manus; rubuit Neptunius heros permotus lacrimis; iusta mox concitus ira exclamat . . . (12.587–90)

Evadne had spoken; all support her and with a clamor stretch out their hands in prayer; the hero, Neptune’s son, grew red, moved deeply by their tears; then roused by just anger he cries out . . .

In other words, Theseus’ ultimate reaction is in some ways closer to Stoic misericordia, for it is one of intense passion, though still very different from Clementia/misericordia (i.e. amoral pity), which is granted without question. Not only does Theseus grow red (rubuit) with wrath at Creon’s crimes, but he is also described as both permotus lacrimis and iusta . . . concitus ira (12.589). The words permotus and concitus express violent emotional upheaval59 – exactly what, on a Stoic reading, should not inform Theseus’ decision to punish Creon, for he becomes the type of threatening and (potentially) irrational monarch from whom Clementia offers suppliants protection.60 59 60

Cf. OLD s.v. permoueo 3 and concieo 3. Pollmann (2004): ad 589 remarks that the idea that anger can be just “was deemed impossible by the Stoics, but conceded by the Peripatetic tradition as an emotion which sparks one into action.” Pollmann also cites Ripoll (1998): 330 and 432–40. Braund and Gilbert (2003) examine the positive connotations of ira in epic. While I agree that Theseus’ ira does have a positive outcome (the defeat of Creon), nonetheless the phrase iusta ira represents the problematic nature of Theseus’ clementia that can culminate in a “just” action but that is still based on destructive passions that could lead in the opposite direction – that is, to cruelty and crime. Lovatt (1999): 136 views Theseus negatively as a tyrant: “Theseus may defeat Creon, but he is an equally absolute ruler: both are literary descendants of Lucan’s Caesar.” See below for more on Theseus’ problematic nature.

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The impetuousness of Theseus’ impassioned response is also suggested in light of Argia’s comments earlier in book 12. Argia decides to travel to Thebes alone, instead of going to Athens with the others, because she feels that Theseus would not respond to their plea quickly: anne . . . hostiles ego te tabente per agros (heu dolor!) exspectem, quaenam sententia lenti Theseos, an bello proceres, an dexter haruspex adnuat? (12.209–12)

While you are rotting on the enemy’s fields (oh the pain!), should I wait for the decision of slow Theseus; whether his chiefs or favorable soothsayer agree to war?

Argia is clearly looking for something more than just the refuge that the altar of Clementia can provide. She wants some kind of political or military intervention from Theseus; she needs something closer to Roman or Stoic clementia. But Argia is not sure whether Athens and Theseus would respect the just request of the Argive women. Moreover, even if they were to, she fears that various councils and religious procedures would delay Athenian action. Argia’s expectation that Theseus cannot offer summary justice places even more emphasis on the lightning-fast speed with which he ultimately decides to fight Creon. Theseus’ response consequently seems hasty, despite the fact that it is directed at Creon’s nefas (i.e. his burial prohibition). Not only does Theseus make this decision on the spur of the moment, but he also does so without the consultation of any deliberative bodies, without taking auspices or consulting the gods, without even considering the ramifications for his city.61 These are actions that Argia, in her frenzy to find her husband’s corpse, considers (at some level) to be expected (12.209–12). In Stoic terms, Theseus’ reliance on intense passion instead of deliberation to make decisions is a grave flaw. Statius easily could have had Theseus pause to think or engage in consultations, as his counterpart suggests in Euripides’ Suppliants (cf. 349–58). Theseus’ response to the Argive women in Statius thus seems closer to Stoic misericordia, yet it still has something in common with crudelitas. A monarch’s passionate reaction can lead to good as well as to crime and evil, as does Creon’s in the burial prohibition. The very presence of passion is troublesome. Theseus can thus be viewed as a representative of the problematic world of autocracy in the Thebaid.62 61 62

Cf. Lesueur (1996): 71–2. Cf. ibid., 74–5: Lesueur argues that tyranny still remains a possibility, even after Theseus’ actions.

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Through his immense power, he can indulge his passions to take whatever action he likes without consultation of the people, transgressing the boundaries he feels necessary. But at the same time, because he uses the power with good result, his demonstration of clementia represents the best that mortals can hope for in the autocrats of Statius’ epic world.

t h e b a i d 11 and 12 When Theseus’ actions are read, however, on the intra- and intertextual levels, a fuller picture of the king emerges. The brief duel between Theseus and Creon constitutes the second rewriting of Eteocles and Polynices’ duel from Thebaid 11.63 But while Argia and Antigone, inspired by the elusive ideal of pietas, end up repeating the brothers’ fury, Theseus’ defeat of Creon avoids the repetition of nefas, instead suggesting a reversal of the brothers’ actions. Theseus is a true inhabitant of the autocratic world of the Thebaid, but one who has a solution (albeit temporary) for its inherent tendency to nefas. Despite the apparent amorality of clementia in the poem, the confrontation between Theseus and Creon seems relatively clear. Burial prohibition is criminal, and Creon is depicted as crazed. Indeed, just before the battle, we find that he has visions that include the Furies, who are driving him on some level to war against the Athenians: Eumenidas subitas flentemque Menoecea cernit/ turbidus impositosque rogis gaudere Pelasgos (“Agitated, he suddenly sees the Furies and Menoeceus crying, and the Pelasgians placed on the pyres taking delight,” 12.696–7). Clearly Creon pursues what can only be called a criminal goal, one that no one in the text, not even his lackeys, appears to support. Thus when Creon is killed, his death seems righteous. The justice of Theseus’ actions is also a great concern for Statius. Though Theseus is overcome by ira in attacking Creon, we are told in two places that this ira is just: iusta mox concitus ira (12.589); iustas belli flammatur in iras (“he is set ablaze in just anger for war,” 12.714).64 Iustitia and ira are thus combined in the Athenian king, in contrast to his intratextual model in Polynices.65 63 64 65

As we saw earlier in this chapter, the attempts by Argia and Antigone to recover Polynices’ corpse structurally repeat Polynices’ attack on Eteocles. Braund (1996): 3. See Ripoll (1998): 426–40 on the theme of the just war in book 12 as well as in the epic more generally. See the discussion in chapter 8. As with Argia and Antigone earlier, Theseus’ expedition against Thebes is marked by its breathtaking speed, its necessity, and its ability to avoid delay. Theseus has just returned from a campaign against the Amazons and decides to move directly on to Thebes

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If Theseus acts like a new and better Polynices, Creon repeats the destructive evil of his intratextual model in this scheme – Eteocles. When Theseus hears the terrible criminality of Creon from Evadne, he cries out in condemnation of the Theban king – echoing language earlier used of Eteocles: quaenam ista nouos induxit Erinys/ regnorum mores? . . . nouus unde furor? (“What Fury has introduced this unheard of behavior of kings? . . . whence comes this new fury?,” 12.590–3). When Jocasta intervenes in book 11, she says to Eteocles: quis furor? unde iterum regni integrata resurgit/ Eumenis?” (“What is this madness? What makes the Fury of our kingdom rise again restored?” 11.329–30). Creon can be seen thus to take up the role that Eteocles had played earlier as the depraved monarch of Thebes. And the resulting war (i.e. Theseus’ attack on Creon) is denuded of its criminal status. Rather, the justice of Theseus’ endeavor is clear (12.570–2, 589–90).66 And when Theseus defeats Creon at the end of book 12, he again acts as Polynices had. But Theseus’ vaunt over the vanquished Creon, instead of inciting more nefas, puts an end to Creon’s nefas, his burial prohibition, and the wickedness of Theban rule: iamne dare exstinctis iustos . . . hostibus ignes, iam uictos operire placet? uade atra dature supplicia extremique tamen secure sepulcri. (12.779–81)

Does it now seem good to give just fires to deceased enemies . . . now to bury the conquered? Go, you who are about to suffer dark punishments but who are nevertheless assured of your final burial.

Theseus echoes Polynices’ hope that his victim will be punished in hell and that justice will be served there. But the criminality of Polynices’ words to his brother is not replicated in Theseus’ to Creon. Instead, Theseus not only assures Creon of his rightful burial (12.781) but also promises funeral rites for all of the dead – thus, he rids the world of Creon’s nefas.67 While the brothers’ duel ultimately erased the differences between them because of their violence, Theseus’ actions distinguish him from Creon.

