Statius' Thebaid and the Poetics of Civil War

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S TAT I U S ’ THEB AID A N D T H E P O E T I C S O F C I V I L WA R

This study focuses on ways in which Statius’ epic Thebaid, a poem about the civil war between Oedipus’ sons Eteocles and Polynices, reflects the theme of internal discord in its narrative strategies. At the same time that Statius reworks the Homeric and Virgilian epic traditions, he engages with Hellenistic poetic ideals as exemplified by Callimachus and the Roman Callimachean poets, especially Ovid. The result is a tension between the impulse towards the generic expectations of warfare and the desire for delay and postponement of such conflict. Ultimately, Statius adheres to the mythic paradigm of the mutual fratricide, but he continues to employ competing strategies that call attention to the fictive nature of any project of closure and conciliation. In the process, the poem offers a new mode of epic closure that emphasizes individual means of resolution. C h ar le s Mc N el is is Assistant Professor of Classics at Georgetown University.

S TAT I U S ’ THEB AID A N D THE POETICS OF C I V I L WA R C H A R L E S M CN E L I S

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/9780521867412 © Charles McNelis 2006 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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For Eileen

Contents

Preface

page ix

Introduction

1

1 Gods, humans and the literary tradition

25

2 Beginning

50

3 Nemea

76

4 Middle

97

5 Heroic deaths

124

6 End

152

Epilogue Bibliography Index Index locorum

178 180 192 194

vii

Preface

Statius’ poetry is no longer ignored or, when read, dismissed out of hand. This critical rehabilitation stems in large part from the editions, commentaries, translations and literary studies of his poetry that have appeared in the past twenty or so years, as well as from the intense interest in allusion or intertextuality that has reinvigorated the study of all Latin poetry – especially post-Virgilian epic. We now know that the Thebaid, for example, is indeed about something. But for all the progress that has been made, much remains to be done on Statius’ poetic practices. In the hope of illuminating a constitutive feature of the artistic underpinning of the Thebaid, this book focuses on how Statius claims a distinguished place in the epic tradition for himself and his poem by reworking the poetry of Callimachus, the self-conscious artist par excellence. The study of Latin poetry has, hopefully, moved beyond the point of anxiety about the importance of Greek – and especially Hellenistic – poetic predecessors. Attempts to single out and favour one part of the literary tradition at the expense of others are reductive and misguided; Damien Nelis has shown, for instance, that the Argonautica constantly informs the Aeneid and virtually mediates Virgil’s use of the Homeric tradition. In the case of Statius, the son of a Greek poet from the Hellenized community of Naples, much less attention has been paid to his use of Greek literature than to his engagement with his Roman predecessors. This segmentation of the literary tradition has precluded a fuller assessment of the poem’s richness. My argument, then, does not favour Callimachus over the many other poets whose work is also important for understanding the Thebaid. Rather I consider how Statius reworks Callimachus’ poetry in ways that define both the structure of the epic and his relationship with the broader Greek and Roman literary traditions. This prominent aspect of the epic has not received sufficient attention. This study took its initial form as a UCLA Ph.D. dissertation (2000). Since then, I benefited from a Georgetown University Summer Grant ix

x

Preface

(2003) and Junior Faculty Research Fellowship (2004) that allowed me to add and to rewrite substantial portions. Far more important, however, has been the help I received from the many students and colleagues at Occidental College, the University of Virginia, Smith College and Georgetown University who enhanced and clarified my ideas in both direct and indirect ways. Mallory Monaco was a particularly helpful research assistant. In addition, I am grateful to Alessandro Barchiesi, Michael Haslam, and Susanna Morton Braund for their help and criticism over the years. This study began in a seminar taught by Carole Newlands, and I am deeply indebted to her for support at all stages. Pamela Bleisch asked the questions that prompted me to formulate central points of my argument. Early on in graduate school, Thomas Frazel and I discussed for the first time the ideas that came to fruition in this book. I am grateful to him for that conversation and the many generous comments upon my inchoate ideas ever since. Alexander Sens kindly read drafts and improved the form and content of the argument in many places. It has been a delight to share ideas with such friends and colleagues, and I am deeply grateful to them. Finally, I thank my wife Eileen for her contributions to this work at every stage and in every way. More than anyone, she made it possible. The text I cite for the Thebaid is from Hill (1983). All translations are my own, and I make no claims as to their literary merit. Earlier versions of portions of chapters 3 and 4 appeared in Stratis Kyriakidis and Francesco De Martino (eds.), Middles in Latin Poetry (Bari, 2004).

Introduction

On his journey through the ninth circle of Hell, Dante sees the Guelph Ugolino, who had been locked in a tower with his sons and starved to death, eating the head of his captor, the Ghibelline Ruggerio (Inferno 32.124–33.78). At the start of the scene, Ugolino is likened to Tydeus (Inferno 32.130–1), a character from Greek mythology who horrifically gnawed the skull of his foe Melanippus.1 The comparison illustrates a persistent feature of Dante’s artistry, namely that he accentuates the brutality of the atrocities committed in the internecine warfare that was plaguing Florence by evoking scenes from Statius’ Thebaid.2 In fact, Dante transforms Statius’ Thebes into a ‘metaphoric textual model’ for Hell.3 Later in the Commedia, however, Statius himself appears to Dante and Virgil as they proceed through Purgatory, and he is compared to Christ joining the two disciples on the road to Emmaus (Purgatorio 21.7–9). As the three epic poets continue their journey, Statius explains some of the workings of Purgatory and of the soul, and even accompanies Dante through the Earthly Paradise (Purgatorio 32.29). Dante thus plainly distinguishes Statius the salvific poet from his hellish Thebaid.4 In employing the literary past in such a way, Dante emphasizes the division that underlies both the Florentine civil war and the distinct components of his poem about Heaven and Hell. This book argues that Statius’ own practice in the Thebaid anticipates Dante’s strategy of alluding to the literary past both to structure a poetic study of contemporary civil war and to replicate that conflict in the very fibres of the poem.5 In particular, I contend that allusions to the poetry 1 2

3 5

Dante calls him Menalippo (Inferno 32.131). Tydeus devours Melanippus’ head at Theb. 8.739–62. Less startling moments of the Inferno also draw upon scenes and characters from Statius’ epic. In the eighth circle of hell, for example, Amphiaraus heads a group of condemned seers that includes false prophets of Dante’s own age (Inferno 20.31–130). And Capaneus, damned to the seventh circle, is a model for blasphemers (Inferno 14.63–75). 4 Ibid. 106–9. Brownlee (1993) 108. I use the word ‘allusion’ to describe the processes of literary interaction between Statius and his predecessors because it implies that the author is involved to some extent. Intentionality is of course

1

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Statius’ Thebaid and the Poetics of Civil War

of the Hellenistic Greek Callimachus constitute a fundamental part of the Thebaid’s strategy for dealing with current internecine struggles.6 greek my th and roman realit ies That Statius’ epic on a Greek mythological theme – the war between Oedipus’ sons Eteocles and Polynices that culminates in a mutual fratricide – pertains to his contemporary Rome has been recognized.7 For example, when Theseus arrives at war-torn Thebes in an effort to bring an end to the tensions there, he embodies clementia, a virtue that was a central component of imperial ideology.8 His celebration of a triumph also evokes Rome’s imperial families since they held the exclusive right to put on such displays (Tac., Ann. 3.74).9 What Theseus actually achieves is disputed: some view

6

7

8

9

a problem. Conte (1994a) 133–8 issues a nuanced response to objections of intentionalist readings of allusion: the text generates intentions through its generic form. By reading the poem in relation to its cultural models, in Conte’s view, one understands how the text wants to communicate. Statius as author, then, is understood from the text and from its cultural models. However, Hinds (1998) 50 frankly admits that while ‘the alluding poet is ultimately and necessarily a figure whom we ourselves read out from the text, let us continue to employ our enlarged version of “allusion”, along with its intention bearing author, as a discourse which is good to think with – which enables us to conceptualize and to handle certain kinds of intertextual transaction more economically and effectively than does any alternative.’ I follow Hinds’ position. The theoretical problems here are serious and extensive (though Hinds (1998) 48 notes that occluding the author raises serious problems too), and my lack of engagement with them is not intended to be dismissive. Nonetheless, the primary goal of this study is to examine Statius’ poem, not to offer another methodological explanation of allusion or intertextuality (for recent discussions of this phenomenon in Latin poetry, see, e.g., Hinds (1998), Pucci (1998), Edmunds (2001). In fact, basic tools – such as commentaries on a few books and studies similar to those of Knauer (1964) and Nelis (2001) – necessary to study allusion in the Thebaid in a comprehensive way are still wanting.) Statius’ interest in Callimachus’ poetry has been recognized. Delarue (2000) 117–40 is the most extensive examination of a number of episodes from the Silvae and Thebaid. Fiehn (1917) 60 suggested that whoever reads Statius will find that the poet followed in the footsteps of Callimachus and the Alexandrians. A number of critics and some of the more than fifty papyri of Callimachus’ poetry that have been published since Fiehn’s work have corroborated his claim: the discovery of the Victoria Berenices, for example, prompted the work of Colace (1982), Thomas (1983), and Newlands (1991). Aric`o (1960) and Vessey (1973) discuss Callimachus’ importance elsewhere in the epic. Hutchinson (1988) 353 notes the inevitability of post-Augustan authors drawing upon the Augustans for their Callimacheanism, though he overstates his case by saying that it is hard to establish more fundamental influence of Callimachus on post-Augustan poets. Wimmel (1960) completely ignores the Thebaid. Ahl (1986) made a watershed case that the Thebaid is relevant for Roman affairs. This is not to say that the relationship between the poem and imperial Rome is straightforward. Critics such as Henderson (1991), Morton Braund (1996), Ripoll (1998), Delarue (2000) and Aric`o (2002) vary greatly in their assessments of the poem’s world view(s). Schetter (1965) 125, Ogilvie (1980) 234 and Vessey (1982) 76, however, offer that the poem is not relevant to Rome. Syme (1958) 414 and Weinstock (1971) 233–43 discuss the political dimensions of clementia at Rome. Morton Braund (1996) argues that Theseus’ possession of clementia at the end of the poem connects the mythic hero with Roman rulers; see also Henderson (1991) 34, Delarue (2000) 373. Campbell (1984) 138–9 discusses the triumph and the imperial house. Hardie (1997) connects Theseus’ arrival with Augustus’ entry to Rome in Aeneid 8.

Introduction

3

his instigation of all-out war as troublesome, others argue that his actions stem from just anger.10 Even such disparate interpretations, however, agree that Theseus is an analogue for Roman leaders, and thus that Statius’ consideration of civil war and its resolution looks beyond the mythical world to his contemporary Rome. Statius’ exploration of Roman politics through Greek myth reflects a regular ancient practice.11 In a play entitled Atreus, Aemilius Scaurus replicated a verse from Euripides that advocated toleration of thoughtless rulers.12 Tiberius thought that the verse was a critique of his rule and Scaurus paid the price with his life.13 So too Domitian executed the son of Helvidius Priscus on the grounds that he had criticized the emperor’s divorce through a play that involved the characters Paris and Oenone (Suet., Dom. 10.4). And Tacitus’ Aper accuses Maternus of ignoring pressing forensic duties in favour of composing tragedies that are based on Greek myth but actually concern Roman history (Dial. 3.4). In fact, by the Flavian period the correlation between Greek myth and Roman realities was so strong that Valerius Flaccus reversed the dynamic and compared the fight between the mythical Aeetes and Perses to actual Roman civil war: Romanas veluti saevissima cum legiones Tisiphone regesque movet, quorum agmina pilis, quorum aquilis utrimque micant eademque parentes rura colunt, idem lectos ex omnibus agris miserat infelix non haec ad proelia Thybris: sic modo concordes externaque fata petentes Palladii rapuere metus, sic in sua versi funera concurrunt dominis revocantibus axes. Arg. 6.402–9

As when most cruel Tisiphone stirs Roman legions and rulers, whose battle lines shine on each side with eagles and spears, whose parents cultivate the same fields, and whom the same wretched Tiber had sent after they were gathered from all fields to wars other than this one, so now fear caused by Pallas held them as they similarly sought their foes’ deaths, so now chariots, turned towards their own destruction, run on despite their drivers calling them back. 10 11 12 13

For a negative assessment of Theseus, see Ahl (1986) 2894–8; recent optimistic readings of Theseus have been offered by Morton Braund (1996), Ripoll (1998) and Delarue (2000). MacMullen (1966) 36–44 looks at a range of instances in which Greek myth informs Roman realities. Leigh (1996) examines the earlier use of Atreus and Thyestes by the Augustan regime. Dio relates that Tiberius heard the play and recognized himself in Atreus (58.24.3). Tacitus’ version is different, with an informant playing a significant role in Scaurus’ death. See Syme (1958) 336–7 and 362, and Champlin (2003a) 303–4. Whatever the reality may have been, the point is clear that Romans thought a Greek mythological play could pertain to contemporary politics.

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Statius’ Thebaid and the Poetics of Civil War

The juxtaposition of characteristically Roman words such as legiones (6.402), pilis (6.403), aquilis (6.404) and Thybris (6.406) with Tisiphone indicates that the distinctions between myth and history can be easily blurred.14 While Roman authors and audiences could see contemporary relevance in a range of mythic stories, Theban themes were particularly charged. Rome and Thebes shared similarities – such as the fact that fratricide is central to the mythical histories of both cities and that each community has two foundation myths – that made the Greek city an attractive vehicle for Roman writers to confront their society’s attitudes and values. In the Metamorphoses, Ovid takes advantage of parallels between the two cities to ‘short circuit the Virgilian vision of an enduring foundation’ for Rome.15 More specifically, Thebes appears in accounts of Roman political tension and civil war. Cicero, for instance, quotes words spoken by both Polynices and Eteocles in Euripides’ Phoenissae when he writes about Julius Caesar’s power and position in Rome (Att. 2.25.1, 7.11.1).16 Imperial literature also links the Rome of the Caesars with Thebes. In recounting the perverse omens that appeared just before the outbreak of civil war between Caesar and Pompey, Lucan mentions that at the conclusion of the Latin festival, a flame symbolically split into two parts. He then likens this flame to that which appeared on the funeral pyre of Eteocles and Polynices (BC 1.552).17 Lucan also compares the mutual destruction of two groups of Roman soldiers to the fratricide of the men sprung from the dragons’ teeth that Cadmus had sown in Thebes (BC 4.551). Roman writers, then, consistently pair Rome with Thebes, particularly in the context of civil war.18 Statius follows suit. By drawing upon Thebes to explore current events, Roman writers modified the practice of Athenian tragedy.19 Froma Zeitlin has argued that in fifth-century bc Athens Thebes . . . provides the negative model to Athens’ manifest image of itself with regard to its notions of the proper management of city, society, and self. As the site of displacement, therefore, Thebes consistently supplies the radical tragic terrain where there can be no escape from the tragic in the resolution of conflict or in the institutional provision of a civic future beyond the world of the play. There the 14 15 16 17 18 19

See the discussion of this passage in Hershkowitz (1998b) 224–8. Hardie (1990) 228. Janan (2004) also considers Ovid’s Theban episode and its implications for Rome. Morton Braund (2006). Ahl (1986) 2812. Hardie (1990) 230 writes that by ‘the time of Lucan, the analogy between the fratricide and civil wars of Thebes was well established.’ Hardie (1990) 229 discusses the Roman adoption of Theban themes and its departure from tragic examples.

Introduction

5

most serious questions can be raised concerning the fundamental relations of man to his universe, particularly with respect to the nature of rule over others and of rule over self, as well as those pertaining to the conduct of the body politic.20

For Zeitlin, ‘events in Thebes . . . [instruct] the spectators as to how their city might refrain from imitating the other’s negative example.’21 In imperial Rome, events in Thebes still instruct the audience, but Thebes is no longer the other. It has become the self: civil war, monarchical power, and problems of dynastic succession were real concerns for first-century Rome.22 For instance, Galba’s revolt in 68 ad – an uprising that closely followed an unsuccessful mutiny led by Julius Vindex – started a string of civil wars that plagued Rome during the years 68 and 69. And in 89, Saturninus started a revolt that Suetonius dubbed a civil war (Dom. 6.2). Moreover, the maturation of the imperial system and individual rule led to literary studies about kingship (e.g. Seneca’s De Clementia and Dio Chrysostom’s Orationes 1–4).23 Succession was also a concern throughout the principate. Augustus famously faced numerous problems.24 In addition, Vespasian’s rise to power after a series of civil wars was helped by the fact that he had two sons (Josephus, BJ 7.73; Tac., Hist. 2.77.1),25 but his assumption of control also raised questions about what powers he should inherit from his predecessors. The Lex de imperio Vespasiani was thus passed to define those powers.26 Legislation could not remedy all the problems involved in the transfer of power from one individual to another, however, since Titus’ sudden death and Domitian’s inability to produce an heir created a vacuum.27 In sum, monarchy, the inheritance of it, and its role in society similarly confronted Thebes and Flavian Rome, and in the Thebaid, Thebes is a metaphor to examine civil war and its concomitant problems in early imperial Rome. the augustan past The emergence of the principate brought an end to civil war.28 Yet while that form of government persisted, peace did not. In fact, the Flavians’ control of Rome was predicated upon their victory in civil war. Significantly, in the 20 22 23 24 25 26 27 28

21 Ibid. 145. Zeitlin (1990) 131. And for Statius, whose father wrote a poem about the civil war of 69 (cf. Silv. 5.3.195–8). See Jones (1978) 118–23 for Dio’s speeches and their relation to Trajan. Syme (1939) 419–39. Though there was concern that Titus would turn out like Nero (Suet., Tit. 7.1). For the Lex de imperio Vespasiani, see Brunt (1977) 95–116. Syme (1983) 130–2. Velleius Paterculus 2.89.3 and Res Gestae 34.1 correlate the elimination of civil war with the creation of the principate.

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Statius’ Thebaid and the Poetics of Civil War

aftermath of these internecine struggles, Vespasian made extensive use of the Augustan past to legitimate his position and to proclaim peace.29 His coins echoed Augustan slogans such as Fortuna Redux and Pax Augusta,30 and his building programme – including structures such as the Temple of Peace and the Colosseum – deliberately recalled the Augustan past.31 Like Augustus, he closed the doors of the Temple of Janus to herald a new era of peace.32 Also, Titus and Domitian were represented as Vespasian’s heirs in ways similar to those in which Augustus depicted his designated heirs, his grandchildren Gaius and Lucius.33 Vespasian thus sought to eliminate the spectre of civil war by manipulating public images and by associating himself with his predecessors, especially Augustus.34 Domitian continued this interest in the Augustan past, revaluing the coinage to meet the level that it had been at under Augustus, celebrating the Ludi Saeculares in 88 in order to conform with his predecessor’s plan to hold them in 23 (or 22) bc, restoring the temple of Apollo on the Palatine, and most of all implementing a moral programme that was modelled upon Augustan legislation.35 Despite the depiction of their rule as a revival of the Augustan peace, the Flavians faced the continued threat of civil war. Saturninus’ revolt occurred in upper Germany on 2 January 89, eerily replicating the time and location of Vitellius’ coup that took place twenty years earlier.36 Moreover, the appearance of false Neros under Vespasian in 69 (Tac., Hist. 2.8), Titus in 79 (Dio 66.19.3) and Domitian in 88 (Suet., Nero 57.2) posed potential threats to the peace.37 In the face of – or perhaps because of – these pressures, the Flavians exploited the memory of Augustus in order to strengthen their claims that they had eradicated civil war and brought peace and order to Rome. One way in which Roman imperial epic could address the topic of civil war was to engage the Aeneid. The nature of the relationship between 29 30 31 32 33 34 35

36 37

Scott (1936) 25–39; Levick (1999) 73. Levick (1999) 70; Scott (1936) 25 notes that the role of personification in Vespasian’s coinage is similar to that of Augustus. See too Sablayrolles (1994) 126. Levick (1999) 126. Boyle (2003) 5 cites the evidence provided by Orosius 7.9.8–9. Hannestad (1988) 119. Levick (1999) 73 discusses the importance of Claudius as well; Suetonius (Dom. 20) suggests that Tiberius was a model too. For the revaluation of coinage under Domitian, see Carradice (1983) 9–56; for the Secular Games, B. Jones (1992) 102–3 and Sablayrolles (1994) 127; the moral reforms are discussed by Jones (1992) 99. Sablayrolles (1994) 125–7 discusses other ways in which Domitian used Augustus as a model. Syme (1983) 122. The two later Neros were actually more aligned with Parthia than Rome; see Jones (1992) 157–9.

Introduction

7

Virgil’s poem and the establishment of the principate after the civil wars between Antony and Octavian is controversial, but the fact that the poem was coeval with the new form of government created a link between the two. Ovid, for instance, tendentiously dubbed the Aeneid Augustus’ poem (Tr. 2.533 tuae . . . Aeneidos auctor). Whatever may be the tone and larger effect of this connection between Augustus and Virgil’s epic,38 two particularly marked means by which the Aeneid illustrates the ascendancy of Augustus are the gods and the arrangement of the narrative. For example, with the obvious exception of Juno, the Olympian gods act to help and to benefit Aeneas and the Roman state. Venus (Aen. 1.657–94), Neptune (Aen. 1.124–56), and Vulcan (Aen. 8.729), for example, all assist Aeneas. And this divine aid is not limited to the mythical realm: Apollo aids Augustus (Aen. 8.704), and Jupiter prophesies the achievement of peace under Augustus (Aen. 1.257–96). Jupiter’s speech also exemplifies the way in which the narrative is organized to highlight Augustan Rome: he begins by discussing Rome’s earliest history, then moves towards the peace that followed Augustus’ victory in civil war. The teleological thrust of Jupiter’s speech is replicated by the account of Roman history that Vulcan puts on Aeneas’ shield, a narrative that also begins with the archaic city and culminates with Augustan Rome. In linking formal features of epic to the Roman state, Virgil built upon the practices of predecessors such as Ennius, but the political transformation that virtually coincided with the publication of the Aeneid created an entirely new relationship between politics and epic. In the sixties ad, hopes for continued peace had been dashed, thus opening up – indeed, demanding – new perspectives on and readings of Augustan Rome. The Flavians offered their version in the political realm by replaying Augustan slogans. Statius’ Thebaid parallels those Flavian evocations of Augustan Rome in its reconsideration of the Aeneid. The poem adopts the Virgilian interest in both the gods and the arrangement of the narrative, but it then presents disturbing gods and a narrative that is hindered from making progress. By upsetting these formal features, Statius challenges – but does not dispose of – Augustan claims for order, stability and national progress.39 The Thebaid does not accommodate the transfer of the Pax Augusta to the Flavian world. 38 39

Thomas (2001) 74–8 discusses Ovid’s claim and various interpretations of it. Lucan aggressively eliminates many epic norms, but Statius preserves many features of Virgilian epic. Some obvious examples are the structure of the epic and the activity of the gods; also, he explicitly cites the importance of the Aeneid (Theb. 12.816). The relationship between Statius and Virgil has generated an enormous bibliography, but Pollmann (2001) 10–30 is a recent account.

