IV.1 Introduction
In this chapter, we are concerned with the indexical potential of time, the way in which literary references to the past and future situate a poem within its larger tradition. Essentially, this index embraces a number of complementary and closely related concepts: first, broad chronological perspective – an awareness of earlier and later events which lie beyond the immediate narrative; second, marked iteration – a specific sense of literary déjà vu and cyclical repetition; and third, epigonal self-consciousness – an explicit concern with one’s poetic predecessors. These instances of indexicality are more varied than those of hearsay and memory, but it is useful to treat them together because they all map the relationships of texts and traditions onto different temporal frameworks. All three, moreover, are frequently cited as indices of allusion in Hellenistic and Roman poetry. Here we shall see their considerable presence in archaic Greek poetics.
The first phenomenon – chronological perspective – involves poets self-consciously acknowledging the larger tradition beyond their immediate narrative. This is often achieved through the use of temporal adverbs and adjectives, especially those that look to the past, like ποτέ and quondam, or παλαιός and antiquus. Such ‘explicit pointers of pastness’ knowingly nod to the mythical and poetic past, signposting a reference to other stories and other texts which treat them.Footnote 1 But we also encounter cases which emphasise a greater deal of continuity or change with the past, as when Ovid’s Achaemenides is ‘no longer’ roughly clad, as he had been in Virgil’s Aeneid (iam non, Met. 14.165 ~ Aen. 3.590–4; §i.1.2). In each case, the specific episode in question is situated within the larger span of literary history.
The second technique – marked iteration – involves poets self-reflexively replaying or foreshadowing another event from the poetic tradition in the present. We have already encountered the Ovidian Ariadne’s repetition of her Catullan self (iterum, nunc quoque: §i.1.2), but we could equally add Ovid’s Cydippe in the Heroides, who finds herself ‘now too’ reading the words written by Acontius (nunc quoque, Her. 21.110, cf. 20.216), just as Acontius finds himself writing ‘again’ like his Callimachean incarnation (en iterum scribo, Her. 20.35 ~ Aet. frr. 67–75).Footnote 2 In Theocritus’ first Idyll, meanwhile, Daphnis dismissively bids Aphrodite go to Diomedes ‘again’, recalling her previous encounter with the hero in the Iliad (αὖτις, Id. 1.112 ~ Il. 5.330–430).Footnote 3 All these examples involve the self-conscious replay of an earlier episode from each character’s fictional life, while also echoing an earlier literary treatment of that same episode.Footnote 4 But we can also identify cases of iteration where a character repeats the role of another, as in Statius’ Achilleid, when Neptune is described as a ‘second Jupiter’ (secundi … Iovis, Achil. 1.48–9), reflecting his replay of that god’s opening role in the Iliad.Footnote 5
The final category – epigonal self-consciousness – involves cases where characters and narrators explicitly appeal to their ancestors and predecessors, constructing an explicit map of literary history. In Theocritus’ sixteenth Idyll, the poet establishes himself in a continuum with his encomiastic predecessors by recalling how former poets celebrated the battles of ‘men of old’ to preserve their memory, setting himself on a par with the likes of Homer and Simonides of Ceos (φυλόπιδας προτέρων ὕμνησαν ἀοιδοί, Id. 16.50). Nor is his subject inferior to those of his predecessors: Hieron is an equal match to the ‘heroes of old’ (προτέροις … ἡρώεσσι, Id. 16.80).Footnote 6 The prologue of Philip’s Garland, meanwhile, establishes his collection of epigrams as a self-conscious sequel to that of Meleager. The poet begins by contrasting his addressee’s ‘knowledge’ of the ‘fame of the ancients’ (παλαιοτέρων εἰδὼς κλέος, 1.5 GP = AP 4.2.5) with the brevity of the younger generation whose poems he has assembled (γνῶθι καὶ ὁπλοτέρων τὴν ὀλιγοστιχίην, 1.6 GP = AP 4.2.6), acknowledging the precedent and tradition within which he works.Footnote 7 In a similar fashion, the later epigrammatic anthologist Agathias introduces his collection by ‘competing against those born long ago’ (παλαιγενέεσσιν ἐρίζων, AP 4.3.113) and assembling examples of the ‘wise imitation of ancient writing’ (γράμματος ἀρχαίοιο σοφὸν μίμημα, AP 4.3.116). Through such explicit acknowledgement of their predecessors, poets constructed their own literary history.Footnote 8
These temporal tropes have been well studied in Hellenistic, Roman and later texts, but they have rarely received any attention in earlier Greek poetry.Footnote 9 Yet there is considerable evidence that Greeks conceived of literature in temporal terms, at least by the classical period. Authors refer intratextually to ‘earlier’ and ‘later’ parts of their own worksFootnote 10 and label pre-existing traditions as ‘prior’ and ‘old’.Footnote 11 Here I shall argue that this temporal conception of poetic production extends all the way back to archaic poets’ indexical practices. In the following sections, we shall see how all three of these temporal indices were already deeply embedded in archaic epic and lyric.
IV.2 Epic Temporalities
It has long been recognised that Homeric epic manipulates time in complex and sophisticated ways, allusively re-enacting events beyond the strict confines of its narrative.Footnote 12 Such replays of tradition ‘out of sequence’ are especially visible in the Iliad. The first half of the poem involves many elements which closely rerun the opening stages of the war: the catalogue of ships, the Teichoscopia, the duel of Paris and Menelaus, the encounter of Paris and Helen, the marshalling of troops and Pandarus’ truce-breaking – these all re-perform acts that logically ‘fit’ the first, rather than tenth, year of the war.Footnote 13 In the second half of the poem, meanwhile, the poet allusively foreshadows what is to come: Patroclus’ death presages Achilles’ own,Footnote 14 Hector’s death serves as a metonym for the fall of TroyFootnote 15 and the funeral games of Book 23 prefigure many later episodes of the tradition. Ajax and Odysseus’ inconclusive wrestling match foreshadows the ‘Judgement of Arms’ (Il. 23.708–39 ~ Aeth. arg. 4d, Il. Parv. arg. 1a GEF); Epeius’ claim to be lacking in battle looks ahead to his use of brains, not brawn, in constructing the Trojan horse (23.670 ~ Od. 8.493, 11.523, Il. Parv. arg. 4a GEF); and Locrian Ajax’s divinely induced slip in the footrace serves as a proleptic punishment for his future transgression against Athena by raping Cassandra (23.773–84 ~ Il. Pers. arg. 3a GEF).Footnote 16 Within its own narrow chronology, Homer’s epic embodies the whole Trojan war fabula.
Within such a context of temporal manipulation, it is unsurprising to find that references to time frequently bear an indexical significance in Homeric epic, in the mouths of both the narrator and his characters. In the following sections, we shall explore the rich Homeric evidence for the first and second categories of temporal indices (chronological perspective, §iv.2.1, and marked iteration, §iv.2.2), with occasional cross references to examples elsewhere in the wider corpus of archaic Greek epic. In the final section (§iv.2.3), we shall consider whether archaic epic poets exhibit any kind of epigonal self-consciousness. No extant archaic epic makes direct mention of poetic πρότεροι (‘predecessors’), but I shall argue that in both Homer and the Cycle, the voices and actions of internal characters implicitly reflect on their poet’s epigonal relationships. By means of these three devices, archaic epics situate themselves within the larger temporal waves of myth and literary history, foreshadowing the allusive techniques of later periods.
IV.2.1 Pointers to the Past
In both Homeric epics, the narrator and his characters repeatedly evoke other moments of tradition through a temporal lens. We have already witnessed the Iliadic recollection of Aeneas’ flight before Achilles on Mount Ida, cued in part through temporal references (ἤδη … καὶ ἄλλοτε, Il. 20.90, Il. 20.187: §iii.2.1), as well as Antinous’ comparison of Penelope in the Odyssey to the Achaean women ‘of old’ who lived ‘long ago’ (παλαιῶν … πάρος, Od. 2.118–19: §ii.2.4). Yet the examples can be multiplied many times over: temporally charged adverbs (αἰεί, ἄλλοτε, αὖ, αὖτις, ἤδη, οὔποτε, πάλαι, πάλιν, πάρος, ποτέ, πρόσθεν) and adjectives (ἄλλος, ἀρχαῖος, παλαιός, πρότερος) frequently mark references to other stories and traditions, both intra- and intertextually.Footnote 17 We shall begin here by focusing on retrospective glances to past events which situate the narrative within a broader chronological perspective.
Intratextual Pointers
On an intratextual level, these temporal indices mark the larger structuring and connections across a poem, in the same manner as characters’ intratextual reminiscences – often in brief and passing mentions. Such cross references can be small-scale, as when Chryses prays to Apollo and recalls the god’s previous fulfilment of his prayer earlier within the same book (ποτ’ … πάρος, Il. 1.453 ~ Il. 1.35–52); the pair of temporal indices reinforces the sense of repetition, as the priest invokes the god in the very same terms (Il. 1.37–8 = 1.451–2). Similarly, Pandarus twice notes in Book 5 that he has already successfully shot Diomedes, but not killed him (ἤδη, Il. 5.188, 206), looking back to the wound he inflicted a short while earlier (Il. 5.95–100).Footnote 18 In the Odyssey, meanwhile, the tears which Odysseus sheds when reunited with his son are contrasted with his earlier behaviour, when he had ‘previously always restrained them’ (πάρος, Od. 16.191), recalling an earlier episode within the same book: Telemachus’ initial appearance at Eumaeus’ hut, when Odysseus did indeed refrain from tears, and it was Eumaeus who played the paternal role, bursting into tears and embracing him as a father does an only son (Od. 16.16–21).Footnote 19
Such temporal markers can also function on a far larger scale, tying together disparate parts of whole epics. Before he sends Patroclus out to battle, Achilles invokes Zeus as Chryses had Apollo, recalling the previous occasion when the god listened to his prayer (ποτ’, Il. 16.236). On this occasion, the hero makes a more distant cross reference to the first book of the poem, when Zeus accepted his wishes, as mediated by Thetis; hymnic hypomnesis coincides with intratextual recollection (Il. 1.393–412, 503–10). In the chariot race of Iliad 23, meanwhile, Diomedes lines up with the horses of Tros, which the narrator reminds us he had ‘once’ taken from Aeneas (Il. 23.290–2):
Tydeus’ son, strong Diomedes, rose after him and brought under his yoke the horses of Tros, which he had once taken from Aeneas – though Apollo had rescued Aeneas himself.
The adverb ποτ’ signals a transparent cross reference to the events of Iliad 5, both the stealing of Aeneas’ horses (Il. 5.318–27) and Apollo’s eventual rescue of the Trojan hero (5.344–6, 445–8).Footnote 20 The reference here paves the way for Diomedes’ impending victory in the chariot race, reminding an audience of these horses’ supernatural ability (cf. Il. 5.265–72). It is worth noting, however, that this is not the first time that this incident has been recalled in the poem. Already in Book 8, Diomedes himself referred to it with the same temporal tag: [ἵπποι] οὕς ποτ’ ἀπ’ Αἰνείαν ἑλόμην, μήστωρε φόβοιο (‘[the horses] which I once took from Aeneas, devisers of rout’, 8.108). Both character and narrator refer to this episode as if it were a distant memory; as Scodel notes, ποτ’ implies that it had taken place ‘a long time before, instead of a few days’.Footnote 21 Rather than simply concluding with Scodel that ‘Homeric narrative is not obsessed with precise chronology’, however, we should note how this recent event is projected back into the authoritative past, as an established and independent reference point of tradition. In fact, these later mentions fulfil Diomedes’ original prediction that ‘if we could take these two horses, we would win noble glory’ (εἰ τούτω κε λάβοιμεν, ἀροίμεθά κε κλέος ἐσθλόν, 5.273). The later temporally indexed recollections by the hero and narrator prove the establishment of this κλέος in real time.
