Cet article est la première édition d’une épigramme votive gravée sur l’une des pièces majeures du Musée diachronique de Larissa, une stèle à relief remployée pour servir de chapiteau à l’époque byzantine où l’on voit neuf Muses faire cortège autour d’une divinité placée dans une grotte qui pourrait être identifiée avec Apollon. L’inscription et le relief sont incomplets et posent quelques difficultés d’interprétation. Nous avançons des hypothèses de reconstitution du texte, complétées par un premier commentaire iconographique, et essayons de replacer (...) cet objet dans son ancien contexte monumental, archéologique, culturel et religieux : une dédicace du peuple aux Piérides semble être liée à la fondation d’un culte des Muses à Larissa par un citoyen riche qui, en échange de sa générosité, espère pouvoir obtenir une prêtrise. (shrink)

Athanasios Tziafalias, Bruno Helly Two Unpublished Decrees from Larisa p. 377-420 Among the epigraphical documents found at Larisa in recent years, two of the city's decrees have a particular interest. The first, a proxenia decree for a Mytilinian, that can be dated to the earliest years of the 2nd c. BC, is in a dialect and reflects the relations that were established before the engagement of the Second Macedonian War and were renewed, for the admission of the Asclepieia of Mytilini, (...) between the Thessalian Confederation and the cities that composed it on the one hand and the Mytilinians on the other. This casts new light on a well-known document, the Mytilini decree for the Thessalian Confederation IG XII Suppl., 3, and supplements the history of the relations between the two parties, which were prolonged up to the period of Augustus, as we know from the fragments of decrees in honour of the Mytilenian Potamon, son of Lesbonax. The second Larisa decree, which was voted for two citizens of Chalkis in Euboea and which is in koine, should be placed more than a century later, towards 70 BC; it shows the procedure by which a foreigner who had received the proxenia of the Thessalian Confederation could acquire, at his request, citizenship in a member city of this Confederation. (shrink)

According to Dem. or. 23.199, Menon of Phasalos was honoured with Athenian citizenship for rescuing Eion. If this happened in 476 BC as commonly assumed, this would have been the only case of franchise through the assembly to predate Pericles’ law of citizenship. The Eion episode should thus rather be dated to 424 BC, even though the historian Thukydides claims the merit of saving the city for himself without mentioning the Pharsalian (Thuk. IV 106.4). This silence, however, serves an apologetic (...) purpose, since Thukydides was banned from Athens soon after defending Eion (V 26.5). Menon was thus identical with the homonymous commander of Thessalian troops in 431 BC (II 22.3) and the father of the Pharsalian Thukydides attested as proxenos in Athens in 411 BC (VIII 92.8). Neither of them ever was a citizen of Athens, which is further confirmed by Dem. or. 13.23, who specifies Menon’s reward as ateleia. (shrink)

This paper explores the politics of cult in early fourth-century Thessaly, a period of prolonged stasis throughout the region. Two case studies are offered: The first explores Jason of Pherai’s planned expedition to Delphi in 370 and its potential impact on Thessalian corporate identity; the second reconstructs the role of Ennodia in the Pheraian tyrants’ attempts to win regional hegemony.Cet article étudie la politique cultuelle du début du ive siècle en Thessalie, une période de stasis prolongée dans la région. Deux (...) études de cas sont proposées. La première aborde l’expédition planifiée par Jason de Phères à Delphes en 370 et son impact potentiel sur l’identité thessalienne. La seconde étude reconstruit le rôle d’Ennodia au sein des tentatives des tyrans pour imposer leur hégémonie à la région. (shrink)