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Statius’ Thebaid and the Poetics of Civil War

When Statius narrates the conclusion of the war between Eteocles and Polynices, he engages more directly with real Roman concerns. His emphasis upon clementia and triumphs particularly connects his version of the Theban myth to Roman events, as does the Virgilian framework of the final books of the epic. But once again the poem adopts Virgilian features only to overturn them, to illustrate that Augustan narratives are incongruous with Flavian Rome. In place of the Virgilian portrayal of the end of civil war, the Thebaid exalts the virtue clementia as a way to achieve order. The central role of this virtue indicates that the imperial house, of which clementia was a special prerogative, is essential to closural narratives. Statius’ vision of the virtue, however, is strikingly original in that it emphasizes that clementia is available not simply to the powerful but also to the powerless and to those who have suffered. By opening up this means of resolution to such a wide range of individuals, Statius builds upon Virgilian interest in individual reactions to the end of civil war (Aen. 8.717–18), but then expands upon that ideal in ways that have little to do with a specific place and/or time. He offers a virtually universal means of peace that will work in all places under any circumstances. Because the principate originated with Augustus,40 the Theban myth, which concerns origins and the difficulty of escaping them, is a poignant way to explore the reappearance of civil war. Statius’ engagement with the Aeneid and its cultural concerns allows him to go back to the origins of the principate and to revisit the purported establishment of peace after a series of civil wars. To address these issues, Statius employs Virgilian form within the framework of a paradigmatic myth about origins. callimachus and generic expectations The second major argument of this book is that allusions to Callimachus’ poetry are a fundamental part of the Thebaid’s designs. Callimachus’ most influential poem was the Aetia, which explained the origins of (sometimes arcane) religious practices. And it was this poem in which Statius seems to have been particularly – though not exclusively – interested. The Aetia’s theme of origins has obvious relevance for a Theban tale. Moreover, the religious nature of the Aetia was important for Statius’ epic. Richard Hunter has observed that the Aetia is ‘a kind of sequel’ to Hesiod’s Theogony in that the latter is concerned with the establishment of a world order and the former targets the practices of cult and religion that refine and vary that 40

Tac., Ann. 1.1; Dio 52.1.1, 53.11.4 identify the origins of the principate with Augustus.

Introduction

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Olympian order.41 For good reason, then, an episode that typifies relations between gods and humans in the Thebaid patently alludes to Callimachus’ poem. In chapter one, I consider the ways in which an aetion about Linus, Coroebus and the Argive celebration of Apollo showcases an uneasy alliance between Olympian and chthonic forces. The aetion starts with Apollo’s destruction of the Python, a paradigmatic myth about the establishment of Olympian order. Afterwards, Apollo seeks expiation, but when he arrives at Argos, he rapes the daughter of his host, leading to a deadly string of violence in which the god sends an infernal monster and then a plague against the Argives. His enlistment of the underworld essentially undoes the normal consequences of his defeat of the chthonic Python, and thus perverts standard mythic narratives. Another result of this partnership between Olympian and chthonic forces is that divine hierarchies become confused, a central point of the poem. For instance, early in the Thebaid, Jupiter still lords it over humans, but his position seems to have been usurped by Tisiphone. Additional chthonic deities challenge Jupiter’s authority throughout the epic, and at the end of the poem he abdicates and allows infernal forces to assume control and govern the horrific fratricide (Theb. 11.122–35). Olympian order is thus not only threatened but actually usurped by the underworld. What is even more perverse is that the destruction wrought by the infernal deities leads to the fruition of Jupiter’s wish to annihilate the human race (Theb. 1.214–47).42 This divine cooperation, then, disturbingly realizes Juno’s strategy to ruin Aeneas (Aen. 7.312 Acheronta movebo). The Thebaid, however, is not about one powerful goddess causing trouble for humans. Statius’ entire divine machinery does so, and the Callimachean aetion at the end of Thebaid 1 crystallizes the problematic nature of the relationship between Statius’ humans and gods. Through this depiction of the gods, Statius perverts their conventional roles in Roman epic as guarantors of national safety. Naevius may have appropriated for Rome the universality of the pan-Hellenic Zeus, but Ennius and Virgil certainly do so.43 The ruler of the gods is thus on Rome’s side, as is clear, for example, in the Aeneid when Jupiter tries to soothe Venus’ fears by saying that he has given Rome an empire without end (Aen. 1.279). Silius Italicus updates this Virgilian scene for a Flavian context when he has Venus anxiously question Jupiter about Rome’s safety because of the Carthaginian invasion. Jupiter responds by saying that there 41 42

Fantuzzi and Hunter (2004) 54. Dominik (1994) 1–33 discusses Statius’ Jupiter.

43

Feeney (1991) 115; 128.

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Statius’ Thebaid and the Poetics of Civil War

is no reason to worry, and that Rome will see the Flavians rule the world, join the gods after their death, and leave divine children on earth (Pun. 3.557–629). Ovid also connects gods and rulers when he equates Jupiter and Augustus (Met. 1.200–5; 15.855–60).44 This link between Jupiter and the emperor also appears at the start of the Thebaid (Theb. 1.29–31) and is ubiquitous in Statius’Silvae (Silv. 1.6.25–7; 4.2.11, 20; 4.3.128–9; 4.4.58), so there is good reason to think of this familiar dynamic throughout the Thebaid.45 What to make of Statius’ analogy is less clear. Many of the Silvae that equate Jupiter and Domitian have been understood as unabashed flattery. But even if this is the case for the occasional poems,46 the Thebaid cannot easily be assimilated to that model because its gods are wicked, and the divine ordering of the universe is pernicious and perverse.47 Indeed, the very order of the universe is called into question at the end of the poem when the Olympians are absent. Such problems are not a veiled critique of the Flavians or Domitian. In fact, Statius glorifies the imperial virtue of clementia as a source of order and resolution.48 Moreover, Theseus’ employment of the virtue at the end of the poem seemingly provides a positive exemplar for an imperial figure. Thus the position and authority of the emperor is not challenged. Nonetheless, Statius’ perverse treatment of the gods discards one conventional means of expressing order, and in its place he offers a markedly new form of security and comfort that may allow individuals to find comfort and consolation in a turbulent world of civic disorder. Individuals now have a means by which they can achieve peace amidst civil chaos and thus are no longer dependent upon forces greater than them.49 By moving away from the closural paradigms of grand narratives and focusing upon the ability of individuals to find their own solace, Statius ends his epic of loss and chaos with a hope that is distinctly new. 44

45

46 47 48 49

Ibid. 220. In addition, Ovid’s assembly of the gods is explicitly compared to a meeting on the Palatine (Met 1.176), and the Ovidian assembly influenced both Statius and Lucan. See Feeney (1991) 296, 353. Coins and gems also equate Jupiter and Domitian, who is famously said to have preferred the title dominus et deus (Suet. Dom. 13.2); see Scott (1936) 139–40; a wider range of evidence is treated on 133–40. Scott (1936) 141–8; 166–88 also shows that Hercules, Apollo, Bacchus and particularly Minerva were also used to represent the authority of the Flavians and especially Domitian. Newlands (2002) argues against this traditional view of the occasional poems. Feeney (1991) 359 n. 151. For the political implications of clementia, see Weinstock (1971) 232–41; Burgess (1972); Morton Braund (1996). The Thebaid’s interest in individual opportunities to achieve solace counters – or at least deflates – the Aeneid’s emphasis upon collective gain at the expense of individual loss (e.g. Aen. 5.815 unum pro multis dabitur caput). Hardie (1993) 3–10 offers a broader discussion of this theme.

Introduction

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teleology and roman epic Narrative arrangement is another way in which Roman epic expresses national order. In Ennius’ Annales, the narrative progression towards its telos seemingly corresponds to the increasing Roman domination of the Mediterranean: after the first three books that concern the period of kings, Annales 4–6 cover the Roman conquest of Italy, Annales 7–9 the Punic Wars, Annales 10–12 wars in Greece, Annales 13–15 in Syria, culminating in 16–18 and the wars of M. Fulvius Nobilior, Ennius’ patron. A teleological narrative is manifestly connected to national interests in the Aeneid. David Quint has argued that the shield of Aeneas, with its chronological depiction of hundreds of years of Roman conquest and survival in the face of various threats, is particularly emblematic of the Virgilian melding of politics, history and epic poetry. Indeed, the shield’s sequential depiction of the growth of Roman hegemony replicates the annalistic style of Ennius’ epic and thereby reinforces the link between linear narratives and national progress.50 Finally, in the proem of his Metamorphoses, Ovid connects his teleological narrative to the Caesars (Met. 1.3–4 primaque ab origine . . . ad mea . . . tempora). Allusions to Callimachus’ poetry play a substantial role in Statius’ construction and pursuit of a teleological narrative. In chapter two, I consider Statius’ description of Vulcan’s creation of a necklace that is worn by Argia on the day of her wedding to Polynices (Theb. 2.269–96). This ekphrasis assumes as a point of comparison the Virgilian account of Vulcan’s work on Aeneas’ shield. For example, just as in the Aeneid, the Cyclopes help Vulcan create a gift for the child of Venus. Moreover, Virgil’s god produces an object of civic safety and hegemony, and the decoration he puts on the shield produces a narrative that progresses in a linear fashion (Aen. 8.629 pugnataque in ordine bella). The necklace wrought by Statius’ Vulcan similarly presents a linear narrative (Theb. 2.267 series; 296 ordo). Ultimately, however, Statius upsets the Virgilian model because his god creates an object that, instead of preserving its founder, transmits evils from one generation of the Theban ruling house to another. The necklace is the cause of trouble in the Theban dynasty. The necklace, however, does not operate solely at the level of the ‘story’.51 The description of Vulcan’s handiwork suggests that it is a synecdoche for 50

51

Quint (1993) 8–9. Quint’s point about epics and teleological narratives is a good one, even if his argument for a dichotomy between epic and romance is troublesome. See Hardie (1986) 347–8 and Barchiesi (1997b) 274–5 on the annalistic style of the shield. I use ‘story’ in the sense put forth by Genette (1980) 27.

12

Statius’ Thebaid and the Poetics of Civil War

the larger narrative, and that the makers of the necklace are ‘responsible’ for the narrative of violence that is the subject of the Thebaid. That is, the fictive artisans call attention to the poetic fiction of which they are part, and in doing so illuminate the encompassing narrative.52 While Vulcan is chiefly responsible for the destructive Theban narrative, he receives help from, among others, the Telchines, whom Statius characterizes in ways that recall Callimachus’ famous poetic enemies (Aetia 1.1.1). By doing so, Statius aligns the narrative that results from the necklace with anti-Callimachean poetic values. In chapter three, I argue that the Thebaid contains a narrative interest that consistently thwarts the realization of Vulcan’s designs. Statius does this by drawing upon a Callimachean aetion for the Nemean games that creates a massive delay and postpones the recounting of the fratricide. This Callimachean episode clashes with the linear narrative created by the Telchines, and the resulting formal tension between the advancement of the teleological narrative and the postponement of it works on a broader level. David Quint has argued that in Lucan’s Bellum Civile the resistance to teleological accounts of coherence and Roman domination may be construed as a resistance to form: to the political unity and uniformity that the imperial regime sought to impose upon its subjects, to the formal closure it placed upon its version of history. The poem speaks against the desire for endings that would freeze history into any final shape and unalterable political configuration.53

The Nemean episode certainly does resist Virgilian form. Statius pointedly creates this stoppage in the fourth book, the same book in which Aeneas and his troops leave behind the delay that hindered their progress towards national destiny – and to a war that may be construed as civil.54 Also different is the fact that the delay of this heroic journey actually benefits civic safety by postponing the war that will destroy the community. In these ways, Statius alters the pattern of epic history that concerns civic order and universal control, thereby suggesting the incompatibility of that form with a Flavian context. In chapter four, I argue that the tension between the narrative interest in war and impediments to it comes to a head in the seventh book, a book that, according to the model of Aeneid 7, is supposed to focus on the narrative transition to martial themes. At least since Servius it has been pointed out that Aeneid 7 begins the ‘Iliadic’ half of the poem and closes the ‘Odyssean’ 52 54

53 Quint (1993) 147. Leach (1974) 104 comments on this phenomenon in Ovid. Rossi (2004) 165–8 is a recent discussion of civil war in the Aeneid.

Introduction

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(e.g. ad Aen. 7.1).55 Thebaid 7 demonstrates a similar concern with the literary past and narrative shifts, though it specifically concerns the turn from dilatory aetiologies to civil war. In addition to following the Virgilian model for the literary significance of a seventh book, Statius also heralds the Iliadic background of his book by replicating large portions of the Homeric Catalogue of Ships in a list of the allies fighting on behalf of Thebes. However, Statius continues to use Callimachean aetia and the closely related theme of metamorphosis to diffuse and to put off the realization of martial expectations. The efficacy of epic paradigms is thus challenged in a charged location. In the end, Statius follows Virgilian conventions and begins his narrative of warfare and battles. However, he does so by emphasizing that this war is modelled upon Lucan’s civil war and that, consonant with Lucan’s model, these upcoming battles will pervert Homeric and Virgilian norms. Conventional paradigms are dismantled and debased. I contend in the fifth chapter that after the transition to the Iliadic half is achieved, the actual battles illustrate an anti-Callimachean narrative strategy. That is, in scenes defined by hyperbole and excess, the deaths of the leaders of the expedition against Thebes instantiate themes or poetic traditions that are antithetical to Callimacheanism. The particular nature of these battles scenes reinforces that the martial agenda was put in place with the help of the Telchines. Chapters two through five thus concentrate on formal concerns such as the progress of the narrative towards its telos and obstacles to it. Statius creates this poetic friction by having the Telchines assist in the creation of a necklace that catalyses a narrative of violence, and then by alluding to Callimachus’ poetry in ways that postpone that narrative interest. In some sense, this poetic tension replays the antagonism between Callimachus and the Telchines that is featured in the Aetia prologue. Significantly, that programmatic opening concerns unity: Callimachus says that the Telchines carp at him because he does not produce one continuous song (Aetia 1.1.3
    ). What Callimachus means by that has been debated, but however that issue may be, Roman poets need not have responded to his statement in the same way.56 In the case of the Thebaid, this replaying of that literary conflict seems to underscore the point that the poem does not consist of one continuous narrative, but rather distinct ways – Telchinic and Callimachean – of telling the story that are brought together through the poet’s arrangement. Unity of the Aristotelian sort that depends upon a 55 56

This scheme is oversimplified, and both Homeric poems are important for each half of the Aeneid. But it is nonetheless useful and appropriate way to talk about broad designs of Virgil’s epic. See Myers (1994) 5; Hunter (1993) 194 discusses the Aetia and the notion of unity.

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Statius’ Thebaid and the Poetics of Civil War

beginning, middle and end is still present – hence the title of three chapters of this book. But delays and divagations persistently challenge that formal arrangement, and thereby generate within the narrative itself a kind of internal division and conflict that mirror the theme of the poem.57 In Thebaid 12, Statius addresses Augustan narratives more directly, and this book, and especially the arrival of Theseus, is the basis of my final chapter. Statius’ worrisome treatment of the gods and of generic form creates problems that have to be resolved at the end of the poem, and Theseus is the one to resolve them. Because Creon denied burial to Polynices and the other Argives, Theseus has to go to Thebes and gain burial for them. Forbidden burials recall the end of the Iliad, in which Achilles finally relents and allows Priam to bury Hector. But Statius deviates from the Homeric model and indicates that hatred lasts beyond the grave, and that burial is insufficient for resolution. In addition to reconsidering Homeric closural strategies, the ending of the Thebaid also revisits Roman imperial concerns that are raised in Aeneid 8. Theseus’ imperial associations and his arrival at a city ravaged by war, for example, suggest that he is an Augustus-like imperial figure. But Statius invokes this model only to scrutinize it. First, allusions to Catullus 64, a poem that works within the Callimachean tradition, raise doubts about Theseus’ possession of clementia and about heroic narratives. Next, it also emerges that collective celebration does not resolve individual loss as easily as it does in the depiction of Augustus’ triumph in Aeneid 8. Indeed, the Theban myth itself implies that Theseus’ accomplishments can only bring about a temporary pause in the cycle of violence. Statius thus rewrites previous scenes of epic closure to show their insufficiency for his poetic world. In place of those narratives put forth by its predecessors, the Thebaid asserts the benefit of the imperial virtue of clementia, but tweaks the concept in such a way that its accessibility extends to a range of individuals. Resolution is no longer dependent upon great narratives. Throughout the Thebaid, Statius creates expectations by alluding to Homeric and Virgilian models.58 Of course, these expectations need not reach fruition. As Hans Robert Jauss observes: A literary work, even when it appears to be new, does not present itself as something absolutely new in an informational vacuum, but predisposes its audience to a very specific kind of reception by announcements, overt and covert signals, familiar 57 58

This poetic arrangement also reveals an artistic design behind the episodic nature of the poem that has been missed by modern critics (e.g. Legras (1905) 152; Williams (1978) 250–2). That expectations are created through allusions to generic models is a familiar idea. Conte (1994a) 114: ‘genre is not only a descriptive grid . . . but also an expectation.’ See also Fowler (1982) 88–92 on allusion and genre.

Introduction

15

characteristics, or implicit allusions. It awakens memories of that which was already read, brings the reader to a specific emotional attitude, and with its beginning arouses expectations for the ‘middle and end’, which can then be maintained intact or altered, reoriented, or even fulfilled ironically in the course of reading according to specific rules of the genre or type of text . . . The new text evokes for the reader (listener) the horizon of expectations and rules familiar from earlier texts, which are then varied, corrected, altered, or even just reproduced.59

In passages that allude to or adopt Homeric or Virgilian features, Statius regularly confounds the realization of these expectations by reworking Callimachus’ poetry. Statius’ practice results in a dialogue between earlier epic and the Thebaid about literary versions of history and about the legitimacy of these historical accounts. By consistently disrupting the ideological package of the Aeneid, Statius illustrates the inherently tenuous nature of its claims. For Flavian Rome, in which the Augustan past figured strongly, the Thebaid’s refusal to accommodate the Aeneid takes on special significance: the poem reflects the difficulty of adapting the Augustan past – or indeed any dominant narrative of the past – to the present. callimachus, thebes and ro man poet ry Whatever the poetic values of the Aetia prologue may have been, they should no longer be considered coterminous with what it meant for Roman poets to explore ‘Callimacheanism’.60 Virgil and Ovid wrote epics that engage with Callimachean ideals, thus destroying any strict Callimachean ‘orthodoxy’ about small-scale poetics and antipathy towards long poems about kings and heroes. To be sure, Statius employs features that are often thought to be conventional Callimachean poetic ideals, but I consider his allusions to Callimachus primarily in relation to the unfolding of the narrative, and to the epic tradition. Richard Thomas has stated that ‘allusion to, and adaptation of, the Callimachean program really becomes a way of talking about one’s own changing tradition and one’s own place in that changing tradition.’61 My argument proceeds along similar lines, suggesting that Statius uses Callimachus to revisit issues raised by culturally dominant epics and to carve out his own place in the epic tradition. 59 60

61

Jauss (1982) 23. The bibliography on this point is enormous, and there have been a variety of views. Cameron (1995) considers the controversial prologue and the Roman reception of it, and draws attention to the hazards involved in trying to establish a Callimachean orthodoxy. Fantuzzi and Hunter (2004) 444–85 provide an excellent discussion of Callimacheanism in the Greek world and at Rome. Thomas (1993) 201–2.

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Statius’ Thebaid and the Poetics of Civil War

Statius’ strategy was not invented ex nihilo, and owes much to his predecessors. In fact, Callimachus’ poetry was central to questions about Roman literature and its relationship to the world of politics.62 In the proem of the Metamorphoses, for instance, Ovid marks the importance of Callimachean poetics: In nova fert animus mutatas dicere formas corpora; di, coeptis (nam vos mutastis et illa) adspirate meis primaque ab origine mundi ad mea perpetuum deducite tempora carmen! Met. 1.1–4

My mind prompts me to sing about forms changed into new bodies. O gods, inspire my undertakings, for you changed those bodies too, and spin a continuous song that runs all the way from the origins of the world down to my own day.

Ovid creates a literary paradox at the start of his poem by claiming to produce a non-Callimachean perpetuum carmen in Callimachean fashion (deducere).63 This conflict precludes easy assessment of the narrative as a whole,64 and Ovid’s Rome is not exempt from such narrative difficulties. The proem’s ad mea . . . tempora anticipates the apotheosis of Julius Caesar at the end of the epic (Met. 15.860),65 and Ovid approaches this transformation as he did previous metamorphoses. As Alessandro Barchiesi has put it, ‘the principle regulating [the metamorphosis of Caesar] is no different than what transformed the Minyeiades into bats or the Cecropes into monkeys. The aura of incredibility that suffuses the entire poem seems to envelop this final miracle as well.’66 The proem’s paradox sets the stage for a narrative that constantly challenges the reader to find secure footing. To some extent, then, Statius’ conflicting narratives and the consequent interpretative challenges posed by them develop an Ovidian practice. Indeed, as will be seen, Statius alludes to Ovid’s proem at moments that also draw heavily upon Homeric and Virgilian epic and in doing so generates narrative friction. 62

63 64 65

66

Georgics 3.1–48 is a pointed example of the intersection of Callimacheanism and Roman politics. Fowler (1995) 254 and (2000) 30 notes the dynamic. This is obviously a large issue that has many and varied accounts, but in short the political dimensions of Callimacheanism owes quite a bit to the Hellenistic relationship between poet and ruler that prefigured similar Roman relationships. Myers (1994) 4–5 contains bibliography on the topic. This tension is perhaps best represented at Met. 8.618–878, where stylistically different Callimachean stories are juxtaposed. See Barchiesi (2001) 55 on the clash of narrative voices. The word tempora also has special force at the start of the Fasti, where the words cum causis create a Callimachean context. See Barchiesi (1997c) 51. For the remarkable dialogue between the Fasti and the Metamorphoses, see, e.g., Hinds (1987) 115–34. Barchiesi (2001) 75.