Similar intratextual cross references are also marked temporally in the Odyssey. In the Mnesterophonia, the cowherd Philoetius kills the suitor Ctesippus and vaunts over his body (22.290–1):
This can be your guest-gift in return for the hoof which you once gave to godlike Odysseus when he roamed as a beggar throughout the house.
This boast looks back to Book 20, when Ctesippus hurled an ox-hoof at the disguised Odysseus (20.287–302), an explicit perversion of proper hospitality. Ctesippus ironically called the missile a ‘guest-gift’ (ξείνιον, 20.296), which Philoetius now reciprocates with his killing blow (cf. ξεινήϊον, 22.290).Footnote 22 The cowherd invokes this past act of violence to justify the present slaughter. Yet this back reference also resonates with the following simile which compares the suitors to maddened cattle (22.299–301), accentuating the reversal of their situation: not only is Ctesippus now the victim rather than perpetrator of violence, but he has also transitioned from feaster to the object of slaughter.Footnote 23 The temporal ποτ’ indexes an earlier moment of the epic with broader thematic relevance for the immediate action.
Such temporally indexed cross references can also mark key structural moments of a poem. At the hinge of the Odyssey, the narrator recalls the hero’s former (πρίν) suffering (Od. 13.88–92):
So the ship sped on swiftly and cut through the waves of the sea, carrying a man with a mind like the gods’, he who had previously suffered many great griefs in his heart, traversing the wars of men and the grievous waves; but now he slept in peace, forgetting all that he had suffered.
This statement marks the transition from the first to second half of the Odyssey, as the poet leaves behind the hero’s adventures and wandering, a transition here marked as an act of forgetting (λελασμένος, 92). The hero’s ‘previous’ suffering at sea epitomises the action of the whole first half of the poem, but it looks particularly to the language of the Odyssean proem, of which verse 90 is a near-quotation (ἄνδρα … | ὃς πρίν μὲν μάλα πολλὰ πάθ’ ἄλγεα ὃν κατὰ θυμόν, | ἀνδρῶν τε πτολέμους ἀλεγεινά τε κύματα πείρων, 13.89–91 ~ ἄνδρα … ὃς μάλα πολλὰ | πλάγχθη, Od. 1.1–2; πολλὰ δ’ ὅ γ’ ἐν πόντῳ πάθεν ἄλγεα ὃν κατὰ θυμόν, Od. 1.4).Footnote 24 Through these close verbal echoes and the indexical language of temporality and forgetting, the narrator recalls the very start of the poem in a closural ring composition, marking the return to Ithaca as a fresh start.
On both a macro- and micro-scale, therefore, these temporal indices signpost intratextual cross references across individual poems, situating the present events against the recent literary past. In comparison to the cases of hearsay and memory that we have explored before, these indices tend to signpost brief and passing references. At least in isolation, they do not tend to be a springboard into lengthy narrative or recollection.
Intertextual Pointers
Temporal markers also point to events beyond the scope of each poem, positioning the poet’s work against the larger corpus of myth. Here too, such references are often very brief and invite the supplementation of further details from tradition, especially from earlier moments of the Trojan war fabula. When Odysseus compares Nausicaa to a palm tree that he ‘once’ saw on Delos (ποτέ, Od. 6.162), the audience may be invited to recall the tradition of the hero’s visit to the island in search of the nourishing daughters of Anius – an episode that featured in the Cypria (6.162–7; cf. Σ HP1 Od. 6.164d ex., Cypr. fr. 26 GEF).Footnote 25 In Iliad 11, meanwhile, we hear that Agamemnon wears a breastplate which Cinyras of Cyprus had ‘once’ given him as a guest-gift (ποτέ, 11.20), a reference to pre-war recruitment traditions also familiar from the Cypria.Footnote 26 We know from later sources that Cinyras was reluctant to join the expedition – even sending a fleet of clay ships to avoid committing real resources to the cause – and this lavish gift may have similarly been designed as a bribe to avoid service.Footnote 27 If so, it is particularly significant that this episode is evoked at the beginning of Agamemnon’s aristeia: however ornate the king’s armour (11.24–8), it conceals a story of deception and draft-dodging which undermines his status and authority, perhaps hinting at the limited success and duration of his ensuing killing spree. The narrator’s brief and temporally indexed reference invites recollection of further details which resonate poignantly in the present.
In a similar manner, Antenor introduces his recollection of the embassy of Odysseus and Menelaus in Iliad 3 with another temporal reference (Il. 3.205–8):
Once before now too godlike Odysseus came here with Menelaus, dear to Ares, on an embassy concerning you. I hosted them and entertained them in my halls, and came to know the stature and shrewd schemes of them both.
This embassy is another episode familiar from the Cypria (arg. 10c GEF), but its antiquity is suggested by its apparent depiction on a bronze tripod leg at Olympia from the last quarter of the seventh century.Footnote 28 It is also mentioned again later in the Iliad, when Agamemnon kills two sons of a certain Antimachus, who is said to have been bribed by Paris into refusing the embassy and arguing for the death of the ambassadors (Il. 11.122–42: note ποτ’, 11.139).Footnote 29 In Apollodorus’ later summary, it is specifically Antenor who saved Odysseus and Menelaus from such Trojan treachery (Apollod. Epit. 3.28–9), a detail that may well be implied by the Iliadic prominence of Antenor’s personal hosting of the pair, expressed through the emphatic ἐγώ and first-person verbs in 3.207–8. The temporally marked introduction of Antenor’s account invites Homer’s audience to recall another episode of Trojan myth and supplement it with their wider knowledge of tradition: Antenor has every reason to remember the build and character of these two heroes.Footnote 30
Such a strategy of supplementation also extends to mythical details beyond the Trojan war fabula. In the Iliadic Catalogue of Ships, we hear that Meges’ father Phyleus ‘had once moved away to Dulichium in anger at his father’ (ὅς ποτε Δουλίχιόνδ’ ἀπενάσσατο πατρὶ χολωθείς, Il. 2.629) – an oblique reference to part of the Heracles tradition. Phyleus’ father was Augeas, whose stables Heracles was forced to clean. According to later tradition, Augeas defrauded Heracles of his promised reward, Phyleus was called on to arbitrate the quarrel and sided with Heracles, before leaving Elis for Dulichium in exile and/or anger.Footnote 31 Augeas’ cheating of Heracles is first explicitly attested in Pindar (Ol. 10.26–30), but it likely already lies behind this passing reference: as we have seen before, the Iliad presupposes its audience’s familiarity with a well-established Heracles tradition (§iii.2.1), while Augeas’ capacity for trickery is already attested elsewhere in the Iliad with his theft of Neleus’ prize-winning horses (Il. 11.701–2). Moreover, the very positioning of this Dulichium contingent (2.625–30) immediately after that from Elis (2.615–24) hints at the larger context of Phyleus’ migration, especially since the last named leader from Elis is another descendant of Augeas (Αὐγηϊάδαο, 2.624). Given that Phyleus himself seems to be a well-established figure, appearing in the Hesiodic Catalogue as the second husband of Leda’s daughter Timandra (fr. 176.3–4),Footnote 32 there are thus strong grounds for seeing a passing Homeric reference here to a broader tradition. For audiences who recollect these further details, Phyleus’ sympathetic treatment of Heracles would serve as a foil for the Trojans’ perversion of hospitality, not only in Paris’ theft of Helen, but also in Laomedon’s former mistreatment of Heracles himself (Il. 5.649–51).
Besides marking brief and allusive references to other fabulae and traditions, these temporal references also tend to play an important inceptive role. In each of our opening examples, the temporal index appears at the start of the mythical reference, introducing Odysseus’ Delian reminiscence (Od. 6.162–7), the narrator’s account of Cinyras’ gift (Il. 11.20–8) and Antenor’s recollection of the embassy (Il. 3.205–24). The same is true of many other temporally indexed references, including Zeus’s previous punishment of Hephaestus (ἤδη … καὶ ἄλλοτ’, Il. 1.590, introducing 590–4), Lycurgus’ mistreatment of Dionysus and his nurses (ποτέ, Il. 6.132, introducing 130–40) and Hera’s former deception of Zeus in her harrying of Heracles (ἤδη … καὶ ἄλλο … ἤματι τῷ ὅτε, Il. 14.249–50, introducing 249–61), accounts which all also appear to draw on pre-existing traditional tales.Footnote 33 In each of these cases, the temporal indices introduce the story that follows, not only signalling the allusive incorporation of other traditions, but also acting as a segue into this prior material.
It is especially the Iliadic Nestor, however, who is most closely associated with the allusive potential of time and who most clearly combines the supplementary and inceptive functions of these temporal indices. As we have seen, he is introduced as an elder with much experience, who has already (ἤδη) witnessed the passing of two generations of mortals who had been born ‘long ago’ (πρόσθεν, Il. 1.247–52), a characterisation which is likely traditional given its apparent evocation in the Odyssey (§ii.2.3). Moreover, his area of expertise is singled out in each epic as events of the past (πάλαι πολέμων ἐῢ εἰδώς, Il. 4.310; παλαιά τε πολλά τε εἰδώς, Od. 24.51), and he repeatedly invokes the conduct of ‘predecessors’ (πρότεροι, Il. 4.308) as paradigms for the present. In both poems, he is also presented as an almost bardic figure: storytelling is his modus operandi.Footnote 34 As Bruce Louden notes, Nestor serves ‘as a vector to pre-Homeric epic’.Footnote 35
What has not previously been stressed, however, is the extent to which Nestor’s numerous Iliadic stories are tinged with indexical temporal references. The aged hero repeatedly introduces his accounts with appeals to his former youth, a more intense and personalised form of temporal indexing. His recollections of his battle against Ereuthalion (Il. 4.318–21, Il. 7.132–57), his former conflicts with the Epeians (Il. 11.668–762) and his former athletic successes (Il. 23.627–45) are all framed by a longing for his bygone youth and a contrast of the past and present.Footnote 36 Each of these reminiscences has a paradigmatic function within its immediate narrative,Footnote 37 but they also evoke broader prior traditions attached to Nestor and Pylos. In the past, scholars have postulated pre-existing Pylian epics (or fabulae) behind Nestor’s accounts, to which these indices would point – a plausible if unprovable hypothesis, and it is perhaps unwise to speculate further.Footnote 38 But in some cases, Nestor’s temporal indices cue familiar mythical episodes for which we do have further evidence. For example, when Nestor refers to Heracles’ destruction of Neleus’ eleven other sons ‘in earlier years’ (τῶν προτέρων ἐτέων, Il. 11.691), we are invited to recall Heracles’ theomachic battle at Pylos – a battle that is hinted at elsewhere in the Iliad and in other archaic poems, including the Hesiodic Aspis, which evokes the event through a similar temporal reference (ἤδη … καὶ ἄλλοτε, Scut. 359).Footnote 39 Through such temporal indices as these, Nestor positions the events of the Iliad against a wider diachronic nexus of epic traditions.