66 67

without any rest. For Theseus, there will be no delaying in the establishment of justice (nulla mora est, 12.596). The Athenians will act immediately (continuo, 12.611; raptim, 12.640). Evadne urges Theseus and the Athenians to hurry (properate, 12.569) before Creon causes more crime among other peoples. Line 589, however, is troubling for those who would try to read Theseus as a kind of ideal Stoic ruler, for it describes him as iusta mox concitus ira. See the discussion above. Statius’ representation of Theseus, however, has some disturbing qualities. See Ahl (1986): 2894–8, Hardie (1993): 46–8, and the discussion below.

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t h e b a i d 12 and a e n e i d 12 The final confrontation between Creon and Theseus also recalls the end of the Aeneid, and this relationship makes the ideas of right and wrong still clearer in the Thebaid. One of the central questions of interpretation of the Aeneid is how we are to understand Aeneas’ slaying of Turnus, which brings the epic to an abrupt end. In chapter 8, we saw that the duel between Eteocles and Polynices had suggested a reading of the Virgilian duel that, instead of drawing distinctions between Turnus and Aeneas, brought them closer together, making moral distinctions difficult. In Thebaid 12, however, Statius does the opposite. By providing a just and conclusive ending to his epic, Statius may be seen to comment on the Aeneid’s inconclusiveness as well as the very failure of the political ideology of the Principate that the Augustan Aeneid, on some level, gives voice to. That we should have Aeneid 12 in mind is certain. Both epics end with a climactic duel, though the Thebaid adds a thirty-seven-line coda that, as Braund has shown, is itself a response to the inconclusiveness of the Aeneid.68 Moreover, as Braund and Hershkowitz have remarked, there are important features of the confrontation that point us back to Aeneid 12: most notably, Theseus’ single-minded pursuit of Creon and the interpretation of Creon’s slaying as a sacrifice.69 A fundamental difference between the two passages can be seen by comparing the deaths of Turnus and Creon: this is where the Thebaid may offer a critique of Aeneas’ actions. When Turnus is wounded and expects the deathblow, he utters the following words: “equidem merui nec deprecor” inquit; “utere sorte tua. miseri te si qua parentis tangere cura potest, oro (fuit et tibi talis Anchises genitor) Dauni miserere senectae et me, seu corpus spoliatum lumine mauis, redde meis. uicisti et uictum tendere palmas Ausonii uidere; tua est Lavinia coniunx, ulterius ne tende odiis.” (Aen. 12.931–8)

“I have indeed deserved it nor do I pray for mercy,” he said; “use your lot. If any concern for a wretched parent can touch you, I pray (Anchises was also such a father to you) have compassion for the old age of Daunus and return me (or my 68 69

Braund (1996). See also the discussions of the nature of the Thebaid’s closure (or lack thereof ) in Hardie (1997): 151–6, Dietrich (1999), Lovatt (1999), and Pag´an (2000). Braund (1996): 2–4 and Hershkowitz (1998a): 299 n. 116.

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body despoiled of life, if you prefer) to my people. You have won and the Ausonians have seen me extend my palms in defeat. Lavinia is your wife; do not push further in your hatred.”

Turnus admits defeat, expecting his own death. He, however, appeals to Aeneas’ sense of both pietas and clementia: that Aeneas either spare him or send his corpse to his father for proper burial. For Aeneas, the issue becomes whether to grant Turnus his supplication, and presumably thus exhibit the clementia that Anchises in the underworld defines as part of Romanness (parcere subiectis, “spare the conquered,” Aen. 6.853) or to honor his own sense of pietas to his ally Evander by avenging Pallas’ death with the slaughter of Turnus. It is a difficult moment, and Aeneas famously hesitates (cunctantem, Aen. 12.940), while making up his mind. In the end, he is overcome by fury and wrath (furiis accensus et ira/ terribilis, Aen. 12.946–7), when he notices that Turnus is wearing Pallas’ sword belt. The Trojan hero slaughters Turnus and interprets this slaying as a sacrifice to Pallas (immolat, Aen. 12.949). Given that furor has been in conflict with pietas throughout the epic, interpreters are sometimes puzzled that Aeneas would succumb to furor with an act of violence that ends the poem so abruptly and (potentially) ambivalently.70 In “rewriting” this scene, Statius rids it of potential Virgilian ambiguity.71 Like Turnus (Aen. 12.931, 936), Creon admits defeat and expects death. Creon’s death, like Turnus’, is also viewed as a sacrifice (hostia, Theb. 12.771). Unlike Turnus, however, Creon pleads neither for clemency nor for burial. Moreover, there is an important difference between Aeneas’ ira and Theseus’. When he kills Turnus, Aeneas is furiis accensus et ira/ terribilis (Aen. 12.946–7). Theseus, however, operates under iusta ira, and is never beset by furor.72 Rather in the Thebaid it is Creon who exhibits Aeneas’ terrible passions, just before the Theban throws his spear at Theseus: extrema se colligit ira,/ iam letale furens (“he gathers himself in extreme anger, and now raging lethally,” Theb. 12.759–60). Creon is the one beset by the two emotions, furor and ira, that had characterized Aeneas’ slaying of Turnus. Moreover, whereas Aeneas is told to parcere subiectis et debellare superbos by Anchises (Aen. 6.853), Theseus once again disrupts the Virgilian formulation by not sparing Creon (who never seeks mercy) and by displaying arrogance (ore superbo, “with proud mouth,” Theb. 12.770), just as he kills Creon. 70 71 72

Cairns (1989): 82–4 tries to discern a positive sense in Aeneas’ furiis as he kills Turnus (12.946), but this reading is problematic. See Hardie (1997): 151 n. 46 and Thomas (2001): 96. See also Ripoll (1998): 450. The contrast is important, since furor, throughout the Thebaid (and the Aeneid), is what so often leads to acts of nefas.

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Theseus is acting very differently from the ideal of kingship represented in the Augustan Aeneid. Statius omits a number of the features that make Aeneas’ slaying of Turnus problematic. Pietas is not raised as an issue, nor does irrational anger cloud Theseus’ judgment at this moment, for his slaying of Creon is called “just.” Theseus turns out to be a better Aeneas, more capable of dealing with the negative forces of his autocratic universe. By founding his decision to attack Thebes in clementia and iustitia, Theseus acts on the virtues that seem to matter most in this epic world.73 As we saw in the Coroebus episode in chapter 1, these are the virtues that characterized Apollo’s actions and thus overtake pietas and uirtus in importance. Like Apollo, Theseus brandishes his autocratic powers, untroubled by debates over right and wrong, since he is the ultimate arbiter of such questions. In the world of the Thebaid, Theseus is as good as a king can be. f rom p i e ta s to c l e m e n t i a In a broader sense, Theseus’ appearance and punishment of Creon at the end of the Thebaid do more than correct the faults of the Theban brothers and perhaps of Aeneas as well. The Theseus episode represents the culmination of the Thebaid’s critique of the Augustan voice of the Aeneid. The brothers’ mortal conflict and Theseus’ defeat of Creon reduce pietas to an inadequate and powerless ideal. It is useless on the human level because those who try to display pietas rarely if ever receive political rewards or divine support. And it has no effect on the heavenly level: the rout of the goddess Pietas devastatingly shows the irrelevance of pietas in the Thebaid. One might argue that Theseus, in addition to his display of clementia, is also a paragon of pietas in his willingness and success in defeating the tyrant Creon, whose decree against burial makes him a criminal figure. But Theseus never refers to the virtue of pietas, nor does the narrator or any character attribute it to him. This is noteworthy. Other major “symbols” of pietas, or at least those potentially so, are explicitly associated with this virtue. Menoeceus is pius and is caught by Pietas, as he leaps from the Theban walls, while Hopleus and Dymas are also so described (cf. 10.384). By contrast, the absence of any association between Theseus and pietas is significant.74 73 74

See Pollmann (forthcoming) on how clementia and iustitia dominate book 12. Theseus’ decision to attack Thebes is, as we have seen, an emotional response, motivated by his lacrimae and ira (12.589–90).