Introduction

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Roman poetry provided a more specific model for Statius by articulating a tension between Callimachean poetry and themes that concern war at Thebes. In 2.1, Propertius writes that if it had been his fate to write something other than love elegy, he would not write about the Titanomachy, the Gigantomachy, Thebes, Troy or a host of other themes, but he would address the exploits of Octavian and Maecenas: quod mihi si tantum, Maecenas, fata dedissent, ut possem heroas ducere in arma manus, non ego Titanas canerem, non Ossan Olympo impositam, ut caeli Pelion esset iter, nec veteres Thebas, nec Pergama nomen Homeri, Xerxis et imperio bina coisse vada, regnave prima Remi aut animos Carthaginis altae, Cimbrorumque minas et bene facta Mari: bellaque resque tui memorarem Caesaris, et tu Caesare sub magno cura secunda fores. Nam quotiens Mutinam aut civilia busta Philippos aut canerem Siculae classica bella fugae . . . 2.1.17–28 (Goold)

If, Maecenas, the fates had given me the power to lead heroic troops to war, I would not sing of the Titans, nor Ossa piled upon Olympus so that Pelion be a path to the sky, nor old Thebes, nor Pergamum – Homer’s source of repute – nor that the two seas were joined at Xerxes’ order, nor the early rule of Remus nor the spirit of lofty Carthage, nor the threats of the Cimbri and Marius’ great accomplishments. I would recall the wars and deeds of your Caesar, and you would be a close second after great Caesar. For how often I would sing of Mutina or the citizens’ graveyard at Philippi or the sea battle and rout at Sicily . . .

Mutina, Sicily, Perusia and Philippi refer to actual Roman civil wars, and Remus brings to mind the fraternal strife that is central to Roman (and Theban) myth. And Greek mythological themes such as the Titanomachy and the Gigantomachy could also refer to contemporary events such as civil war (e.g. Prop. 3.9.47–56). Collectively these battles illustrate the subject matter that Propertius avoids, and his reason for doing so is clear: sed neque Phlegraeos Iovis Enceladique tumultus intonet angusto pectore Callimachus, nec mea conveniunt duro praecordia versu Caesaris in Phrygios condere nomen avos. 2.1.39–42 (Goold)

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Statius’ Thebaid and the Poetics of Civil War

But with his slight chest Callimachus would not thunder the struggle between Jove and Enceladus that took place at Phlegra, nor is my spirit appropriate for putting the name of Caesar among his Phrygian ancestors through heroic verse.

Despite the unfortunate lacuna in the preceding verse, the references to Callimachus and small-scale poetics (angusto pectore) that oppose grand thundering (intonet) explain Propertius’ avoidance of topics such as civil war. He thus sets Callimachean poetry against narratives of civil war. Propertius restates his Callimachean avoidance of Theban warfare in 3.9, a poem in which he claims that he will not relate the razing of the city by the Epigonoi, the sons of the Seven: non flebo in cineres arcem sedisse paternos Cadmi, nec semper proelia clade pari; nec referam Scaeas et Pergama, Apollinis arces, et Danaum decimo vere redisse rates, moenia cum Graio Neptunia pressit aratro victor Palladiae ligneus artis equus. 3.9.37–42 (Goold)

I will not mourn that the city of Cadmus fell upon the fathers’ ashes, and the battles always equal in destruction; I shall not mention the Scaean gates and Pergamum, the citadels of Apollo, and that the Greek ships returned in the tenth spring, when the victorious wooden horse of Pallas’ art overpowered the walls of Neptune with a Greek plow.

Propertius adds that he does not need such grand poetic themes because it is sufficient that he is a Callimachean poet who produces erotic poetry that excites youths: inter Callimachi sat erit placuisse libellos et cecinisse modis, Co¨e poeta, tuis. haec urant pueros, haec urant scripta puellas meque deum clament et mihi sacra ferant! 3.9.43–6 (Goold)

It will be enough for me to have pleased among the books of Callimachus and to have sung in your meters, Philetas. Let these words inflame boys and girls, and let them shout out that I am a god and let them bring sacred offerings to me.

Propertius also mentions Philetas as a poetic model, but Callimachus himself had treated Philetas as a significant predecessor in the Aetia prologue (Aetia 1.1.10). Thus while Propertius widens the range of poetic forebears, he adopts a Callimachean manner of speaking about the Hellenistic past and its relevance for his poetic interests.

Introduction

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The conflict between Callimacheanism and Thebes is perhaps strongest in Propertius’ 2.34, a poem in which Lynceus, a poet and philosopher, has fallen in love.67 Propertius offers that Socratic wisdom and Homeric epic will be of no avail to him, and he advises Lynceus instead to follow the writings, once again, of Philetas and Callimachus: tu satius Musis leviorem imitere Philetan et non inflati somnia Callimachi 2.34.31–2 (Goold)

It is better that you imitate the rather slight Muse of Philetas and the Dream of Callimachus, who is not turgid.

Propertius’ description of Callimachus as non inflati recalls programmatic passages such as the end of the Hymn to Apollo and the Aetia prologue, and the word somnia evokes the Aetia and its dream (Aetia 1.3–4 Massimilla). The Callimachean context is thus established even before Propertius identifies for Lynceus specific heroic scenes that may be of benefit: nam cursus licet Aetoli referas Acheloi, fluxerit ut magno fractus amore liquor, atque etiam ut Phrygio fallax Maeandria campo errat et ipsa suas decipit unda vias, qualis et Adrasti fuerit vocalis Arion, tristis ad Archemori funera victor equus: 2.34.33–8 (Goold)

Though you may relate the course of the Aetolian Achelous and how its waters, broken by great love, flowed, and also how the tricky Meander wanders over the Phrygian plain and hides its own course, and how Adrastus’ horse Arion, the victor at the funeral games of sad Archemorus, spoke . . .

Perhaps because elegy has an intrinsically aetiological interest in funerals,68 Propertius singles out Archemorus’ funeral games as part of the Theban story that is appropriate for a Callimachean. A more certain point, however, is that Callimachus himself had told about the funeral of Archemorus and the subsequent founding of the Nemean games (SH 266), so Propertius’ allowance for this particular theme is based on the authority of Callimachus himself. Propertius adds, however, that topics such as Amphiaraus’ descent 67

68

The Theban implications of 2.34 are enhanced by earlier poems. Stahl (1985) has pointed out that the Lynceus of 2.34 is remarkably similar to the Ponticus encountered in 1.7 and 1.9, and a prominent point in those two poems is that Ponticus is a poet who addresses Theban themes. Although Propertius does not explicitly refer to Callimachus in 1.7 and 1.9, he nonetheless does dissociate his elegy from such themes and thus anticipates his renunciation of Theban material. The word was thought to come from the lament    ; cf. LSJ s.v.  II.

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into the underworld and Jupiter’s smiting of Capaneus will not benefit Lynceus: num Amphiareae prosint tibi fata quadrigae aut Capanei magno grata ruina Iovi? 2.34.39–40 (Goold)

Would the fate of Amphiaraus’ chariot or the destruction of Capaneus – pleasing to Jove – benefit you?

He thus implicitly opposes these two stories to Callimachean themes. Significantly these two moments are featured in the second half of the Thebaid, the half that Statius frames as anti-Callimachean. More generally, when one considers that Propertius views the Nemean games – the topic of Statius’ dilatory aetiology – as an acceptable Callimachean theme and the Theban wars as unacceptable, it becomes clear that, despite the many differences between Propertius’ and Statius’ poetic interests,69 the division of the story by Propertius in distinct parts anticipates Statius’ practices.70 Statius’ allusions to Callimachus thus help to situate his epic in the literary tradition. Mutatis mutandis, this formulation of literary history is similar to that put forth by Gian Biagio Conte, who writes that when they confronted the poetic tradition of Ennius, the neoterics and the bucolic Virgil ‘turned to Callimachus and others of the Alexandrian “revolt” to see what choices they had made when opposing the poetic conventions of the Homeric tradition’.71 ‘Revolt’ may be a strong word, and Statius does not ‘oppose’ poetic conventions – he continually utilizes them – but nonetheless Conte’s view that Hellenistic poetry provided a way to approach epic is useful. Statius’ literary tradition was especially rich, consisting of Homer and Virgil, as well as the deep literary tradition that surrounded the topic of Thebes. And it was Callimachus’ poetry that provided him with a specific way to engage with the tradition. 69 70

71

Concerns about appropriate poetic material, for example, are not central to the Thebaid. For ways in which elegiac concerns operate in the Thebaid, however, see Bessone (2002). A similar contrast between Theban themes and the tradition of Callimachean poetry may underlie Catullus 95, in which he contrasts the popular appeal of the grand Antimachus with his preferred small-scale productions. Catullus does not explicitly refer to Antimachus’ Thebaid, but the Greek poet was famous because of that epic (e.g. Quintilian 10.1.53), and disdain for popular pleasures is a Callimachean conceit (Ep. 28.4), as is the preference for things that are parva. Horace also seems to express Callimachean disdain for those who celebrate Athens in a perpetuo carmine (cf. Nisbet and Hubbard on 1.7.6), and since this claim follows so closely upon the priamel that excludes other Greek cities, of which Thebes is one, similar literary ideals likely underlie the rejection of poetic topics concerning those cities. Conte (1986) 92.

Introduction

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statius’ poetic representation The Statius offered in this book is thus attuned to and engaged with a wide spectrum of the literary past, both Greek and Latin. In short, I treat Statius as a doctus poeta who astutely uses the Greek and Roman literary tradition – especially the Callimachean heritage – for his own poetic interests.72 This point is corroborated by Statius’ occasional poems, in which he reveals that he fully engages, develops and modifies Callimachean ideas.73 For example, as I will discuss, the Silvae refer to the mythological figure Molorcus in ways that not only reflect Statius’ interest in the Callimachean background of that character, but also comment upon and illuminate the literary dynamics of the Thebaid. Moreover, the Silvae regularly comment upon the production of the epic, and they do so in a manner that characterizes the epic in Callimachean terms. For instance, Statius continually emphasizes the hard work that went into the Thebaid. At the end of his going-away poem for Maecius Celer, for example, Statius describes his epic as one that demanded work (Silv. 3.2.143 laboratas . . . Thebas). So too in Silv. 3.5, a poem that attempts to persuade his wife to leave Rome and to move to his home town of Naples, Statius mentions that she alone knows the amount of toil that produced the Thebaid (Silv. 3.5.35–6 longi tu sola laboris / conscia, cumque tuis creavit mea Thebais annis). Lastly, in Silvae 4.7 Statius offers that the Thebaid had been subjected to much revision and polish (Silv. 4.7.26 Thebais multa cruciata lima). This final passage seems to position the previous two claims specifically in the Callimachean tradition of poetic labour because the comment concerning revision and polish (‘lima’) alludes to Horace’s lament that Latin poets do not sufficiently revise their works (AP 291 . . . poetarum limae labor et mora). In turn, that Horatian comment builds upon the metaphor for the poetic toil prized by Callimachus (e.g. Ep. 6.1; 27.4).74 Statius also informs us about the production of the Thebaid in Silvae 5.3, where he reveals that his father helped him produce the epic: . . . te nostra magistro Thebais urguebat priscorum exordia vatum; tu cantus stimulare meos, tu pandere facta 72

73 74

Venini (1971b) 9–28 examines Statius’ doctrina by analysing his work in the context of Roman predecessors. See also the comments by Aric`o (2002) 182. Statius’ learning has surprised or has been downplayed by scholars: Tarrant (2002) 19 views Ovid as ‘the first and the last poet to combine a broad knowledge of Greek literature with an intimate awareness of the new Latin classics’. Conte (1994b) 485 tellingly writes about the Thebaid that ‘ . . . unexpected models also appear – Euripides, Apollonius of Rhodes, even Callimachus . . .’ (my italics). Newlands (2002) passim. For Horace’s usage, see Brink (1971) 321; Coleman (1988) 203–4.

22

Statius’ Thebaid and the Poetics of Civil War heroum bellique modos positusque locorum monstrabas. labat incerto mihi limite cursus te sine, et orbatae caligant vela carinae. Silvae 5.3.233–7

With you as my teacher, my Thebaid closely pursued the works of the ancient poets; you taught me to give passion to my poetry, to disclose the deeds of heroes, martial verses and the arrangements of scenes. Without you, my course wavers in an unsteady path, and the sails of my bereft vessel grow dark.

The elder Statius was his son’s poetic mentor. In fact, Statius’ father was an accomplished Greek grammarian and poet who taught the works of many Greeks, including Callimachus (Silvae 5.3.146–58).75 As Alex Hardie has stated, Statius’ father was a scholar-poet who operated in a tradition that harked back to Philetas and Callimachus.76 Statius’ comment upon the guidance he received while composing the Thebaid thus demands a reading of his poetry in relation to the tradition of the docti poetae. In addition, by using the guidance of his father, a Greek intellectual, to lend prestige to his artistic endeavour, Statius follows typical Roman practice.77 Horace, for instance, claimed to have transported the lyric poetry of Sappho and Alcaeus to Rome (Carm. 3.30.12–14); Virgil asserted that he did the same with Hesiod’s poetry (G. 2.176); Propertius called himself the Roman Callimachus (4.1.64). Such claims appropriate for the Roman writer the authority previously associated with Greek authors, and tendentiously attempt to eliminate further dialogue with the Greeks: Roman authors have become the models for subsequent authors. But by presenting us with an intense account of literary mentorship that involves a Greek poet, Statius reopens the dialogue with Greece and thus counters Augustan teleologies. Even from a literary-historical perspective, then, Statius demonstrates problems with Augustan endings. Finally, the Thebaid itself concludes with a self-referential statement about the Callimachean poetic tradition. In the epic’s epilogue, Statius advertises the importance of the poetic past: 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, 75 76 77

For Silvae 5.3 and Statius’ father, see Holford-Strevens (2000); McNelis (2002). Hardie (1983) 9–10. Hinds (1998) 80–3 discusses this recurring phenomenon in Roman literature of writers offering accounts about their interaction with Greek learning and literature.

Introduction

23

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. Theb. 12.810–19

O my Thebaid, on which I worked at great length well into the night over twelve years, will you survive far into the future and, outlasting your author, be read? Already immediate fame has paved a kind path for you and has begun to point you out to posterity. Already great Caesar thinks it right to know you, and the Italian youth eagerly learns and recites you. Live, I pray. Don’t try to match the divine Aeneid, but follow far behind it and always adore its footsteps. Soon, if any envy spreads gloom before you, it will die, and, after I am gone, the proper honour will be paid.

Scholarship on this passage has justly focused on Statius’ position in relation to Virgil,78 and to the epilogue of Ovid’s Metamorphoses.79 Less attention has been paid to the phrase multum vigilata, which alludes to Cinna fr. 11.1–2 (haec tibi Arateis multum invigilata lucernis / carmina).80 Cinna’s verses reflect a strong interest in Hellenistic poetry: he talks about bringing poems of Aratus to Rome,81 and the word invigilata recalls Callimachus’ own epigram which praises Aratus’ sleepless nights (Ep. 27.4 

). Cinna’s diction thus establishes his ‘Alexandrian credentials’.82 The verbal parallel between Statius and Cinna is reinforced by the fact that Statius also adopts Cinna’s use of sailing as a metaphor for poetic composition. In particular, the learned adjective Prusiaca and the diminutive navicula correspond to the learned, small-scale poetry esteemed by Cinna and some of his contemporaries.83 Pointedly, in the verses immediately preceding the epilogue, Statius also uses the language of sailing to discuss his poetic composition (Theb. 12.809 et mea iam longo meruit ratis aequore portum).84 Obviously, the epic poetics of the Thebaid differ from Cinna’s small-scale brand of verse, but the details should not obscure the point that Statius situates his poetry in the tradition of Roman Callimacheanism. While this dimension of Cinna’s verse has been well studied,85 the allusion in Statius’ epilogue has prompted little consideration. 78 80 81 82 83 84 85

79 Henderson (1991) 30. Nugent (1996) 70. Sonnenberg (1911) 478; Courtney (1993) 222 note the similarities. Courtney (1993) 222. Williams (1992) 179 n. 8; Courtney (1993) 222; Hinds (2001) 227. Courtney (1993) 222 comments on learned features of Cinna’s language. For sailing and poetry, see Prop. 3.9.3, Ovid, Met. 15.176, Hor., Carm. 4.15.3. Statius himself refers to the Thebaid in such terms at Silv. 4.4.89. Wiseman (1974) 50–6; Thomas (1982) 200–1.

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Attention to the reception of Callimachus has greatly benefited the interpretation of so much Roman poetry.86 Yet despite the numerous suggestions throughout his poetic corpus that invite similar study, Statius’ epic has not benefited from such work. This book aims to bridge this gap by focusing on Statius’ allusions to Callimachus and on how they illuminate his artistic design, his relationship to the literary past and ultimately an assessment of early imperial Rome. Validation can only emerge from the poem itself, to which I now turn. 86

Wimmel (1960); Thomas (1983); Myers (1994).

chapter 1

Gods, humans and the literary tradition

At the start of the Thebaid, Eteocles rules over Thebes and Polynices has been exiled. In the course of his wanderings, a terrible storm drives Polynices to the doorway of Adrastus, the king of Argos. Tydeus, who has been exiled from his native Calydon, happens to seek shelter at the entrance to the king’s house at the same time. The two young men fight over the meagre shelter, and the commotion prompts the king to investigate its cause. When Adrastus sees Polynices wearing the skin of a lion and Tydeus that of a boar, he recalls a prophecy that foretold that his daughters would marry these animals. Believing the two exiles to be his future sons-in-law, he welcomes them into the palace as a religious festival is taking place, and he then explains the origins of the ceremony to the newcomers. The ways in which this aetion illuminates its encompassing narrative and affords deep insights into the gods of the Thebaid will be the subject of this chapter. Specifically, I look at the dissolution of distinctions between heavenly and infernal deities and the implications of this unusual divine arrangement for the poem. Adrastus’ account commences with Apollo’s victory over the massive snake-monster Python that had inhabited Delphi. Such mythical fights between sky and earth gods concern the ordering of the universe, and Apollo’s victory follows the standard paradigm in which the sky-god gains control. The king does not elaborate upon that story, however, and instead relates that immediately after slaying Python, Apollo sought expiation from Crotopus in Argos. He then reveals that while staying with Crotopus, Apollo raped and impregnated his host’s daughter, Psamathe. After she gave birth, Psamathe decided to hand the child – Linus – over to a shepherd in order to escape her father’s anger.1 Linus, however, was killed by dogs, whereupon Psamathe told her father the whole story, and he had her 1

Statius never actually mentions the child’s name until Theb. 6.64. But it is clear in Theb. 1 that the child is Linus. See Knaack (1880) 14 n. 24. Nor is Psamathe mentioned by name.

25

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killed.2 In response, Apollo conjured up a monster from the underworld to terrorize Argos and destroy its children, evidently as a comfort to himself (Theb. 1.596 solacia). After the hero Coroebus attacked and destroyed the monster, the god sent a parching plague that once again led to a host of deaths in Argos. Coroebus then went to Delphi, offered himself to Apollo, and requested that in exchange the innocent Argives be left alone. The Olympian finally relented and stopped the plague, thereby prompting the Argives to celebrate. Adrastus’ aetiological account of the Argive festival in honour of Apollo thus derives from a series of troublesome interactions between humans and divinities. Although Adrastus’ aetion has been viewed as a digression,3 more frequently critics have emphasized that it is tightly connected to and reflects upon its surrounding narrative.4 For instance, the story encapsulates the troubled relations between divine and human that pervade the poem. As C. S. Lewis observed, Adrastus’ tale proclaims ‘the unambiguous inferiority of Olympian to mortal’.5 The king’s explanation also illustrates the incapacity of humans to comprehend divine action fully. William Dominik, for example, well notes that the aetion contains ‘an important message on the consequences of supernaturally incited furor that goes uncomprehended’ by characters such as Adrastus.6 This ignorance leads to a profound gap between the celebration and the actions that underlie it, thus marking another moment in a Theban story in which Apollo challenges human ability to comprehend divine plans.7 The destruction and confusion caused by Apollo overturn typical treatments of male Olympians in the opening books of epics. The plan of Zeus is mentioned in the proem of the Iliad (1.5) and guides the poem throughout. Likewise in the first book of the Aeneid, Jupiter and Neptune 2 3

4 5

6 7

Statius does not say why Psamathe is killed. Conon 19.6–7 mentions suspected prostitution as the motivation. Legras (1905) 152; Duff (1927) 473; Aric`o (1960) 277. It is well worth remembering that the model for Adrastus’ aetion – the scene in the Aeneid of Evander’s welcome of Aeneas and the subsequent account of Hercules killing Cacus – had long been regarded as ‘episodic’ (see Galinsky (1966) 18 n. 3). Critics are now unlikely to use that term to explicate any passage, since it ignores a wide range of narrative interests. Kytzler (1955) 186; Vessey (1973) 103–5; Brown (1994) 172; Dominik (1994) 63 (with further bibliography cited in n. 92); Delarue (2000) 122. Lewis (1998) 99. Lewis speaks only of Coroebus, whose heroism is not representative of most human behaviour throughout the poem. Nonetheless, Lewis’ conclusion about the aetion’s significance for understanding the gods throughout the Thebaid is valid. Dominik (1994) 63. As will be seen, readers are well aware of Adrastus’ misconceptions, creating an enormous gap between the king’s focalized narrative and the surrounding narrative. Such a depiction of Apollo’s direct involvement with humans goes beyond even his role in Sophocles’ OT, where the god plays a major – though indirect – role in the unravelling of order (e.g. 151–7, 203, 1329–30).