The following is excerpted from Sean Gurd’s translation of Euripides’ Hippolytus published with Uitgeverij this year. Though he was judged “most tragic” in the generation after his death, though more copies and fragments of his plays have survived than of any other tragedian, and though his Orestes became the most widely performed tragedy in Greco-Roman Antiquity, during his lifetime his success was only moderate, and to him his career may have felt more like a failure. He was regularly selected to (...) have his plays performed in the annual festival of Dionysus at Athens. But the plays were performed in a competition, and in the competitions he lost and lost, winning first place only five times in a career that spanned more than forty years. His corpus reads like the remains of a life spent trying to get a few things right and never being quite satisfied: scenes and schematized combinations of elements recur again and again, each time slightly changed. Hippolytus itself is an example: it contains two scenes in which a sick or dying character lies on a couch or a stretcher and is surrounded by silence and grief; he had experimented with such scenes in Alcestis, and would work with them again in Herakles and Orestes. Nor, judging from appearances, was he immune to the desire to score a hit, or to satisfy the audiences and the judges at the competition. Hippolytus is a rewrite of another Hippolytus, performed several years earlier, which scandalized the audience and certainly did not take first place. In that earlier Hippolytus (called by later writers Hippolytus Veiled), Euripides fashioned a Phaedra who was neither ashamed of loving her stepson nor incapable of taking steps to satisfy her desire. The forwardness of her approach to Hippolytus so outraged him that he covered his head with a robe (hence the play’s later title). Euripides liked to write energetic and self-confident women like this. He staged his Medea in 431, just three years before he revised Hippolytus, and in it the jilted title character murders her children in revenge for Jason’s new marriage to a more politically advantageous wife. Another flop: the play came in third of three. Evidently the judges did not like their women showing agency, especially when the consequences were transgressive. “The ornament of women,” wrote another great Athenian a little earlier, “is silence.”i Euripides’ Medea and his first Phaedra had other decorations. So three years after Medea crashed and burned and some time after the first Hippolytus suffered the same fate, he produced another Hippolytus play with a different setting and story. How could this one not have been a reaction to the failure of the first? “Second thoughts are always better,” he has one of his characters say, as though he were offering an apology for his first thoughts on the same story. In this new version, Phaedra is suicidally ashamed of her love, choosing to die rather than have it discovered, and willing to bring down her beloved Hippolytus in the service of the same end. Now it is Phaedra herself who covers her head in shock and horror at her desire. Only an intermediary, a slave of the house and an old crone with her fingers in all sorts of illicit pots, communicates Phaedra’s secret – against orders – and in consequence brings about the demise of two resolutely moral figures. It worked. For his tale of two well-born nobles with an unswerving commitment to moral action, destroyed by the meddling of a slave (and by the hostility of some particularly uncaring divinities), the judges crowned Euripides winner. It was the first time he had won, after almost thirty years of work. *** What Hippolytus wants more than anything else, as he protests with outrage just before leaving Trozen for the last time, is the benefit of due process – oaths, witnesses, an investigation that would reveal who really lusted after whom. Ironic, given that in the first Hippolytus, as far as we can make out, he did get a trial – but too late, and Theseus’ successful processing of Hippolytus failed to prevent his death. I cannot help hearing in the second Hippolytus’ complaints the anger of his authorial semblable who lost year after year by a process of judging that might have seemed brutal to him. Judges took no cognizance of how he worked, how long or hard or why; they just voted, and Euripides lost. But then I hear, in the fate of the first Hippolytus, an even grimmer commentary. Processed or not, we lose. We run aground. At the very least, this might cast a darker shadow on the business of watching or reading a play: in that twilight, things move too fast to make a fair assessment and, in any case, the reasonably high definition of what you see and hear belies the truth of indistinction, the multiplicities just below the surface. Watching is a constrained activity, a form of captivity, but reading is plastic. This translation was begun to supply the script for an audio version of the play, recorded in the spring of 2012, and here and there it sacrifices literalness for sayability and the voices and passions of the actors on that occasion. But it was finished to be read, and engineered to create a reading caught between the poles of specificity and non-specificity that the play itself conjures and relies on at its generative core. Thus two texts: the one clear, perhaps overprecise, respectably modern in its presentation, and the other ancient, a reasonable approximation of the classical reading process, and indistinct in vital ways. Like early modern dramatic texts, the exact provenance and original function of the scripts that have made it down to us are unknown. We do know that the ultimate survival of Hippolytus was thanks to its wide-spread use as a school text. But its relation to the first performance in 428 BCE is a matter only of speculation. Euripides presumably had a fair copy before production began; it was probably modified during rehearsals. The actors may have had copies, too (probably the young men who served in the chorus did not). The chor?gos, a wealthy Athenian who paid for the production, might have been presented with or just made sure to get his hands on a high-quality text, to commemorate the play’s success. Fans might have been able to buy copies. Any one of these sources might have provided the ultimate progenitor of our text. Several of them might have, in fact, if later editors compared and conflated traditions. The plays toured extensively in the Greek-speaking world, and were restaged as repertoire for centuries afterwards. In the process they were subjected to enough modifications by producers and actors that in the later fourth century the Athenian statesman Lycurgus had a law passed prohibiting performances at Athens from deviating from the official “city” text of the tragedies (which he had commissioned). It is unlikely that the city text was the last word; but it marks an important moment in Athens’ role in their dissemination, since after this the major sites of textual curatorship moved overseas, to Alexandria, Pergamum, Rome, Antioch, Constantinople. Any single text of any single play is thus no more than a moment of clarity and stability, crossed and subtended by multiple vectors of change, including that of textual flux (from Euripides’ first drafts to the latest printed text) and that of Euripides’ life work as a writer, in the light of which the Hippolytus is just one attempt to produce something exactly right, to win the prize or finally satisfy himself or prove to himself that all this longing for perfection was a waste of time. I am intrigued by the possibility that a single text might somehow serve as a lens onto this wider zone of indistinction, representing a small region clearly but nonetheless containing a blurred image of the whole, like a Leibnizian monad. After all, no text is a witness: it is, rather, a perception and a performance, and what every Hippolytus must perform is the awkward overlay of singular and plural, social practise and subliminal drive, that structures the tragedy. Modern critical editions can do this by juxtaposing a (relatively) clean and simple text with a textual apparatus reporting variants and theorizing