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The Thebaid’s critique of pietas shows that fas is now defined by the exercise of raw political power. The heavenly gods do not have the ability to govern human affairs as they do in the Aeneid, and Jupiter represents a debased version of his Virgilian counterpart. Of course the superi are still present at the end of the epic. Juno, for example, helps the Argive women reach Athens (12.134–6, 464–70).75 But morality is no longer a divine concern. In addition, the concept of fate, so central to the Aeneid, is completely lacking. What matters now is the will of the monarch, who has the ability and power to define events on earth. In the Augustan Aeneid, kingly figures such as Aeneas act with pietas for the benefit of the people. In the Thebaid, Statius replaces this virtue with clementia; it now represents the defining quality of a good king, with Theseus as its only (and ultimate) human example. But Theseus himself is by no means an unproblematic character. He exhibits what seems to be the natural tendency of kings to transgress boundaries in the exercise of their will. Theseus, in fact, is one of the most disturbingly transgressive characters in the Thebaid. He is not only compared both to gods and to animals,76 but he is also metaphorically implicated in the strife between Jupiter and Dis that explodes in book 8. When Theseus kills Creon, he proclaims: Argolici . . . manes,/ pandite Tartareum chaos ultricesque parate/ Eumenidas, uenit ecce Creon! (“Argive shades, open the chaos of Tartarus and prepare the avenging Furies. Look, here comes Creon!” 12.771–3). These words suggest the violation of boundaries that provoked the cosmic strife between Jupiter and Dis in book 8.77 In this way, the battle between Theseus and Creon is implicated in that between heaven and hell, between Jupiter and Dis. Yet Theseus adds another layer of complexity, for he is also the son of Neptune, a fact emphasized in two places: Neptunius heros (“Neptunian hero,” 12.588) and Neptunius Theseus (“Neptunian Theseus,” 12.665). Neptune is the brother of the divine triad who has been absent throughout the poem, but in a sense he appears through his son. Does Theseus thus represent the third brother involved in fraternal strife, expanding an already terrible war?78 75 76 77 78

Delarue (2000): 348–9. As Jupiter: 12.650–5; as Mars: 12.733–5; as a bull: 12.601–5. He also carries a shield that has a depiction of himself (12.665–71). See Feeney (1991): 357 and Hardie (1993): 47. See also 12.646–7, where Theseus asserts that the forces supporting the Thebans in their war include the Poenae and the anguicomae sorores (“snake-haired sisters”). Note that when Dis reacts to Amphiaraus’ incursion into hell, he at first assumes that it was caused by one of his brothers (i.e. Neptune or Jupiter, though he goes on to act as if it were Jupiter): uter haec mihi proelia fratrum? (“Which of my brothers brings these wars to me?” 8.36).

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Other troubling aspects abound. Theseus, like Oedipus, is an unwitting patricide. His inadvertent “murder” of his mortal father Aegeus is referred to at 12.625–6.79 Moreover, Theseus will kill his own son. Statius refers to Hippolytus, when the conquered Amazons are described as part of Theseus’ retinue as he returns to Athens: Theseus takes Hippolyte, queen of the Amazons, as his wife, and she will bear him offspring (hosti ueniat paritura marito, “she comes to produce children for her enemy-husband,” 12.539). Theseus will ultimately curse Hippolytus and thus bring about his death.80 Theseus’ violence also takes on a troubling superhuman aspect. As already noted, he is compared to Mars, whose essential quality in the Thebaid is to rage in battle. But Theseus also reflects the war-god in his ability to commit himself so quickly to one war, even as he is returning from another. The speed with which Theseus redirects his army recalls the actions of Mars at 7.69–84. There the god returns from war with the Hyrcanians, only to be prodded by Jupiter’s messenger Mercury to go immediately to the one in Thebes. But all of these characteristics, often used to reject interpreting Theseus as a positive force, instead identify him as a perfect inhabitant of the Thebaid’s moral universe, and thus the perfect person to provide a conclusion to the poem. In Seneca’s differentiation among cruelty, clemency, and piety, we see that crudelitas and misericordia are equally flawed: they both rely excessively on the passions, and not enough on reason, which is the central component of the Stoic conception of clementia. In this framework, Theseus is as contaminated by passion as other kings in the Thebaid. At the same time, Theseus keeps to the “positive” end of the spectrum and provides a model of salvation in a terrible world. In exercising his autocratic power to achieve moral ends, he is in some sense good. And yet we cannot forget that in marching against Thebes he acts unilaterally; and that autocratic power, more generally, can be used for evil ends as easily as it can for justice. We have no reason to believe that the world of Thebes has become a place where the ideals of the Augustan Aeneid are honored, where evil has disappeared or at least been mastered. Nor should we think that Theseus represents everything good that Thebes has lacked. Even after Creon dies, the fundamental madness and confusion of the world return. Though the Argive women rush to bury their dead with seeming pietas, they act with pio . . . tumultu (“pious confusion,” 12.782), and contend with one another in finding the corpses of their loved 79

Dietrich (1999): 44.

80

Eur. Hipp. 887–90, 893–8; Sen. Phaed. 941–58.

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ones.81 They are compared to Bacchants committing nefas (789–93).82 And in mourning, the women act violently and monstrously: Evadne leaps onto Capaneus’ pyre (800–2), and Argia lies on top of Tydeus and kisses him (802–3), though his mouth must still be defiled with the brains of his slayer Melanippus. The world of the Thebaid is still essentially criminal. Despite the positive portrayal of Theseus, a negative view of the political world of Thebes remains.83 Monarchy, far from the perception of the Augustan Aeneid, is dangerous at its core, because it confers absolute power that more naturally leads to nefas (the transgression of limits) than to pietas (the respect of social, religious, and cultural boundaries). Moral concerns are subsumed in the will and judgment of the autocrat. In the end, Theseus is a good king, but at the same time a symptom (as much as both Eteocles and Polynices had been) of the problem of monarchic power, and an indication of the weakness of Virgil’s depiction of kingship. The meaning of the Thebaid has been a controversial issue. Not very long ago, Ogilvie could write that “The Thebaid cannot be said to be about anything.”84 In this book, I have shown both a way to approach the poem and a roughly sequential reading of it that understands the Thebaid as a complex and meaningful work. Far from representing a retreat from politics to a safe mytho-poetic world,85 Statius’ epic engages in a serious discussion about kingly power, an issue that affected the existence of every Roman. Though I have argued that the Thebaid is critical of the Aeneid’s Augustan voice regarding kingship (and thus of the Principate), I have not addressed the poem’s attitude to Domitian, under whose reign it was composed. The omission is deliberate. Though the Thebaid’s presentation of monarchy must be informed by the political climate in which Statius lived, it is difficult to argue that the Thebaid is a direct critique either of the Flavian regime or of Domitian himself.86 Too many potentially positive statements in Statius’ poetry about Domitian complicate such a view.87 At the same 81 82 83 84 86

87

We might think of Argia and Antigone fighting over Polynices’ body earlier in book 12. See above. Ahl (1986): 2897–8, Hershkowitz (1998a): 300 n. 118, and Lovatt (1999): 142. Dietrich (1999): 44 notes that “the problem at Thebes is not who is to be king, but the institution of monarchy itself.” 85 Williams (1978): 291. Ogilvie (1980): 292. See Coleman (1986): 3111–15 on the difficulty of writing politically provocative material under Domitian. He “was alert for seditious double-entendres, and a broad mythological theme did not threaten his security unless individual aspects were overlaid with a sinister interpretation” (3112). For literature under his father and brother, see Franchet d’Esp`erey (1986). Consider, e.g., Siluae 4.1–3.

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time, the troublesome aspects of Theseus cannot be dismissed either, and make “optimistic” interpretations of Theseus as Domitian unsatisfactory as well.88 I have therefore offered an interpretation that provides a political critique of kingship and, by implication, of the Principate through a reevaluation of the Aeneid and its Augustan voice. This approach offers a way to critique the power of the emperor without targeting Domitian himself, and thus avoids positing Statius’ actual views on Domitian. Indeed the Thebaid can still have the meaning I have suggested, whether Statius actually admired or despised the historical Domitian. In the former case, for example, one could read the Thebaid’s Theseus as a good king, even if in a problematic political world, and associate him with Domitian. What makes this interpretation possible is the complex intertextual relationship between the Thebaid and the Aeneid. Through a reliance on the poetic resources and ideas of the Aeneid, the Thebaid provides a very different depiction of what absolute power means. Virgil, who died in 19 BCE, experienced monarchy only in the beginning of Augustus’ long reign (27 BCE–14 CE), in a time when the relief and happiness over the cessation of a decade of terrible wars and nearly a century of civil strife must have been great. Augustus did in some sense bring stability and order back to Rome, but that is not the whole story. The ideal of kingship expressed by the Aeneid’s Augustan voice does not represent the only way to view the Principate, nor does it represent what it would become, either later in Augustus’ reign or in the regimes of his successors. This was the experience of the generations after Virgil. Intertextuality thus forms the basis of the political re-evaluation of kingship as idealized in the Augustan Aeneid, and thus does not simply represent an erudite game; nor is it a sign of Statius’ reverence for Virgil. Rather intertextuality generates the meaning of the Thebaid. I began this book with a quotation from Dante’s Purgatory. For Dante, as for Statius, the Aeneid was a foundational poetic influence. But for both poets, it served as a source of creative engagement, whereby new meanings were “discovered” in this great predecessor text that reflect different political and spiritual times. The Thebaid’s reinterpretation of the Aeneid is decidedly moral and political. It offers one of the richest and most sustained readings of Virgil’s epic. 88

For the problems involved in defining Statius’ attitude toward Domitian, see, e.g., Newlands (2002): 18–19.