Gods, humans and the literary tradition

27

create a sense of order out of chaos. Moreover, the initial books of epics often feature assemblies of the gods that afford important insights into the divinities – and particularly Jupiter (cf. Il. 1.493–611; Od. 1.26–95). Statius, however, builds upon Ovidian precedent (Met. 1.163–252) and depicts an assembly that reveals a Jupiter who seeks to destroy humans.8 The aetion about Apollo reinforces the problematic nature of the Olympians in the Thebaid. Little attention has been paid to the literary underpinnings of Statius’ treatment of his divinities.9 In this chapter, I argue that Statius models his aetion about Apollo upon earlier scenes from Virgilian and Homeric epic in which the god – or an analogue – brings about order and stability. These allusions reinforce the expectation of order created by the employment of a representative myth of the fight between Olympian and chthonic deities. Since Apollo brings about chaos and disorder, these expectations are defeated. Statius confounds expectations in part by building upon treatments of Apollo and the Delphic oracle in Lucan and Ovid, but most of all by reworking the poetry of Callimachus, who related the story of Coroebus, Linus and Apollo in the Aetia (F 28–34 Massimilla). Moreover, Statius’ adaptation of this aetion epitomizes poetic strategies that run throughout the Thebaid. That is, allusions to generic models create expectations that are not realized as the narrative unfolds, and the defeat of these expectations often stems from Statius’ use of Callimachus’ poetry. These conflicting narrative interests recapitulate the conflict that lies at the heart of the Thebaid.10 The aetion thus anticipates – or even sets up – an uncertainty that pervades the epic about the relevance and efficacy of generic paradigms. Since the Aeneid provides the most important model for Adrastus’ tale, it seems most useful to start by looking at the influence of that Virgilian account upon the aetion in the Thebaid. evander and ad rast us Statius modeled the arrival of Polynices and Tydeus at Adrastus’ palace upon the scene in which Aeneas reaches Evander’s city in Aeneid 8.11 For 8 9

10

11

Schubert (1984) 75–101; Aric`o (2002) 172–3. For the gods in the Thebaid and the massive secondary literature concerning them, see the excellent discussion by Feeney (1991) 337–91; Legras (1905) 157–205, Schetter (1960) 5–29, Burck (1979) 334–43 and Schubert (1984) also discuss the gods. Henderson (1991) 30–80 forcefully illustrates the inherent conflict in the Thebaid. Statius had much precedent for such narrative interests, since Roman epics contain a great deal of internal conflict. See, e.g., Hardie (1990) 229. Eissfeldt (1904) 413; Legras (1905) 38; Schetter (1960) 82–4; Burck (1979) 309–10; Brown (1994) 166– 8. There are also differences between the two scenes: Statius modifies Virgil’s account by depicting

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instance, Pallas begins his question to Aeneas and his comrades with the words iuvenes, quae causa . . . (Aen. 8.112), and Adrastus asks quae causa furoris / externi iuvenes (Theb. 1.438–9). The newcomers in each poem are then fed a meal after which the king explains the ritual that is taking place. Statius’ prefatory rex ait (Theb. 1.559) derives from the Virgilian rex Evandrus ait (Aen. 8.185). The kings then utter similar words: Adrastus’ non inscia suasit / relligio (Theb. 1.559–60) echoes Evander’s non . . . vana superstitio veterumque ignara deorum / imposuit (Aen. 8.185–8).12 In addition to the verbal similarities, there are thematic parallels. Both kings state that the rites celebrate deliverance from great troubles (Aen. 8.188 saevis . . . periculis; Theb. 1.560 magnis . . . cladibus), and the descendants of the two kings joyfully react to the elimination of this danger.13 Finally, each aetiological story is followed by a hymn to a god (Aen. 8.285–302; Theb. 1.696–720). More significantly, the aetia that are related by the two kings are mythological analogues. Evander tells Aeneas that Hercules defeated the monster called Cacus. This fight represents the struggle between chaos and order: Cacus is an evil chthonic force that is countered by the redeeming Olympian Hercules, whose victory purports to establish order and control in the universe.14 So too Adrastus’ aetion about Apollo’s destruction of Python concerns a struggle between Olympian god and chthonic force. Indeed, Apollo’s tussle with Python is a paradigmatic example of the duel between heavenly and earthly divinities over control of the universe.15 The mythological link between the two stories is reinforced by the fact that the Virgilian hymn to Hercules (Aen. 8.285–302) recalls the song celebrating Apollo and his victory over Delphynes (=Python) that is sung by Orpheus

12 13 14

15

Argos as wealthy, a pointed contrast to the humble nature of Evander’s Rome. In this scene, Statius also recalls the arrival of Aeneas at Dido’s palace in Aen. 1. See Heuvel (1932) 283. Heuvel (1932) 243; Vessey (1973) 102. Legras (1905) 38. Both passages also contain an infinitival form of the verb explere (Aen. 8.265; Theb. 1.623). Fontenrose (1959) 342–4 discusses the cosmic implications of Hercules’ struggle with Cacus. For Cacus as chthonic force, see Galinsky (1966) 38; Lyne (1989) 128–9. Cacus is also an autochtonous divinity who is overthrown by Hercules, and thus pointedly prefigures Aeneas’ fight with the Italians. Hardie (1986) 110–18 well demonstrates that Virgil specifically couches this fight as a Gigantomachic conflict in which Olympians fight for control of the universe against the Titans or Giants. Fontenrose (1959) addresses the slaying of Python and its universal significance. h. Ap. 300–87 well represents the cosmic implications of Apollo’s actions; see Clay (1989) 70–2 and Miller (1986) 87–8. For the struggle between god and dragon in cosmogonic myths, see Burkert (1999) 98. Strictly speaking, Statius’ account is not cosmogonic in the sense that it concerns the origins of the universe (nor is Virgil’s Hercules and Cacus episode, for that matter). Burkert (1999) 87 also notes the paucity of actual cosmogonies in Greek and Roman myth.

Gods, humans and the literary tradition

29

in Apollonius’ Argonautica (2.698–713).16 Moreover, Hercules’ crushing of the snakes sent by Juno (Aen. 8.288–9) parallels the destruction of the serpent by the young god Apollo (Arg. 2.706–7).17 The Apollonian and Virgilian villains also terrorize the inhabitants and livestock of the lands in which they dwell.18 Hercules thus parallels Apollo, and the subject matter of the aetion related by Adrastus underscores the verbal parallels between the Statian and Virgilian episodes. ovid’s py thon Statius also alludes to the Ovidian treatment of Apollo’s defeat of Python (Met. 1.436–51). Ovid recounts this story after relating the flood and the subsequent restoration of human life by Deucalion and Pyrrha (Met. 1.400– 28). The juxtaposition of the scene in which the earth is repopulated with an episode in which Apollo eradicates the chthonic force that was a terror (Met. 1.438–40) reinforces the cosmic significance of the combat.19 In gratitude to the god, a religious festival – the Pythian games – is created. Ovid’s account thus functions as an aetion (Met. 1.445–9), just as in the Thebaid the killing of Python contributes to the establishment of the rite whose origins are recounted by Adrastus. Furthermore, Ovid immediately turns from the victory over the snake to Apollo’s pursuit of Daphne, and Statius’ narrative progression similarly segues from triumph to the rape of Psamathe. Statius’ diction also recalls that of Ovid’s episode. His noun terrigenam (Theb. 1.563) evokes Ovid’s description of Python’s birth from the earth 16

17

18 19

Conington (1871) 109; Eden (1975) 97. Stephens (2003a) 211 n. 100 notes the association between Hercules and Apollo in Apollonius as well. While the hymns are similar, Fontenrose (1959) 358 notes that Hercules’ defeat of Cacus is a mythic analogue to Apollo’s defeat of Python. Galinsky (1966) 45. Moreover, Virgil’s diction associates Cacus with the serpentine creatures that are the traditional foes of Olympians (Galinsky (1966) 47). Nelis (2001) 360–4 enumerates further parallels between Virgil and Apollonius. Hardie (1986) 111 n. 68. B¨omer (1969) 133. The order and control brought by Ovid’s Apollo seem to be destabilized through generic terms, however. Cosmogonic histories operate in an epic tradition that stretches back to Hesiodic epic (Myers (1994) 7–9). Since Ovid begins his epic with Chaos (Met. 1.7), he recalls Hesiod (Theog. 116         ) and situates his cosmogonies in such a tradition. Moreover, Apollo’s epithet arquitenens (Met. 1.441) evokes Naevius (FPL 24) and Aeneid 3.75 and thus lends additional epic flavour to the passage. So too fortibus armis (Met. 1.456) and the description of Python as tumidum (Met. 1.460) are redolent of epic; see Myers (1994) 61–2). Yet less than ten lines after slaying Python, Apollo runs into Cupid who then shoots Apollo with an arrow and drives Apollo to desire Daphne. Ovid transforms Apollo from an epic hero to a frustrated elegiac lover (Knox (1986) 17 notes the elegiac dimensions of Apollo in the Daphne episode). Indeed, the entire encounter between Cupid and Apollo evokes elegiac discourse (Knox (1986) 14–17). The epic achievements of Apollo are thus juxtaposed with his elegiac loss of control: in the process, hierarchies are put forth only to be challenged. See Otis (1970); Nicoll (1980); Wills (1990).

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(Met. 1.434–9 . . . tellus . . . nova monstra creavit. Illa quidem nollet, sed te quoque, maxime Python, tum genuit), and his account of the wounds that the snake received (Theb. 1.567 absumptis numerosa in vulnera telis) echoes Ovid’s depiction of the injured Python (Met. 1.460 innumeris tumidum Pythona sagittis).20 Also, like Ovid (Met. 1.459), Statius uses the word iugera to emphasize the amount of space the snake took up (Theb. 1.568). Finally, a suggestive point of contact between Statius and Ovid occurs before Adrastus even begins. Statius relates that the band of slaves and friends who celebrate Apollo’s rite wear leaves that are pudica (Theb. 1.553–5 Phoebum . . . ciet comitum famulumque evincta pudica / fronde manus). Though the type of leaves is not specified, it is safe to assume they are laurel because of the tree’s associations with Apollo.21 In addition, the description of these leaves as ‘chaste’ or ‘sexually pure’ points to a specific moment in Apollo’s past, specifically Daphne’s refusal of Apollo’s sexual assault and her subsequent transformation into a laurel tree. Statius’ description of the leaves thus seems to nod towards Ovid’s account,22 and it allusively augments the other allusions that mark the importance of Ovid’s epic for Adrastus’ aetion. aetiological ex pectat ions These universal myths about the struggles of Apollo and Hercules against chthonic divinities bear upon the human realm. As Walter Burkert puts it, ‘cosmogony ends in the installation of religious hierarchy which gives legitimation also to earthly power.’23 The clash between Hercules and Cacus indeed has an impact upon humans because they are delivered from danger (Aen. 8.188; 201) and benefit from the emergence of early Roman commercial and religious areas – the Ara Maxima and Forum Boarium – in the place where the fight occurred. The transformed physical space functions as a tangible symbol of Roman prosperity and growth. Moreover, Hercules’ 20 21

22

23

Heuvel (1932) 245 notes another similarity in Ovid’s mille gravem telis exhausta paene pharetra (Met. 1.443). The laurel is ubiquitously associated with Delphi: the first temple at Delphi was supposedly made of laurel (Paus. 10.5.9); Euripides refers to the trees in the sacred precinct (Ion 76) and branches at the entrance of the temple (Ion 80); and the Pythia supposedly chewed laurel leaves before delivering the oracle (Lucian, Bis Acc. 1). Heuvel (1932) 242 notes the Ovidian precedent. Knox (1990) 183–202 discusses other ancient accounts of the Apollo and Daphne story. In addition, the fact that both Ovid and Statius address the story of Python, which, despite the fact that it was common in Greek literature (e.g. h. Ap.), was rare in Latin, further connects the two passages. According to Tertullian, Pindar and Callimachus had Apollo put on a laurel crown after slaying Python (Aetia F 89 Pf.), so it is possible that Statius’ and Ovid’s juxtaposition of laurel and the Python-slaying may have had some sort of Callimachean colouring. Burkert (1999) 102.

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defeat of Cacus symbolically anticipates Aeneas’ vanquishing of Turnus, and is thus further suggestive of the advance of the Roman cause.24 Ovid also connects – perhaps speciously – the story of Apollo’s attempted rape of Daphne to Roman hegemony when he has Apollo say that the laurel will be present at military triumphs (Met. 1.560–5).25 Of course, everything is not simple in these stories of monster-killing. Fontenrose suggests that ‘both creative and destructive forces are mingled on both sides of the divine combat. So myth is nearer to reality in this respect than that sort of partisanship in life or that sort of melodrama in literature which pits pure good on one side against pure evil on the other.’26 The general point is correct, even if literature presents more problems than Fontenrose allows. To take Virgil’s account, Hercules blurs the distinctions between Olympian and Giant. Denis Feeney, for instance, suggests that Hercules’ tremendous violence is ‘an attempt to attain to the status of divinity, and any such attempt is fraught with terrible moral hazard, always susceptible of being represented as gigantesque.’27 So too Ovid disturbs the seemingly straightforward aetion involving the Pythian games by immediately turning to Daphne’s unfortunate fate at the hands of Apollo.28 Pure good and evil are thus hard to find even in literature, but the aetiological accounts found in the Aeneid and the Metamorphoses nonetheless present the benefits of divine action that lead to tangible markers – however ambiguous they may be – of order and civilization. Statius’ allusions to similar myths in his Roman predecessors thus raises expectations that the aetion about the Olympian triumph over a chthonic power will also lead to civic enrichment. lucan’s delphi Statius’ mythic aetion differs from those found in Virgil and Ovid, however, because the god’s victory over Python and then his sexual transgressions 24

25 26 27

28

Buchheit (1963) 120–33. The violence and fury of Hercules and Aeneas have prompted various reactions (e.g. Galinsky (1966) 41; Cairns (1989) 82–4; Feeney (1991) 159–61; Thomas (1991) 261), and it is unnecessary here to enter into a debate that is all too familiar to readers of the Aeneid. The Roman associations of Hercules’ conflict with Cacus is even deeper since Octavian celebrated Hercules’ rites at the Ara Maxima on 12 August 29 bc – the anniversary of Hercules’ advent in Rome – and then celebrated his own triple triumph the next day. Barchiesi (2005) 144–6 notes that the Seleucids seem to have used the myth of Daphne in politically expedient ways, and thus potentially offered Ovid a precedent. Fontenrose (1959) 473; Burkert (1999) 104. Feeney (1991) 159–60; O’ Hara (1994) 219–22. Indeed, even in the Homeric Hymn to Apollo there is a degree of uncertainty in the achieved order; see Clay (1989) 72. For a more general assessment of the precarious nature of the established order in these myths, see Burkert (1999) 104. Wheeler (1999) 201–2 discusses Daphne’s position in the narrative. See also Otis (1970) 101–4.

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lead to the punishment of innocent children and civic chaos. And for this perversion of the Delphic myth, Statius owes much to Lucan, who had thoroughly overturned typical accounts of Delphi and its oracle.29 For instance, in order to indicate the wickedness of the Thessalian battleground on which Pompey and Caesar fight, Lucan mentions that the Python came from there to Delphi (BC 6.395 hac tellure feri micuerunt semina Martis). Lucan also compares the clash between Apollo and Python to the civil war between Pompey and Caesar (BC 7.144).30 Yet the poet renders inoperative the conventional pattern of mythic order: in the wicked struggle between Caesar and Pompey, Caesar wins and disrupts the cosmic arrangement by entering into the Olympian pantheon.31 This troubling treatment of the Delphic myth coheres with the state of decay into which the oracle has fallen. When Appius goes to consult the oracle about the outcome of the civil war (BC 5.80), the prophetess states that the oracle is no longer functioning. One explanation she offers for the malfunctioning site is that the ashes of the burnt Python clogged the chasm from which the priestess receives inspiration (BC 5.134–6). The narrator had anticipated her view that humans can no longer access the divine when it was revealed that rulers had destroyed the oracle’s function (BC 5.111–14). However, Appius disregards such comments and compels the priestess to foretell the future of the world, but he is given only a disingenuous account of his own prospects. In Lucan’s poem, then, the killing of Python and the subsequent establishment of Apollo’s oracle no longer represent conventional – though hardly straightforward – means for humans to learn of divine plans. The god’s precinct has become dysfunctional, and illustrates both that the hierarchy of the universe has been disturbed and that there are troubled relations between gods and humans. Statius’ transition from Apollo’s defeat of Python to widespread death and disorder builds upon Lucan’s troubled depiction of Delphi. Parallels between the two accounts are clear: each poem contains an aetion (cf. BC 6.409 unde et Thessalicae veniunt ad Pythia laurus),32 and then recounts the disastrous results of Apollo’s victory. And at the level of diction, a form of the verb explicare used by Statius in conjunction with Apollo’s destruction of the snake (Theb. 1.569 vix tandem explicitum) evokes Lucan’s version of the slaying of Python (BC 5.81 explicuit).33 29 30 31 32 33

Masters (1992) 91–149 is a full discussion of Lucan’s Delphic episode. Lucan persistently uses fights between heavenly and chthonic forces to underscore the strife between Pompey and Caesar. See Feeney (1991) 297. Henderson (1987) 145; Feeney (1991) 297. On the unusual location of the snake’s origins in Thessaly, see Masters (1992) 175–6. Barratt (1979) 31.

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callim achus, delphi and apollo in t he t h e b a i d Statius’ perversion of the standard mythic account of Apollo’s victory does not draw solely upon Lucan. It is Apollo’s pursuit of expiation and his rape of Crotopus’ daughter (Theb. 1.575) that undoes the conventional myth, and this material comes from Callimachus’ Aetia. Curiously, Statius seemingly ignores Callimachus’ own handling of Apollo’s expiation after the killing of Python (Aetia F 87–9 Pfeiffer), and instead turns to the story of Linus, Apollo and Coroebus that was told in the first book of the Aetia (Aetia F 28–34 Massimilla). The joining of these two stories about Apollo is unusual. Indeed, Statius was evidently the first author to link Apollo’s quest for expiation with his visit to Crotopus’ house,34 and he may even advertise the novelty of his account when he claims that Apollo went to Crotopus’ seeking a ‘new expiation’ (Theb. 1.569 nova piacula). The adjective seems to indicate self-referentially that the upcoming narrative uniquely reworks previous accounts of the expiation.35 Callimachean practices and ideals shape Statius’ scene. Not only are both aetia concerning Linus related in the opening book of their respective poems, but Crotopus’ reception of a god (or hero) in a humble house (Theb. 1.570 tecta haud opulenta) brings to mind the Callimachean scenes involving characters such as Hecale and Molorcus.36 In addition, once Apollo enters the house, Statius’ narrative quickly moves away from the god’s need for expiation and concentrates on the interaction between him and his human hosts. In Callimachus’ account of Apollo’s actions after his victory, the god purifies himself in the waters of Peneios and then is welcomed with a feast by the Deipnians. If, as happens elsewhere in his poetry, Callimachus devoted more attention to an unfamiliar detail (such as the feast with the Deipnians) surrounding famous mythic activity rather than in the feat itself, he may have offered Statius a precedent for making the conventional myth subordinate to the reception scene. Details surrounding Psamathe’s abandonment of her child reveal specific links between Statius and Callimachus: 34 35

36

Conon and Pausanias (1.43.7) offer no explanation for the reason behind Apollo’s meeting with Psamathe. Ironically, the story of Apollo and Crotopus was written in elegiac couplets upon the grave of Coroebus and – together with a visual image of Coroebus’ slaying of Poine – formed, according to Pausanias (1.43.8), the oldest images in the Greek world. Statius’ nova piacula is thus particularly marked. Hinds (1987) 112–13 discusses the poetic resonance of some Ovidian examples of humble dwellings.

34

Statius’ Thebaid and the Poetics of Civil War . . . ac poenae metuens – neque enim ille coactis donasset thalamis veniam pater – avia rura eligit ac natum saepta inter ovilia furtim montivago pecoris custodi mandat alendum. non tibi digna, puer, generis cunabula tanti gramineos dedit herba toros et vimine querno texta domus; Theb. 1.578–84

And fearing punishment – for that father would not have forgiven forced sex – she chose the pathless country and among the sheepfolds secretly surrenders her child to be raised by a shepherd who roams the hills. Child, your home was woven out of pliant oak branches and the grass provided you a bed on the turf, a cradle unequal to your grand lineage.

Scholars have long seen that this particular passage is indebted to Callimachus’ story of Linus and Coroebus.37 According to Statius, Linus was raised in sheep pens (saepta inter ovilia), a detail that alludes to Callimachus’ phrase ‘lambs, child, were your playmates and your chums, the pens and pastures your bed’ (Aetia Massimilla 1.28.1–2  , ! ", #  $%, / , &'(  ) ( *).38 The address to the child, preceded by the dative case of the second person singular pronoun (tibi . . . puer), replicates Callimachus’ diction (Aetia 1.28.1 , ! "). In addition, after Linus is killed and Apollo sends his punishment against the Argives, Statius mentions that nurses lose their babies to the monster: haec tum dira lues nocturno squalida passu inlabi thalamis, animasque a stirpe recentes abripere altricum gremiis morsuque cruento devesci et multum patrio pinguescere luctu. Theb. 1.601–4

In its nightly wandering, this destructive, filthy pest creeps into bedrooms and tears newborns from their nurses’ breasts. It then devours them with bloody teeth and gorges itself on the nations’ grief.

This detail corresponds to the Callimachean verse in which mothers are said to have become bereft of their children and nurses of their charges 37 38

Knaack (1880) 14–28; Heuvel (1932) 250; Aric`o (1960); Vessey (1973) 101; Delarue (2000) 121–3. The lambs in Callimachus’ account have aetiological import for the name of an Argive month (Aetia 1.28.1 +% ).

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(Aetia 1.30.14    &, -, &.!'  '/).39 Finally, Psamathe surrenders Linus in the pathless woods (Theb. 1.579 avia rura). This location may activate a Callimachean metaphor, particularly since it contrasts strongly with Statius’ description of the path to Thebes as a notum iter (Theb. 1.101), a phrase that metapoetically indicates the well-established place of the Theban saga in poetry.40 Since the stories of Linus and Oedipus are similiar,41 it is tempting to conceive of these different ‘paths’ in poetic terms: the pathless countryside in which Linus is found has good Callimachean credentials,42 and forms a stark contrast to the well-discussed Theban story. The distinct characterization of each story about the abandoned child may thus hint at the two different poetic traditions that lie behind them. The narrative sequence in Adrastus’ aetion also seems to cohere with the course of events in the Aetia. After the account of Linus’ sleeping quarters, Statius relates that dogs killed Linus (Theb. 1.587–90), and that because of her outstanding grief, Psamathe confessed her entire story to her father (Theb. 1.590–4). Next, Crotopus kills his daughter (Theb. 1.594–5), and Apollo retaliates by sending a monstrum that destroys Argive babies. The tattered state of the Aetia precludes certainty about what connection Callimachus drew between the fragments describing Linus’ bed among the lambs and those preserving the remainder of the story, but Rudolph Pfeiffer posited a plausibly reconstructed narrative of the Aetia that is replicated by the sequence of events in the Thebaid.43 Pfeiffer proposed that once Linus dies (Aetia 1.30.3 ' . . .), Callimachus mentions the young girl Psamathe (Aetia 1.30.10 .!

) and calls Crotopus a child-killer (Aetia 1.30.11  !0-1). Apollo then sends Poine against the Argives (Aetia 1.30.12 2 & +[ ), after which Callimachus mentions the nurses who lose their charges (Aetia 1.30.14). Though the arrangement of the Callimachean narrative cannot be established with certainty, it does seem to parallel Statius’ sequence. Statius’ rewriting of the Callimachean aetion matters because it is the visit to Crotopus’ house that leads to the perversion of the results conventionally 39 40 41 42 43

Pausanias and Conon do not mention nurses. Pausanias simply states that Poine snatched children from their mothers (1.43.7 .  3 %  4 5   - !( 67). Henderson (1991) 41 notes the literary-historical suggestions of the phrase. Vessey (1973) 105 points out similarities in the stories. Dominik (1994) 66 n. 96 objects to the idea that Linus recalls Oedipus, but I follow Vessey. One may think of the ‘untrodden paths’ that are mentioned at Aetia 1.1.27–8. Callimachus, Aetia F 26 (Pfeiffer) is of particular importance. He draws upon Ovid’s Ibis 573–6, Statius, and Greek epigram to reconstruct the narrative. Massimilla (1996) 304–5 essentially follows Pfeiffer’s account. Frazel (2002) 90 n. 11 succinctly captures parallels in narrative chronology between Ovid and Callimachus.