Most illuminating of all, however, is Nestor’s very first speech in the Iliad, when he recalls his involvement in the duel of the Lapiths and Centaurs (1.259–68):
But listen to me; you are both younger than I am. Once before now I kept company with men who were even greater than you, and they never disregarded me. I have never seen such men since, nor will I again: the likes of Peirithous and Dryas, shepherd of the people, and Caineus, and Exadius, and godlike Polyphemus, and Aegeus’ son Theseus, peer of the immortals. They were the mightiest of all men reared on the earth; they were the mightiest, and they fought the mightiest foes, the mountain-dwelling Centaurs, and they violently destroyed them.
Nestor begins his recollection with some of the same temporal indices that we have seen above (ἤδη … ποτ’), before launching into a miniature catalogue of the Lapith warriors (1.263–5) who cannot be rivalled by men of the present or future (1.262, cf. 271–2). These temporal pointers index a familiar and traditional story, the conflict that arose between the Lapiths and Centaurs, when the drunken Centaur Eurytion attempted to abduct and rape Peirithous’ wife Hippodameia.Footnote 40 The tale appears in many archaic sources: it is referenced elsewhere in the Iliad (esp. 2.743–4: note ἤματι τῷ ὅτε), as well as in the Odyssey, where Antinous invokes the cautionary exemplum of Eurytion (Od. 21.295–304).Footnote 41 Beyond Homer, the battle is also described in the Hesiodic Aspis (Scut. 178–90), whose catalogue of warriors overlaps substantially with that in the Iliad, suggesting ‘some common ancestry behind the two lists’;Footnote 42 and it also appears in art from an early date, including on a bronze relief from Olympia (seventh century, featuring Caineus) and on the François Vase (early sixth century, featuring Theseus, Caineus and Dryas).Footnote 43 The story was evidently a well-established feature of the mythological tradition, to which Nestor here makes a brief summary reference.Footnote 44
The ostensible purpose of Nestor’s recollection is to establish his authority and status as an adviser: Agamemnon and Achilles should heed his advice as these superior heroes once did in the past (1.273–4).Footnote 45 Yet it also contains its own paradigmatic value. Not only does it offer an example of united heroic activity against a shared enemy, in contrast to the Achaeans’ current infighting;Footnote 46 but for audiences familiar with the wider myth, it also provides a more pointed comment on Agamemnon’s conduct. As Tsagalis has noted, the Odyssey’s account of the centaur Eurytion foregrounds his drunkenness (οἶνος, 21.295; οἴνῳ, 297; οἰνοβαρείων, 304) and folly (ἄασ’, 296; ἄασεν, 297; ἀασθείς, 301; ἄτην, 302) – two characteristics which are equally applied to Agamemnon’s behaviour in the quarrel (οἰνοβαρές, Il. 1.225; ἄτας, 9.115; ἀασάμην, 9.116, 119).Footnote 47 Tsagalis takes this point no further, but for an audience familiar with these aspects of the larger myth, Nestor’s account would offer a veiled critique of Agamemnon’s haughtiness: he behaves in Book 1 like a bestial Centaur, stealing away Briseis just as Eurytion once tried to carry off Hippodameia.Footnote 48 Such an implication would reinforce Nestor’s overall assessment of the situation: he follows his account by explicitly telling Agamemnon not to take Briseis (1.275–6) and later recalls how Agamemnon’s conduct did not follow his own thinking (9.108–9). Nestor’s mythical reminiscence thus not only establishes the legitimacy of his advice but also implicitly criticises Agamemnon’s actions. As elsewhere in archaic epic, this temporally indexed account invites an audience to supplement the telling with their broader knowledge of tradition, comparing Homer’s characters to those of the Nestorian and mythical past.
Beyond Homer
Such temporal indices also extend beyond the Iliad and Odyssey to the wider corpus of archaic Greek epic. We have already noted a case in the Aspis (ἤδη … καὶ ἄλλοτε, Scut. 359: §iv.2.1 above), but we can add further examples from Hesiod and the Homeric Hymns. Like both Homeric epics, these poems frequently index passing references to myths with temporal adverbs. In the Hesiodic Catalogue, Apollo ‘once’ killed Hyacinthus with a discus (ποτ’, fr. 171.7), evoking the tale of the god’s tragic killing of his beloved,Footnote 49 and Eëtion, also known as Iasion, ‘once’ suffered for sleeping with Demeter (ποτέ, fr. 177.9).Footnote 50 In the Homeric Hymn to Apollo, the myth of Typhon is introduced with a pair of ποτέ adverbs (HhAp. 305, 307), marking the traditionality of the myth,Footnote 51 while in the Hymn to Aphrodite, the goddess claims that the gods ‘previously’ (πρίν) feared the ‘whisperings and plots’ with which she ‘once’ (ποτέ) coupled all the immortals with mortal women (HhAphr. 249–50), evoking a key and recurring subject of the Hesiodic Catalogue of Women. In the Hymn to Hermes, meanwhile, the newborn god sings of his parents’ union as something of the past (πάρος, HhHerm. 58), an index which points not only to the traditional nature of the account, but also to the fact that the union has already been narrated in the poet’s own voice at the start of the poem (HhHerm. 1–12); within the context of the hymn, this is indeed ‘old news’.Footnote 52 As in Homer, both inter- and intratextual references are cued through a temporal frame.
In addition, these indices can also evoke other traditions in a more competitive mode. In Hesiod’s Works and Days, for example, the poet makes a passing reference to the gathering of the Greeks at Aulis before the Trojan war, indexed with a temporal ποτέ (Op. 650–3):
For never yet have I sailed in a ship over the broad sea, except to Euboea from Aulis, where the Achaeans once waited for a great storm to pass and gathered a great army from holy Greece against Troy with its beautiful women.
This reference inaugurates an agonistic moment of Hesiodic self-fashioning, as the poet positions himself against martial epic. Hesiod evokes a core element of the Trojan war fabula, the gathering at Aulis, as a foil for his own endeavours: his short, brief and immediately successful voyage contrasts with the long, arduous ἄεθλα of the Greeks (cf. ἄεθλα, Op. 654).Footnote 53 This competitive spirit is also visible on a verbal level. Scholars have previously noted the ‘correction’ of traditional epic language in verse 653: Troy is traditionally ‘holy’ and Greece known for its ‘beautiful women’, but Hesiod inverts these terms.Footnote 54 By stealing Helen, Troy hardly deserves to be called ‘holy’, but it is now very much a ‘land of beautiful women’.Footnote 55
I would add, however, that this agonism centres not only on Aulis, but also on the end point of Hesiod’s journey, Euboea. This island also played an important role in the Trojan war tradition as a major point on the Greeks’ return home from Troy. In the Odyssey, Nestor recalls how a large part of the army was encouraged by a god to ‘cut through the middle of the sea to Euboea’ (ἠνώγει πέλαγος μέσον εἰς Εὔβοιαν | τέμνειν, Od. 3.174–5) and promptly did so, arriving together at Geraestus before each group returned home (3.175–83). The island was conceptualised as a communal end point of the Greek expedition, marking the conclusion of a long and arduous campaign. But in addition, it was also associated with shipwrecks and failed homecomings: the island’s Capherean rocks were the site of both Locrian Ajax’s death (Nostoi arg. 3b GEF; Alc. fr. 298.6–7)Footnote 56 and of Nauplius’ revenge on the Greek fleet for the murder of his son Palamedes.Footnote 57 Against this background, Hesiod’s agonistic positioning gains further point. His journey not only starts where the Greek expedition began (Aulis), but also ends at the place where many of the Greek forces returned or even failed to return (Euboea). Hesiod’s journey evokes the whole Trojan war expedition in a miniaturised, sanitised and successful form: his straightforward trip of ‘some 65 metres of water’ serves as a stark foil to the years of suffering and loss that afflicted the Greek expedition.Footnote 58 He effortlessly succeeds where the Greek force had struggled. This competitive reframing of the Trojan war story is reinforced by the temporal adverb ποτέ, situating the events of the Trojan war as a past but familiar tradition against which Hesiod can position his own poetry. In this case, the temporal index marks a more competitive evocation of another mythic and poetic tradition.
As in Homer, therefore, temporal indices frequently signpost the evocation of another moment of myth against which the present poem is positioned. They frequently introduce brief and passing references, inviting audiences to supplement the telling with their wider knowledge of tradition. Crucially, however, as with poetic memory, events both within and beyond a single poem are evoked in a similar manner, suggesting that they are all conceived as a long continuum of myth.
IV.2.2 Poetic Déjà Vu
In addition to these signalled back references to earlier traditions and myths, archaic epic also exhibits cases of more pointed repetition and iteration – the second category of allusive temporality with which we began. These instances not only evoke an episode of the mythical past but depict the present as a replay of it, stressing even more clearly the continuity between past and present. As with broad chronological perspective, this is a phenomenon which works both intra- and intertextually.
Intratextual Repetitions
On an intratextual level, such repetitions again connect the narrative on both a large- and small-scale. We have already seen Ares rebuke Athena in the Iliadic theomachy for ‘again’ driving the gods to fight against each other, recalling her former support of Diomedes all the way back in Book 5 (αὖτ’, Il. 21.394: §iii.2.2). In Odyssey 16, meanwhile, the same goddess makes Odysseus an old man ‘again’ by striking him with her wand (Od. 16.456) – the indexical πάλιν directs us back to Homer’s previous and more extended description of the same transformation at Od. 13.429–38. On other occasions, such repetitions occur within a short space of time in a single book.Footnote 59 When Aeneas and Pandarus face Diomedes in Iliad 5, for example, Pandarus claims that he will ‘now again test Diomedes with his spear’ (νῦν αὖτε ἐγχείῃ πειρήσομαι, 5.279), a reference which looks back to Pandarus’ previous attempt on the Greek hero with his bow (5.95–105).Footnote 60 His comment marks this scene as a doublet of that earlier encounter: in both cases, Pandarus’ cast is followed by a near-identical boast that Diomedes ‘won’t last much longer’ (βέβληαι … οὐδέ σ’ ὀΐω | δηρὸν ἔτ’ ἀνσχήσεσθαι, 284–5 ~ βέβληται … οὐδέ ἕ φημι | δήθ’ ἀνσχήσεσθαι, 103–4).Footnote 61 But in this replay, Pandarus’ shot proves less effective than it was before: whereas his arrow pierced Diomedes’ breastplate and drew blood (98–100), his spear does not even puncture the breastplate (281–2), a sign of growing weakness which paves the way for his ensuing death (290–6).Footnote 62 Pandarus introduces his action as a self-conscious repeat, but the subtle differences between the two occasions reinforce his characterisation and foreshadow his fate.