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Versnel, H. S. (1976) “Two types of Roman devotio,” Mnemosyne 29: 365–410. (1981) “Self-sacrifice, compensation and the anonymous gods,” in Le sacrifice dans l’antiquit´e, ed. J.-P. Vernant. Geneva: 135–94. Vessey, D. W. T. (1971a) “Noxia tela: some innovations in Statius, Thebaid 7 and 11,” CPh 66: 87–92. (1971b) “Menoeceus in the Thebaid of Statius,” CPh 66: 236–43. (1971c) “Exitiale genus: some notes on Statius, Thebaid I,” Latomus 30: 375–82. (1973) Statius and the Thebaid. Cambridge. (1986) “Pierius menti calor incidit: Statius’ epic style,” ANRW 2.32.5: 2965–3019. Walde, A. and Hoffman, J. B. (1965) Lateinisches etymologisches W¨orterbuch, vol. I, A–L. Heidelburg. Warmington, E. H. (ed.) (1935–40) Remains of Old Latin (4 vols.). Cambridge, MA. Watson, L. (1991) Arae: The Curse Poetry of Antiquity. Wiltshire. Weinstock, S. (1971) Divus Julius. Oxford. West, M. L. (ed.) (2003) Greek Epic Fragments: From the Seventh to Fifth Centuries BC. Cambridge, MA. Wiedemann, T. (1992) Emperors and Gladiators. London. Williams, G. W. (1978) Change and Decline: Roman Literature in the Early Empire. Berkeley and Los Angeles. (1986) “Statius and Vergil: defensive imitation,” in Vergil at 2000: Commemorative Essays on the Poet and His Influence, ed. J. Bernard. New York: 207–24. Williams, R. D. (ed.) (1972) Papini Stati Thebaidos Liber Decimus. Leiden. Wolff, H. J. (1951) Roman Law: An Historical Introduction. Norman, OK. Wright, M. R. (1997) “‘Ferox uirtus’: anger in Virgil’s Aeneid,” in The Passions in Roman Thought and Literature, eds. S. M. Braund and C. Gill. Cambridge: 169–84. Zeitlin, F. I. (1990) “Thebes: theater of self and society in Athenian drama,” in Nothing to Do With Dionysos?: Athenian Drama in its Social Context, eds. J. Winkler and F. Zeitlin. Princeton: 130–67.

General index

Accius 47 Actor 166 Adrastus auspicy at Argos 56–9 the Coroebus narrative 9, 11, 12–13, 14 participation in the delay theme 157, 159, 168–70, 177–8, 182, 186 misunderstanding of Apollo and the nature of pietas 22–3 request for Hypsipyle’s tale 72, 74–5 spectatorship 183 Aegeus 230 Aeschylus 47, 61, 160–1, 166 Agave 164–5 Alcimede 81 Allusion see Intertextuality Amazons 220, 230 amor 37 Amphiaraus Apollo’s inability to save 128–9 intertextual background in Virgil’s Calchas 57–8 katabasis of 46, 68, 117, 118, 120 rivalry with Tydeus in previous tradition 123–4 swan omen and its interpretation 56–61, 146 Antigone burial of Polynices 208–12, 224 participation in the delay theme 157, 159, 166–7, 174 Apollo 9–13, 15–22, 128–9, 139, 228 Apollonius 76 Ardor 99 Argia 208–12, 224, 231 Aric`o, G. 78 Augustan Aeneid 8–9, 14, 17, 33, 35–8, 42, 43, 45, 115–17, 122, 127–8, 146, 150, 153, 168, 170, 175, 183–4, 195, 205, 226, 228, 229–32, and passim

Augustan virtues 18, 37 Augustus 18–20, 215 Bacchus background in Ovid’s Juno 104–6 background in Virgil’s Juno 96–104, 152 complaints to Jupiter in Thebaid 7 106–10 “defeat” of 110–14 role in the Lemnian episode 82–4, 94, 101 Bellona 168 Bernstein, N. 179, 194 Braund, S. 5, 216, 226 Burial prohibition 46, 68, 207, 209, 218, 224 Cadmus 48 Caesar 20, 37, 215 Cairns, F. 17, 21 Capaneus death of 46, 118, 136–7, 145–8, 166 funeral pyre of 231 involvement in the swan omen 57, 59–60 (see also Amphiaraus) role in Tydeus’ cannibalism 124 role of horror in his story and the Thebaid 48–9 spectacle of his death 182 as superum contemptor 128, 166 Carroll, N. 49 Civil war at Rome 5–6, 58, 64–6, 69 clementia 18–22, 192, 196, 206–7, 214–24, 227–9 see also Seneca Clementia (and altar of ) 213–17, 219–23 clupeus virtutum 18 Coroebus 9–23, 71, 78, 80, 87 Creon 5, 139, 141, 167, 178, 195, 197–9, 201–2, 207, 213, 224–5, 226–8 see also Burial prohibition Crotopus 9, 11 crudelitas 217–19, 230

243

244

General index

cupio 29, 31, 39, 40 Cyclic Thebaid 47, 123 Dante 1 Decius Mus 138 see also devotio Delarue, F. 5, 99 Delay theme 156–9 Adrastus 168–70 Antigone 166–7 contribution to thrill of horror 175 Jocasta 159–65 in Thebaid 4 99, 101 in Thebaid 11 152, 156–9, 170 Pietas 172 devotio 138, 143 see also Decius Mus Dewar, M. 125 Diana 129, 131 Dis association with Tisiphone 118, 120–1, 148–50, 154, 201–2 call for nefas 49, 60, 114, 115, 118–23, 124, 125, 126, 137, 148, 154, 201–2 as divine counterpart to Oedipus 41–3 domination through spectacle 181–5, 200 fraternal strife with Jupiter 118–19, 229 “fraternal strife” with Theseus 229 intertextual model in Virgil’s Juno 115 in Thebaid 11 168, 170, 178 Dissolution of moral and social boundaries 28, 164, 190 Dominik, W. 5, 95, 213 Domitian 6, 45, 231–2 Dorceus 131 Dryas 129 Dymas 3, 131–6, 228 Eteocles 26–8, 46, 50, 51, 113, 119, 126 duel 175, 185–95, 197, 224–6 in Thebaid 11 149, 152, 159–62, 167, 177–8 in Thebaid 12 207–12 mistreatment of Oedipus 26–7 reaction to prophecies 61, 65–9 Euripides 47, 76, 110, 138–40, 160–1, 166, 188–90, 223 Eurydice 141 Evadne 213, 225, 231 excindere 100, 102 Fantham 37, 142–3, 213, 218 fas 34, 51, 106, 125, 183 Fate in the Aeneid 9, 29–30, 33, 35, 52, 67, 84, 169 in Lucan 67

in Ovid 54 in the Thebaid 43, 80, 82, 84, 94, 95, 108–9, 116, 129, 134, 146, 169, 172, 229 Feeney, D. 4, 48, 142, 203 fides 108, 115 Fides 158, 173 Flavian age and restoration 5–6 Focalization 179–80 Fortuna 170 Franchet d’Esp`erey, S. 5 Furies (Furiae, Erinyes, and Eumenides) 25, 41, 68, 108, 112, 120–1, 152, 154–6, 159, 165, 167, 182, 186, 197, 199–202, 206, 224, 225 domination in the cosmos 154–6 in epilogue to brothers’ duel 199–202, 204–6 their own “fraternal war” 155 see also Megaera, Tisiphone, and Virgil: Allecto furor and madness in the Aeneid 9, 15, 17, 33, 35, 59, 63, 97, 137, 148 in post-Virgilian literature 36, 37 in Seneca 29 in the Thebaid 29, 34, 36, 38, 78, 80, 84, 100, 111, 116, 194, 197, 225, 227 Furor 99 Galinsky, K. 19 gigantomachy 145, 147 Gransden, K. W. 14 Gruzelier, C. 86, 89 Haemon 140–1, 167, 178 Hardie, P. R. 4, 33, 117, 121, 146, 197, 208, 212, 213 Hershkowitz, D. 33–4, 90–1, 109, 208, 212–14, 226 Hill, D. E. 12 Hippolyte 230 Hippolytus 230 Hippomedon 46, 57, 124, 127–8 (death) Homer heroic glory in 203 influence in the Thebaid 8 Virgil’s intertextuality with 7 Iliad Achilles and Scamander 127–8 Athena 125 beheading of warrior’s killer 123 Doloneia 131–3, 135–6 duel between Hector and Achilles 156–7, 180, 190 Eris 142–3 Hector and Polydamas 59–60 teichoscopia 167