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achieved in the mythic combat between god and dragon.44 For example, the deaths of Psamathe and Linus prompt Apollo to send Punishment against the Argives.45 This creature is tellingly called a monstrum from the underworld (Theb. 1.597–8 Phoebe, paras monstrum infandis Acheronte sub imo / conceptum Eumenidum thalamis; cf. 1.637), a characterization that mirrors that of the chthonic Python (Theb. 1.562 monstri).46 Apollo’s punishment of Argos thus undoes his earlier slaying of Python by unleashing on humans another chthonic force. Even more worrisome from a mythic perspective is that Apollo’s fight with Python results in an alliance between Olympian and chthonic forces. Rather than using that mythic struggle to delineate divine hierarchies, Statius employs it in a way that jumbles any distinctions. This confusion reflects a central theme of the Thebaid, namely that the Olympians use hell to destroy Thebes, but in so doing, they lose control over the cosmos. Jupiter, for instance, had sent Mercury to the underworld in order to have the shade of Laius stir up war in Thebes (Theb. 1.292–302), and Oedipus’ speech at the start of the Thebaid suggests that in some ways Tisiphone has supplanted Jupiter.47 Since this divine struggle for control will persist throughout the epic,48 Adrastus’ aetion about Apollo and the monstrum recapitulates and crystallizes the problematic nature of Olympus in the Thebaid. Statius’ cosmogonic scene leads to perverse events on earth as well because the installation of the Olympian hierarchy in the Thebaid does not lead to any collective benefit. In fact, Apollo kills children and begins a cycle of violence and destruction. Virgil and Ovid accenctuate earthly power through Olympian triumph,49 but Statius’ reworking of Callimachus’ poetry creates a markedly different scenario, and a very different Olympus. The mythic 44

45

46 47 48 49

The significance of the allusions has been ignored. When discussing Statius’ use of Callimachus, for example, Vessey (1973) 101 states that ‘. . . to name the source of the story-material does not explain why Statius chose to insert this particular myth at this point.’ Vessey is right that the study of allusion does not equal source criticism, but he then oddly abandons further analysis of Statius’ engagement with Callimachus. Pausanias (1.43.7) indicates that Apollo sent personified ‘Revenge’ against the Argives, though it is possible that the monster Apollo sends in the Thebaid is not a personified creature but just ‘poena’, i.e. ‘a punishment’. The word monstrum also punctuates the Apollo/Python and Hercules/Cacus passages from the Metamorphoses (1.437) and Aeneid (8.198). Feeney (1991) 346–53 analyses the interrelation between heaven and hell – and Jupiter and Tisiphone – in the Thebaid. As Feeney (1991) 345 puts it, a tension runs throughout the Thebaid ‘as to where the centre of gravity resides’. Burkert (1999) 102 discusses cosmogonies and the establishment of hierarchies that legitimate earthly stability.

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material that owes a debt to the Aetia disrupts the theological vision of earlier epic, and the scene thus follows Lucan’s lead in suggesting that cosmogonic struggles do not lead to human benefit, or to dramatic change. Rather, hazards that replicate earlier troubles emerge and illustrate that humans are continually plagued. The Argive story is thus relevant to Thebes, which is also subject to recurring violence. And in terms of the poems’ design, the aetion evokes standard treatments of epic divinities only to pervert them and to defeat the realization of generic expectations. Within its own narrative, then, the epic contains a struggle that stems from the expectations created by the evocation of generic models and the subsequent failure to realize these expectations. linus and poetic inheritance That the aetion related by Adrastus concerns Linus lends special point to Statius’ engagement with the literary past. There were two Linuses, one of whom was an infant who died in the Argolid, the other a Boeotian singer/musician (or even teacher).50 Although the two Linuses are clearly different, the myths about them were malleable and interchangeable. Propertius, for example, applies the adjective Inachio (‘Argive’) to Linus the singer/poet, thereby conflating the youth and the artist (2.13.8).51 Linus thus connects the two Greek geographical regions – Argos and Boeotia – that are about to join in battle when Polynices marries Argia.52 In addition to geographic significance, Linus is central to literary genealogies. As the son of Apollo, his song possessed a divine heritage and he himself figures prominently in accounts of poetic lineage. For example, Virgil has Linus transmit the poetic past to Gallus:53 dixerit: ‘hos tibi dant calamos – en accipe – Musae Ascraeo quos ante seni quibus ille solebat cantando rigidas deducere montibus ornos. his tibi Grynei nemoris dicatur origo ne qui sit lucus quo se plus iactet Apollo.’ Eclogue 6.69–73 50 51 52

53

Brown (1994) 176–82 discusses the Linus myth and its variants. See also Ross (1975) 21–36. Ross (1975) 35–6. Statius’ exploitation of geographic links between Boeotia and the Peloponnese is also exemplified through his awareness of Callimachus’ treatment of the Asopus, as will be seen in chapter four. Ross (1975) 23–38 explores this highly charged scene in detail, and at 118–20 he also points out the poetic importance of Linus in Propertius 2.13.

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He said: ‘The Muses give you – take them – these pipes which earlier belonged to Hesiod and with which he used to lead down tall ash trees from the mountains by singing. With these pipes let the origin of the Grynean grove be told by you, in order that there there be no grove in which Apollo exalts himself more greatly.

Though it is the mythical Linus who hands over the pipes to Gallus, the influence of actual poets permeates this passage. For instance, Virgil’s modification of the gifts the Muses gave to Hesiod (pipes, not the laurel branch) marks a specific interest in pastoral poetry.54 Also, Servius noted that the Grynean grove is a subject Gallus took over from Euphorion.55 Further, Virgil had earlier used a form of deducere in his reformulation of Callimachus’ ‘refined Muse’ (Aetia 1.1.24 8 9" . . .  ),56 and this poetically charged context suggests that it has poetic significance here as well. For certain, the phrase ne qui sit lucus quo se plus iactet Apollo is a clear allusion to Callimachus.57 Linus thus transmits the literary heritage – in which Callimachus’ poetry figures prominently – to Gallus. Strikingly, Callimachus’ own aetion about Linus displays a similar interest in poetic inheritance, though he seems to discuss his own – rather than another poet’s – poetry and its relationship to predecessors. A Pindaric scholiast assigns to Callimachus the pentameter that contains the words ‘the story woven to the wand’ (Aetia 1.30.5 Massimilla ( 4 &( :* -; "' ) has poetic undertones,58 and thus the masculine speaker, either an embedded narrator or the narrator Callimachus, discusses his reception and articulation of the literary past. Epic seems to be the particular focus since :*  is associated with rhapsodic performance,59 which, as Susan Stephens has noted, entails the ‘combining of various songs into one “text” or performance’.60 Callimachus, then, refers to a poetic story – and an epic one by all indications – as something that is received by his narrator who then weaves together disparate tales.61 The programmatic significance of this passage is suggested by the adverb ‘continually’ (= ), which harks 54 55

56 57 58 59

Clausen (1994) 203. The details of Servius’ statement are well-debated. Lightfoot (1999) 59–67 rehearses the arguments. The relevant point for my argument is simply that the layers of poetic lineage surrounding the Grynean Grove are lengthy. Massimilla (1996) 217 is a recent, straightforward discussion of both Virgil’s verses and the bibliography on Virgil’s well-scrutinized allusions to Callimachus. Coleman (1977) 198; Clausen (1994) 204. Massimilla (1996) 303; D’Alessio (1996) 409 n. 91. 60 Stephens (2003b) 22. 61 Ibid. Cf. Pindar I. 4.37–9 and N. 2.1.

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back to the highly charged prologue and the Telchines’ complaint that Callimachus does not write one continuous (   ) song.62 This claim may answer that charge in the sense that it calls attention to a different type of narrative continuity.63 For certain, Callimachus’ aetion contained an important statement about his reception of the epic past and its relationship to his particular narrative style. Statius adopted the metaphor of weaving from Callimachus’ story of Linus and Coroebus. Later in the Thebaid, an image of Linus is prominently featured on the funerary adornments of the child Opheltes: summa crepant auro, Tyrioque attollitur ostro molle supercilium, teretes hoc undique gemmae inradiant, medio Linus intertextus acantho letiferique canes: opus admirabile semper oderat atque oculos flectebat ab omine mater. Theb. 6.62–6

The top part of the bier clatters from the gold, and a soft overhang of Tyrian purple rises, and polished jewels illuminate this on all sides. Linus and the deadly dogs are woven into the middle among acanthus. The mother always hated this incredible work and always turned her eyes from the omen.

Since weaving is a frequent metaphor for poetic composition in Latin as well as in Greek,64 the word intertextus works on a literary level, virtually glossing Callimachus’ word (
Stephens (2003b) 21 n. 37 points out that the fragment preserving the adjective was actually assigned to the prologue before the discovery of P. Rylands 13. Massimilla (1996) 303; D’Alessio (1996) 409 n. 92. Stephens (2003b) 23 also notes that   may draw a diachronic link between Callimachus and his predecessors. 65 Brown (1994) 182. Lyne (1978) 108–9. Brown (ibid.) similarly notes that Statius uses Callimachus’ poetry to create an agonistic narrative, though she views it in terms of the heroic orientation of the aetion competing with a pastoral/elegiac influence.

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Callimachus’ poetry is one persistent way in which Statius generates this tension between the creation of expectations through allusions to predecessors and the subsequent failure to realize these expectations. aetiology and knowledge While the Callimachean aetion is important for Statius’ myth about Apollo, there are substantial differences between the two versions of Linus, Coroebus and Apollo. Statius downplays or ignores Callimachus’ particular aetiological interests.67 For instance, Callimachus evidently had Coroebus go to Apollo’s temple at Delphi for purification, whence, in order to cleanse himself, Coroebus had to carry a tripod until he dropped it. In that spot he was to build a temple to Apollo.68 Statius shows no interest in such events. Also, Statius’ narrative does not lead to benefits for humanity, whereas in the Aetia Apollo’s slaying of the Python leads to a feast between god and humans. A more significant difference between Statius and Callimachus concerns knowledge and human access to the divine. Command of facts is central to the Aetia. Callimachus’ poem contains a series of conversations between the poet and the Muses that begin with an allusion to the encounter between the Muses and Hesiod in the Theogony, where the goddesses state that they can tell lies that seem like truth and that they can speak the truth when they wish (Theog. 27).69 Callimachus exploits this concern with poetic truths and lies by parading his knowledge in conversations with the Muses, thereby allowing him to assume a position of equality with them.70 Recognition of truth works quite differently in the Thebaid. Like Evander in Aeneid 8, Adrastus can only attempt to understand his world; the certainty of Callimachus’ conversation with the Muses is absent. Moreover, Adrastus strikingly fails to perceive the dissonance between the story he tells and the conclusions he draws from it.71 Indeed, Statius highlights the king’s ignorance. After Adrastus has explained his people’s motivation for celebrating the rite, he questions his guests about their origins. The interest in Polynices’ lineage is especially marked (Theb. 1.668–72 . . . has 67 68 69 70 71

Aric`o (1960) 283–5 notes some differences between the two accounts. Massimilla (1996) 299 discusses this part of the myth as found in the Aetia. Massimilla (1996) 233–4 collects some of the massive bibliography on Callimachus’ dream and the Theogony. Massimilla (1996) 31, 325. The irony of his words non inscia suasit / relligio (Theb. 1.559–60) is thus very strong. Vessey (1973) 134 well notes Adrastus’ misconceptions, though I do not agree with his view that the ending of the episode moves from chaos to order.

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forte invisitis aras / vos quae progenies? . . . tu pande, quis Argos advenias, quando hae variis sermonibus horae) because it echoes Pallas’ questions to Aeneas about his identity (Aen. 8.112–14). In particular, it calls attention to a difference between the scenes in the Thebaid and in the Aeneid: Pallas and Evander know with whom they speak, but Adrastus does not.72 In fact, Polynices had refused to answer an earlier question about his identity, and the repetition of that question here emphasizes the fact that Adrastus told his story with full ignorance of his audience (Theb. 1.447–67).73 Furthermore, the sequence of events in the Aeneid (in which questions about origins follow upon an aetion and a libation) is inverted in the Thebaid (in which a libation is followed by an aetion and then by questions about origins), and this change also underscores the fact that the king is ignorant at the moment he speaks with Polynices.74 The postponement of introductions keeps Adrastus unaware of his audience and allows him to relate without any discomfort a story that has numerous parallels with the Theban myth.75 Polynices initially responds to Adrastus’ second question with embarrassment and distress (Theb. 1.673–4 deiecit maestos . . . / in terram vultus), and finally states that he is the son of Jocasta. Adrastus politely intervenes and tells Polynices not to lament about his family any longer or to elaborate upon its problems (Theb. 1.688–9 ne perge queri casusque priorum / adnumerare tibi). Then, in an effort to console Polynices, Adrastus says that his family has had its share of misfortune as well (Theb. 1.689–90 nostro quoque sanguine multum / erravit pietas) and that the errors of previous generations do not impede later ones (Theb. 1.690 nec culpa nepotibus obstat). Adrastus is dead wrong.76 Indeed, the aetion that he just related to Polynices indicates that the ‘sins’ of the fathers are in fact visited upon the sons. When Apollo decides to punish Argos for Psamathe’s death at the hands of her father Crotopus, he sends a monster to Argos that attacks 72 73 74

75

76

In the Odyssey, meals often precede questions (e.g. Od. 3.69–74; 4.118–54). But those revelations of identity lead to benefits, so Statius overturns even that epic practice. Brown (1994) 172 notes the irony. The libation itself is curious. Just before Adrastus relates the aetion to Polynices and Tydeus, he calls for a libation bowl that is described in some detail (Theb. 1.543–51). This bowl contains images that contrast with the situation in the Thebaid: the severed head of the Gorgon indicates the ability of humans to eradicate destructive forces, but that idea is countered in the Thebaid by the potency of the Gorgon which Vulcan inlays upon Argia’s necklace, the gift she wears on her wedding day that leads to Argive destruction (Theb. 2.278). And the depiction of Ganymede, dependant upon Aen. 5.250–7 (Caviglia (1973) 149–50), suggests a less antagonistic relationship between Jupiter and humans than that at work in the Thebaid. Vessey (1973) 103–5. Adrastus’ story of an abandoned child raised among herdsmen could have been relevant for Tydeus too, since some accounts claimed that he was raised by swineherds. See Antimachus’ Thebaid F 13 (Matthews). Ahl (1986) 2858; Dominik (1992) 75; Brown (1994) 173.

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and kills the youngest and most innocent of the population (Theb. 1.597– 604). It is grimly ironic, then, that Adrastus calls Apollo ‘Father’ (Theb. 1.696 parens).77 Moreover, earlier in the poem Jupiter had declared that the Thebans and Argives would not escape punishment for the mistakes that have been committed by their ancestors: nunc geminas punire domos, quis sanguinis auctor ipse ego, descendo. Perseos alter in Argos scinditur, Aonias fluit hic ab origine Thebas. mens cunctis inposta manet Theb. 1.224–7 Now I am going down to punish the two houses, my own blood. One branches to Perseus’ Argos, and the other flows from its origins to Aonian Thebes. But the character bestowed to all of them abides.

Jupiter then declares that the whole Theban family will be destroyed because of its continual transgressions (Theb. 1.242–3 totumque a stirpe revellam / exitiale genus). Before Adrastus offers his views to Polynices, then, it had been revealed that behaviour and evils do pass from one generation to the next, and that later generations pay for the mistakes of earlier ones. Adrastus misinterprets divine plans in other ways as well. He welcomes Polynices and Tydeus into his house because they were respectively wearing the skins of a lion and a boar, thereby fulfilling the prophecy of Apollo that his daughters would marry a ‘lion’ and a ‘boar’. Apollo’s prophecy had been characterized in sufficiently ambiguous terms (Theb. 1.495 nexis ambagibus augur Apollo),78 and Apollo had forbidden even his prophet Amphiaraus to know the truth of the situation (Theb. 1.398–9). Moreover, the description of the Argive king at the arrival of Polynices and Tydeus reinforces that the prophecy is unclear: a ‘joyful shudder’ passes through Adrastus’ limbs (Theb. 1.493–4 . . . laetusque per artus / horror iit). Horror may be used in context of joy as well as fear,79 and while the adjective suggests Adrastus’ pleasure, the noun points to what his reaction should be in light of the fact that Jupiter will use the marriage of Polynices and Argia to arrange for the mutual destruction of Argos and Thebes (Theb. 1.224–6). Yet Adrastus interprets Olympian action as a benefit, thinking that the arrival of his sons-in-law corroborates divine power. In support of his view he specifically refers to tripods (Theb. 1.509 prisca fides tripodum), which had traditionally been offered to Apollo’s precinct at Delphi. Yet, as we can see from Herodotus (e.g. 1.92), royal households that offered such 77 79

Ahl (1986) 2855; Dominik (1992) 69. Heuvel (1932) 224; L-S s.v. horror.

78

Ahl (1986) 2852–5; Brown (1994) 168 n. 28.

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gifts at Delphi did not always properly interpret Apollo’s statements about civic safety. Adrastus’ ignorance about divine intentions uncomfortably resurfaces at the end of the book, where he leads a hymn that celebrates Apollo (Theb. 1.696–720). Formal characteristics of a hymn abound: all forms of the second person personal pronoun are repeated (Theb. 1.705, 709 (twice) tu; Theb. 1.698, 703, 712 tibi; Theb. 1.696, 711, 717 te), alternative residences or cult-names are listed (Theb. 1.696, 697, 699, 701 seu . . . seu . . . seu . . . seu) and various places the god inhabits or the names he may be called are mentioned.80 While the location of this hymn after Adrastus’ explanation for the religious festival parallels the placement of the hymn to Hercules after the aetion concerning his struggle with Cacus, the Virgilian hymn does not contain a pronounced gap between celebration and reality. The first two words of Statius’ hymn are Phoebe parens (Theb. 1.696), a worrisome start since the troubles were initiated by Apollo’s siring of Linus.81 Also, the mention of Python in the hymn disturbingly connects the celebration to the aetion that was just related (Theb. 1.711). In addition, it is claimed in the hymn that Apollo knows the changes in political power marked by comets (Theb. 1.708 quae mutent sceptra cometae). The collocation of mutent and sceptra recalls earlier verses about the eventual breakdown of the rule that was supposed to alternate between Eteocles and Polynices (Theb. 1.138– 43).82 Also, the fate of Niobe, who is described as Thebanaque mater (Theb. 1.711) anticipates that of Jocasta, another Theban mother who will lose her sons.83 Additionally, the hymn ends with Apollo, in the guise of Mithras, dragging a bull to be sacrificed. However, since Eteocles and Polynices had been compared to bulls,84 the sacrifice of these animals to a god may suggest that sacrificial norms have been upset. Far from celebrating the gods, then, this hymn calls attention to numerous problems that revolve around the Theban war, and Adrastus’ Argos will be unwittingly drawn into this struggle. By foreshadowing Theban troubles, the hymn is incongruously juxtaposed to the celebration in which it is performed.85 Because Adrastus conceives of Apollo’s actions – from his slaying of the monster to the arrival of Polynices and Tydeus – as a benefit for humanity, he is established as an ignorant narrator. In this respect, he differs from the shrewd narrator of the Aetia who understands and accurately accounts 80 81 82 85

Norden (1956) 155 n. 1 discusses Statius’ hymn in his fundamental account of the vocabulary of hymns. Ahl (1986) 2856. See also Dominik (1992) 69 on servatoremque parentum (Theb. 1.694). 83 Ibid. 84 Dominik (1992) 77. Vessey (1973) 135. Vessey (1973) 102–3 comments on the irony of the scene.

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for religious practices. Moreover, the king’s assumption that Olympian behaviour is beneficial leads to the destruction of his family and city, a marked deviation from the Ovidian and Virgilian aetia in which Olympian victory leads to civic security. the homeric apollo In addition to overturning myths found in Roman epic, Statius also upsets the Homeric depiction of Apollo. Most obviously, Adrastus’ hymn parallels the hymn to Apollo offered by the Greeks after the plague subsides in the opening book of the Iliad (1.472–4). Additional parallels further suggest the importance of the Homeric Apollo. For instance, the plague that the god sends against Argos has clear similarities with that of Iliad 1.86 He is described as sitting in both instances (Theb. 1.629 residens; Il. 1.48 ?7 ) and his arrows lead to fire of some sort in both epics (Theb. 1.631 incendit; 1.635 ignis; Il. 1.52 ). Particularly significant is that Statius’ Apollo is ‘angrier’ (Theb. 1.627 saevior). A straightforward reading of the comparative adjective indicates that Apollo’s current anger about Coroebus’ slaying of the monstrum surpasses his anger towards Argos when Psamathe was killed just a few verses earlier. However, in the context of the other allusions to Iliad 1, the comparative may also mark an intertextual relationship, recalling yet expanding upon the anger of the Iliadic Apollo (Il. 1.44–6 @-0 . . . @- ).87 That is, the comparative form indicates that the rage of Statius’ Apollo goes beyond his Iliadic predecessor.88 Indeed, since Coroebus is no Agamemnon, Apollo’s assault on Argos is more disturbing than that which he sends upon the Greeks in the Iliad.89 In addition, while the gods often punish entire communities on account of the transgressions of a single individual,90 the adjective saevus anticipates Apollo’s later statement that he is cruel and unworthy of worship (Theb. 9.657 saevus ego immeritusque coli).91 Statius’ Apollo is modelled upon the 86 87 88

89 90 91

Juhnke (1972) 63 notes numerous parallels between Statius and Homer. Eissfeldt (1904) 389 calls attention to the god’s anger in both passages. It is similarly tempting to take the comparative force of the adjective as an intertextual reading on the proem of the Aeneid, where Juno is described as saevae (Aen. 1.4) The anger of Statius’ divinities will go beyond those of the Aeneid as well. Though curiously Juno herself is relatively restrained in the Thebaid, as Feeney (1991) 343 notes. Juhnke (1972) 63. The flood in Metamorphoses 1 is an obvious example. See also Brown (2002) 152. In addition, Statius applies the adjective crudelis (Theb. 1.629) to Apollo and iniquo (Theb. 1.629) to his bow, a notable contrast from the Iliad where his weapons are merely &@ (Il. 1.51) and   (Il. 1.49).