In other cases, the adverbial use of καί (‘also’/‘too’) signposts iterative action and speech.Footnote 63 In Iliad 3, Menelaus asks the assembled Greek and Trojan armies to ‘listen now to me too’ (κέκλυτε νῦν καὶ ἐμεῖο, 3.97), echoing Hector’s own preceding address (κέκλυτέ μευ, ‘listen to me’, 3.86), while in the later battle by the ships, Deiphobus fails to hit Idomeneus with his spear ‘then too’ (καὶ τόθ’, 13.518), repeating his earlier miss (13.404–10). On a larger scale, Odysseus asks Athena in the Odyssey why she did not tell Telemachus that he was still alive: ‘was it perhaps so that he too might suffer woes wandering over the barren sea while others devour his property?’ (ἦ ἵνα που καὶ κεῖνος ἀλώμενος ἄλγεα πάσχῃ | πόντον ἐπ’ ἀτρύγετον, βιότον δέ οἱ ἄλλοι ἔδουσι; Od. 13.418–19). His question signposts the larger doublet relation between Odysseus and Telemachus; the son’s actions and wanderings at the start of the Odyssey are in many ways a mirror of Odysseus’ own (cf. esp. ἐν πόντῳ πάθεν ἄλγεα, 1.4; ἀλώμενον, ἄλγε’ ἔχοντα, 5.336).Footnote 64 Here, καί does not index a momentary repetition, but rather a larger pattern that underpins the entire narrative.
On an even larger scale, whole series of repetitions are traced through a single poem. In the Iliad, both the narrator and characters stress Nestor’s recurring role as a good counsellor. In Book 2, Agamemnon claims that Nestor has surpassed the other Greeks in speech ‘once again’ with his advice to separate the Greeks by tribe, prompting the Catalogue of Ships (ἦ μὰν αὖτ’ ἀγορῇ νικᾷς, γέρον, υἷας Ἀχαιῶν, 2.370). On one level, Agamemnon’s remark contributes to Nestor’s general characterisation as an ‘ever sensible adviser’, but it equally points back to the sole previous Iliadic occasion where Nestor has already offered advice: his attempt to break up the quarrel of Book 1 (1.247–84; §iv.2.1). Agamemnon effectively parrots Nestor’s own self-presentation from that occasion: there too, Nestor claimed that his advice had proved best before among the previous generation of heroes (1.273–4). But Agamemnon no longer needs to look to such intertextual precedents; Nestor’s conduct earlier within the poem justifies his claim.Footnote 65
On two later occasions in the Iliad, the narrator similarly introduces Nestor’s speeches with reference to his former rhetorical success: Νέστωρ, οὗ καὶ πρόσθεν ἀρίστη φαίνετο βουλή (‘Nestor, whose counsel seemed best before as well’, Il. 7.325, 9.94). Just like Agamemnon, the narrator foregrounds the continuity of Nestor’s conduct, though here before rather than after he has made his latest recommendations. As Nestor is about to propose the ceasefire in hostilities and the embassy to Achilles, we are reminded of his former words of advice and encouraged to see him playing the same role here. This introductory verse also appears once in the Odyssey, in the spectral Agamemnon’s account of Achilles’ funeral, where Nestor stopped the Greeks from fleeing at the approach of Thetis and her fellow Nereids (Od. 24.52). This further iteration of the verse may suggest that it is little more than a formulaic filler, marking Nestor’s traditional role as a good adviser within the wider mythological tradition.Footnote 66 But its unique Odyssean instantiation could also be a more specific response to the chain of Iliadic references that we have been tracing, adding further point to the indexical καὶ πρόσθεν: not only ‘before in tradition’, but also ‘before in the Iliad’. Whatever the precise reference, however, here too, this verse signposts Nestor’s repeated conduct.
Intertextual Repetitions
Elsewhere in both Homeric poems, the poet indexes actions and behaviours that are repeated from the wider traditions of myth. Once more, adverbial καί is a recurring device to mark such doublets. In the Odyssey, it is especially used in connection with the Oresteia myth, as Telemachus is encouraged to follow the example of Orestes (καὶ σύ/κεῖνος, Od. 1.301, 3.197, 3.313) and Odysseus to avoid that of Agamemnon (καὶ σύ, 11.441).Footnote 67 In the Iliad, meanwhile, Patroclus’ shade highlights the parallel fate that he and Achilles share (Il. 23.78–81):
Hateful doom has gaped around me, the doom that must have been my lot since birth. But for you yourself too, godlike Achilles, it is fated to die beneath the wall of the wealthy Trojans.
Here, καί draws attention to the wider doublet relation between the two heroes: Patroclus’ Iliadic death is a close foreshadowing of Achilles’ in the wider Trojan war tradition, familiar to us from the Aethiopis and other later sources.Footnote 68 Particularly relevant for these verses is the parallel location of each hero’s death. Patroclus predicts that Achilles will die beneath the walls of Troy (τείχει ὕπο Τρώων, 23.81),Footnote 69 the same place that Patroclus died earlier (τείχει ὕπο Τρώων, 17.404, 558) – a unique verbal repetition.Footnote 70 Patroclus’ καὶ … σοί acknowledges the allusive doublet but flips it on its head: Achilles’ death will here ‘repeat’ Patroclus’, rather than vice versa.Footnote 71
A similar sense of intertextual repetition is visible in the Odyssey when both Odysseus and Alcinous insist that the Phaeacians have ‘previously’ escorted men across the sea, an insistence which seems to hint at earlier traditions of their seafaring prowess (ὡς τὸ πάρος περ, 8.31; cf. τὶς ἄλλος, 8.32; καὶ ἄλλους, 16.227–8).Footnote 72 As scholars have noted, the Phaeacians are unlikely to be a Homeric invention. The presence of alternative genealogies in Alcaeus (test. 441) and Acusilaus (fr. 4 EGM) ‘make it prima facie unlikely that they too were only found in Homer in the Archaic period’.Footnote 73 More speculatively, it has also been suggested that the Odyssey’s mixed messages about the role of queen Arete may be indebted to other versions in which she played a more active role in hosting the hero (cf. Od. 6.303–15, 7.53–77).Footnote 74 In any case, Alcinous has already recalled a previous occasion when the Phaeacians transported Rhadamanthys to Euboea (Od. 7.321–4), a reference which ‘must be to some story created at an earlier stage of the tradition’.Footnote 75 By repeatedly appealing to the Phaeacians’ previous travels, the Odyssey establishes Odysseus’ present voyage as a replay of their earlier, traditional escorting of men. Particularly intriguing in this regard is the claim that the Phaeacians who took Odysseus home sailed into Ithaca by the Cave of the Nymphs, a place which they ‘knew previously’ (πρὶν εἰδότες, Od. 13.113). By foregrounding their familiarity with Ithaca, the poet hints again at their traditional role as ferrymen, but perhaps especially at earlier accounts of Odysseus’ return.Footnote 76 The Phaeacians have been to Ithaca before, in earlier treatments of Odysseus’ homecoming. Homer establishes a strong sense of déjà vu; it would indeed seem that the Phaeacians were ‘famous for their ships’ from the larger tradition (ναυσίκλυτοι, Od. 13.166).
In other cases, intertextual iterations are marked through the adverbs αἰεί/αἰέν (‘always’) and πάρος (‘previously’), foregrounding the continuity in a figure’s actions or characterisation.Footnote 77 In both Homeric poems, characters repeatedly note Athena’s support of Odysseus. When Odysseus encounters the goddess on Ithaca, he remarks that she was kindly to him ‘in the past’ while he warred at Troy (πάρος, Od. 13.314), just as Locrian Ajax complains in the Patroclean funeral games that Athena has helped Odysseus, as she has done ‘previously’ (τὸ πάρος, Il. 23.782–3). In the Doloneia, meanwhile, Odysseus prays to Athena (Il. 10.278–82), recalling how she is ‘always’ by his side (αἰεί, 278) and asking her to show her love ‘again’ (αὔτε, 280). Such statements evoke the close traditional association of hero and goddess, framing the present moment as the latest iteration of this recurring pattern.Footnote 78 On other occasions, such continuities may point back to more specific events of the mythical past, as we see with the fractious relationship between Zeus and Hera in Iliad 1. Zeus accuses Hera of ‘always’ quarrelling with him and ‘always’ suspecting (αἰεί, 1.520, 561), while Hera complains that Zeus ‘always’ likes to plot apart from her and has ‘never yet’ openly revealed his intentions (αἰεί … οὐδέ τί πω, 1.541–3). On one level, these assertions characterise the pair’s unhappy marriage as an ongoing divine neikos (cf. e.g. Il. 14.158), a foil and parallel for the opening mortal conflict between Agamemnon and Achilles.Footnote 79 But they also invite us to look back to previous moments of the pair’s marital discord – especially concerning Heracles, an episode which is referenced repeatedly later in the Iliad.Footnote 80 Indeed, Hypnos makes this parallel explicit when he later claims that Hera is asking him to perform ‘another’ impossible task ‘now again’ (νῦν αὖ … ἄλλο, Il. 14.262; cf. ἤδη … καὶ ἄλλο, 249), framing Hera’s current struggle against Zeus as a replay of her former efforts (cf. §iii.2.1).
Similarly, in Iliad 1, Agamemnon upbraids Calchas for what he perceives as his consistently detrimental prophecies (Il. 1.106–8):
Prophet of evil, never yet have you told me anything good. It is always dear to your heart to prophesy evil, and never yet have you said a good word or brought it to fulfilment.
Scholars have long suspected an allusion to the sacrifice of Iphigenia here, the previous occasion on which Calchas gave the ruler some bad news.Footnote 81 Such a reference is reinforced by the generalised temporal frame (οὐ πώ ποτε … αἰεί … οὔτε τί πω), which underlines the continuity with the mythical past. Agamemnon goes on to emphasise the parallel with the present: Calchas is behaving in the same way ‘now too’ (καὶ νῦν, 109). There is a strong sense of déjà vu as events at Aulis are replayed on the Trojan shore. Indeed, Agamemnon’s fierce outburst seems to signpost a more extensive allusive engagement with the Iphigenia tradition, as the whole debate over Chryseis and her eventual return to her father replay the tale of Iphigenia’s sacrifice.Footnote 82
Finally, such repetitions do not just look back to earlier moments within a mythical fabula. They also look forward to future events within the story. When Zeus contemplates saving his son Sarpedon in Iliad 16, for example, Hera warns him of the precedent that he may set (16.445–7):
If you send Sarpedon home alive, beware that in the future some other of the gods too may want to send their own son from mighty battle.