the relationship between textual instantiations. A translation lacks the resolution to catch the fine variations which feed into the construction of an apparatus. But there are other means to hand. Guessing at the exact words of the original text is always just that – guessing – though Hippolytus is less problematic than plays like Iphigenia at Aulis. But we can make a pretty secure guess at what such a text looked like. Texts read by fifth-century readers were fundamentally different from what is presented in the best medieval MSS and printed in modern publications. The texts of Euripides’ time and for many centuries afterwards did not indicate word division with spaces (or by any other means) and were extremely sparing in punctuation, often avoiding it altogether. There was only one “case” of letters – what we call “capitals.” Musical sections were inscribed as though they were prose, without line endings to reflect their rhythm or their rhetorical structure. There was no indication of the speakers within a dramatic text, either. The earliest surviving dramatic texts, which come from over a century after Euripides’ death and a time which was much more elaborate and precise in its textual culture, indicated speaker-change with a little line or paragraphos below the line and a double-point [:] at its end. This convention almost certainly does not date back to Euripides’ own time; it may not even date to Lycurgus. In any case, such indications were understood to be readers’ marks: they did not have the same authority as the text and they were subject to readers’ revisions. At least ideationally, if not in concrete and distinguishable fact, a dramatic text was understood as containing no indication of speaker-change (and certainly none of who was saying what). The reader had to figure that out for him-/herself. The clear, legible, easy texts we are accustomed to reading are the fabrications of medieval and modern reading cultures. The first text, then, presents the translation as the text would have been in the mid-fourth century, perhaps decades after Euripides’ death. The second text processes Hippolytus, makes sense of it and makes it “readable.” That is: too distinct, dangerously so. It gets in your way, conjures fantoms, tries to make you see. Fragments of the Hippolytus Veiled, otherwise almost entirely lost, are juxtaposed with similar passages in the text – not to suggest a reconstruction, but a dialogue and a complex set of reassessments. I have not tried to represent the full variety of textual variants, but I have signalled where, for one reason or another, the text is soft and different editions propose excisions or changes. The two texts must be read together: you, reader, form the bridge between the distinctly seen and the indistinct invisible. You, in the end, will be its mask. *** illsandhateddiseaseswhatcanidoforyouwhatshouldinotdohereisthelightandthebrightairyoursickbedisnowout s idethehouseyoureverywordwastocomeherebutyouwillrushbacktoyourbedroomagainyoufadequicklyyoudelig htinnothingyoudislikewhatyouhaveyoulovewhatyoudontitsbettertobesickthantendthesickthefirstissimpleto the secondattachesheartspainandhandsworkeveryhumanlifeispainfulthereisnoendtotoildarknesshidesbehindclo udswhateverisdearerthanlifeweproveunhappyloversofwhatshineshereforlackofknowledgeofanotherlifethere isnoproofforthingsbeneaththeearthonlystoriessustainus liftmybodystraightenmyheadthebondsofmylimbsareloosenedtakemyhandsandmypalearmsthishatistooheavy formyheadtoweartakeitoffspreadmyhairovermyshoulders couragechilddonttossandturnsoviolentlyyouwillbearyoursicknessmoreeasilywithpeaceandanoblemindallmort alssuffer aiaiiwanttodrinkpurewaterfromadewyspringiwanttoliebackandrestunderthetreesinsomegrassymeadowchildw hycrydontsaythesethingsnearthecrowdhurlingwordsmountedonmadness sendmetothemountainiwillgototheforestwherebeastkillingdogspressthespotteddeergodsilongtoshouttothedo gstoshootthethessalianjavelinpastmyblondhairtoholdthebarbeddartinmyhandwhythisanxietychildwhatdoyouc areabouthuntingwhydoyoulustforflowingspringstheresahillwithwaterjustnexttothetowerwecangetyouadrinkt h ereartemismistressofthesaltlakeandthecoursethunderingwithhorseshoovesiwishiwereonyourplainsbreakings t uds whythrowthesefrenziedwordsaboutjustnowyouweresettingoutforthemountaintohuntandnowyoulongforhorses onthewavelesssand thesethingsneedanoracletotellwhichgodreinsyouinanddrivesyoufromyoursenseschild whathaveidonehowfarhaveibeendrivenfromgoodthoughtsiwascrazyiwascursedbysomepowerpheupheualasn ursecovermyheadagainimashamedofwhativesaidcovermeatearmovesdownfrommyeyeanditembarrassesm eithurtstostraightenourmindanditisterribletobeinsanebesttodiebeforeyoubecomelucidagain illcoveryoubutwhenwilldeathcovermeimoldivelearnedalotmortalsshoulddrinkoffriendshipmoderatelynotfrom th edeepestmarrowofthesoulamindslovecharmsshouldbeeasytoundoorthrustawayortiemoretightlyitisaverydiffic ultweightforonesoultolaborovertwopeopleasiamwrackedbypainforhertoomuchdisciplinecausesmoreharmthan pleasureandwarswithhealthipraisetoomuchlessthannothinginexcessandthewiseagreewithme *** Scene 1 Enter Phaedra and the Nurse; the former is recumbent on a couch while the latter bustles about her with gestures that might be those of a caregiver or a guard. NURSE Ills and hated diseases! What can I do for you? What should I not do? Here is the light, and the bright air; your sick bed is now outside the house. Your every word was to come here, but you will rush back to your bedroom again. You fade quickly. You delight in nothing. You dislike what you have. You love what you don’t. It’s better to be sick than tend the sick – the first is simple. To the second attaches heart’s pain and hand’s work. Every human life is painful. There is no end to toil. Darkness hides behind clouds whatever is dearer than life. We prove unhappy lovers of what shines here for lack of knowledge of another life. There is no proof for things beneath the earth. Only stories sustain us. PHAEDRA Lift my body, straighten my head: the bonds of my limbs are loosened. Take my hands and my pale arms. This hat is too heavy for my head to wear. Take it off, spread my hair over my shoulders. NURSE Courage, child; don’t toss and turn so violently. You will bear your sickness more easily with peace and a noble mind. All mortals suffer. PHAEDRA Aiai. I want to drink pure water from a dewy spring. I want to lie back and rest under the trees in some grassy meadow. NURSE Child, why cry? Don’t say these things near the crowd, hurling words mounted on madness. PHAEDRA Send me to the mountain. I will go to the forest where beast-killing dogs press the spotted deer. Gods! I long to shout to the dogs, to shoot the Thessalian javelin past my blond hair, to hold the barbed dart in my hand. NURSE Why this anxiety, child? What do you care about hunting? Why do you lust for flowing springs? There’s a hill with water just next to the tower; we can get you a drink there. PHAEDRA Artemis, mistress of the salt lake and the course thundering with horse’s hooves: I wish I were on your plains breaking studs! NURSE Why throw these frenzied words about? Just now you were setting out for the mountain to hunt – and now you long for horses on the waveless sand. These things need an oracle to tell which god reins you in and drives you from your senses, child. PHAEDRA What have I done? How far have I been driven from good thoughts? I was crazy, I was cursed by some power. Pheu pheu. Alas. Nurse, cover my head again. I’m ashamed of what I’ve said. Cover me – a tear moves down from my eye and it embarrasses me. It hurts to straighten your mind and it is terrible to be insane. Best to die before you become lucid again. NURSE I’ll cover you. But when will death cover me? I’m old; I’ve learned a lot. Mortals should drink of friendship moderately, not from the deepest marrow of the soul. A mind’s love-charms should be easy to undo, or thrust away, or tie more tightly. It is a very difficult weight for one soul to labor over two people, as I am wracked by pain for her. Too much discipline causes more harm than pleasure and wars with health. I praise “too much” less than “nothing in excess,” and the wise agree with me. ***. (shrink)