General index Odyssey Odysseus 65, 72 Odysseus’ narrative 72, 76, 77 Poseidon 97, 100–1, 115 Hopleus 3, 131–6, 228 Horror 48–50 as effect of the coda to the brothers’ duel 204–5 from desire and revulsion 69–70, 159 from foreknowledge 44, 61 from intertextuality 44–5, 55, 61, 69 from promotion/memorialization and condemnation of crime 45, 49 modern theories of 49–50 narrative’s use of 39, 75, 80–2 role in the delay theme 152 role in the subversion of the Aeneid 69–70 spectacle and its connection to 182–3 thrill and pleasure of 40–1, 44, 69, 175 humanitas 5 Hypseus 128 Hypsipyle 71–95 allure of her tale of nefas 71–5 encounter with Argives 101 as a figure of pietas 78–80 interaction with Virgil’s Dido 86–93 intertextual background of 61, 72–5, 76–8 tale of the Lemnian massacre 78–82 impietas 25–6, 141 inferi 117, 123 Intertextuality 2–9 Homer and Virgil 7 post-Virgilian epic 4–5, 8 Statius and Virgil 2–9, 23, 33, 38, 42, 43, 58–9, 63–5, 69–70, 71–2, 78, 94–5, 115–16, 152, and passim inuidia 37, 182 ira in the Aeneid 15, 33, 35, 53, 110 in post-Virgilian literature 37 in the Thebaid 46, 53, 56, 62, 100, 110, 188, 194, 197, 215, 222, 224, 227 Ira 99 Ismene 166 Ismenus 127 iustitia 18–20, 224, 228 Jackson, R. 49–50 Jason and the Argonauts 88–91 Jocasta intervention in Thebaid 7 110–12 intervention in Thebaid 11 157, 159–65, 166, 174, 178, 182, 191 participation in the delay theme 159–65

245

Juhnke, H. 97 Juno aid to the Argive women 229 aid to Hippomedon 128 weakened nature of 52–3, 99–100, 102 Jupiter aid to Juno and Hippomedon 128 association with Oedipus 26, 30, 32, 38, 43, 48, 51–2 background in Ovid’s Jupiter 54–5 background in Virgil’s Juno 52–4 background in Virgil’s Jupiter 52 bestowal of immortality to Tydeus 124 his various meetings with gods 50–5, 100, 103, 106–10, 139 lack of control 110, 112, 152, 155, 172, 178, 180–1, 183–4, 201, 206 orchestration of war 50–5, 57 problematic nature of 50–5, 116, 169, 229 role in Capaneus’ death 147–8 role in spectacle 176–7, 182, 183 strife with Dis 118–22, 229 wrath of 56 Juvenal 47 Kingship 2 in the Augustan Aeneid 8–9, 21, 33, 214, 228, 232 in the Thebaid 6, 9, 10, 21, 28, 33, 38, 151, 195, 199–201, 205–6, 214, 223–4, 228, 230–1 Lachesis 68 Laius 65–9 Lemnian women 71–95 (passim) Leontius 49 libertas 197 Linus 9 Literary self-consciousness 48 Livy 138–9 Lucan 8, 36–8 Bacchant’s prophecy 62–3 book 6 and civil war 66–9 book 7 apostrophe 204 delay theme 158 prologue of his epic 45 Lyne, R. O. A. M. 8, 109 Maeon 61 Manto 65 Mars flight from the fraternal duel 168 promotion of Theban war 57, 101 revulsion at Tydeus’ cannibalism and virtus 125 Theseus’ similarity to 230

246

General index

Masters, J. 37–8 McGuire, D. 5 Megaera as limiting force on Laius’ prophecy 68 in Thebaid 11 148–50, 153, 155, 156, 158, 167, 179, 196 Tisiphone’s use of 42, 115, 148 Melampus 56–7 Melanippus 123–4, 231 Menoeceus 137–45, 147–8, 166–7, 170, 174, 224, 228 Mercury 101, 230 Metaliterary nature of characters 96 Adrastus 59 Amphiaraus 59 Bacchus 99–105, 115 Capaneus 60 Dis 118, 122 Dymas 132 Eteocles and Polynices 190 Oedipus 34, 43 Ovid’s Juno 104, 106 Tisiphone 112–14 Metus 99 misericordia 215–23, 230 nefas 33–8, 41, 50, 161–2, 183, 190 Amphiaraus 118, 128–9 Bacchant simile 231 brothers’ duel/war 111, 115, 152–3, 168, 171, 174–5, 178, 185–8, 190, 208, 210, 224 burial prohibition 199, 225 Coroebus episode 11–15 (passim) and creation of horror 49–50, 55, 59, 61 Dis’ call for 41–3, 124, 181 Furies and promotion of 30, 41–3, 124, 148–50, 152–3, 174–5, 181, 182, 185–8 heavenly gods’ ignorance of 125 Hopleus and Dymas 133 Hypsipyle’s narrative of the Lemnian massacre 71–5, 80, 84–5 inferi 117, 148–50 Jocasta 160, 161–2, 167 kingship 184–5, 195, 198–201, 205–6, 224 Latin literary tradition 34–8 Oedipus’ curse 30, 31 paradox of 203–4 pleasure of 75, 184–5 prophecy and 56, 84 role in delay theme 157 Roman civil wars 58 spectacle 183–5, and see Poetics of nefas strife between heaven and hell 117, 121–3, 148–50

subversion of Aeneid 33, 38, 69–70, 93–5 Theban war 61, 68–9 see also Poetics of nefas Neptune 229 odium 37, 125 Oedipus 24–43 after the duel 195–8 as anti-Aeneas 26, 67 appearances of 33, 40–1 association with Dis 41–3, 122, 154 association with Tisiphone 41–3, 50, 114, 154 background in Virgil’s Juno 30–3, 50 call for nefas 30, 33–41, 113, 115, 118, 120, 122, 123 curse 24–43, 51–2, 195, 197 his prayer and its relationship to Polynices’ prayer (book 11) 209 Hypsipyle’s similarity to 93–4 impietas of 25–9, 33 Jupiter’s problematic response to his prayer 51–2 literary self-consciousness of 48 relationship with his sons 24–43, 162, 178 (passim), 185–8 similarity to Theseus 230 Ogilvie, R. M. 231 O’Hara, J. J. 109 Omens at Argos 55–61 at Thebes 61–2 Opheltes 101 Optimism and pessimism in Virgil and Statius 5–6, 8–9 Ovid Heroides 6 76 Metamorphoses 8, 36 Arachne and Minerva 22 Astraea 173 Bero¨e 79, 106 Epilogue 3 Ino 105–6 Juno and Statius’ Bacchus 104–6 Juno and underworld 66 Jupiter 54–5 Lycaon 54–5 Myrrha 36–7 Semele 104–5 Tereus, Philomela, and Procne 36–7 Theban myth 47 Tisiphone 105, 201 Pallas/Minerva as war divinity 168 Tydeus 123–5