As Currie has argued, these lines obliquely look ahead to later (ἔπειτα) episodes in the Trojan war fabula where other gods do indeed rescue their sons from the battlefield: Eos successfully appeals to Zeus to immortalise her son Memnon (Aeth. arg. 2e GEF), while Thetis snatches Achilles from his funeral pyre and conveys him to the White Isle (Aeth. arg. 4b).Footnote 83 Such a forward reference here is particularly significant given that Sarpedon appears to be an allusive doublet of Memnon, a foreign defender of Troy slain by Achilles’ substitute, Patroclus.Footnote 84 In the context of Hera’s speech, the parallel is not exact: Zeus considers sending his son home alive (ζών, 445) in contrast to Memnon’s posthumous translation. But Sarpedon’s actual fate later in the narrative proves a closer analogue to Memnon’s: Apollo rescues his corpse, which Sleep and Death convey back to Lycia (16.676–83, cf. 453–7).Footnote 85 From this perspective, Hera’s speculation that ‘some other of the gods too’ may want to rescue their son ‘in the future’ is particularly suggestive (τις ἔπειτα θεῶν … καὶ ἄλλος, 446); the traditional fabula is framed not as a fated certainty, but as a future possibility which Hera seeks to avert.Footnote 86 In comparison to the confident claims of future knowledge that we have encountered before (§iii.2.4), tradition here is parsed as a hypothetical. Yet audiences know that Hera’s fears will ultimately be fulfilled. In the end, even though Zeus does not save Sarpedon, later deities will indeed beg him to save their own sons. Here we are thus very close to the ‘future reflexive’ allusions of Hellenistic and Latin poets, where a character’s comments or actions ironically foreshadow future events of a mythological story which are already known from older tellings.Footnote 87 From the perspective of tradition, Sarpedon replays Memnon’s role, but within the context of the story, he prefigures it.Footnote 88
In both Homeric poems, therefore, cases of both inter- and intratextual repetition are frequently indexed, drawing attention to various kinds of allusive reworkings. Once more, we find a notable consistency between internal and external references. Yet as with indexical memory, the phenomenon is largely limited to the Homeric poems.Footnote 89 It too largely seems to be the preserve of narrative poetry, less relevant for Hesiod and less visible in our paltry Cyclic fragments. To close this section, however, I wish to dwell on one particularly self-conscious case of intratextual iteration in the Iliad.
Self-Quotation: Hector as Before
The most striking instance of allusive iteration in Homeric epic extends beyond repeated action and characterisation to repeated language. Near the start of Iliad 12, the Trojans are afraid of Hector, who is said to ‘fight like a whirlwind as before’ (αὐτὰρ ὅ γ’ ὡς τὸ πρόσθεν ἐμάρνατο ἶσος ἀέλλῃ, Il. 12.40). As the exegetical scholia note, this phrase looks back to the poet’s similar description of Hector in the previous book (Il. 11.295–8):Footnote 90
Priam’s son Hector, the peer of Ares, bane of mortals. He himself strode out among the foremost with high thoughts in his mind and fell on the conflict like a whirlwind that blusters and stirs the violet-hued sea as it swoops down.
Notably, these are the only two instances of ἶσος ἀέλλῃ in all extent early Greek hexameter poetry, both occurring in the same sedes.Footnote 91 Of course, the phrase may be an under-attested formula. Elsewhere in Homer, ἷσος is paired with other nouns to produce comparable short similes (including θύελλα, ‘hurricane’, and λαῖλαψ, ‘tempest’),Footnote 92 and the Trojans are once compared to ‘a blast of dire winds’ in similar language (ἀργαλέων ἀνέμων ἀτάλαντοι ἀέλλῃ, Il. 13.795). But even if the phrase is an underrepresented formula (which is by no means certain), its unique repetition in close proximity is significant, marking the continuity in Hector’s actions – not only is he still fighting the Achaeans as he was before, but he is doing so in precisely the same manner.Footnote 93 The abbreviated length of the Iliad 12 simile (a single half-verse) even seems to nod to this repetition: it presupposes the fuller, prior version from the previous book. Homer practically quotes himself, and by accompanying the verbal repetition with the indexical ὡς τὸ πρόσθεν, he acknowledges this iterative act.
On a larger structural scale, this repetition also marks the narrative’s return to battle after several lengthy interludes: Patroclus’ visit to the loquacious Nestor (11.596–848) and the narrator’s proleptic digression on the Greek wall (12.1–35). In an elaborate ring composition, the narrator resumes the battle narrative where he left off. Strikingly, this ring composition also has a chiastic form. In Book 11, the whirlwind simile follows another which compares Hector to a huntsman facing a wild boar or lion (11.292–5: καπρίῳ ἠὲ λέοντι, 293); in Book 12, by contrast, it immediately precedes one which compares Hector to a wild boar or lion (12.41–50: κάπριος ἠὲ λέων, 42). Such wild beasts are common vehicles of Homeric similes, of which the boar and lion form a recurring pair,Footnote 94 but the language here is particularly close. In fact, these similes are the only two pairings of κάπριος and λέων throughout the whole poem.Footnote 95 This unique repetition, alongside the careful symmetry, invites us to make more of the connection: although Hector is still fighting like a whirlwind, he is now more like a beast than a hunter – a significant reversal. Moreover, this beast is notably killed by its own courage (ἀγηνορίη δέ μιν ἔκτα, 12.46), a detail which foreshadows Hector’s future fate and echoes Andromache’s earlier fear that his fury would kill him (φθίσει σε τὸ σὸν μένος, Il. 6.407).Footnote 96 Within the larger context of Book 12, this foreboding is particularly appropriate, as Hector is about to disregard Polydamas’ advice, displaying an impetuousness that will eventually lead to his downfall (12.229–50).
This temporal index thus signposts a direct intratextual quotation within the Iliad, reinforcing the close connection between these two passages. In part, the indexed echo marks the resumption of the narrative proper, but it also has a larger resonance for the poem as a whole, enriching our appreciation of Hector’s character and fate. Such carefully signposted iteration brings us very close to the literate poetics of a later age.
IV.2.3 Epic Epigonality
As we have seen above (§iv.2.1–2), the indexical potential of time extended throughout archaic Greek epic. It was largely employed to evoke other episodes in an encyclopaedic manner, gesturing to the larger map of tradition, but it could also play a more supplementary role (acknowledging other parts of Trojan myth mentioned in passing) or bear an agonistic edge (as with Hesiod and Aulis/Euboea). So far, we have noted plentiful examples of the first two categories of temporal indexicality, but no real example of the third, epigonal self-consciousness. In extant archaic epic, we find no direct invocations of poetic predecessors, a stark foil to later epic poets’ direct naming of their forebears (Statius and the ‘divine Aeneid’, divinam Aeneida, Theb. 12.816–17; Nonnus and ‘father Homer’, πατρὸς Ὁμήρου, Dion. 25.265).Footnote 97 This absence largely reflects the predominantly anonymous persona of archaic epic (especially in Homer), as well as the prominence of the epic Muse: as we have noted before, the ‘fiction’ of the Muses conceals the reality of bardic education and transmission.Footnote 98 The poets’ self-presentation did not permit a direct invocation of their πρότεροι.
Yet even so, there remains an underlying tension in the temporal framework of both the Iliad and Odyssey which may enact the poet’s relationship with his predecessors on a more implicit level. As we have seen, the Iliadic Nestor repeatedly contrasts the grandeur of the past with the more mundane present (§iv.2.1). From his very first appearance in the poem, he unfavourably compares the men of the present with those of the past: mortals today are no match for the Lapiths and Centaurs of old (Il. 1.260–72, esp. 271–2), who were emphatically κάρτιστοι (‘mightiest’, 1.266, 267, 267) – superior even to Achilles, who is merely καρτερός (‘mighty’, 1.280, cf. 1.178).Footnote 99 Yet Nestor is far from alone in invoking such an intergenerational contrast.Footnote 100 Elsewhere in the Iliad, Diomedes is criticised by both Agamemnon and Athena for not living up to the standards of his father (4.370–400, 5.800–13; §ii.2.2),Footnote 101 Tlepolemus asserts that his rival Sarpedon is far inferior to those warriors who were born to Zeus ‘in previous generations of men’ (ἐπὶ προτέρων ἀνθρώπων, 5.637; §ii.2.4) and Antilochus complains of the honour which the gods offer ‘older men’ (παλαιοτέρους ἀνθρώπους, 23.788), since he cannot compete with Odysseus, who is ‘of an earlier generation and of earlier men’ (προτέρης γενεῆς προτέρων τ’ ἀνθρώπων, 23.790). Even Hector’s prayer for Astyanax to be superior to his father proves tragically unfulfilled (Il. 6.476–81). In the Odyssey, meanwhile, Telemachus too faces an underlying pressure to live up to his father Odysseus (2.270–80, 3.122–5, 16.300), who in turn faces the precedent of even earlier generations. In Scheria, he claims that he would ‘not attempt to rival men of the past’, like Heracles or Eurytus of Oechalia (ἀνδράσι δὲ προτέροισιν ἐριζέμεν οὐκ ἐθελήσω, | οὔθ’ Ἡρακλῆϊ οὔτ’ Εὐρύτῳ Οἰχαλιῆϊ, Od. 8.223–4). Ultimately, as the disguised Athena tells Telemachus, ‘few sons equal their father; most are inferior, and only a few are better’ (παῦροι γάρ τοι παῖδες ὁμοῖοι πατρὶ πέλονται, | οἱ πλέονες κακίους, παῦροι δέ τε πατρὸς ἀρείους, Od. 2.276–7). Homer’s heroes constantly live in the shadow of their predecessors.Footnote 102
Given the degree of self-consciousness that we have encountered elsewhere in Homer, it would be attractive to interpret these epigonal moments as an implicit model for Homer’s own relationship to his epic forebears and the pre-existing tradition.Footnote 103 After all, this nagging contrast between past and present explicitly extends to the narrator’s own day when he acknowledges the greater strength of his heroes: not even two men of the present could match the strength of a Diomedes or a Hector in lifting rocks (Il. 5.302–4, 12.445–9, 20.285–7; cf. 12.381–3). It is not only Homer’s characters that feel the burden of living up to the past, but also the contemporary world of the poet himself. Given this complementarity, we may be justified in seeing the heroes’ anxious expressions of epigonality as an index of the poet’s own tense relationship with tradition. Scodel has previously suggested such a metapoetic reading, arguing that the modesty of Homer’s heroes reflects the poet’s deference to tradition: ‘as his characters stand in awe of the mighty men of the past … so the poet views other styles of epic with respect’.Footnote 104 It is certainly true that the Homeric poems present themselves as direct heirs to a deep tradition of great achievement. But I am less prepared to see this always as a simple expression of meek submission. Rather, I contend that these assertions of epigonality can also exhibit an eristic drive comparable to that we have encountered elsewhere: despite the overbearing burden of the past, neither Homer nor his characters are fully resigned to an inferior status.
Diomedes versus Tydeus: Troy versus Thebes
Such agonistic epigonality is clearest when a Homeric son explicitly matches or even surpasses his father, resisting the rhetoric of perpetual decline. As we have previously seen, both Agamemnon and Athena accuse Diomedes of failing to live up to his father’s standards in the Iliad (4.370–400, 5.800–13), and Tydeus’ shadow continues to linger over his son through the repeated use of his patronymic Τυδεΐδης (§ii.2.2). However, such a narrative of filial inferiority is only one way of formulating the pair’s relationship. Diomedes himself, by contrast, sees far more continuity between himself and his father. During his aristeia, he asks Athena to assist him ‘now in turn’ (νῦν αὖτ’) as she had ‘once’ (ποτέ) supported Tydeus (5.116–17), and before the Doloneia he similarly bids her ‘hear me now too’ (κέκλυθι νῦν καὶ ἐμεῖο, 10.284) and ‘follow me as when you followed my father’ (σπεῖό μοι ὡς ὅτε πατρὶ ἅμ’ ἕσπεο, 10.285). In his mind, there is a natural parallelism between the goddess’ support of the different generations, reinforced by the balanced temporal adverbs and the chiastic symmetry of σπεῖό μοι … πατρὶ … ἕσπεο.Footnote 105 Before facing Pandarus and Aeneas, meanwhile, Diomedes boasts that it is ‘not in my blood to fight skulking or to cower’ (οὐ γάρ μοι γενναῖον ἀλυσκάζοντι μάχεσθαι | οὐδὲ καταπτώσσειν, 5.253–4), a claim which asserts his likeness to his father and implicitly counters Agamemnon’s earlier criticism (τί πτώσσεις, ‘why are you cowering?’, 4.371).Footnote 106 From Diomedes’ perspective, he equals the exploits of Tydeus. He stresses the continuity across generations, a stance which might also hint at Homer’s parity with Theban tradition.