The month name Ἀγαγύλιος is attested in Thessaly and Achaia Phthiotis. Recently, excavations at a Thessalian temple of Apollo in Pythion, at the foot of Olympus, have brought to light numerous ex-votos dedicated to Apollo, Poseidon and to an Artemis whose epiclesis is Agagylaia. Neither the month name nor the epiclesis, which is certainly to be connected with the month name, has yet received an explanation.

Hippolytus, Refutatio omnium haeresium, V. 9. 8, p. 99, Wendland preserves a curious hymn to Attis: ετε Κρόνον γένος ετε ‘Pέας μεγάλης, χαρ’ τ κατης κουσμα ‘Pέας Ἄττι σ καλοσι μν’ Ασσύριοι τριπόθητον Ἄδωνιν, δλη δ' Αγυπτος Ὄσιριν, πουράνιον μηνς κέρας ‘Eλληνς σοία, Σαμοθρκες Ἅδαμνα σεβάσμιον, Αίμόνιοι Κορύβαντα, κα ο ρύγες λλοτε μν IIάπαν, ποτ δ’ α νέκυν θεν… It is preceded by a long exegetical disquisition, which treats the various divine names in the order in which they occur in (...) the hymn, and includes the remarks, 8. 13, p. 91, τοτόν, ησι, θρκες ο περ τν Αμον οκοντες Κορύβαντα καλοσι, κα θρξν ο Φρύγες μοίως… τν ατν δ τοτν, Φησι, Φρύγες κα IIπαν καλοσιν . The statement here made is obviously at variance with the hymn: Αμόνιοι are properly Thessalians, and have nothing to do with Mount Haemus. Moreover, we have evidence for the cult of a Korybas, more commonly called a Kabeiros, at the foot of Mount Olympus, and as Mount Olympus lies on the borders of Thessaly and Macedonia, this may be designated as a cult by Thessalians. Αμόνιοι therefore agrees with facts, and the explanation given by Hippolytus or by the authority whom he was following can be explained as due to a confusion of place-names. It led here to the further error of θρκες; the attribution of orgiastic cults to Thracians was natural, but there seems a lack of evidence for Korybas or Korybantes in Thrace. (shrink)

In 1998, I suggested a new text for a notably corrupt passage in Pindar's Isthmian 5. This article is in effect a sequel to that earlier discussion. In the 1998 article, I proposed, inter alia, that the modern vulgate text of I. 5.58, ἐλπίδων ἔκνισ’ ὄπιν, is indefensible and the product of scribal corruption in antiquity, and that chief among the indefensible products of corruption there is the supposed secular use of ὄπις, as if used to mean something like ‘zeal’. (...) This is a sense for which there is no good evidence in classical Greek, where ὄπις always has a delimited religious denotation, meaning either ‘gods’ response’, ‘divine retribution’, or else ‘religious awe’ or ‘reverence’ towards the gods, through fear of that response or that retribution. If we discount I. 5.58 itself, all the pre-Hellenistic attestations can be straightforwardly listed under these headings: Il. 16.388 θεῶν ὄπιν οὐκ ἀλέγοντες, Od. 14.88 ὄπιδος κρατερὸν δέος, Hes. Theog. 221–2 θεαὶ... |... ἀπὸ τῷ δώωσι κακὴν ὄπιν, Pind. P. 8.71–2 θεῶν δ’ ὄπιν | ἄφθονον αἰτέω, sim. Od. 20.215, 21.28, Hes. Op. 187, 251, 706, along with, seemingly, a fragmentary fifth-century Thessalian verse inscription, CEG 1.120.1 Hansen; Hdt. 9.76.2 θεῶν ὄπιν ἔχοντας, 8.143.2. In addition, one other instance can be interpreted as either or, or in effect both: Od. 14.82 οὐκ ὄπιδα φρονέοντες... οὐδ’ ἐλεητύν. In all cases, though, ‘gods’ are specified, usually as a dependent genitive with ὄπις, or else separately but in the near context. Hellenistic and later occurrences of the word are few, and hints there of a secular reading can actually be taken to reflect misunderstandings based on, precisely, the early corruption in I. 5. (shrink)