General index Parcae 118, 129 Parry, A. 8 Parthenopaeus death of 46, 57, 127–9, 131 in Hopleus and Dymas episode 131, 133 role in Tydeus’ cannibalism 124 Passions in the Aeneid 35 in Latin literature 35–8 in the Thebaid 27 philosophical theories of 35 pauor 37 Pentheus 164–5, 174 pietas 18–19 Adrastus 169 Amphiaraus 128 Antigone 167, 208, 210, 212, 224 Argia 208, 210, 212, 224 Augustus 18–19, 168 Coroebus 10, 11–23 (passim), 139 Creon 199 delay theme 157–8, 168, 210 duel 228 Hopleus and Dymas 131–6 Hypsipyle 78–80, 86, 88–9, 93–5 inferi 117–18, 127 Jocasta 111, 160 kingship 231 Menoeceus 137, 139, 141, 144 Oedipus 196, 207 Parthenopaeus 131 post-Virgilian tradition 37, 43 Seneca’s Phoenissae 161–3 superi 127, 128, 129, 131, 146 Thebaid 52, 65, 133–6, 151, 155, 157, 195, 212, 228 Thebaid’s Jupiter 52, 108, 115, 155 Theseus 228 Virgilian pietas 5, 36, 65 (passim), 78, 132, 168, 184 Virgil’s Aeneas 26, 86, 89, 227, 228 Virtus 140 see also impietas Pietas participation in the delay theme 152, 157, 158 refusal to watch nefas/duel 183 role in Menoeceus episode 142, 228 rout of 155, 170, 178, 183, 212, 228 Pity, altar of (Athens) 216 Plato 49 Poetics of nefas 33–41 (esp. 38–41), 122, 153, 159, 175, 185, 204 Polynices at Argos 9, 22–3 duel 185–95, 197, 226

247

funeral pyre of 46 his strife with Eteocles mirrored in divine fraternal strife 119 in build-up to duel (book 11) 149, 152, 159–62, 167, 169, 177 interaction of his duel with that of Creon and Theseus 224–5 mistreatment of Oedipus 26–7 prophesied death 57, 68–9 role in Oedipus’ curse 26–8 similarities to Oedipus 186–8 Tisiphone and her infuriation of (book 7) 113 Tydeus as his “surrogate” brother 126 Polyxo 75, 79, 84 Ponticus 47 Prophecy at Argos 55–61 (Amphiaraus) at Thebes 62–5 (Bacchant), 65–9 (Laius) role in creation of horror 55, 61–2 Psamathe 9, 11 Ripoll, F. 5 Roller, M. 37 scelus 34, 36–7 Schetter, W. 97 Schiesaro, A. 36 Scholarship on the Thebaid 4–6 Seneca De Clementia 217–19, 230 influence in the Thebaid 8 Oedipus 47 Phoenissae 29, 47, 110, 161–2, 164–5, 166 spectacle 194 Theseus’ clementia 219–24 Thyestes 36 Silius Italicus 173–4 Sklen´ar, R. 37 Smolenaars, J. J. L. 112 Sophocles 47 Spectacle importance in Oedipus’ curse 40 in coda to the brothers’ duel 204 language and metaphors of 176–7, 177 (par and pugna), 184 (edere) results in contamination 124 role in Dis’ domination 42, 181–5, 200 role of focalization in 179–80 Statius as character in Dante 1 as “character” in the Thebaid 204 Stoicism 216–19, 221–3 superi 115, 117–31, 136–7, 146–8, 152, 168–9, 229

248

General index

Theban myth in literature 47–8 Theseus 228–31 centrality in the interpretation of the Thebaid 5–6 clementia/Clementia of 214–17 interaction of Eteocles and Polynices’ duel with his own 224–5 ira of 224, 227 problematic nature of 229–30, 232 war with Creon 139, 213–31 Thoas 79, 83–4, 92 Tiresias 65–7, 141, 145 Tisiphone association with Dis in Thebaid 8 41–3, 49, 118, 120–1, 148–50, 154, 184, 201 background in Virgil’s Allecto 153–6 background in Virgil’s Juno 30–3 influence on Tydeus 124, 126 role in Oedipus’ prayer 28–9, 33, 40–3 role in outbreak of war in Thebaid 7 110, 112–15 role in Thebaid 11 158, 167, 172, 174, 178–9, 196 Tydeus 9, 46, 51, 57, 110, 118, 123–7, 131, 146, 231 Valerius Flaccus Jason and Medea 77 Lemnian episode 76, 78, 89–91 Venus 78, 82–6 Vessey, D. 5, 78, 95, 137, 213 Virgil 1 (character in Dante) Aeneid Aeneas 2, 10, 13–17, 26, 29, 35, 45, 67, 71–95, 122, 138, 190–5, 229 and passim Aeneas’ slaying of Turnus 5, 10, 13, 15–17, 63–5, 190–4 (duel), 226–8 Allecto 9, 30–2, 86, 112–15, 153–6, 201 Amata 64, 86, 103–4, 112 Anchises 64, 67 Arruns 130 Augustus 2, 8–9, 35, 45

Bero¨e 79, 106 book 3 93 Cacus and Hercules 13–15 Caesar and Pompey 64, 140 Calchas 57–8 Camilla 129–30 Creusa 2–3 delay theme 99, 156–7, 191 Diana 129–30 Dido 72, 77, 86–93 (passim) Evander 14 Furies 142 gods and fall of Troy 85 Helenus and Aeneas 16 horror 80–2 Juno 9, 30–3, 35, 43, 50, 52–4, 85, 96–104, 110, 114–15, 118, 121–2, 153–6 Jupiter 8–9, 32, 35, 52–4, 107–9, 114–15, 121, 180, 183 Juturna 173, 191 Latinus and outbreak of Italian war 58–9, 103 Latinus in Aeneid 12 168–9, 191 Mezentius 60, 146 Nisus and Euryalus 3, 131–6, 202 Opis 130 prophecy of Jupiter (Aeneid 1) 107–9 Turnus 190–3, 194 (slaying of Pallas) underworld scene 66–7, 69, 134–5 Venus 72, 82–3, 106–10 Georgics 58 Eurydice 3 Eclogues Fourth Eclogue 1 see also Augustan Aeneid and Intertextuality virtus 12, 18–19, 37, 118, 125, 127, 137, 139, 140, 144, 148, 151 Virtus 99, 138–40, 142–4, 147–8, 168, 170, 174 Weinstock, S. 215 Williams, G. W. 4

Index locorum

Accius Tragedies fr. 232 fr. 267–8 fr. 651

34 34 34

Aeschylus Septem 62–8 78–180 785–90 809–21 888–90

161 161 26 189 187

Apollonius Rhodius 1.609–913

76

Augustus Res gestae 34.2

18

Callimachus Aetia fr. 26–31

9

Catullus 64.397 64.405 68.89 90.1

34 34 34 34

Cyclic Thebaid fr. 2–3

26

Euripides Hippolytus 1–57 887–90 893–8

46 230 230

Hypsipyle I ii.19–28 Phoenissae 63–74 74–6 88–201 301–635 327–36 357–635 872–7 911–1207 944–6 991–8 997 1012 1092 1277–83 1322–6 1379–81 1390–1422 1412–13 1419–24 1421–2 1427–32 Suppliants 349–58 Homer Iliad 1.188–222 1.493–530 3.161–244 4.442–5 10.283–94 10.313–464 10.372–4 10.503–14 11.186–209 12.200–7 12.211–29

249

76 27 161 167 165 27 161 27 138 140 141 138 138 138 166 166 189 188 187 189 187 166 223

125 107 167 142 136 133 136 125 59 59 59

250 Homer (cont.) 16.431–61 17.39 17.126 18.333–5 21.273–83 21.273 22.25–89 Odyssey 5.262–96 5.284–5 6.170–7 8.572–86 8.752–86 9.19 13.125–64 Horace Ars Poetica 186 Epodes 5.87 7 16.14 16.26 Odes 1.2.29 1.3.26 1.3.39 1.11.1 1.18.10 1.21.1 1.24.20 1.35.33 1.35.35 2.1.58 2.4.17 2.13.9 3.2.31 3.4.68 3.11.25 3.11.39 3.24.50

Index locorum 128 123 123 123 128 128 157 97 98 72 77 72 72 97

35 35 35 35 35 35 35 35 35 35 35 35 35 35 25 35 35 35 35 35 35 35

Juvenal 7.82–6 14.238–43

47 138

Livy Ab urbe condita 8.9 8.9.10

17 138

Lucan 1.1–45 1.2–3 1.6 1.99–100 1.174 1.667–8 1.674–5 1.695 2.4 2.67–233 2.79–80 2.286 4.172 6.777–820 6.819–20 7.242 7.552–6 7.699 8.869

45 45 37 158 37 37 63 63 37 67 25 37 174 66–7 69 37 203–4 37 108

Lucilius fr. 136–7 fr. 886

34 34

Ovid Heroides 6.39–40 Ibis 575–6 Metamorphoses 1.149–50 1.253–61 1.747–2.366 2.50–102 2.304–15 3.253–315 4.416–28 4.416–80 4.432–511 4.457–61 4.481–511 4.490–9 4.510 4.510–11 6.1–145 6.412–674 6.585–6 6.613 6.635 9.403–12 10.298–502 10.321–2