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Homeric god, but ultimately he emerges as an angrier and more worrisome god. The remainder of the aetion reveals additional divergences between the Homeric divinity and Statius’ version of Apollo. After the god sends the plague, Coroebus voluntarily goes to Delphi in order to surrender and to free the Argive community from further harm (Theb. 1.643–8). The hero strikingly asks Apollo why the Argives should suffer, even if monstra are so dear to Olympians and there is such inclementia in the heavens (Theb. 1.648– 51 quodsi monstra effera magnis / cara adeo superi . . . / et saevo tanta inclementia caelo est / quid meruere Argi?). Coroebus’ remarkable courage virtually forces Apollo to relent, but it is his rhetoric that brilliantly constrains the god. Coroebus shrewdly suspects some sort of alliance between the Olympians (superi, caelo) and chthonic forces (monstra). His keen intuition brings to mind both Apollo’s enlistment of Poine and the association between Jupiter and Tisiphone that was raised earlier in Thebaid 1. In addition, Coroebus’ mention of inclementia forces Apollo’s hand. Forms of (in)clementia are rare in the Thebaid,92 and the most remarkable of these is the ekphrastic description of the ara Clementiae in the final book of the epic (Theb. 12.481– 518). This altar is clearly modelled upon the Greek ‘Altar of Mercy’ (A  B-0 ). The most obvious translation for &  would be misericordia, but that does not scan in hexameters, so, in part for metrical reasons and in part for contemporary associations, Statius uses clementia to render the Greek word for ‘mercy’ into Latin.93 Coroebus’ use of inclementia thus brings to mind &  , the central point for the resolution of the disorder that stems from Achilles’ rage in the Iliad. Indeed, it is Apollo himself who starts the resolution of the poem by appealing to &  (Il. 24.44) and Achilles’ need to abandon his anger.94 Coroebus’ question to Apollo thus challenges the god to live up to the values he espoused in Iliad 24 and to bring an end to his own anger.95 Since Coroebus’ words stop Apollo’s assault on Argos, it seems that the god is not without some compassion. Nonetheless, at the end of the poem the abstract value of clementia actually takes over the Olympian role of bringing about resolution in an epic, and thus Coroebus anticipates a major 92 93 94 95

The word appears only at Theb. 3.527; 5.173; 11.606; 11.684; 12.175. The first two examples refer to climate and thus are different from the later uses that stress the virtue. Morton Braund (1996) 9; Burgess (1972) 339–42. Richardson (1993) 5. The bibliography on the virtues of clementia and pietas in this scene is large. Vessey (1973) 105–7, Ripoll (1998) 302, and Delarue (2000) 318 offer positive assessments of Apollo and his use of clementia in light of Coroebus’ pietas. Kytzler (1986) 2920 and Hill (1989) 115 emphasize the need for personal demonstration of pietas.

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problem concerning the gods and the conclusion of the poem.96 The virtue that Apollo appealed to at the end of the Iliad still has an important role in the Thebaid, but the gods’ relationship with it is fraught. Whereas in Iliad 24 the gods remind humans how to behave, in Statius’ poem courageous humans need to challenge the gods to behave properly. In its insistence upon the virtue of individual excellence in the face of malfunctioning authority, the Thebaid moves away from the paradigm of the Iliad. The fragmentary nature of much of Callimachus’ story of Coroebus and Apollo unfortunately precludes assessment of whether or not Statius’ interaction between Apollo and Coroebus owes anything to the Aetia. Notably, Coroebus does not journey to Delphi in all versions of the myth,97 while he does in the versions told by Statius and Callimachus. Though it is not clear in what way the Callimachean conversation between god and hero proceeded, it is clear that in an aetion that displays an intense engagement with the Aetia, Statius took advantage of the interaction between hero and god to illustrate differences between his Apollo and that of the Iliad. aetion and narrat ive The dismantling of conventional depictions of the gods that takes place in Adrastus’ aetion also illuminates the struggle between Eteocles and Polynices. In Thebaid 11, Creon, angered at the loss of his son, challenges Eteocles to fight Polynices one-on-one. In the process, Creon calls Eteocles the instigator of the war and its furies (Theb. 11.271 Eumenidum bellique reum). This claim correctly recalls that Eteocles, incited by Tisiphone, rejected the pact of kingship alternating between the brothers (Theb. 1.123–30). Creon next wonders why Eteocles would want to rule a state that has been drained in such a way that it seems as though a plague has been sent from heaven: urbem armis opibusque gravem et modo civibus artam ceu caelo deiecta lues inimicave tellus hausisti vacuamque tamen sublimes obumbras. Theb. 11.273–5

Like a plague sent down from heaven or a hostile land, you have drained this city that had been powerful in arms and resources and recently packed with citizens.

In Creon’s view, at least, Eteocles represents both the furies of the underworld and a destructive force sent from heaven. Like Apollo’s monstrum, the ruler of Thebes is an agent of a troublesome alliance between heaven 96

Feeney (1991) 389–91.

97

Conon, for example, has Crotopus go to the temple (19.18).

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and hell. Indeed, the link between the two scenes is cemented when Creon uses the word lues to describe Eteocles and thereby replicates the description of the monster that Apollo sent to kill the Argive babies (Theb. 1.601).98 Creon suggests that the destruction of Thebes is effected in part through an alliance between heaven and hell, an indictment that has clear similarities to the story of Adrastus in Thebaid 1. generic god s By thoroughly overturning epic treatments of the gods, Statius rejects the notion that control and order are dependant upon the gods.99 Such generic probing raises questions about Roman society as well. After all, Roman epic, following upon imperial discourse, draws clear associations between emperors and Olympians. Moreover, the mythic subject of the slaying of Python had been used in poetic discussions of Roman rulers. Propertius, for instance, treated Apollo’s slaying of the Python as a mythic analogue to Augustus’ triumph at Actium over Antony: cum Phoebus linquens stantem se vindice Delon (nam tulit iratos mobilis ante Notos) astitit Augusti puppim super, et nova flamma luxit in obliquam ter sinuata facem. non ille attulerat crinis in colla solutos aut testudineae carmen inerme lyrae, sed quali aspexit Pelopeum Agamemnona uultu, egessitque auidis Dorica castra rogis, aut quali flexos solvit Pythona per orbis serpentem . . . 4.6.27–36 (Goold) When Apollo left Delos which stands fixed under own protection (for formerly it moved and endured the fierce South winds), and stood over the prow of Augustus, and a strange flame radiated, curving three times into a slanted torch. Apollo did not come with his hair flowing on his neck, nor did he bring the unwarlike song of the tortoiseshell lyre, but with a face as when he looked upon Agamemnon, the descendant of Pelops, and he emptied Greek camps onto greedy funeral pyres, or such as when he slew the Python creeping through its twisted coils.

Similarly, a cup that contains an image of Apollo defeating Python contains an inscription that commemorates Octavian’s victory at Actium.100 These 98 99 100

Lues appears elsewhere in the poem only at Theb. 10.854. The loss of Naevius is particularly unfortunate in this repsect, because it would be interesting to know how he treated Apollo Pythius (fr. 24). Syndikus (1972–3) 70.

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analogies between myth and history operate in multiple ways. Karl Galinsky has pointed out that the part of the myth that concerns Apollo’s purification would have been useful in Augustan Rome as it emerged from a series of civil wars.101 In addition, Propertius sets the Actian victory and the slaying of Python in the context of the Gigantomachy and other myths of monsterslaying that were frequently exploited in political discourse to express order and control.102 Just as Apollo’s vanquishing of Python rids the world of evil, so too does Augustus’ victory over Antony. The political dimensions of the Gigantomachic myth were active as early as Pindar (P. 1.13–20), so it is no surprise that Flavian Rome makes use of the imagery as well.103 Martial uses the myth to praise Domitian (8.49(50)) and Statius compares Domitian to Jupiter enjoying the Muses tell of the Gigantomachy (Silv. 4.2.55–6).104 But the standard ideology of the myth – the victory of good over evil, of order over chaos – simply does not work in the Thebaid. Statius addresses Apollo’s need for purification but diminishes it and emphasizes instead the results of the god’s sexual transgressions and the recurring civic violence that follows his victory. Apollo’s defeat of Python leads to the introduction of another evil force, and thus the distinctions between sky and earth gods that are central to the Gigantomachy collapse. Moreover, later in the Thebaid, the Theban war will be cast as a Gigantomachy, and surprisingly, Jupiter abdicates and surrenders control of the universe to the forces of evil.105 So the epic further disrupts this myth in that Olympian order is actually overthrown. Since it is clearly at variance with the standard rhetoric of the Gigantomachic mythic narratives (including those at work in Flavian Rome), the Thebaid raises serious doubts about conventional modes of order. The poem thus establishes early on that something different will be needed in order to bring about order and stability. This radical destabilization of the gods opens up a void that finds no sort of resolution until Theseus arrives at Thebes at the end of the poem and clementia comes back into play. It is precisely this virtue to which Coroebus alludes when he complains about the inclementia of the gods and challenges Apollo to behave differently. The hero thus foreshadows that clementia will help to bring resolution. Since this virtue was associated 101 102 103 104

Galinsky (1996) 221. Mader (1990) 330 discusses Gigantomachy in Propertius; for the role of the myth in political contexts, see Nisbet and Hubbard (1978) 190; Hardie (1986) 85–90. Hardie (1986) 85–90 considers the history of the theme in the political realm and contains further bibliography. 105 See chapter 5. Newlands (2002) 276–7 discusses the scene.

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with the imperial house, Statius’ dismantling of the Gigantomachic myth throughout the poem does not denigrate Domitian or the Flavian house. But by introducing the idea of clementia in a disturbed mythic context, Statius ensures that resolution will not depend upon great mythic narratives that underpin the Roman state. prelude The aetion at the end of Thebaid 1 recapitulates important points about the gods that have been raised earlier in the book, and it also looks forward to what follows. In fact, the location of the hymn at the end of the book invites us to look ahead to the remainder of the poem. After all, some hymns – or at least some of our Homeric hymns – served as preludes to performances of hexameter poetry and even Homeric epics.106 In a figurative sense, then, since Adrastus’ hymn to Apollo crystallizes tensions about the gods, it too functions as a prelude to the narrative interests that run throughout the Thebaid. If the end of Thebaid 1 functions as a ‘prelude’ to the upcoming narrative, then Thebaid 2 is the ‘beginning’ of the epic. 106

Clay (1996) 494–8 discusses the varied function of hymns.

chapter 2

Beginning

Origins and the search for them define many parts of the Theban story. Cadmus, for instance, sowed the teeth of a dragon and thereby produced inhabitants of Thebes. Those sprung from these teeth had, according to Aristotle, a spear-shaped birthmark in order to indicate their lineage (Poetics 1454b22). In addition, questions about the parentage of both Dionysus and Oedipus led to catastrophic results. For his part, Statius’ interest in origins has to do with identifying an appropriate beginning for his Theban tale:1 . . . gentisne canam primordia dirae, Sidonios raptus et inexorabile pactum legis Agenoreae scrutantemque aequora Cadmum? longa retro series, trepidum si Martis operti agricolam infandis condentem proelia sulcis expediam penitusque sequar, quo carmine muris iusserit Amphion Tyriis accedere montes, unde graves irae cognata in moenia Baccho, quod saevae Iunonis opus, cui sumpserit arcus infelix Athamas, cur non expaverit ingens Ionium socio casura Palaemone mater. atque adeo iam nunc gemitus et prospera Cadmi praeteriisse sinam: Theb. 1.4–16 Shall I sing of the origins of the dreadful clan, the Sidonian rape, the unrelenting demand of Agenor’s order, and Cadmus searching the seas? The story goes back a long way, if I should tell about the nervous farmer of hidden war who buried battles in unspeakable furrows, and then follow upon that in full detail: by what song Amphion ordered mountains to approach Tyrian walls, why Bacchus had fierce hatred towards his ancestral city, what cruel Juno did, against whom wretched Athamas took up his bow, and why Palaemon’s mother did not fear the huge Ionian sea as she was about to plunge into it with him. Now I shall allow the sorrows and good times of Cadmus to have passed . . . 1

Mauri (1998) discusses the poetics of the proem.

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Beginning

51

The list of possible starting points illustrates the enormity of the Theban saga as well as the poet’s power in selecting the components of the story that he will relate.2 Following Horace’s advice (AP 147), Statius does not begin from the egg – or in this case the sowing of the teeth. Instead, he chooses the house of Oedipus as his subject (Theb. 1.16–17 limes mihi carminis esto / Oedipodae confusa domus), thereby starting in medias res and avoiding a linear account of Theban history from its beginnings. Despite his praeteritio, however, Statius does return to Thebes’ origin. In Thebaid 2, he briefly refers to the wedding of Cadmus and Harmonia, the parents of the Theban race, in the course of a description – or ekphrasis – of the necklace that Adrastus’ daughter Argia wore on her wedding day.3 This necklace, which Vulcan, the Cyclopes and the Telchines designed, had been worn by Harmonia when she married Cadmus, and thence became a Theban heirloom. It is thus a symbol of Thebes’ origins and its subsequent history, and affords Statius the opportunity to return to the actual beginning of the Theban family. Argia’s necklace and what it reveals about events in Statius’ Thebes are the focus of this chapter, in which I make three points. First, the necklace stimulates and directs the awful events of the Theban house. It thus produces the Theban ‘story’, or the content of the poem.4 Second, the necklace also operates at the level of the ‘narrative,’ that is, the way in which the story is told.5 In general, ekphraseis invite ‘the reader to consider the relevance of this secondary field of reference to the primary narrative’.6 These relationships between narratives and the objects described in them necessarily vary since ekphraseis are compressed within and thus subordinate to the main narrative.7 At the same time, however, such descriptions often have a strong cooperative role,8 desiring (and resisting) integration into the larger 2 3

4 5 6

7

Ford (1992) 67–72 usefully discusses both the perils faced by a poet who confronts a large literary tradition and his power in selecting parts of that tradition. For the modern use of the term, see Heffernan (1993) 3. James and Webb (1991) 4 have pointed out that the modern critical usage of ekphrasis does not correspond to the ancient definition (‘a descriptive speech bringing the thing shown vividly before the eyes’). It is, then, a modern tendency to use the term ekphrasis in a rather specialized and limited way to designate the description of artistic objects. For an account of the difference between ancient and modern views of ekphrasis, see Barchiesi (1997b) 271. I use ekphrasis in the modern sense throughout this chapter. I use ‘story’ in the sense used by Genette (1980) 27. For ‘narrative’, see ibid. Barchiesi (1997b) 274. Ekphraseis are often the subject of arguments about visual representation as opposed to verbal and vice versa. For a recent treatment of this subject in Roman poetry, see Laird (1996) 75–102. 8 Heffernan (1993) 137. Barchiesi (1997b) 274.

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poem.9 In the case of the Thebaid, Argia’s necklace has a synecdochic relationship with its encompassing narrative, representing and embodying the worrisome characteristics of the larger context.10 The third point derives from the first two: the creators of the necklace have programmatic significance. Poets often use fictive artisans to call attention to and even comment upon the designs of their own creation.11 In the Thebaid, Statius’ craftsmen are Vulcan, the Cyclopes and the Telchines, and his depiction of them establishes that the narrative of Theban violence has an anti-Callimachean programme.12 Because ekphraseis focus on art, rather than action or characters, they become a central location for poetic self-reflexiveness, for commenting upon the narrative of which they are part.13 As John Hollander suggests, ekphrastic poems that are always representing poetic process, and the history of poetic readings of works of art, can by those means get to say rather profound things about the works of art in question. By constructing some fictional versions of them, they put powerful interpretative constructions on them, construe them with deep effect.14

Statius’ description of Argia’s necklace is hardly an ‘ekphrastic poem’, but it nonetheless offers a powerful reading of the poem. It illustrates the original cause of the problems at Thebes and at the same time demonstrates both the artistic and mythical forces that drive the narrative of violence in the Thebaid. the neckl ace and the war In Thebaid 2.213–64, Statius describes the wedding day of Polynices and Argia. A multitude of Argives attend, and this communal celebration foreshadows that Argos will be drawn into the Theban quarrel. However, their 9 10

11 12

13

Fowler (1991) 35 states that an ekphrasis has the presence of ‘two realities: the passage taken in isolation and its wider context’. Synecdochic readings of described objects abound. See Kurman (1974) 9; Krieger (1992) 263 and passim; Heffernan (1993) 137. For the Iliad, Anderson (1976) 5–18; Sprague Becker (1990) 151 and (1992) 6 and 21; for Apollonius, see Goldhill (1991) 310; Hunter (1993) 55. Leach (1974) 133 discusses Ovid’s Metamorphoses; Vessey (1975) 391–405 examines Hannibal’s shield in the Punica. For Virgil, see Putnam (1998) 3. Leach (1974) 104. Despite the mass of criticism on ekphrasis in Roman poetry, little has been written on Argia’s necklace. See Vessey (1973) 138–9; Feeney (1991) 363–4 and Georgacopoulou (1996) 345–50. Gossage (1972) 198 perceptively writes that the necklace is related to the main theme of the poem. 14 Hollander (1988) 209. Barchiesi (1997b) 272.

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joy starkly contrasts with the ill-omened ceremony. As the procession goes past the temple of Minerva, a shield falls from the temple roof and ominously extinguishes the marriage torches. Inauspicious sounds also emanate from the temple (Theb. 2.249–61). Such portentous circumstances worrisomely invert ideals of a Roman wedding, at which divinities were invoked precisely to provide beneficial auspices and to approve of the day.15 The narrator then reports that Argia was wearing the necklace that Vulcan and his assistants had made for Harmonia on her wedding day, and he explicitly connects Argia’s doomed nuptials with the necklace: nec mirum: nam tum infaustos donante marito ornatus, Argia, geris dirumque monile Harmoniae. Theb. 2.265–7 And no wonder. For then, Argia, you wear the accursed jewellery that your husband gave you, the awful necklace of Harmonia.

After the troubling omens that mar the wedding, the implication of nec mirum is clear: the necklace was made to be a source of evil. As Statius proceeds to describe the piece, it becomes clear how and why it instigates problems: . . . ibi arcano florentes igne zmaragdos cingit et infaustas percussum adamanta figuras Gorgoneosque orbes Siculaque incude relictos fulminis extremi cineres viridumque draconum lucentes a fronte iubas; hic flebile germen Hesperidum et dirum Phrixei velleris aurum; tum varias pestes raptumque interplicat atro Tisiphones de crine ducem, et quae pessima ceston vis probat; haec circum spumis lunaribus unguit callidus atque hilari perfundit cuncta veneno. Theb. 2.276–85

[Vulcan] surrounded it with emeralds that were brilliant from a hidden fire; with adamant that was engraved with accursed shapes; with Gorgon eyes; with ashes left on the Sicilian anvil from the last thunderbolt; and with the crests shining from the head of green dragons; here is the tearful fruit of the Hesperides, and the disastrous gold of Phrixus’ fleece; then he entwines various plagues and a leader snatched from the black hair of Tisiphone and the worst power of Venus’ girdle. These he craftily anoints with lunar foam and soaks everything with a pleasant poison. 15

Catalano (1961) 42–5; Linderski (1986) 2295–6.

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This description of the artifact demands to be read in relation to previous epic ekphraseis. For instance, Hephaestus (or Vulcan) also creates the shields of Achilles and Aeneas in the Iliad and Aeneid, respectively, and the assistance offered by the Cyclopes (Theb. 2.269–75) recalls their involvement in making Aeneas’ shield (Aen. 8.414–53). In fact, Statius suggests that his scene depends upon that Virgilian episode when he says that Vulcan put the ‘left-over ashes of the last thunderbolt’ onto the necklace (Theb. 2.278–9). This implication of an earlier project reverses the scene in Aeneid 8 in which Jupiter’s thunderbolt is left unfinished: his informatum manibus iam parte polita fulmen erat, toto genitor quae plurima caelo deicit in terras, pars imperfecta manebat. Aen. 8.426–8

They had a lightning bolt that was shaped by their hands and was like that which the heavenly father cast numerous times at the earth from every part of the sky. Part of it was polished, but part remained unfinished.

Statius’ Cyclopes ‘complete’ the project that had been unfinished by Virgil’s workers, thereby marking both the lapse in literary-historical time between the Thebaid and the Aeneid, and the importance of the literary tradition for this ekphrasis.16 Statius noticeably diverges from epic practice in his description, however. As Denis Feeney has noted, unlike other ekphrastic objects that serve as icons for the cosmos of the works in which they appear, Argia’s necklace lacks a ‘comprehensive vision of empire or of the rhythms of human life, but [is] an internally bound miniature of pettiness and vice, a catalog of lust and madness . . .’17 Indeed, Vulcan and his assistants inlay the necklace with items that portend trouble: words such as infaustas (Theb. 2.277), flebile (Theb. 2.280), dirum (Theb. 2.281), pessima (Theb. 2.283) and veneno (Theb. 2.285) indicate the ominous nature of the artifact. Moreover, the phrase varias pestes (Theb. 2.282) echoes Virgil’s description of the disaster that can result from not attending properly to one’s soil (G. 1.181). Hard work, however, is irrelevant in Statius’ epic, and humans will be subject to disasters no matter what. Even Vulcan’s use of adamas (Theb. 2.277), which seemingly draws upon the description of Hercules’ shield ([Hesiod] Sc. 231), 16

17

At Thebaid 1.217–18, Jupiter also states that the Cyclopes have been exhausted by working on his thunderbolts. This is yet another suggestion that time has passed since they had to stop their work on the thunderbolt in the Aeneid. Feeney (1991) 364.