Contemporary inscriptions prove practically beyond doubt that Philip V. was the son of Demetrius II. and of the Epeirot princess Phthia. But historians have always started from Eusebius' statement that he was the son of Chryseis, a Thessalian captive whom Demetrius married and who afterwards married Doson, and have tried to fit other things in with Eusebius. Now it does not much matter to us which of two unknown women was Philip's mother; but it does matter how we approach our (...) evidence, and we must start from the contemporary evidence and work downward, not vice versa. I need not here go through all the different theories based on the late evidence; what I am going to do is first to examine the inscriptions, which has not yet been done in this connexion, and then explain how Eusebius' blunder arose; for even if a definite statement be certainly wrong, we want to know how it got there. (shrink)

This article considers scientific data and methods taken as a vocabulary for a visual language of poetics, shaping an artistic practice exploring the liminal poetics of space, time, science and mythology, equally considered. These artworks focus on the moving image as an immersive, architectonic construct, one that makes it possible to blur the boundary between space and time. They are cinematic environments that create a space of spatial and temporal ambiguity, open to the performative role of the viewer in composing (...) the unfolding narrative. The artworks presented here began in the crossover between art and science, technology and anthropology, exploring topics and incorporating methods from each area. Transdisciplinary processes play a critical role in this artistic research. These works reflect cinema approached as a multimodal field of possibilities in which montage motivates movement and focus through this field, creating a participatory composition of sight, sound, movement and memory that immerses viewers by actuating somatic perception. Shape, scale, immersion, interactivity, simultaneity, embodiment, implementation and the manipulation of time create concrete metaphors that echo the multivalent content of the works: a collaboration with 300 tropical spiders to create a Kino, then letting the audience walk freely among them (or the spiders freely among the audience); an immersive environment enacting the space-time of glacial ice to experience the time of a different form of matter as somatosensory experience; a journey through the human history of the Moon, transcending time, political ideologies, realities and cultures as an encompassing field of simultaneous views and sounds; performing a 2000-year-old act of Thessalian magic on the skyline of Hong Kong. Combining the technological tools available to cinema and science, contrasting magnifications and speeds of observation reveal a material poetics beyond appearance. The artworks presented here elaborate the details of cardinal subjects, diving deep into fundamental domains to unravel the cultural implications embedded within the aesthetics of their data artefacts. (shrink)

The purpose of this paper is to put forward the hypothesis that the author of ‘Herodes περ πολιτας is Kritias. The speech bears Herodes’ name: did Herodes' well-known interest in Kritias amount to the transcription of a whole speech? The speech concerns Thessalian affairs at approximately the time when Kritias was in Thessaly: is it exactly the time? and is the tone what we would expect Kritias' tone to be? We have much description of Kritias' prose style, and a few (...) verbatim fragments: does the style of this speech correspond? (shrink)