However, this intergenerational relationship could also be painted in a more competitive light. In immediate response to Agamemnon’s criticism in Book 4, Diomedes’ companion Sthenelus asserts his own and Diomedes’ superiority to their fathers (Il. 4.403–10):
But the son of illustrious Capaneus answered: ‘Son of Atreus, don’t tell lies when you know the clear truth. We claim to be far better than our fathers: we actually captured the seat of seven-gated Thebes, even though we brought a smaller force against a stronger wall, because we trusted in the portents of the gods and the help of Zeus. But they perished through their own recklessness. So do not ever set our fathers in equal honour with us.’
Contrary to Agamemnon’s allegations, Sthenelus asserts that Diomedes outdoes his father, who is no paradigm worth emulating. Sthenelus and Diomedes succeeded where their parents had failed, sacking Thebes even when the odds were against them. They were the ones who successfully trusted the gods’ portents (πειθόμενοι τεράεσσι θεῶν, 4.408), not Tydeus, as Agamemnon had claimed (θεῶν τεράεσσι πιθήσας, 4.398). And they also profited from Zeus’s help (Ζηνὸς ἀρωγῇ, 4.408), an extra detail which combatively caps Agamemnon’s account: they even had the king of the gods on their side.Footnote 107 Tydeus, by contrast, perished alongside the rest of the Seven through their own folly (σφετέρῃσιν ἀτασθαλίῃσιν ὄλοντο, 4.409), an expression which recurs only once elsewhere in Greek poetry to describe the recklessness of Odysseus’ companions in the Odyssey (Od. 1.7); like them, the Seven’s intransigence and impiety caused their downfall.Footnote 108 Within an explicitly generational frame (ἡμεῖς … πατέρων, 4.405; μοι πατέρας, 4.410), Sthenelus’ speech thus establishes a clear contrast between father and son in pointedly agonistic terms: the younger warrior, now at Troy, surpasses his father who fought at Thebes.Footnote 109
For the Iliad’s relationship with Theban myth, this intergenerational opposition can be interpreted in at least two ways. The first is to see the presence of the Theban Epigonoi at Troy as an implicit threat to the Iliadic narrative, especially since Sthenelus’ arguments for the superiority of the Epigonoi can be directed as much against Agamemnon and the Iliad as against the tradition of the Seven.Footnote 110 The Epigonoi succeeded with a small force against a stronger defence (Il. 4.407), whereas Agamemnon has so far failed to sack Troy despite mustering an army which far outnumbers the Trojans (cf. Il. 2.119–30, 8.55–6, 13.737–9, 15.405–7); and the Epigonoi succeeded by heeding the gods’ signs (Il. 4.408), a stark contrast to Agamemnon’s arrogant disregard of the divine at the outset of the poem (e.g. 1.28). On this reading, the Trojan war (and Homer’s account of it) risks being overshadowed by the former achievements of these Theban warriors.
However, this interpretation overplays the externality of this threat. As Laura Slatkin notes, Diomedes’ following rebuke of Sthenelus (Il. 4.411–18) and his later words of support for the expedition (Il. 9.32–49) ultimately place him ‘and his companion firmly within the Achaean cohort’, seamlessly incorporating these former Theban warriors into Agamemnon’s and Homer’s Panhellenic project.Footnote 111 Indeed, Diomedes insists that he and Sthenelus have come to Troy ‘with the aid of a god’ (σὺν γὰρ θεῷ εἰλήλουθμεν, 9.49), just as they had come to Thebes with divine favour (πειθόμενοι τεράεσσι θεῶν, 4.408). Far from being a threat to the Achaean mission, they are an integral part of it: the most successful figures of the Theban tradition have been subsumed within Homer’s Trojan narrative. From this perspective, their superiority to their fathers may stand as a symbol for Homer’s own supremacy over this Theban tradition, despite his junior – even ‘epigonal’ – status.Footnote 112 Elton Barker and Joel Christensen have effectively demonstrated how this wider Iliadic scene sets Tydeus’ solitary Achillean heroism against the larger Iliadic ethos of collaboration and collective achievement.Footnote 113 But we should add that it also implies a more direct disparity between the fortunes of the Seven and the Greeks at Troy: Zeus’s signs of ill will when Tydeus visited Mycenae (παραίσια σήματα, Il. 4.381) directly contrast with the positive signals he offered at the start of the Trojan expedition (ἐναίσιμα σήματα, Il. 2.353).Footnote 114 If Pindar’s specification that Zeus failed to hurl propitious lightning for the Seven (οὐδὲ Κρονίων ἀστεροπὰν ἐλελίξαις, Nem. 9.19) draws on earlier Theban traditions, as Braswell has suggested,Footnote 115 the contrast would be even more direct: it was precisely Zeus’s auspicious lightning that marked the departure of the Greeks to Troy (ἀστράπτων ἐπιδέξι’, Il. 2.353). Agamemnon’s troops, like the Epigonoi, are set to succeed where the Seven failed.
Homer’s evocation of Theban myth thus has a distinctively agonistic edge, defining the Iliad against the failed heroism of a rival tradition’s older generation. Other archaic poets often presented Trojan and Theban war traditions on a par with each other;Footnote 116 yet Homer was clearly not content with such parity and instead implies his own poetic supremacy. He appropriates the successful Epigonoi for his present narrative and distances himself from the failings of the Seven, offering perhaps the earliest Greek instance of generational succession as an intertextual trope.Footnote 117 But what makes this poetic polemic so striking is how it reverses the common epic pattern of generational decline and the unreachability of the past. In contrast to Hesiod’s ‘Myth of Races’ (Op. 109–201) and the repeated Homeric refrain of the greater strength of past heroes (Il. 5.302–4, 12.381–3, 12.445–9, 20.285–7), in this case the younger and newer generation proves superior: Diomedes surpasses Tydeus and Homer outshines Theban myth.
Odysseus’ Katabatic Predecessors
A similarly agonistic stance is visible in Odysseus’ relationship with the older heroes whom he encounters in the Nekyia of Odyssey 11. All the figures whom he meets in the Underworld can plausibly be read as representatives of different literary traditions, embracing female catalogues, Trojan myth, moral didacticism and other epic tales.Footnote 118 Crucially, however, Odysseus’ encounter with these various mythical characters is retrospectively framed in temporal terms (11.628–30):
But I stayed there where I was, in the hope that some other of the heroic men who perished long ago might still come. And now I would have seen yet more men of former generations, whom I longed to see.
The narrative closes with Odysseus hoping that he could have seen more ‘men of former generations’ (προτέρους … ἀνέρας, 630) who had died ‘long ago’ (τὸ πρόσθεν, 629). The emphasis on these figures’ anteriority stresses Odysseus’ position as an epigone, interacting with a whole range of πρότεροι – a dynamic which equally applies to Homer’s relationship with these other myths, a tapestry of prior tales against which he works.
It is particularly significant, then, that this gesture to predecessors is flanked by references to several heroes who provide a direct model for Odysseus’ current katabatic activity. The final figure whom Odysseus has encountered in the Underworld is Heracles, who explicitly recounted his own former katabasis (11.617–26):
Zeus-sprung son of Laertes, Odysseus of many stratagems, ah, poor man, do you too then drag out a wretched fate like that I endured beneath the rays of the sun? I was a child of Zeus, Cronus’ son, but I had woe without limit. For I was made subject to a man much my inferior, who tasked me with arduous labours. Once he even sent me here to fetch the dog of Hades; for he thought that no other labour would be harder for me than this. But I took up the dog and brought it out of Hades. Hermes and grey-eyed Athena escorted me.
The hero recalls his quest in search of Cerberus, an episode whose traditionality is guaranteed by other mentions across archaic Greek epic (Il. 8.362–9, Hes. Theog. 310–12), indexed here through ποτέ (11.623).Footnote 119 Scholars have noted how the narrative at this moment implicitly signals Homer’s debt to Heracles’ earlier katabasis as a model for Odysseus’ current adventure.Footnote 120 In particular, Heracles’ καὶ σύ (11.618) indexes the parallel as a case of intertextual repetition: Odysseus ‘too’, just like Heracles, is a man who faces difficult labours (ἀέθλους, Od. 11.622, ἄεθλον, 11.624; cf. Od. 1.18, 4.170, 4.241).Footnote 121
What has not been stressed before, however, is the fact that this intertextual reading can equally be extended to the following heroes whom Odysseus wishes he could have also met. After expressing his desire to see more ‘men of former generations’ (προτέρους … ἀνέρας, 11.630), he immediately specifies two such individuals: Theseus and Peirithous (Θησέα Περίθοόν τε, 11.631). According to Plutarch, Hereas of Megara considered this verse a Peisistratid interpolation, designed ‘to please the Athenians’ through the prominent mention of the Attic hero Theseus (χαριζόμενον Ἀθηναίοις, Plut. Vit. Thes. 20.2).Footnote 122 But we should be wary of taking this claim at face value, not only because of Hereas’ potential anti-Athenian bias given his Mergarian roots, but also because the verse appears consistently in the manuscript tradition and is commented upon by the scholia – unlike other such suspected Peisistratid interpolations.Footnote 123 Moreover, following on from the meeting with Heracles, the mention of this pair is in fact very well motivated: they too had a katabatic tradition attached to their name, involving Peirithous’ attempt to steal Persephone and make her his own bride. The myth had an archaic pedigree: according to Pausanias, it featured in both the epic Minyas (10.28.2) and an apparently different work attributed to Hesiod (9.31.5), so it would have likely been familiar to at least some of Homer’s audience.Footnote 124 Having just encountered one of his katabatic predecessors, Odysseus thus hopes to come across two more.Footnote 125 His hope ultimately proves unfulfilled, but it nevertheless continues to foreground the Odyssey’s relationship to earlier myth. Theseus and Peirithous join Heracles as Odysseus’ katabatic πρότεροι, highlighting Homer’s mythical models for this episode.