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has sinister implications because it is commonly associated with the underworld in Roman epic.18 But it is the serpentine nature of the necklace that is most troubling. Vulcan includes the deadly gold of Phrixus’ fleece on the necklace, and we know from Pindar that this fleece was guarded by an extraordinarily huge and menacing snake (P. 4.244). The Gorgon is regularly represented with snakes ([Hesiod] Sc. 233–6), and the shining crests of dragons may recall the description of the serpents that kill Laocoon (Aen. 2.206 iubae).19 Most of all, Argia’s serpentine necklace parallels the snake sent by Allecto that entwines itself around Amata’s neck (Aen. 7.351–2 fit tortile collo / aurum ingens coluber).20 Since Amata, goaded by this snaky necklace, instigates war in the Aeneid, it seems that Vulcan’s work is not only a harbinger of evil, but also an impetus for war. Specific items included on the necklace do indeed catalyse the war.21 For example, later in the poem Statius emphasizes that Eriphyle desired the necklace and thus goaded Amphiaraus into joining the expedition against Thebes (Theb. 4.193–213; especially 211–12 sic Eriphylaeos aurum fatale penates / inrupit scelerumque ingentia semina movit).22 While Statius does not specify that any particular part of the necklace attracted her attention, it is intriguing that emeralds are the first items Vulcan is said to have inlaid on the piece of jewellery (Theb. 2.276–7). Emeralds had a special visual appeal (Pliny NH 37.63), and Propertius connects them with Eriphyle’s desire for the necklace when he bemoans the gifts that Cynthia has received from another suitor: sed quascumque tibi vestis, quoscumque smaragdos, quosve dedit flavo lumine chrysolithos, haec videam rapidas in vanum ferre procellas: quae tibi terra, velim, quae tibi fiat aqua. aspice quid donis Eriphyla invenit amari 2.16.43–6, 2923

Whatever garments he gave you, whatever emeralds, and whatever topaz with its golden light, I hope to see them carried off to nowhere by storm winds and be turned to earth and water. See what bitterness Eriphyle obtained from her gifts . . . 18 19 20 21 22 23

Aen. 6.552; Met. 4.453, 7.412; Lucan 6.801. For the serpentine undertones of iubae, see Austin on Aen. 2.206. Lyne (1989) 20–2 discusses the passage in Aen. 7. One may also think of the transformed Cadmus and his lingering about the neck of Harmonia at Ovid, Met. 4.595–601. Bessone (2002) 215 observes the link between the necklace and the war. For additional connections between these two scenes, see Georgacopoulou (1996) 348–9. I print Goold’s text, which accepts Carutti’s transposition of verses 29–30. Even if the transposition is not accepted, the mention of the jewels and Eriphyle occurs in the same poem.

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Eriphyle’s ‘bitterness’ is the destruction of her family, and thus her greed offers Cynthia an example of the destruction that can arise from gifts such as emeralds. Though Propertius does not specifically connect her desire for the necklace with the emeralds on it, the collocation of Eriphyle and the jewels suggests that the literary past lends specific charge to Vulcan’s inclusion of emeralds on the necklace: the god’s handiwork allures the woman who spurs the attack against Thebes. Tisiphone’s chief serpent also motivates events in Statius’ narrative (Theb. 2.282–3 . . . raptumque interplicat atro / Tisiphones de crine ducem). The description of the monster recalls Virgil’s description of the snake that Allecto sends against Amata (Aen. 7.346–7 huic dea caeruleis unum de crinibus anguem / conicit), and the similarity is strengthened by the fact that both are the agents of the Furies (Theb. 7.467–9; Aen. 7.421–74). Statius then calls attention to Tisiphone’s hair multiple times when he discusses her role in the development of the Theban war. The word crine (Theb. 2.283), for instance, recalls the scene in which Tisiphone, having let her hair down (Theb. 1.90), accepts Oedipus’ prayer that his sons fight one another.24 In addition, Statius’ hair-like serpent prominently resurfaces when Tisiphone spurs Eteocles and Polynices to fight: iamque potens scelerum geminaeque exercita gentis sanguine Tisiphone fraterna claudere quaerit bella †tuba: nec se tanta in certamina fidit sufficere, inferna comitem ni sede Megaeram et consanguineos in proelia suscitet angues. ergo procul vacua concedit valle solumque ense fodit Stygio terraeque inmurmurat absens nomen et – Elysiis signum indubitabile regnis – crinalem attollit longo stridore cerasten: caeruleae dux ille comae, quo protinus omnis horruit audito tellus pontusque polusque, et pater Aetnaeos iterum respexit ad ignes. accipit illa sonum. Theb. 11.57–69 Now, in possession of the crimes, tired from the blood of both sides, Tisiphone seeks an end to the brothers’ war. She doubts that her strength is up for such a conflict, unless she summons Megaera and her kindred snakes from her infernal home to be a helper for battle. She withdraws to an empty, far-away valley and digs up the ground with her Stygian sword and mutters the absent name to the earth.

24

The description of the necklace also recalls that opening scene with Tisiphone through the mention of witches and their ability to charm the moon (cf. Theb 1.106; 2.284–5).

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And she brings forth a serpent from her hair with a long hiss – an indubitable sign for the realms of the underworld. He was the leader of the dark hair, and the whole earth, sky and sea shuddered when they heard him and Jupiter looked again to the fires on Aetna. Megaera heard the noise.

The potency of the hair is made clear by its universal impact. Indeed, Statius’ reference to the land, sea and sky (tellus pontusque polusque) expands upon the Virgilian description of the last night of Troy (Aen. 2.250–1 ruit . . . nox / involvens umbra magna terramque polumque), and the recollection of that Virgilian passage is one way Statius foreshadows Thebes’ impending destruction. Moreover, the cooperation of Tisiphone and Megaera drives Jupiter to look for his thunderbolts (Theb. 11.68 Aetnaeos . . . ignes). Statius’ description of Jupiter’s weapons, the means by which he maintains control over the universe, recalls the Virgilian account of the Chimera depicted on Turnus’ helmet (Aen. 7.785–6).25 And that reference, as Philip Hardie has pointed out, situates Turnus’ behaviour in the context of the Gigantomachy.26 Statius’ evocation of that mythic struggle is apt since Tisiphone and Megaera drive the brothers to mutual fratricide and in the process prompt Jupiter to abdicate his authority and control (Theb. 11.122– 35). The snaky hair that Vulcan inlays on the necklace thus drives the narrative towards the fratricide and a chaotic universal arrangement. neckl ace and narrative In addition to stimulating the brothers to fight and thus generating this particular moment of the Theban story, the ekphrasis is synecdochically related to the larger narrative. Statius’ practice builds upon that of Posidippus, who had used gems that were inlaid on necklaces as metaphors for his epigrammatic poems (Austin-Bastianini 6,7,8).27 In addition, another of Posidippus’ epigrams emphasizes the astonishing skill that was necessary to carve a snakestone (AB 15) – a stone that was thought to resist artistic endeavour – and the poem then aligns this craftsmanship with the poet’s artistry.28 Statius’ craftsmen also work with snakestone (Theb. 2.279– 80 viridumque draconum / lucentes a fronte iubas), but, presumably because they are divine, they do so effortlessly. Despite such differences, Posidippus’ epigrams lay the groundwork for using necklaces and stones as metaphors for the poems in which they are described. 25 26

The phrase itself also has a strong Lucretian background. See Horsfall (2000) 510. 27 Smith (2004) 111–12. 28 Ibid. 112–17. Hardie (1986) 118–19.

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A synecdochic relationship between Argia’s necklace and the narrative of the Thebaid is suggested in a number of ways. The Gorgon eyes that Vulcan puts on the necklace, for example, exemplify the particular horror of Statius’ Thebes (Theb. 2.278 Gorgoneosque orbes). Gorgons are frightful and terrifying creatures on Hercules’ shield ([Hesiod], Sc. 224–40), and in the Iliad they appear on the shields of Agamemnon (Il. 11.36) and Athena (Il. 5.741). Indeed the Gorgon lends a terrifying and intimidating look to both (Il. 11.37; 5.742).29 Even when not on a shield, however, it can indicate ferocity, as when Hector’s daunting look is compared to the eyes of the Gorgon (Il. 8.349). The Gorgon is thus a fearsome symbol closely associated with great warriors, and characters in Statius’ epic seem to be aware of its martial significance. After Tydeus successfully defends himself against a Theban ambush, for instance, he dedicates to Minerva the weapons of his slain foes and specifically calls attention to her Gorgon shield, presumably because it heralds her martial excellence (Theb. 2.715–17).30 The only two subsequent references to the Gorgon in the Thebaid, however, illustrate martial depravity rather than excellence. When Tydeus devours the head of Melanippus, the Gorgon shields Minerva from the grisly sight (Theb. 8.762–4 stetit aspera Gorgon / crinibus emissis rectique ante ora cerastae / velavere deam). So too, just before the final duel between Eteocles and Polynices, Minerva, holding her protective shield, abandons the scene in the face of Theban atrocities (Theb. 11.414–15). Statius mentions the Gorgon at two of the most repulsive scenes in the poem not to illuminate its fearsome power, but to mark the extraordinary horror of his battles. Moreover, in the Thebaid, the normal function of the Gorgon has been inverted: instead of protecting by projecting an intimidating sight, it now protects from an intimidating sight. Like Statius’ narrative, the Gorgon calls attention to the norms of epic but then diverges from them. The inclusion of Gorgon eyes on Argia’s jewellery reveals another point of contact between the necklace and Statius’ narrative as a whole. Before taking up her shield, Athena slips out of the dress that she had made for herself (Il. 5.734–5). This detail calls to mind that one of her spheres of influence was at the loom and spindle, and ancient commentators 29

30

The silver that encircles the Gorgon is a marvel to see ([Hesiod], Sc. 224). Statius may play with this idea of wondrous ekphrastic items through the phrase nec mirum, which refers to the disaster surrounding the wedding but also seems to suggest that this is not a typical ekphrasic account about a '". Minerva’s relationship with the Gorgon is pronounced in ancient literature. Examples from Roman epic of the close connection between Athena and the Gorgon are found at Aen. 2.615–16; 8.435–8; Valerius Flaccus 4.605; 6.175–6.

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specifically mention that the dress she removes is a woman’s garment.31 She then dons a chiton and armor (Il. 5.736–52), since, as the commentators note, they are more suitable for war.32 The Homeric dressing scene thus clearly distinguishes between martial and domestic spheres.33 In the Thebaid, however, the Gorgon is depicted on an object that conflates these realms and underscores the immanence of problems in the Theban house, where there is no respite, no separation of domestic and martial. The narrator explicitly connects the epic narrative and the necklace when he indicates that the problems he faces in describing the artifact parallel those he faces in relating the Theban saga. For instance, just before the ekphrasis, the narrator says: . . . longa est series, sed nota, malorum. persequar, unde novis tam saeva potentia donis. Theb. 2.267–8

The sequence of evils is a long one, but known. I shall relate whence the new gift had so cruel a power.

This prefatory comment recalls the narrator’s concern in the introduction proper about where to begin the story (Theb. 1.3,11 unde). Indeed, the comment that the Theban tale is a long one – longa est series (Theb. 2.267) – replicates the earlier characterization of the Theban tale itself – longa retro series (Theb. 1.7).34 The subject matter of the poem proper and the ekphrasis is thus the same. Indeed, the very word series seemingly captures this blending of narrative and necklace since the word may have suggested a semantic similarity with the Greek ,35 a word used both for items that go around the neck (such as ropes or nooses) and for a line,36 the latter being the concept that dominates accounts of Western narrative.37 In the Thebaid, the linear orientation of the saga catalysed by the necklace is established by the transmission of the artifact from one generation of Theban 31 32 33 34

35 36

CA on Iliad 5.734:  : %   . . . CT on Iliad 5.736: D E F &#  &  -;. The meeting of Hector and Andromache in Iliad 6 provides an obvious example of the distinction between martial and domestic. The introduction to the ekphrasis prepares us for a lengthy (longa) excursus. But Statius provides only a very brief, abbreviated series. Like the necklace itself, the ekphrasis is tiny and well wrought. This perverse longa series also powerfully contrasts with the impressive account of Dido’s family that encompasses caelataque in auro / fortia facta patrum, series longissima rerum / per tot ducta viros antiqua ab origine gentis (Aen. 1.640–2). In doing so it seems to develop the misery of Ovid’s Thebes (Met. 4.564 serieque malorum). See Mulder (1954) 194; Henderson (1991) 35. Chantraine (1983) s.v. : ‘Un rapprochement avec lat. sero et grec G- serait satisfaisant pour le sens, mais est phon´etiquement impossible . . .’ 37 Hillis Miller (1998) 46. Od. 22.175. Elsewhere it refers to a noose; cf. LSJ s.v. 3.

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women to another: Semele, the daughter of Cadmus and Harmonia, takes possession of the harmful gift (Theb. 2.292 dona nocentia), and then the infamous Jocasta inherits it (Theb. 2.294–5). Afterwards, a series of women owned it (Theb. 2.296 post longior ordo). The description of this inheritance as an ordo advertises its linear orientation and affirms that the necklace is a synecdoche for the linear narrative of Theban violence. Statius sets it up that the narrative proper and the description of the necklace are composed of traditional poetic material. The story of the necklace was well known (Theb. 2.267 nota) and its history is preserved by prisca fides (Theb. 2.269). The phrase recalls a Virgilian invocation of the Muses (Aen. 9.77–9 quis deus, o Musae, tam saeva incendia Teucris / avertit? tantos ratibus quis depulit ignis? / dicite: prisca fides facto, sed fama perennis), and that appeal to the Muses is itself modelled upon Homeric invocations (e.g. Il. 16.112–13). Statius’ mention of ‘old faith’ thus places this account in the tradition that is controlled by the Muses. So too the verb perhibent (Theb. 2.294) implies that Statius draws upon the literary past.38 The actual proem of the epic similarly situates the poem in a long literary tradition. Denis Feeney has well observed that Statius’ proem calls attention to the Theban tale in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, only to expand upon moments that receive slight attention in Ovid’s poem and to avoid material that Ovid had covered.39 At both the beginning of the poem and of the ‘proem’ of the ekphrasis, then, Statius accentuates the well-known outlines of his story, and draws attention to poetic predecessors and their stories. He implies that his poem already has a form, that it has been created in a certain way.40 This relationship between the necklace and, by extension, the poem to a pre-existing form, to its literary predecessors, functions as a type of beginning. As Edward Said has commented about the start of literary works, ‘a beginning immediately establishes relationships with works already existing, relationships of either continuity or antagonism or both.’41 The necklace, an originary part of the Theban tale because of its presence at the wedding of Cadmus and Harmonia, also functions as a beginning in Said’s sense by establishing continuity with earlier poetry. And while the intrusion of the first-person narrator emphasizes that the ekphrasis and the poem are Statius’ own presentation of inherited material (Theb. 1.4 gentisne canam; 38 39

40 41

Norden (1957) 123–4 notes that such verbs may gesture towards the literary past. Feeney (1991) 344 n. 106. See also Heuvel (1932) 58–63, who notes the rich literary tradition on each part of the myth, especially the precedence of Ovid’s Theban history in the Metamorphoses. Hardie (1990) 226 n. 13 and Vessey (1986) 2971 also note Ovid’s importance for Statius’ proem. Kinney (1992) 25–6 discusses the strategy by which poems explicitly articulate their repossession of the literary past only to revisit those earlier poems. Said (1975) 3.

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2.268 persequar), a question emerges from this account about from where he derives this story. One way to address this question is by examining the makers of the necklace. Artisans mentioned in ekphraseis may illuminate the literary and aesthetic project of the larger work,42 and in the case of the Thebaid, the synecdochic relationship between necklace and narrative suggests that the makers of the necklace are also responsible for the poem’s narrative. These fictive artisans are the ones who gave the Theban story its form and content. Their creation is subsequently retold in the Thebaid, but their involvement remains foundational. It is worth considering in some detail, then, those who originally made the necklace. the craf tsmen: vulcan and his aims Vulcan, the Cyclopes and the Telchines are the primary manufacturers of the necklace: Lemnius haec, ut prisca fides, Mavortia longum furta dolens, capto postquam nil obstat amori poena nec ultrices castigavere catenae, Harmoniae dotale decus sub luce iugali struxerat. hoc, docti quamquam maiora, laborant Cyclopes, notique operum Telchines amica certatim iuvere manu; sed plurimus ipsi sudor. Theb. 2.269–76 The Lemnian, so the old story goes, had made this for Harmonia as an ornament for her wedding day because he was for a long time annoyed at Mars’ secret love, which punishment did not stop. Nor did Vulcan’s avenging chains chasten Mars. The Cyclopes worked on it, though they are skilled in larger matters, and the Telchines helped with a friendly hand in rivalry. But Vulcan sweated the most.

As is to be expected from other epic ekphraseis, the bulk of the work in making the necklace is Vulcan’s (Theb. 2.274–5), but here the god makes a female heirloom as opposed to a warrior’s shield. In this sense, the necklace is an appropriate emblem of the fundamentally domestic nature of Theban strife. The familial dimensions of the Theban war also appear throughout the verses describing Vulcan’s work. For example, it is revealed that the divine smith was hurt by the affair between his wife Venus and Mars (Theb. 2.269–70). That information indicates that while the adjective Lemnius 42

Leach (1974) 104.

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alludes to the Virgilian description of Vulcan (Aen. 8.454 Lemnius . . . pater), it is especially appropriate here because the god went to Lemnos after he had made the chains to catch Venus and Mars while they were having sex (Od. 8.283, 301).43 Moreover, the adjective is the same one used for Vulcan in the account of the affair between Mars and Venus offered by Ovid’s Leuconoe (Met. 4.185). So by calling Vulcan ‘the Lemnian’, Statius foregrounds the affair between Mars and Venus. Statius also has Vulcan himself give the necklace to Harmonia (Theb. 2.271), a point that both differs from some versions of the myth and underscores the god’s special interest in the gift.44 No explicit reason is given for Vulcan’s actions, but the implication is that he seeks revenge for the affair through the necklace.45 Indeed the verb struxerat, emphasized by its enjambed position, often takes as its object underhanded activity (Theb. 2.273).46 The tension between Vulcan and Venus gains special point from Statius’ deviation from earlier literary treatments of the troubled marriage. First and foremost is the Homeric account (Od. 8.266–366), in which the Olympians, with the exception of Poseidon, laugh at Hephaestus after he ensnares Aphrodite in bed with Ares (Od. 8.326, 343). Poseidon entreats Hephaestus to release the gods and promises that Ares will pay the price for his actions (Od. 8.348). He adds that if Ares does not, he himself will compensate Hephaestus (Od. 8.356). The Odyssey, however, never relates whether Ares pays a penalty. Taking advantage of this silence, Statius’ implies that Mars did not suffer: the words poena, ultrices and castigavere are all suggestive of punishment, but they are mentioned only to indicate that they had no effect. Since the necklace is designed to change that by punishing Mars’ offspring, Statius transforms the humorous Odyssean story and paints a darker picture of the affair, and of relations among the Olympians. The Odyssey is not the only text that informs Statius’ account of the divine love triangle. Valerius Flaccus reports that Lemnos was dear to Vulcan because he landed there after being tossed out of Olympus by Jupiter for trying to free Juno from the chains that Jupiter had put her in (Arg. 2.85–9). 43 44

45 46

Mulder (1954) 196. The adjective is also ominous given that the phrase 4 H# was shorthand for the Lemnian massacre (Aesch. Choe. 631). Hesiod F 141.4 (M-W), F 142, and Apollodorus (3.4.2) report that Hephaestus made the necklace; Apollodorus mentions it as a wedding gift. There are other versions, such as Diodorus Siculus 4.65.5, in which Hephaestus is not the donor. See Frazer on Apollodorus 3.4.2 n. 4. Vulcan’s intentions in making the necklace are made explicit in Latin versions of the myth as we see from Lactantius ad loc. and Hyginus CXLVIII. Mulder (1954) 198. In fact, the verb recalls but pointedly reverses the evil that Venus connived for Vulcan’s beloved Lemnians in Valerius Flaccus’ Argonautica (2.101 struit illa nefas Lemnoque merenti / exitium furiale movet).

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But the Lemnians did not honour his adulterous wife Venus, and thus they suffer at her hands: . . . meritas postquam dea coniugis iras horruit et tacitae Martem tenuere catenae. quocirca struit illa nefas Lemnoque merenti exitium furiale movet Arg. 2.99–102 . . . after the goddess trembled at her husband’s just anger and the hidden chains held Mars. For that reason she plots evil and like a Fury stirs deadly destruction for deserving Lemnos.

Valerius’ tacitae Martem tenuere catenae refers to Vulcan’s capture of the lovers, and is echoed by Statius (Theb. 2.271 ultrices castigavere catenae).47 But ultimately the two accounts diverge. Valerius’ quocirca, an unusual and thus emphatic word in epic,48 directly links the capture of Venus and Mars with the murder of the Lemnian men at the hands of their wives and daughters.49 But Statius’ allusion to the affair between Mars and Venus does not lead to an account of the Lemnian massacre, which Hypsipyle relates in Thebaid 5. Instead, Statius emphasizes Vulcan’s desire for retribution and the consequent spread of familial strife from Olympus and Lemnos to Thebes as well, an appropriate point for this tale of domestic conflict. Statius’ treatment of the discord between Vulcan and his wife also reworks the depiction of the Theban family in Ovid’s Metamorphoses. When Ovid concludes his account of the marriage between Cadmus and Harmonia, he offers a happy family portrait that includes the children and grandchildren of the adulterous gods: Iam stabant Thebae, poteras iam, Cadme, videri exilio felix. soceri tibi Marsque Venusque contigerant; huc adde genus de coniuge tanta, tot natas natosque et pignora cara nepotes, hos quoque iam iuvenes. sed scilicet ultima semper exspectanda dies hominis, dicique beatus ante obitum nemo supremaque funera debet. Met. 3.131–7

Now Thebes stood complete, and, Cadmus, you were able to seem happy even in exile. You gained Mars and Venus as your in-laws, and in addition children of 47 48 49

Both Valerius and Statius play off Ovid’s description of these same chains as graciles (Met. 4.176). For quocirca, see Axelson (1945) 80. Valerius, then, has humans pay for Vulcan’s actions, and thus turns on its head the Odyssean notion that Hephaestus will receive retribution from Ares.

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such a great wife, so many daughters and sons, and grandsons, dear pledges, and these too are young men. But of course a man’s last day must be waited, and no one ought to be called blessed before his death and last rites.

The idea that children and family are a source of comfort to Cadmus is highly ironic. After all, in Euripides’ Bacchae, Pentheus is a major source of grief for Cadmus (e.g. 1302–26). And Ovid in fact does relate the young ruler’s downfall (Met. 3.511–731), so we see that in his initial set-up of Cadmus, the poet lays the groundwork for the calamitous reversal that will take place with Pentheus’ death. Statius also uses the union of Cadmus and Harmonia – or rather, an emblem of that union – to forecast the ruinous events that will emerge. The account of the necklace thus imposes a narrative structure upon the events it brings about. The account in the Thebaid is seemingly the first in which Vulcan created the necklace to gain revenge,50 and by imputing such a motive to him, Statius accentuates that the god maliciously plotted the sequence of violence at Thebes. The tiny necklace drives that larger story, and thereby reverses the standard relationship that subordinates ekphraseis to their larger narratives. The specific impact that Vulcan’s necklace has upon the narrative emerges in Thebaid 3. Jupiter orders Mars to stir up war between the Argives and Thebans (Theb. 3.220), and the war god, more than willing to do so, is on his way when he encounters Venus (Theb. 3.260–323). Venus stops him and asks why he is intent on destroying Thebes and his offspring: bella etiam in Thebas, socer o pulcherrime, bella ipse paras ferroque tuos abolere nepotes? Theb. 3.269–70

Do you, o most beautiful father-in-law, prepare war against Thebes to destroy your own descendants with the sword?