Civilium ofnciorum rudimentis regern Archelaum Trallianos et Thessalos, varia quosque de causa, Augusto cognoscente defendit; pro Laodicenis Thyatirenis Chiis terrae motu afflictis opemque implorantibus senatum deprecatus est; Fannium Caepionem, qui cum Varrone Murena in Augustum conspiraverat, reum maiestatis apud iudices fecit et condemnavit. interque haec duplicem curam administravit, annonae quae artior inciderat, et repurgandorum tota Italia ergastulorum … The trials of Archelaus, the Trallians, and the Thessalians are usually assigned to the period 27–23 B.C.: their position in Suetonius' account (...) of Tiberius' early career seems to offer support to this view, though Stein connected the trial of Archelaus with Octavian's settlement of the East after Actium. Tiberius had been born only in November 42, and Gelzer more plausibly suggested that the trials occurred in Spain, where Tiberius was serving as tribunus militum during the Cantabrian war. The earthquake that Suetonius mentions in the following sentence took place in 27, and Tralles, which had been affected along with Laodicea, Thyatira, and Chios, sent an embassy to Augustus in Spain to ask for help. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Erictho and Demogorgon: Poetry against Metaphysics DAVID QUINT Epic without the gods? The Roman poet Lucan (39–65 ce) created a secular counter-epic inside classical epic, removing the genre’s usual pantheon of Olympian deities and replacing them with Fortune. His Bellum civile (titled De bello civili in manuscripts, alternately titled Pharsalia) a poem about the conflict between Julius Caesar and Pompey, thereby delegitimizes the emperors who succeeded the dying Roman (...) republic, including Nero, the reigning emperor of Lucan’s day.1 They are not part of a divine plan: no such plan has ever existed. In an epic where the gods are silent or refuse to speak, Pompey’s son, Sextus, anxious to know the future, has to seek other means. In Book 6, he consults the Thessalian witch Erictho about the outcome of the approaching battle in Pharsalia. She reanimates the corpse of a dead soldier on Pompey’s republican side and makes it talk (BC 6.419–830).2 Lucan’s scene of necromancy gave birth to a major antimetaphysical strain in the European literary tradition. Among others, Dante, Cervantes, Marlowe, Spenser, Goethe, and Shelley confronted this episode of the Pharsalia and pondered its implications. Erictho’s magic is a figure for poetic making itself. It turns the supernatural into theater— the divine machinery of epic exposed as a deus ex machina— and these authors’ responses to Erictho will shift from epic into dramatic forms. In place of the gods, in place of the epic visit to the underworld, particularly in place of and in response to Aeneas’s trip to the realm of the dead arion 28.2 fall 2020 2 erictho and demogorgon in the corresponding Book 6 of the Aeneid, Lucan presents Erictho’s macabre performance: human witchcraft and intimations of an alternate, eerie numen residing in the earth, a force of nature. Subsequent readers would give this latter power a name: Demogorgon.3 Lucan links republicanism and freedom to a kind of atheism and to historical contingency. He unmasks and strips the props of religion from Caesarism and monarchy. (In vain for the poet: Lucan was forced to commit suicide in 65 ce, after he was implicated in the failed Pisonian conspiracy against Nero.) Lucan desacralizes poetry itself, which here confesses its limits, which are the limits of human mortality, even as Erictho seems, however briefly, to overcome them. No, poetry cannot literally raise the dead: it is a magic trick that makes the words on the page form into images, take life, and speak to us. Lucan answers the criticisms the philosopher and theologian make to poetry by openly acknowledging the false bottom of the hat from which poetry pulls its rabbits. It has no access to a real bottom, an underworld beyond death; it is all representation.4 The philosopher and the theologian may be poets no less than he is, but they do not want to know it, too busy, perhaps, in supporting tyranny over human minds and bodies. Plato and Augustine are two such critics on either historical side of Lucan, and they help us to understand the stakes of the Roman poet’s project. Both were dissatisfied with literature and they wanted to be something more than the great rhetoricians that they were. In the Symposium, Plato demystifies the archetypal myth of poetry, the singing of Orpheus that sought to bring Eurydice back from death: the gods sent Orpheus away from Hades empty-handed and showed him the mere shadow [eidolon] of the woman he had come to seek: Eurydice herself they would not let him take, because he seemed, like the mere minstrel that he was, to be a lukewarm lover, lacking the courage to die as Alcestis died for love, and choosing rather to scheme his way, living, into Hades. And it was for this that the gods doomed him, and doomed him justly, David Quint 3 to meet his death at the hands of women. (179d)5 Behind the words of his shallowly sentimental speaker Phaedrus we can detect Plato’s familiar hostility to poetry, his objection in Book 10 of the Republic that the poet merely imitates the appearances of things and is... (shrink)

In 394 Agesilaus, treading in the footsteps of Xerxes, came from Asia by way of Thrace and Macedon into Thessaly, threw off the attacks of the Thessalian cavalry, proceeded without further trouble into Boeotia, and met the enemy at Coronea, where a great battle was fought. The question ought to have been asked before now, why was he not held up at Thermopylae?

Bellum civile 6,564-569 describes how the witch Erictho disrupts a funeral. In its context the expression cognato in funere refers not to any putative relatives of Erictho (not mentioned elsewhere) or to relatives of some anonymous deceased person (so Korenjak), but to the only group of people Erictho shares some kind of bond with, namely her ‚sisters‘ the Thessalian witches.

Dans deux études à paraître, José Luis Garcia Ramón et moi avons proposé de nouvelles interprétations de quelques épiclèses de la déesse thessalienne Ennodia : Ennodia est Κορουταρρα, « celle qui fait grandir », et plus précisément « celle qui dote de nourriture / de croissance », Στροπικά, déesse « aux éclairs », porteuse de lumière, et encore Μυκαικα, « déesse des tombeaux ». Cette interprétation nouvelle de l’épiclèse Μυκαικα apporte un témoignage supplémentaire sur le caractère de déesse protectrice des (...) tombeaux qu’il faut reconnaître à Ennodia. Ce caractère d’Ennodia peut être confirmé encore par la réinterprétation d’une autre inscription thessalienne, la dédicace IG IX 2, 592, de Larisa. L’on peut en effet reconnaître dans ce texte fragmentaire une consécration à Ennodia d’un enclos funéraire et l’on peut y restituer de plus une autre épiclèse de la déesse, épiclèse qu’a fait connaître une dédicace d’Azôros récemment publiée par P. Chrysostomou, pour Ἐννοδία Ἰλιάδι.In two studies currently awaiting publication, José Luis Garcia Ramón and I have proposed new interpretations of some epithets of the Thessalian goddess Ennodia: Ennodia is Κορουταρρα, ‘the one who makes grow’ and, more precisely, ‘the one who provides food’, Στροπικά ‘the goddess who carries lightning’, and Μυκαικα, ‘goddess of the tombs’. This new interpretation of this last epiclesis gives us new evidence on the character of Ennodia as protectress of the tombs. This character of Ennodia can now be confirmed by the reinterpretation of another votive inscription, IG IX 2, 592, from Larisa. It is possible to recognize in this fragmentary inscription the consecration of a funerary enclosure to Ennodia; here we can make the restitution of another epiclesis of Ennodia, an epiclesis which is now seen in a votive inscription coming from Azoros in northern Thessaly and recently published, with the formula Ἐννοδία Ἰλιάδι. (shrink)