As with Diomedes’ relationship to Tydeus, so too here there is a distinctly competitive edge to Odysseus’ engagement with these mythical predecessors. Although Odysseus humbly claimed in Scheria that he would not rival men of the past like Heracles (Od. 8.223–4), his katabatic encounter with that very hero can be read in pointedly eristic terms.Footnote 126 Far from proving inferior to Heracles, Odysseus matches him in many respects: he too completes a katabasis, the most dangerous of Heracles’ various ἄεθλοι (cf. 11.624), and performs ‘wondrous deeds’ which parallel the scenes depicted on Heracles’ belt (θέσκελα ἔργα, Od. 11.374 = 11.610).Footnote 127 Later in the poem, he is also described in a staunchly Heraclean mode by the dead suitor Amphimedon, who recalls Odysseus ‘glancing about terribly’ just like Heracles in the first Nekyia – a unique and meaningful Homeric repetition (δεινὸν παπταίνων, Od. 24.179 = 11.608).Footnote 128 By killing the suitors with the bow of Eurytus (another predecessor: Od. 8.224), Odysseus ultimately accomplishes a feat which sets him on a par with these heroes of an earlier generation.Footnote 129
But as with Diomedes and Tydeus, Odysseus’ relationship to Heracles can also be framed as one of superiority, not just parity. Whereas Heracles had relied on the divine help of Hermes and Athena in his katabasis (11.626), Odysseus stresses that he accomplished his mission independently, without a guide (Od. 10.501–5).Footnote 130 Moreover, within the Underworld itself, Heracles is pictured as always being on the verge of shooting his bow but never quite doing so (αἰεὶ βαλέοντι ἐοικώς, 11.608), a ‘perpetual failure’, which as Vayos Liapis notes, ‘will be counterbalanced by Odysseus’ successful killing of the suitors with his own bow’ later in the poem.Footnote 131 In the present, Odysseus’ archery is more potent than that of his predecessor. And in more general terms, Odysseus also proves morally superior by maintaining and restoring the proper norms of hospitality in his final deed, a contrast to Heracles, who violated xenia by killing Iphitus (21.27–9).Footnote 132 Odysseus emerges as the more civil, more independent and more successful hero.
The same competitive relationship also applies to Odysseus’ relationship with Theseus and Peirithous. These heroes are only named in a passing reference, but well-versed audience members would have known that their attempts to steal Persephone were ultimately unsuccessful and in fact left the heroes trapped in the Underworld – at least for some time, if not for all eternity.Footnote 133 In one variant of the tale, they became immobilised and fixed to the seat beneath them, as the rock grew into their flesh,Footnote 134 while in another, they were guarded or bound by snakes.Footnote 135 If these versions were known already in Homer’s day, they would particularly resonate with the fear which forces Odysseus to retreat from the Underworld (11.633–5):
Pale fear seized hold of me, that queen Persephone might send against me out of Hades the head of the Gorgon, that terrible monster.
Odysseus is afraid that Persephone – the very goddess whom his predecessors had attempted to steal – will send a Gorgon against him, a monster famous for its petrifying gaze and serpentine associations.Footnote 136 In leaving the Underworld before seeing Theseus and Peirithous, he thus avoids following their fate: he is neither fixed perpetually in stone nor bound in place by serpents. In contrast to that pair, he has successfully navigated his Nekyia, retrieved the information required from Teiresias and safely returned to the ‘real world’; he thus outdoes these mythical predecessors, steering clear of their former mistakes. Although the Iliadic Nestor had classed Theseus and Peirithous among the ‘mightiest men’ of previous generations with whom none of his present allies could compete (Il. 1.263–8), Odysseus’ deeds in fact surpass theirs. In spite of his protestations of inferiority (Od. 8.223–4), Odysseus’ actions prove superior to those of the previous generation – a superiority which we can once more map onto Homer’s own relationship to tradition.
In both the Iliad and the Odyssey, therefore, Homeric heroes’ fraught relations with their predecessors involve moments not only of meek inferiority, but also of intense competition. Given the larger intergenerational tensions of both poems, I have suggested that these may stand as an analogy for Homer’s own relationship with tradition. The poet does not directly compare himself to his πρότεροι, but he does so implicitly through the anxieties voiced by his characters, and the various interactions which his heroes have with figures of the earlier generation. It is worth stressing that this intergenerational agonism is not limited to the masculine sphere either: we have previously seen the same phenomenon with the Odyssean Penelope who proves superior to the finest women of old (§ii.2.4). As Homeric characters rival their πρότεροι, so too do the Homeric poems compete with other mythical traditions.
Cyclic Epigonality
An epigonal self-consciousness also pervades our wider corpus of archaic epic, especially the Epic Cycle. Many of the Cylic epics show a strong interest in intergenerational relationships and raise the question of whether a son can live up to the standards of their father. As in both the Iliad and Odyssey, this concern seems to map onto an individual poem’s relationship with its wider tradition, or even specific poetic predecessors.
This phenomenon is most obvious in the Theban Cyclic tradition, given the underlying contrast between the efforts of the Seven and the Epigonoi. We have very few extant fragments of Theban epic, but the opening of the Cyclic Epigonoi clearly highlights its secondary status. The narrator invites the Muses to begin ‘now, in turn’ on the ‘younger men’ (νῦν αὖθ’ ὁπλοτέρων ἀνδρῶν ἀρχώμεθα, Μοῦσαι, fr. 1 GEF). In a single line, temporal adverbs combine with the Nestorian language of youth to position the poem as a sequel to the Thebaid.Footnote 137 In particular, αὖθ’ (‘in turn’/‘again’) marks this transition to a new but related composition, a process of both repetition and change.Footnote 138 We cannot know to what extent such epigonal posturing extended beyond this first line, but ancient readers appear to have been attuned to the sequence it implies: the Contest of Homer and Hesiod, which preserves this verse, claims that Homer ‘first’ recited the Thebaid, before ‘then’ moving on to the Epigonoi (πρῶτον μὲν τὴν Θηβαΐδα … εἶτα Ἐπιγόνους, Cert. 15). Whether or not both poems were composed by the same poet,Footnote 139 the generational succession embedded in Theban myth extends here – as in Iliad 4 – to the poet’s relationship with his poetic heritage.
Such belatedness is also manifest more indirectly in the Trojan Cyclic tradition.Footnote 140 Sammons has recently demonstrated how the structure of several Cyclic epics pivots around a contrast between the younger and older generation. In both the Little Iliad and Nostoi, Achilles’ son Neoptolemus appears to have gradually emerged from the shadow of a more senior hero, as the second half of an ‘anticipatory doublet’.Footnote 141 From what we can discern from Proclus’ summaries, at first he follows the example of the older, better-established hero, but he soon surpasses his model and ‘takes over’ the narrative himself. In the Little Iliad, he initially parallels Philoctetes: both are fetched from an island (Lemnos, arg. 2b / Scyros, arg. 3a), grow in strength in the Greek camp (Philoctetes is cured, arg. 2c / Neoptolemus receives his father’s arms, arg. 3a) and defeat a major adversary (Paris, arg. 2c / Eurypylus, arg. 3d); but Neoptolemus then appears to have continued playing more of a major role in the narrative, featuring prominently in the sack of Troy and its aftermath (fr. 29 GEF). In the Nostoi, meanwhile, Neoptolemus’ overland journey home (arg. 4) parallels that which Calchas had already attempted by land (arg. 2). Both journeys likely involved a divine warning (Calchas’ through his prophetic ability: cf. Quint. Smyrn. 14.360–3; Neoptolemus’ through Thetis: arg. 4a), and both featured the death and burial of a prominent elder (Calchas himself, arg. 2; Achilles’ adviser Phoenix, arg. 4c).Footnote 142 As in the Little Iliad, however, Neoptolemus appears to outdo his elder’s exploits: not only does he survive his journey, but he also receives a fuller narrative treatment, given his various encounters with Thetis (arg. 4a), Odysseus (arg. 4b) and Peleus (arg. 4c). As far as we can tell from Proclus’ summaries, an intergenerational contrast underpinned the very structure of both works. By the end of each, Neoptolemus had surpassed the exploits of the older generation.
In both poems, this intergenerational dynamic is also reinforced by the overbearing shadow of Neoptolemus’ father, Achilles. In the Little Iliad, Neoptolemus is visited by his father’s ghost (arg. 3b); his first victim (Eurypylus, arg. 3c–d) parallels both Achilles’ first (Telephus, Eurypylus’ father) and last (Memnon, Od. 11.522); and his savage refusal of Astynous’ supplication (Il. Parv. fr. 21 GEF) mirrors Achilles’ treatment of Lycaon (Il. 21.34–135). His actions closely replay those of his father in the previous generation, a kind of role-playing which is symbolised by his acquisition of his father’s armour (arg. 3a). Unlike Patroclus’ flawed attempt at Achilles-imitation (Il. 16.140–4), he receives his father’s full panoply, spear and all (fr. 5 GEF).Footnote 143 This intergenerational re-enactment is felt even more strongly, however, in another surviving fragment from the Little Iliad (fr. 29 GEF):
But the glorious son of great-hearted Achilles led Hector’s wife down to the hollow ships; he seized their child from the bosom of the fair-tressed nurse, grabbing him by the foot, and hurled him from the tower; when he fell, dark death and strong fate took him.
In this passage, Neoptolemus mercilessly kills Hector’s son Astyanax, replaying the conflict of Achilles and Hector in the next generation and with the same outcome: the death of the Trojan prince. This intergenerational repetition is reinforced by the poet’s use of onomastic periphrases, introducing each character through their relation to these now-dead heroes: Neoptolemus is ‘Achilles’ son’ (Ἀχιλλῆος … υἱός), Andromache ‘Hector’s wife’ (Ἑκτορέην ἄλοχον) and Astyanax – by implication – Hector’s ‘child’ (παῖδα).Footnote 144 Just like the insistent use of Diomedes’ patronymic in the Iliad, this naming practice foregrounds the younger generation’s epigonal status: Neoptolemus is constantly treading in his father’s footsteps.
The same Achillean shadow also seems to hang over Neoptolemus’ conduct in the Nostoi. Not only does Achilles’ ghost appear to the Greeks before they depart (arg. 3a, cf. Il. Parv. arg. 3b GEF), but the whole narrative seems to emphasise Neoptolemus’ relationship with Achilles through the prominent presence of Achilles’ parents (Thetis and Peleus), as well as his surrogate father (Phoenix: cf. Il. 9.485–91). Indeed, Neoptolemus’ whole nostos is framed by encounters with his paternal grandparents: he sets out with the help and advice of Thetis (arg. 4a GEF) and completes his journey by being recognised by Peleus (arg. 4c GEF).Footnote 145 Throughout his expedition, he is implicitly set in relation to his deceased father.
In both the Little Iliad and Nostoi, therefore, Neoptolemus emerges as an epigonal figure. In the structure of each poem, he imitates and outdoes both Philoctetes and Calchas, but he is also constantly juxtaposed to his father Achilles.Footnote 146 Our limited access to the texts of these epics prevents us from determining to what extent these relationships were further indexed in temporal terms as in the Iliad and Odyssey, but we may well suspect that they were. In any case, as in both Homeric epics, this intergenerational positioning may also reflect each epic’s own relationship to the wider literary tradition. Sammons has proposed something along these lines, arguing that the Little Iliad and Nostoi, as post-Homeric compositions, ‘are aware of themselves as “coming after” Homer’s Iliad’; by dwelling on Neoptolemus, he suggests, they reject the notion of a cataclysmic end of the heroic age and assert that the epic tradition ‘was not a closed corpus’.Footnote 147 Neoptolemus takes up Achilles’ mantle just as these Cyclic epics succeed the Iliad, an assertion of literary expansion and continuity. However, here too, we should not elide the underlying sense of competition. We have already noted how Neoptolemus surpasses members of the older generation (Philoctetes and Calchas), but he also – at one key point – breaks free from his father’s example. In contrast to Achilles’ sympathetic treatment of Priam at the end of the Iliad, Neoptolemus ruthlessly slaughters the Trojan king during the sack of Troy, impiously dragging him from the altar of Zeus (Il. Parv. fr. 25 GEF; Il. Pers. arg. 2c).Footnote 148 All the other parallels that we have traced between father and son serve to underlie this crucial difference, one which paints Neoptolemus as more violent, bloodthirsty and sacrilegious than his predecessor.