This meeting between Venus and Mars is marked and unusual because ‘deities of love do not often pronounce on warfare.’51 Moreover, the conversation reverses the happy Ovidian depiction of the Thebans’ relationship with Mars and Venus. Statius’ nepotes and socer replicate the diction of Ovid’s family portrait (Met. 3.132, 134), but here the words alarmingly emphasize that Mars is about to destroy his children.52 Since the god unreflectively pursues a self-destructive war, Venus has to ask if slaughter is the reward of her illicit affair (Theb. 3.274 hoc mihi Lemniacae de te meruere catenae?). Her 50 51

B¨omer (1977) 399 cites Statius as the earliest instance in which Vulcan has such motivation. 52 The Thebans are labelled Mavortia plebs at Theb. 4.345. Wills (1996) 64.

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words hark back to the ekphrasis by conflating a form that is similar to the adjectival Lemnius (Theb. 2.269) and the phrase ultrices . . . catenae (Theb. 2.271).53 Next, Venus taunts Mars by saying that she could get Vulcan to do what she wants – even gladly make weapons for his cuckolder – because he loves her so much: . . . at non eadem Volcania nobis obsequia, et laesi servit tamen ira mariti. illum ego perpetuis mihi desudare caminis si iubeam vigilesque operi transmittere noctes, gaudeat ornatusque novos ipsique laboret arma tibi. Theb. 3.275–80 But Vulcan’s obedience to me is not like this. The wrath of my wronged husband still helps me. If I were to order him to sweat at the ceaseless furnace for me, to spend nights awake at work, he would be glad and would create new equipment, arms for you.

In the Thebaid, Vulcan’s craftsmanship implies his work on the necklace.54 However, since he designed that object to ruin Thebes (the very point Venus is worried about), her arrogant comment ironically emphasizes her ignorance of the disaster and destruction planned for her children by Vulcan. But at least she, unlike Mars, has not forgotten her familial ties to the Thebans. In his response, Mars informs Venus that he must follow Jupiter’s orders (Theb. 3.304–10). And the power of the ruler of the gods is made clear when Mars claims that all the regions of the universe shake at his order (Theb. 3.308–9).55 But a simile that concludes the conversation between Venus and the war god troublingly illuminates Mars’ service to Jupiter: . . . non ocius alti in terras cadit ira Iovis, si quando nivalem Othryn et Arctoae gelidum caput institit Ossae armavitque in nube manum: volat ignea moles saeva dei mandata ferens, caelumque trisulca territat omne coma iamdudum aut ditibus agris signa dare aut ponto miseros involvere nautas. Theb. 3.317–23 53 54

55

Mulder (1954) 198. Venus characterizes Vulcan’s work in terms suggestive of poetry: his burning of the midnight oil (vigilesque operi transmittere noctes) is a hallmark of Alexandrian poetry (Barchiesi (1997c) 59 n. 27). Indeed, the phrase is paralleled by the description of Statius’ own efforts at writing the Thebaid (Theb. 12.811) and thus may suggest another similarity between the two fiction-makers. The description of Jupiter’s power surpasses even his authority in the Iliad (Il. 1.530)

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Not more quickly does Jupiter’s anger fall upon the earth, if ever he stands on snowy Othrys or the cold peak of northern Ossa and arms his hands in the clouds. The fiery mass, bearing the cruel orders of the god, flies and terrifies the heavens with triple tail to give a sign to rich fields or to overwhelm wretched sailors in the sea.

The reference to Jupiter standing on Mount Ossa while he hurls thunderbolts alludes to his fight against the Giants, and, since he defeated these foes, it implies Jupiter’s control. However, the comparison of Mars’ eagerness to ignite the war at Thebes to Jupiter’s fight against the Giants suggests that this civil war will threaten the order of the universe. And, as will be argued in later chapters, this is the case. A point to be made here, however, is that Mars represents a literary agenda:56 in serving Jupiter’s wishes, Mars drives the narrative towards the war between Thebes and Argos, and his rousing of the troops symbolizes that the narrative will focus on warfare. That Mars has literary significance is a familiar point. In Ovid’s Fasti, for example, Mars is closely aligned with epic, and his literary interests clash with Venus’ elegiac and amatory orientation.57 A similar literary dynamic is at work in the Thebaid, though Statius is not concerned with generic issues. Venus construes delay as an alternative to war when she asks whether Mars will stop because of her tears (Theb. 3.272 nec hae quicquam lacrimae, furibunde, morantur? ). Mars has no interest in postponing battle (Theb. 3.293 haud mora), and when he, in full military gear, awkwardly and violently hugs Venus (Theb. 3.294 laedit), it seems as though his interests will prevail. Nonetheless, the conflicting desires of the lovers suggest different narrative possibilities: whereas the delay desired by Venus would postpone the recounting of the battle between Eteocles and Polynices, Mars’ interest in war drives the narrative towards its goal. Each divinity hints at and even represents potential directions for the narrative of the Thebaid. Mars’ eagerness for war serves Jupiter’s interests, but that it is only part of the story. This war has been over-determined: Vulcan also wants Thebes to be destroyed, and consequently made the necklace. It is thus significant that when Mars responds to Venus’ taunt that she can make Vulcan do anything she wants and that she should thus be able to get a favour out of Mars as well, the war god refers to Vulcan’s handiwork in his response to Venus. He says that the task of starting the conflict is too great for the hands of the divine smith (Theb. 3.305–6 neque enim Vulcania tali / 56 57

Feeney (1991) 368–71 comments on the allegorical (and narrative) implications of this meeting between Mars and Venus. Hinds (1992) 81–112 analyses the literary backgrounds of Ovid’s Mars and Venus.

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imperio manus apta legi). Manus suggests Vulcan’s artistic activity,58 and in the Thebaid that means the necklace. Yet readers are aware that Mars is wrong about Vulcan’s hands and their inability to stir up war. In fact, it was for this very reason that he made the necklace, and he seems destined to succeed. Indeed, Mars’ involvement seems virtually pre-programmed by Vulcan: after all, there can be no one better than Mars for creating the kind of destruction and turmoil that Vulcan wanted when he made the necklace. In his haughty, impetuous rush to start the conflict, then, Mars ironically does precisely what Vulcan, whose handiwork he derides, desires. That the necklace bears upon Mars’ activity is reinforced later in the ekphrasis, when Statius mentions that Irae helped Vulcan make the necklace (Theb. 2.287). Elsewhere in the poem, Statius, like Virgil, associates them with the war god: they are found in Mars’ temple (Theb. 7.48), and, most significantly, he is accompanied by Ira when he rouses troops to fight (Theb. 9.832–3).59 In making the Irae both Mars’ consorts and assistants in the manufacturing of the necklace, then, Statius fuses Vulcan’s handiwork and Mars’ stimulation of the fight between Thebans and Argives. The gods’ influence upon the narrative extends beyond formal concerns. For instance, Statius’ Venus uses the markedly Roman words socer and nepotes to describe Mars’ relationship to the Thebans.60 The diction underscores the fact that the lovers are also the parents and protectors of the Roman state, as well of Thebes.61 The gods’ parental relationship implicitly connects the myths of the two cities.62 But in the Thebaid, Mars plans to kill his offspring, thoroughly perverting his job as protector. Statius’ scene also reverses the account of Venus’ relationship towards her children that is depicted in the Aeneid because Jupiter does not soothe her anxiety by prophesying great things for her descendants. In fact, her anxiety is the result of Jupiter’s aim to destroy them. So too Vulcan’s relationship with Venus’ offspring has changed. In the Aeneid, he provides Venus’ illegitimate child with an object that both protects him and represents a promising future (Aen. 8.731 attollens umero famamque et fata nepotum). And the teleological narrative that he puts on this shield forecasts Roman strength and hegemony. In Statius’ epic world, Vulcan’s motivations have changed, and the object he creates now represents a linear narrative that aims to destroy 58 59 60 61 62

Headlam (1922) 206 discusses the Greek @ as a means of referring to artistic creation. The change from singular to plural seems to be a small one: the passage in Thebaid 9 contains the singular but recalls that multiple Irae accompany Mars at Aen. 12.336. Hershkowitz (1997) 45 addresses Mars’ familial relationship with the Thebans. Zanker (1988) 195; Barchiesi (2002) 6. See Hardie (1990) 229 for a similar suggestion about the Theban Mars in Ovid’s Metamorphoses.

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the descendants of Venus’ bastard child. Statius’ gods have left behind the roles they played in the Aeneid: the protectors of the city have worrisomely become its destroyers. the craftsmen: the telchines, t he cyclopes and others Although Statius specifies that Vulcan is the primary artisan (Theb. 2.275–6), the Telchines also help make the necklace, and they lend special point to the narrative established by Vulcan (Theb. 2.274–5 notique operum Telchines amica / certatim iuvere manu). The Telchines, semi-divine chthonic magicians and skilled metalworkers, appear as early as Stesichorus (PMG 265) and are not particularly rare characters in Greek literature. The description of them as notique operum may refer to their typical mythic job. Their fame (noti), however, must derive from Greek literature, since they appear in only one Latin passage before the Thebaid.63 In particular, it is difficult not to think of Callimachus’ Aetia prologue and its infamous Telchines: . . . . . . .]  I@% .7  /J #  K 9.

L &  !, M L@
    N *[ . . . . . .]  & % O @. . . . Aetia 1.1.1–4

The Telchines, who are ignorant and not friends of the Muses, grumble at me because I did not produce one continuous song about kings in many thousands of verses

Later authors indicate that Callimachus’ Telchines were indeed famous,64 and Statius provides concrete reasons to read the Telchines in Callimachean terms.65 The adverb certatim (Theb. 2.275), for instance, recalls the Callimachean characterization of the Telchines as an envious and prickly lot 63 64

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Ovid mentions their traditional attribute of the evil eye: et Ialysios Telchinas, / quorum oculos ipso vitantes omnia visu / Juppiter exosus fraternis subdidit undis (Met. 7.365–7). The Telchines appear two other times in Callimachus’ extant corpus. In one passage, Callimachus says that the Telchines made Poseidon’s trident (Hymn to Delos 31), in a second that they are among those who are insolent to the gods (F 75.65). These passages do not draw the attention of later writers to the same degree as the prologue. Pfeiffer notes that when Philippus, for instance, refers to the Telchines, he mentions Callimachus himself and also alludes to the prologue (AP 11.321: P( 9    , / '5 / @% **-, Q  0 . , / R@ 5, . . . .7 . . .). Statius’ use of the word ceston (Theb. 2.283) as a substantive also seems to contribute to the Callimachean atmosphere since the word is used in such a way for the first time in extant poetry at Aetia 2.50.53 (see Massimilla (1996) 338).

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(Aetia 1.1.17).66 Also, in the Silvae, Statius characterizes a miniature statue of Hercules as not being the work of the Telchines, Brontes, or Vulcan: tale nec Idaeis quicquam Telchines in antris nec stolidus Brontes nec, qui polit arma deorum, Lemnius exigua potuisset ludere massa. Silvae 4.6.47–9

Neither the Telchines in Ida’s cave nor brutish Brontes nor Vulcan, who polishes the armour of the gods, would have been able to work with the tiny lump.

The connection between this passage and Thebaid 2 is indubitable: the same trio – Vulcan, the Telchines and the Cyclopes (represented by Brontes in Silvae 4.6) – appear in each poem as the creators of a work of art.67 And subsequent verses from Silvae 4.6 provide additional information about these artisans. After specifying that these craftsmen did not make the statue of Hercules, Statius notes that the statue represents the hero as he was when Molorcus’ household marvelled at him, or when Auge saw him at Tegea, or when he had a drink with the gods in heaven: nec torva effigies epulisque aliena remissis sed qualem parci domus admirata Molorci aut Aleae lucis vidit Tegeaea sacerdos, qualis et Oetaeis emissus in astra favillis nectar adhuc torva laetus Iunone bibebat. Silvae 4.6.50–4

The statue is not grim and unsuited to a relaxed meal, but [Hercules was depicted] as the kind of hero that the home of frugal Molorcus admired, or that the Tegean priestess saw in the groves of Alea, or such as he was when he was joyfully drinking nectar – despite Juno’s anger – after he was sent to the stars from the ashes of Mount Oeta.

The reference to Molorcus, a figure whom Callimachus either invented or dragged out from obscurity, has unquestionable Callimachean associations,68 and thus this reference to the Telchines – as well as the one inThebaid 2 – indicates that Statius’ gnomes also have a Callimachean provenance. But there is a key difference in Statius’ two treatments of the Telchines: in 66

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Gregory of Nazianzus, Alciphron, and Synesius all associate the Telchines with * , a connection which likely derives from Callimachus’ charge that the Telchines are a malignant race (Aetia 1.17 *

S4   ). Herter, RE s.v. ‘Telchinen’ 207, 1–24 cites the passages. On the Latin side, Lactantius in Theb. 2.274–6) also charges the Telchines with being an invidious bunch: hi tres fratres dicuntur fuisse invidia lividi. See Barchiesi (1995) 60. Statius’ triadic grouping of these craftsmen in Silvae 4.6 is discussed by Cancik (1965) 31. Parsons (1977) 43 and Morgan (1992) 538 discuss Molorcus’ heritage.

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Silvae 4.6, they do not work on the object that is being described, whereas in the Thebaid they do. The contrast in the Silvae between the small Molorcan statue of Hercules and the Telchinic necklace works on a programmatic level, suggesting that small-scale Callimachean art is matched against large-scale Telchinic poetic activity. This artistic contrast seemingly carries over into the values embodied by each object. The necklace foments discord and hatred. The statue, on the other hand, has been removed from martial contexts: Alexander, Hannibal and Sulla (Silv. 4.6.59–88) had owned it, but under Vindex’s ownership, it enjoys a peaceful existence (Silv. 4.6.96 laeta quies) in which it does not look upon war (Silv. 4.6.97 nec bella vides pugnasque ferocis). Moreover, the statue will enjoy continuous friendship and loyalty (Silv. 4.6.91–3 . . . sed casta ignaraque culpae / mens domini cui prisca fides coeptaque perenne / foedus amicitiae).69 The fact that the same trio is mentioned in both the Silvae and the Thebaid invites comparison between the two scenes, and the stark contrast between the calm that surrounds the statue and the lasting hatred at Thebes is clear: the Telchines create not small-scale creations that enjoy peaceful settings, but large-scale productions about violence and strife – or at least small objects that have grand associations. The Telchines’ assistance aligns the martial narrative that Vulcan designed with Callimachus’ poetic enemies, and thus the narrative interest in war is anti-Callimachean.70 The Cyclopes’ contribution also shapes the poetic programme of the martial agenda. They appear as Vulcan’s helpers in earlier epic (Aen. 8.424), and Statius alludes to the fact that they traditionally create grand items such as warrior shields when he says that they know how to work on greater objects than this necklace (Theb. 2.273–4 hoc, docti quamquam maiora, laborant / Cyclopes).71 One difference between Statius and Virgil, however, is that the individual Cyclopes are not named in the Thebaid, as they are in the Aeneid: ferrum exercebant vasto Cyclopes in antro, Brontesque Steropesque et nudus membra Pyragmon Aen. 8.424–5 69

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Konstan (1997) 146 notes that Statius alludes to ‘Catullus’ prayer (109.6) for an “eternal covenant of sacred friendship” with his mistress, Lesbia . . .’ Statius’ phrase may thus mark an interest in neoteric poetics as well. That Posidippus’ epigrams seem to have been a model for the conflation of poetics and necklace is a striking coincidence since the Florentine scholia identify Posidippus as one of the Telchines. Barchiesi (1995) 60. Feeney (1991) 364. The description recalls Ecl. 4.1 Sicelides Musae, paulo maiora canamus and its ‘rejection’ of pastoral.

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The Cyclopes were working the iron in the vast cave, Brontes, Steropes and barearmed Pyragmon.

Pyragmon does not appear before Virgil, but Brontes and Steropes are found in Hesiod (Th. 139–40).72 The names of the Cyclopes are thus somewhat traditional, and elsewhere Statius himself refers to their individual names. Brontes alone is mentioned as one of those who did not make the statue of Hercules (Silv. 4.6.48), and in a poem that concerns a temple for Hercules that was built by Pollius, Statius states that Brontes and Steropes did not create the structure: non tam grande sonat motis incudibus Aetne cum Brontesque Steropesque ferit, nec maior ab antris Lemniacis fragor est ubi flammeus aegida caelat Mulciber et castis exornat Pallada donis. Silv. 3.1.130–3 Aetna does not sound so much when Brontes and Steropes strike after the anvils are in place, nor is the uproar from Lemnos’ caves greater when fiery Vulcan embosses the aegis and adorns Pallas with chaste gifts.

The collocation of two Cyclopes with Vulcan obviously recalls Thebaid 2 (as well as Aeneid 8), and illustrates that Statius freely alternates between specifying the names of the Cyclopes and designating them corporately. Both Silvae 3.1 and 4.6 reject the possibility that the Cyclopes worked on an artistic project. In Silvae 1.1, however, the Cyclopes are put forth as the possible creators of a statue of Domitian, and from this poem it is possible to see what type of work they create. The start of the poem contains a string of questions: Quae superimposito moles geminata colosso stat Latium complexa forum? caelone peractum fluxit opus? Siculis an conformata caminis effigies lassum Steropen Brontenque reliquit? an te Palladiae talem, Germanice, nobis effinxere manus, qualem modo frena tenentem Rhenus et attoniti vidit domus ardua Daci? Silv. 1.1.1–7

What is this mass that embraces the Roman Forum and that is doubled by the colossus on its back. Did it glide from the heavens after it was finished? Or did the statue, moulded in Sicilian furnaces, leave Steropes and Brontes tired? Or did Pallas’ hands make you for us, Germanicus, in such a way as the Rhine and the tall house of the astonished Dacian recently saw you? 72

Callimachus, Dian. 68–75 also cites Brontes as one of Hephaestus’ helpers.

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The rhetorical questions about the equestrian statue accentuate the importance of the creator: was it made by Minerva, the patron goddess of the Flavian household? Was it made in heaven? Or by Steropes and Brontes in Sicily? The questions are never answered, leaving all three possibilities in play. The equestrian statue was a public and politically significant object, located in the Forum and near a host of other public buildings.73 In addition, Statius continually stresses the statue’s enormous size.74 For instance, in the preface to the first book of the Silvae, Statius refers to the statue as the maximum equum (Pref. 1.17–18), and, at the opening of the poem itself, the massive block is doubled in size and vastness when the statue is placed upon it (Silv. 1.1.1 superimposito moles geminata colosso). Later, he says that its head reaches into the clouds (Silv. 1.1.32) and that its chest is large enough to handle the concerns of the entire world (Silv. 1.1.41). The statue’s sword is as large as Orion’s (Silv. 1.1.44–5), and the earth may not be able to sustain the statue’s weight (Silv. 1.1.56–8). Prominent figures from mythology and Roman history also emphasize the size of the sculpture: Arion would have been afraid of Domitian’s horse, and Castor’s horse Cyllarus, who can see Domitian’s statue from a neighbouring temple, is frightened at the enormity of the emperor’s mount (Silv. 1.1.52–4). Mettus Curtius, who sacrificed himself for Rome by riding into a hole in the ground and after whom the Lacus Curtius was named, is also terrified by its huge size (Silv. 1.1.71–2 ac primum ingentes habitus . . . expavit). Finally, the equestrian statue of Julius Caesar is told to give way to the new and larger statue of Domitian (Silv. 1.1.84–90). There is some doubt whether the actual statue of Domitian was a colossus.75 Consequently, the emphasis in Silvae 1.1 on the statue’s size has been read as a reflection of Statius’ hyperbolic attempts to flatter the emperor.76 However that may be, Hubert Cancik has suggested that the large size of the statue also reflects the poem’s artistic programme of Kolossalit¨at, enormity.77 73

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75 76 77

Silv. 1.1.29–30 refer to the Basilica Julia and the Basilica Aemelia; Silv. 1.1.31 to the temples of Concord and Vespasian; 1.1.34 mentions the Palatine. Moreover, Statius writes that the Cyclopes did not make the statue of Hercules Epitrapezios or Pollius Felix’s temple, two private objects. Perhaps Cyclopean art is located only in public spaces of Rome. After all, their involvement with the construction of Roman monuments goes back to Aeneid 8, where they helped Vulcan make Aeneas’ shield with its triumph of Augustus after Actium. See Newlands (2002) 87 for the different values expressed by the statue in comparison with the equestrian state. A point most fully explored by Cancik (1965) 89–100. See also Ahl (1984) 91. Cyclopean art is by definition enormous (e.g. Paus. 2.16.5 on the walls of Tiryns). Yet, they are also able to perform in the pastoral world of Theocritus’ Idyll 11 and in a similar context in Ovid’s Met. 13.789–869. Geyssen (1996) 24. Ibid. Newlands (2002) 46–73 argues for a less subservient reading of the poem. Cancik (1965) 90–3; Newmeyer (1984) 1–7.

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Cancik argues that there is a connection between the grand-scale aesthetics of the statue and of the poem, and that these artistic interests stem from imperial iconography, in which the emperor is depicted as larger than life.78 Statius’ description of an object that the Cyclopes could have worked on thus evokes imperial Roman productions. That the Cyclopes’ work pertains to grand Roman narratives makes sense in the light of the epic tradition as well, since these craftsmen created the narrative of Roman history on Aeneas’ shield. Of course in the Thebaid, Statius’ workers are hardly linked to Rome in such an explicit way. But his characterization of their help in creating the teleological narrative that aims to destroy Venus’ bastard child reverses Virgil’s depiction of their efforts, and undercuts notions of divinely preordained narratives of civic greatness. Statius thus reworks the Cyclopes in ways that flout Virgilian mythic accounts, and aligns their work with enormous artistic endeavours. The Cyclopes’ grandiose artistic programme clearly resembles that of the Telchines and is thus anti-Callimachean. For example, Callimachus says that that works of great size are not impressive per se (cf. Aetia 1.1.17– 18 D'   @ 1 / ,] 8 @-; T  8 ! ). Statius’ Cyclopes, in contrast, have made both an enormous equestrian statue and the miniature necklace that is the emblem of a much larger chronicle. Furthermore, when the Cyclopes create these objects of great size, they generate a tremendous amount of noise: . . . strepit ardua pulsu machina; continuus septem per culmina †montis† it fragor et magnae vincit vaga murmura Romae. Silv. 1.1.63–5

The tall crane resounds from the blows and a continuous uproar goes through the hills and overwhelms the diffused noise of great Rome.

Loud endeavours are problematic for some poets,79 and Callimachus famously expressed his disdain for loud and noisy poetry: . . . &( % E   K 3 U@   , ']0*  L &!  V-. ' (  L0  S#  , &W  G