One of the most enigmatic figures in Macedonian history is Alexander of Lyncestis, son of Aeropus and son-in-law of the great Antipater. During the reign of his royal namesake he achieved sensational prominence, deposed from his command of the élite Thessalian cavalry under suspicion of treasonable correspondence with the Persian court. Still more sensational, however, is his involvement in the murder of Philip II. Our sources are unanimous that together with his brothers, Heromenes and Arrhabaeus, he was party to the (...) murder, but secured pardon by his immediate recognition of Alexander as king.The immediate recognition is certain, the participation in the murder much less so. (shrink)

In a recent publication of four new inscriptions from Larisa in Thessaly, Kostas Gallis has revealed the helpful presence of a Syrian astrologer in that area of Greece toward the middle of the second century B.C. . In honouring this man the Larisaeans identify him, in one of the new texts, as 'αντíπατροσ 'αντιπτρον 'ιεροπολíτησ τσ ∑ελευκíδοσ, πεπλιτ*ogr;γ7rho;αημνοσ [δ] ν 'ομολíω υπρχων χαλδαοσ στρονóμοσ, νδημν τμν ρò ρρóνων. The Chaldaean astrologer Antipater is accordingly a native of Syrian Hierapolis who acquired (...) the citizenship of Homolion, in the area of Thessalian Magnesia. He evidently spent considerable time in Larisa. (shrink)

In a recent publication of four new inscriptions from Larisa in Thessaly, Kostas Gallis has revealed the helpful presence of a Syrian astrologer in that area of Greece toward the middle of the second century B.C.. In honouring this man the Larisaeans identify him, in one of the new texts, as 'αντíπατροσ 'αντιπτρον 'ιεροπολíτησ τσ ∑ελευκíδοσ, πεπλιτ*ogr;γ7rho;αημνοσ [δ] ν 'ομολíω υπρχων χαλδαοσ στρονóμοσ, νδημν τμν ρò ρρóνων. The Chaldaean astrologer Antipater is accordingly a native of Syrian Hierapolis who acquired the (...) citizenship of Homolion, in the area of Thessalian Magnesia. He evidently spent considerable time in Larisa. (shrink)

Not only was it a reference to Ismenias the Theban (Men. 90a4-5) that allowed nineteenth-century scholars to establish a date of composition for Plato’s Meno on the basis of Xenophon’s Hellenica but beginning with “Meno the Thessalian” himself, immortalized as a scoundrel in Xenophon’s Anabasis, each of the four characters in Plato’s dialogue is shown to have a Xenophontic resonance, thus revealing Meno to be Plato’s tombeau de Xénophon.

Mr. Agar has collected his adversaria on the Odyssey which have been enjoying cold storage these many years in the blue depths of the Journal of Philology, and increased them by about three-quarters. He has produced a very interesting and valuable book, the most important contribution to the linguistic history of the Homeric text that has been made for a long time. Mr. Agar holds that the language of Homer represents the original ‘Achaean’ speech, and that its abnormalities in vocabulary, (...) word-formation and metre are the result of natural unforced processes of transmission. This position, held by so well equipped and so trenchant an investigator as Mr. Agar, is reassuring. It does not involve any of the mythological factors of the Higher or the Lower Criticism still recommended among us by Mr. Leaf, Father Browne and Mr. Verrall–Pisistratus, Onomacritus, the Ionian conquest of Smyrna, the Thessalian Iliad, the original Achilleis,–and disagrees with Professor Murray's sinister diagnosis clear away the Attic surface and there rises beneath another surface with another set of corruptions, where Ionic rhapsodes have introduced just the same elements of confusion into an Aeolic or at least a pre-Ionic language. The confusion of tongues is deep down in the heart of the Homeric, dialect, and no surgery in the world can cut beneath it’ . The last ten years’ work in Comparative Philology has made it clearer and clearer that the rule-of-thumb for distinguishing the historical non-Dorian dialects does not apply to the heroic and post-heroic age, and that the terms ‘Aeolic’ and ‘Ionic’ in their usual sense should disappear from the history of Homer. The Homeric tongue derives directly from the pre-colonial language of Greece wherein two elements are discernible, the original Ionian and the Achaean or North-Greek which overlaid it. (shrink)

Mr. Agar has collected his adversaria on the Odyssey which have been enjoying cold storage these many years in the blue depths of the Journal of Philology, and increased them by about three-quarters. He has produced a very interesting and valuable book, the most important contribution to the linguistic history of the Homeric text that has been made for a long time. Mr. Agar holds that the language of Homer represents the original ‘Achaean’ speech, and that its abnormalities in vocabulary, (...) word-formation and metre are the result of natural unforced processes of transmission. This position, held by so well equipped and so trenchant an investigator as Mr. Agar, is reassuring. It does not involve any of the mythological factors of the Higher or the Lower Criticism still recommended among us by Mr. Leaf, Father Browne and Mr. Verrall–Pisistratus, Onomacritus, the Ionian conquest of Smyrna, the Thessalian Iliad, the original Achilleis,–and disagrees with Professor Murray's sinister diagnosis clear away the Attic surface and there rises beneath another surface with another set of corruptions, where Ionic rhapsodes have introduced just the same elements of confusion into an Aeolic or at least a pre-Ionic language. The confusion of tongues is deep down in the heart of the Homeric, dialect, and no surgery in the world can cut beneath it’. The last ten years’ work in Comparative Philology has made it clearer and clearer that the rule-of-thumb for distinguishing the historical non-Dorian dialects does not apply to the heroic and post-heroic age, and that the terms ‘Aeolic’ and ‘Ionic’ in their usual sense should disappear from the history of Homer. The Homeric tongue derives directly from the pre-colonial language of Greece wherein two elements are discernible, the original Ionian and the Achaean or North-Greek which overlaid it. (shrink)