73 9 171, 173 54 55 55 55 104 106 104 30 66 32 86 154 201 22 36 34 36 36 47 36 36

Index locorum Pausanias 1.43.7–8 2.19.8 9.18.1–4

9 9 123

Petronius Satyricon 120–2

120

Plato Republic 439e–440a

49

Plautus Miles Gloriosus 79–155 Poenulus 584

46 34

Pliny Natural Histories 14.1.3

74

Propertius 1.7.1–2

47

Seneca De Clementia 1.2.2 1.9–11 2.3.1 2.3.1–2 2.3.2 2.4.1 2.4.3 2.5.1 De Ira 2.9.2 2.13.2 Medea 910 Phaedra 941–58 Phoenissae 1–2 334–54 334–8 353–4 363–7 367–9 369 377–82 384–6

219 20 217 217 217 217 218 217 34 217 196 230 48 31 29 29 164–5 161 111 161 161

409–14 450–4 Thyestes 270–2

251 162 162 196

Silius Italicus Punica 2.475–664 4.570–703

173 127

Sophocles Oedipus Coloneus 421–60

26

Statius Achilleid 1.252 Silvae 3.5.39 4.1–3 Thebaid 1.1–3 1.2 1.4–16 1.16–17 1.32–45 1.36–7 1.38–45 1.40 1.45 1.46–8 1.46–52 1.51–2 1.52 1.55 1.56–8 1.56–87 1.59 1.60–1 1.60–74 1.64–6 1.68–70 1.74–8 1.77 1.79–80 1.80–7 1.82–5 1.83 1.2 1.84–5 1.85 1.85–7 1.86 1.88–113

19 27 231 45 45 47 45 46–7 199 127 48 48 25, 39 24–5 25 25, 197 160 39 186 38, 39, 51, 209 29 28–9 45 111 26–7, 30 27 30, 38, 201 31–2 28 28 42 184, 190 42 25, 28–9, 38–40, 177 27, 38, 39, 42, 187 32

252 Statius (cont.) 1.92–3 1.131–6 1.142–3 1.173–96 1.197–302 1.212–13 1.214–15 1.216–23 1.219 1.224–5 1.225–47 1.227–8 1.227–9 1.238–9 1.239 1.245–7 1.246–7 1.248 1.248–82 1.248–9 1.259–70 1.261 1.285–92 1.290–2 1.299–302 1.312 1.402–3 1.482–97 1.552–6 1.557–668 1.569 1.572 1.589 1.595 1.596–7 1.597–8 1.598–600 1.613–14 1.617–18 1.623 1.636–7 1.639–40 1.643 1.643–8 1.644 1.644–5 1.645 1.646 1.648–50 1.650 1.651–2 1.655–64 1.657 1.659

Index locorum 32, 144 126 157 50 33 108 120 54–5 55 52 51 48, 66 120 27 186 52 53 54 54 53 53 100 100 120 51 39 126 191 10 9 13 11 11 11 9 11 11 15 11 15 17 11, 13 19 11 11 18 13 11 19–20 18 14 16 16–17, 18 17

1.661 1.661–2 1.661–6 1.688–90 1.694–5 1.696–720 2.263–4 2.265–305 2.303–5 2.477 2.682–90 3.71 3.96–8 3.206–9 3.214–15 3.235–8 3.241–3 3.338–44 3.350–5 3.424–5 3.440–55 3.448–9 3.458 3.495 3.534–45 3.546–7 3.568–93 3.574–5 3.577–80 3.580–91 3.582 3.592–3 3.594–7 3.598–677 3.602–3 3.615–16 3.647 4.14–15 4.175–7 4.175–82 4.182–6 4.211–13 4.345–62 4.378–405 4.379–80 4.380–2 4.399–400 4.401 4.404–5 4.406–9 4.536–40 4.553–96 4.630–2 4.636–45 4.643–5

17, 18, 19 20 12 23 10 22 60 60 205 126 125 61 218 61 61 51 108 51 51 99 56 57 56 99 56–7, 127 57 57 57 57 58 58 58 58 57 59–60 60 59 60 146 146 146 205 61 62–5 62 63 64 64, 140 63 65 65–6 67 45 68–9 68

Index locorum Statius (cont.) 4.650–1 4.652 4.652–9 4.661–2 4.670 4.670–2 4.673–6 4.677 4.680–2 4.685–6 4.697 4.739 4.753 4.781 4.805 5.28 5.29–46 5.32–3 5.40 5.41–2 5.46 5.49–334 5.49–498 5.54 5.59–69 5.85–6 5.90–7 5.92–4 5.137–8 5.162 5.183–5 5.190 5.202 5.218–19 5.236–41 5.244 5.265–71 5.265–95 5.268–70 5.271 5.275 5.277 5.278 5.280–3 5.284 5.287 5.292–3 5.300 5.313–19 5.320–5 5.328 5.335–467 5.453–7 5.463–4

97 98 99 143 100 98, 100 99 97, 98, 99, 103 84 98, 100 101 101 100 41, 75 101 75 73–5 71, 75, 81 73, 75 75 74 78–88 76 75 85–6 84 79 84 93 75 177 75 75 74 81 74 82–3 115 103 83 84 84 83 84–5 83 79 84 75 87 87–8 75 87, 88–9 88, 89 90

5.468–85 5.478 5.479–80 5.486–95 5.488 5.488–92 5.496 5.497–8 5.499–500 5.499–504 5.584–6 5.585–6 5.592 5.628 5.710–30 5.712–14 6.161 6.513–17 7.1–2 7.13 7.26 7.47–53 7.69–84 7.81 7.84 7.116–26 7.145–57 7.148–50 7.154 7.155 7.155–92 7.159–60 7.170 7.193–5 7.193–7 7.197–8 7.199 7.210 7.215–19 7.216–18 7.219–21 7.221 7.222–6 7.250–2 7.398–423 7.466–9 7.468–9 7.474–8 7.474–563 7.476–81 7.477 7.479–81 7.483–4 7.489 7.510

253 88 93 91 91–3 75 93–4 93 77 93 94 60 120 94 94 77 101 94 120 101 102 102 143 230 101 102 113 102–4 102–3 115 98, 100 120 105 103 107 100 108 102 102 108 120, 121 108, 205 139 109–10 167 60 114–15 33, 41, 195 112 110 163–4 165 167 111 111 111

254

Index locorum

Statius (cont.) 7.514 7.534–7 7.538–63 7.562–627 7.564 7.564–7 7.603–5 7.607 7.613–14 7.690–793 7.774 7.774–5 8.11–13 8.31–3 8.36 8.36–7 8.37 8.38–40 8.65 8.65–8 8.65–74 8.65–79 8.66–8 8.67–8 8.68 8.71–2 8.72–4 8.74 8.75–7 8.75–9 8.76–7 8.78–9 8.79 8.120–2 8.240–2 8.240–58 8.251–4 8.294–341 8.420 8.515 8.655–88 8.685–6 8.686–7 8.742–4 8.755 8.757 9.1–7 9.2–7 9.18–31 9.24–31 9.60 9.82–5 9.421–45

111 111 126 120 113 114 114 114 113 129 129 129 118, 129 149 229 184 190 118 41–2 42 181–2 119, 156, 186 49 177 182, 183, 184, 190, 200 123 199, 201 122 137 147 60, 146 145 182 205 48 33, 195 41 108 83 100 120 126 126 124 124 144 183 124–5 127 124 126 126 128

9.446–539 9.550 9.650–69 9.656–62 9.663–7 9.663–74 9.825–30 9.875–6 9.906–7 10.347–8 10.347–448 10.382–3 10.384 10.384–5 10.385 10.395–7 10.404 10.409–41 10.431–2 10.441 10.442–8 10.445–8 10.455–8 10.495–500 10.610–15 10.613–14 10.618–20 10.620 10.628–72 10.632–3 10.634–5 10.636 10.652–5 10.655 10.662–5 10.665 10.668 10.671 10.674–7 10.680–1 10.728–37 10.756–7 10.762–4 10.778–9 10.780–1 10.780–2 10.802–3 10.828 10.837–8 10.845–7 10.849–52 10.873 10.883–927 10.886–9 10.886–95