This article examines an area of Thessalian mythology and cult surrounding the figures of Thetis the Nereid and Cheiron the centaur. It argues that the pair derive a substantial amount of their characterisation, in ancient narratives, from their mutual association, and that only by studying them together can we receive a full insight into their mythological and religious personae. Thetis and Cheiron are shown to differ significantly with regard to a number of themes, such as their relationship with symbolic topography (...) and the natural landscape of Thessaly and – most strikingly – their kourotrophic roles. Thetis’ strong association with ambiguous nurture is argued to connect with her physical conception, especially her association with the shape-changing sepia, cuttlefish, an association which involves her in the wider ancient discourse of unreliable female beauty. It is also shown that the Thetis of Homeric epic is significantly different from the Thetis found in other ancient narratives.Cet article étudie une partie de la mythologie et du culte thessaliens autour des figures de la Néréide Thétis et du centaure Chiron. Il montre qu’une part importante de leur caractéristiques, dans les récits anciens, provient de leur association et que c’est seulement en les étudiant ensemble qu’on prend la pleine mesure de leur dimension mythologique et religieuse. Thétis et Chiron présentent des différences substantielles sur un certain nombre de plans, tels que leur relation à la topographie symbolique et au paysage naturel de la Thessalie, et, de manière plus surprenante, leur rôle de courotrophes. L’association étroite entre Thétis et l’ambiguïté du nourrissage est mise en relation avec sa constitution physique et avec le sepia protiforme, le poulpe. Cette dernière association l’insère dans un ample discours ancien sur la duplicité de la beauté féminine. En outre, la Thétis de l’épopée homérique est fort différente de la Thétis que l’on trouve dans les autres récits anciens. (shrink)

primo pallentis hiatuhaeret adhuc Orci, licet has exaudiat herbas,ad manes uentura semel.Erichtho the Thessalian witch is conducting a necromancy: she has selected a corpse, applied her potions to it and invoked the powers of the Underworld to release its soul to deliver the prophecy. She specifies that this is a recent corpse whose soul has hardly entered the Underworld; hence she describes it as ‘still hesitating at the entrance to pallid Orcus’ chasm’ and as “a soul which will join the (...) dead only once’. However, as Francken says, ‘“exaudire herbas” est absurda iunctura’. The problem lies in either noun or verb. The phrase must refer to Erichtho's magic; the choice is between spells and potion, herbas in the sense ‘Incantation’ is apparently unparalleled, but herbas as a reference to Erichtho's brew is perfectly acceptable, especially given the long description of her concoction of the revivifying potion and of her application of it to the corpse in the preceding lines, 6.667–84. Moreover, only a few lines later Lucan draws a contrast between uerba and herbae, spells and potion. If herbas is sound, suspicion falls on exaudiat; the occurrence less than ten lines earlier of the uncontroversial exaudite preces, 6.706, which suggests scribal repetition, strengthens the suspicion. (shrink)

primo pallentis hiatuhaeret adhuc Orci, licet has exaudiat herbas,ad manes uentura semel.Erichtho the Thessalian witch is conducting a necromancy: she has selected a corpse, applied her potions to it and invoked the powers of the Underworld to release its soul to deliver the prophecy. She specifies that this is a recent corpse whose soul has hardly entered the Underworld; hence she describes it as ‘still hesitating at the entrance to pallid Orcus’ chasm’ and as “a soul which will join the (...) dead only once’. However, as Francken says, ‘“exaudire herbas” est absurda iunctura’. The problem lies in either noun or verb. The phrase must refer to Erichtho's magic; the choice is between spells and potion, herbas in the sense ‘Incantation’ is apparently unparalleled, but herbas as a reference to Erichtho's brew is perfectly acceptable, especially given the long description of her concoction of the revivifying potion and of her application of it to the corpse in the preceding lines, 6.667–84. Moreover, only a few lines later Lucan draws a contrast between uerba and herbae, spells and potion. If herbas is sound, suspicion falls on exaudiat; the occurrence less than ten lines earlier of the uncontroversial exaudite preces, 6.706, which suggests scribal repetition, strengthens the suspicion. (shrink)

Professor N. G. L. Hammond has of late published some of his thoughts on the activities of Philip II in 347 and 346 B.C. In addition he has treated aspects of Philip's earlier involvement in Thessalian, Thracian, and Phokian affairs. In the process he has in many instances disagreed with a number of current findings. Among those challenged are some of mine. Healthy scholarly debate is always desirable, and in this f spirit I should welcome an opportunity to contest Professor (...) Hammond's views on several points, the most important being the basic factor of methodology and the interpretation of various factual details. (shrink)

Name der Zeitschrift: Klio Jahrgang: 99 Heft: 1 Seiten: 1-25.