127–8 124 120 128–9 129, 130 129 120 129–30 131 134 131–6 134 228 133–4 135 136 135 133 132 133 205 3 133 193 139 140 141, 147 142 17 143 143 174 140 210 147 144 139, 142 140 144, 147 139 141 138 141–2 138 139, 170 142 141 148 148 145 145–6 148 146–7 115 147

Index locorum Statius (cont.) 10.886–907 10.896 10.898 10.906 10.915–20 10.917–18 11.1–2 11.10–17 11.57–9 11.73–4 11.75–6 11.76–7 11.76–112 11.81–91 11.85 11.85–7 11.87–8 11.88–91 11.90–1 11.97–100 11.97–112 11.98–9 11.98 11.101 11.103–5 11.104–8 11.105–8 11.108–9 11.109–12 11.110 11.110–11 11.119 11.119–20 11.119–21 11.119–33 11.120 11.122–4 11.122–33 11.122–35 11.126 11.131–2 11.135 11.140–8 11.155–93 11.155–97 11.167–8 11.175 11.175–81 11.186 11.201–2 11.205–9 11.208–38 11.209 11.264

146 100 148 100 147 182 148 147 149, 153–4 149 156 149 148, 186 149 177 42 124 60, 148 148 42, 49 149–50 158, 172 173 158 159 158 195, 196 158 42, 155 49, 149 158 180 120, 150 156, 180 176–7 179 183 40 156, 178 177 201 170 209 209 169 178 221 177 177 149 181 155 181 197

11.291–2 11.318–20 11.318–23 11.321–2 11.324–30 11.329–30 11.333–5 11.338–42 11.344–5 11.344–9 11.345 11.357 11.357–8 11.362 11.382–404 11.387–9 11.387–90 11.389–91 11.390–1 11.391–2 11.403–23 11.407 11.409–10 11.409–19 11.410 11.410–11 11.410–15 11.415 11.420–3 11.423 11.425–35 11.429–30 11.429–31 11.429–35 11.430–1 11.443–6 11.447–8 11.457 11.457–8 11.459–62 11.462–3 11.465–6 11.470–1 11.472 11.474–6 11.475 11.477 11.482–4 11.484 11.484–92 11.495–6 11.496 11.497–8 11.498 11.503

255 178 174 163–5 166 165 225 178 162 186 159–60 27 166 166 166, 167–8 155 155, 209 208 209–10 191 197 167–8, 170 178 179 178 181 179 181 170 178–9, 181 179, 182–3 168–9 185 178 186 169, 183 170 170–1 172 172 174 172 172 172, 178 174 171 174 174 172 171 173 172, 183 178 185 179 160

256 Statius (cont.) 11.503–8 11.504–5 11.504–6 11.507–8 11.517 11.518–35 11.518–36 11.518–40 11.524–8 11.530–5 11.535–8 11.537–8 11.539–40 11.540–3 11.541 11.547–50 11.557–62 11.558 11.559–68 11.566–7 11.568–73 11.574–9 11.580 11.580–633 11.580–761 11.605–6 11.605–7 11.614–15 11.616–21 11.630 11.634–41 11.634–47 11.648–64 11.661–4 11.665–756 11.675 11.726 11.740–1 11.755–6 12.18–53 12.33–4 12.60–104 12.94 12.134–6 12.175 12.175–6 12.177 12.178 12.184–6 12.186 12.187–91 12.196–204 12.209–12 12.215

Index locorum 185–6 27 187, 209 193 186 211 210 188 188 189 200 179, 182 188 186–7 190 191–2 187–8 188 193–4 194 211 200–5 111, 195, 197 33 48 26, 32 196 41, 48, 197 196–7 197 178 153 198–9 139, 201 33 197 180 197 199 168 139 207 199 229 214 214, 221 208 164 202 208 209 209 223 210

12.216–17 12.218 12.260–1 12.349–60 12.354 12.354–6 12.358 12.384–5 12.385–8 12.405–8 12.440–4 12.453 12.456–9 12.464–70 12.481–4 12.483–4 12.503–9 12.504–5 12.505 12.506–8 12.509–10 12.539 12.540–2 12.543 12.543–5 12.569 12.570 12.570–2 12.587–90 12.588 12.589 12.589–90 12.590–1 12.590–3 12.596 12.601–5 12.611 12.625–6 12.640 12.646–7 12.650–5 12.665 12.665–71 12.677 12.692 12.695–7 12.696 12.696–7 12.714 12.733–5 12.759–60 12.770 12.771 12.771–3 12.772–3

208 199 209 208 209 209 210 210 210–11 210 211 199 211–12 229 214–17 219 215–17 220 215 219 205 230 220 220 220–1 225 213 225 222 229 224, 225 225, 228 202, 215 225 225 229 225 230 225 229 229 229 229 199 202 202 201 224 223, 224 229 227 227 227 229 201

Index locorum Statius (cont.) 12.779–81 12.782 12.789–93 12.800–3 12.810–19 12.814 12.814–15

225 230 231 231 2, 11 2 204

Suetonius Domitian 13.2

2

Valerius Flaccus Argonautica 2.72–427 2.101–6 2.209–15 2.351–6 2.373–84 2.408–24 2.425 2.445 4.258–60 6.49–751

76 84 80 90 90 91 90 83 179 167

Virgil Aeneid 1.1–7 1.11 1.25–6 1.34–49 1.34–179 1.36 1.37–49 1.50 1.60 1.81–123 1.148–53 1.254–6 1.257–96 1.294 1.294–6 1.369–70 1.369–401 1.378 1.543 1.662 1.748–56 1.753–6 2.1 2.3 2.10 2.31–249

45 20 30, 53 107 97 53 106 53 54 88–9 27 107 107–8 14 27 72 73 75 34 30 90 72, 74, 77 73 73 74 79

2.73 2.101–5 2.126–7 2.129 2.273 2.557–8 2.559–66 2.567–88 2.589–93 2.602–3 2.608–18 2.619–83 2.619–20 2.707–29 2.774 3.48 3.251 3.480–1 4.25 4.169–72 4.175–7 4.238–78 4.280 4.291–4 4.317 4.327–30 4.337–9 4.464–73 4.494–5 4.496 4.504–5 4.507 4.553–70 4.576–7 4.646 4.664–5 6.384–7 6.403–7 6.592 6.724–853 6.756–853 6.834 6.853 6.866 7.286 7.286–7 7.286–340 7.286–571 7.288–9 7.290–1 7.312 7.313–16 7.315 7.331 7.332–3

257 75 75 57 57–8 29 81 80–1 80 83 20 85 83 83 80 81 81 54 16 54 89 142 90 81 90 29 89 90 92 87 87–8 87 87 90 139 87 87 134–5 135 54 66 45 64, 140 20, 227 25 100 98–100 153 97 102 98–9 30 99–100 97 98, 100 30

258 Virgil (cont.) 7.335 7.335–40 7.341–58 7.359–62 7.385–405 7.397–400 7.415–19 7.415–74 7.448–66 7.475–510 7.540–71 7.541–2 7.548–51 7.552–60 7.557–8 7.557–60 7.559–60 7.561–71 7.583 7.583–5 7.586–90 7.595–600 7.623–40 7.648 8.144–5 8.185–275 8.265–6 8.680 8.688 9.354 9.444–5 9.446–9 10.104–13 10.261 10.462–3 10.464–73 10.773 10.845–6 11.590–2 11.726 11.845–7 11.855–7 12.10–53 12.11

Index locorum 114, 156 31–2 104 103–4 79 63–4 112 140, 142 143 113 32 153–4 154 113 156 154 114 201 33, 35 58 58, 97 58 58 60 14 14 15 91 14 132 133 202 30 91 193 128 60 137 130 180 130 130 153 157

12.15 12.18–80 12.22–3 12.29–33 12.31 12.74 12.222–56 12.286–73 12.431 12.541 12.553 12.565 12.593–611 12.676 12.676–7 12.699 12.715–24 12.720–1 12.781 12.793–806 12.818 12.845–52 12.849–50 12.849–68 12.851–2 12.889 12.908–9 12.916 12.919 12.919–52 12.931 12.931–8 12.940 12.945–9 12.946–7 12.948–9 12.949 12.950–1 Eclogues 9.17 Georgics 1.136 1.495 1.505 3.68

177 157 169 169 35 157 173 191 157 157 157 157 153 157 191 157 189 64 157 30 154 113, 121, 156 143 142 143 157, 191–2 192 157 157 192 17 226–8 157 194 17, 35, 42 17 17, 194 15 35 83 58 34, 35, 58 20