In various Cyclic epics, therefore, just like the Homeric poems, intergenerational tensions may figure a poem’s relationship with its literary predecessors. The above interpretations are just that – interpretations. They cannot be decisively proved, but given archaic epic’s broader concern with intergenerational decline, these rare moments where a younger hero rivals or even outdoes his predecessors are striking, and it is attractive to read them as a comment on an individual poem’s epigonal relationship to its tradition.
Notably, these examples of intergenerational competition go against the commonly celebrated ‘co-operative’ relationship of father and son in Homeric society.Footnote 149 Of course, such a dynamic can be overplayed: Greek epic offers several examples of strained filial relationships.Footnote 150 But what sets our examples apart from the co-operative pattern is the fact that in every main case the predecessors in question are already dead: Tydeus, Heracles, Theseus, Peirithous and Achilles.Footnote 151 This absence ensures a distance between epigone and πρότερος which allows for a more competitive relationship.Footnote 152 Yet it also ties into a broader association of literary and mythological history (the Underworld as the natural home for older heroes and older traditions), an association which is key to the metapoetic reading I have advanced above.
Finally, it is worth noting that not all our interpretations here have been as closely tied to specific indexical words as in our other discussions: Odysseus pictures Heracles, Theseus and Peirithous as πρότεροι who died in former times (τὸ πρόσθεν, Od. 11.629–30), and the Epigonoi begins ‘now in turn’ (νῦν αὖθ’, fr. 1 GEF), but in the cases of the Iliadic Diomedes and the Cyclic Neoptolemus, we are dealing with a more thematic association. When it comes to the Cycle, this may reflect our very limited access to the original texts, but with the Iliad, we simply have a more implicit figuring of allusive relations. As we shall see later, however, such positioning against predecessors was to become an even more explicit and important part of later lyric poets’ literary posturing (§iv.3.3).
Already in early Greek hexameter poetry, therefore, we find traces of all three categories of temporal indexicality with which we began. Time proved an active trope to figure a poet’s relationship with other texts and traditions, with both an encyclopaedic and an agonistic edge. Temporal indices signpost passing references to other traditions, as well as more pointed replays of tradition, while epic heroes’ epigonal relationships with their πρότεροι figure the tensions of the poet’s relationship with his predecessors. Together, these various temporal indices map out the larger tradition against which epic poets situate their own epigonal work.
IV.3 Lyric Temporalities
The indexical potential of time is even more active in archaic Greek lyric, a corpus of poetry that is intimately concerned with occasion, performance and the interconnections of past and present.Footnote 153 Although lyric poetry focuses largely on contemporary events and situations, lyric poets often evoke moments of myth or history as parallels for the present. We saw above that cases of poetic memory were surprisingly rare in lyric poetry (§iii.3), but time – by contrast – is a recurrent concern. As in epic, references to earlier events of the literary tradition are frequently framed in overtly temporal terms, marking lyric poets’ epigonal relationship with their literary heritage (§iv.3.1). Yet even more explicitly, the frequently personal voices of lyric prompt a far greater awareness of the repetitive nature of poetic composition (§iv.3.2), as well as numerous direct references to earlier poetic predecessors (§iv.3.3).
IV.3.1 Once upon a Time
Let us start with lyric poets’ more general appeals to poetic antiquity – occasions when they knowingly gesture to the literary past. As in Homer, earlier episodes from the mythological and literary tradition are often signposted as ancient and venerable traditions, framing the audience’s and poet’s relationships with them in temporal terms. Here too, these indices frequently signpost brief allusive references.
Invoking the Past
Such temporal indices are visible from our earliest extant lyric poets onwards, where they seem to introduce relatively brief mythical allusions, as in Homer. Archilochus’ Telephus elegy introduces the mythical exemplum of the Achaeans’ retreat on Mysia with κ̣α̣ί̣ π̣οτ̣[ε] (‘once too’, fr. 17a.5), marking the familiarity of the myth, as known from the Cypria and elsewhere (§ii.3.1 Footnote n. 199). Similarly, Alcman introduces the myth of Odysseus and Circe with a Doric inflection of the same phrase, pointing to well-known Odyssean traditions (fr. 80): καί ποκ’ Ὀδυσσῆος ταλασίφρονος ὤατ’ ἑταίρων | Κίρκα ἐπαλείψασα (‘And once Circe, after anointing the ears of stout-hearted Odysseus’ companions’).Footnote 154 We have already seen Sappho introduce her mention of Leda’s egg with a ποτά alongside φαῖσι (fr. 166: §ii.3.1), while Alcaeus too uses the same adverb, apparently to introduce the story of Phalanthus, the Spartan founder of Tarentum (ποτ’ ἐξεπε.[, fr. 7.7).Footnote 155
A particularly loaded use of the temporal adverb occurs in the hymnic proem of the first book of the Theognidea. After two invocations of Apollo and one of Artemis, the poet calls on the Muses and Graces, recalling their former presence at the wedding of Cadmus and Harmonia (Thgn. 15–18):Footnote 156
Muses and Graces, daughters of Zeus, you who once came to Cadmus’ wedding and sang a beautiful utterance: ‘What is beautiful is dear, what is not beautiful is not dear.’ This is the utterance that came through your immortal mouths.
This wedding was a well-established mythical episode, which the brevity of this Theognidean reference presupposes: the myth features already in Hesiod’s Theogony (Theog. 937, 975) and Pindar’s third Pythian ode, singing Muses and all (Pyth. 3.88–99, esp. 90 μελπομενᾶν … Μοισᾶν).Footnote 157 Given its prominent proemial position, immediately before the poet’s sphragis, the recollection here appears to have a particularly programmatic function: the Muses’ and Graces’ quoted verse exploits the polysemous range of καλός to praise not just moral goodness and nobility, a key concern of the Theognidea, but also aesthetic and poetic beauty.Footnote 158 What matters more specifically for us here, however, is the manner in which this famous mythical episode is signposted as a past event (ποτέ).Footnote 159 In part, this adverb contrasts the distant world of myth, when gods and mortals mingled and married (cf. Hes. fr. 1.6–7), with the Theognidean present of ‘moral and social decline’ (e.g. Thgn. 39–52, 183–92).Footnote 160 But it also indexes this marriage as a past and pre-existing tradition – and one, moreover, which is pointedly epic: the goddesses’ gnome is explicitly called an ἔπος in the lines that precede and follow it (Thgn. 1.16, 18), perhaps prompting an audience to recall pre-existing hexameter traditions of the Theban marriage.Footnote 161
The content of the quoted verse also reinforces this impression. Although the phrase was apparently proverbial by the fifth century,Footnote 162 it appears to have retained a specific association with Cadmus. In Euripides’ Phoenissae, the chorus offer a variation of the phrase shortly before mentioning the same Theban marriage,Footnote 163 while the sentiment reappears as a refrain in the third stasimon of the Bacchae, at the very moment when Pentheus, Cadmus’ grandson, unwittingly heads to his death. With grim irony, the dynasty’s origins are recalled at the demise of its last representative (ὅτι καλὸν φίλον αἰεί, Bacch. 881 = 901).Footnote 164 Given the phrase’s recurring association with Cadmus’ family, it is tempting to see Theognis self-consciously citing a famous verse associated with the marriage. Eric Dodds suspects Hesiod as the ultimate source,Footnote 165 but given our absence of further evidence, it makes more sense to speak of Theban epic tradition in general, a tradition which – as we have already seen – was a rich source of allusive material from Homer onwards (§ii.2.2; iv.2.3). Once more, we thus have an allusive evocation of other traditions signalled in temporal terms, here with the additional prompt of a generic cue.
Such temporal indexing of other myths and traditions is especially prominent in the odes of Pindar.Footnote 166 In Nemean 3, the poet sets out to celebrate Aegina, the land ‘where the Myrmidons of old dwelled’ with their ‘long-famed assembly place’ (Μυρμιδόνες ἵνα πρότεροι | ᾤκησαν, ὧν παλαίφατον ἀγοράν, Nem. 3.13–14). The double emphasis on antiquity reinforces a reference to the myth which originally situated Aeacus in Aegina, as the offspring of the nymph Aegina and Zeus, before he relocated to Thessalian Phthia.Footnote 167 In Pythian 6, meanwhile, Pindar introduces Antilochus’ self-sacrifice to save his father Nestor as a model for Thrasybulus’ similar behaviour in the present (Pyth. 6.28–45), recalling an episode already told in the Aethiopis (Aeth. arg. 2c GEF).Footnote 168 Here too, the myth is presented in a temporal frame: the opening καὶ πρότερον (‘in former times too’, Pyth. 6.28) firmly situates the episode in the past, as does the closural τὰ μὲν παρίκει (‘these things are past’, Pyth. 6.43). Together, these comments signal the literary antiquity of this episode, while also marking it off from Pindar’s poetic present: like modern-day speech marks, they frame the mythical citation. This temporal distance is further reinforced by the final mention of the praise bestowed on Antilochus by ‘the young men in the generation of those long ago’ (τῶν πάλαι γενεᾷ | ὁπλοτέροισιν, Pyth. 6.40–1) – Antilochus’ achievements belong to the distant past of literary myth. In this specific context, the emphasis on Antilochus’ antiquity also forms an effective contrast with Thrasybulus, who attains the same standard most closely of men alive in Pindar’s day (τῶν νῦν, Pyth. 6.44). The distance in time between the two youths aptly parallels the temporal sweep between Pindar and his literary predecessors.
In Olympian 6, a temporal index pinpoints an allusive reference which includes a direct verbal echo of a specific text. Pindar claims that his laudandus Hagesias is worthy of the ‘praise’ (αἶνος) which Adrastus ‘once’ (ποτ’) proclaimed about Amphiaraus (Ol. 6.12–14). This claim introduces a miniature summary of an episode from Theban myth, peppered with further temporal conjunctions (ἐπεί, v. 14; ἔπειτα, v. 15): the story of Amphiaraus’ disappearance beneath the earth and Adrastus’ presence at the funeral of the Seven. The brief narrative closes with a direct quotation of Adrastus’ αἶνος (Ol. 6.16–17):
[Talaus’ son Adrastus] spoke an utterance such as this at Thebes: ‘I miss the eye of my army, both a good seer and good at fighting with a spear.’
Within its immediate context, this myth has excellent exemplary value. The prophetic Amphiaraus is an ideal model for Pindar’s laudandus Hagesias, a member of the prophetic Iamid line, and ‘honey-sweet’ Adrastus (Ἄδρηστον μελίγηρυν, Theb. fr. 4 GEF) offers an apt parallel for Pindar with his ‘honey-voiced’ Muses (μελίφθογγοι … Μοῖσαι, Ol. 6.21).Footnote 169 It is likely, however, that this whole mythical episode derives from the cyclic Thebaid. A certain Asclepiades claimed that at least part of these verses ‘was taken’ from that poem,Footnote 170 and scholars have long recognised that verse 17 begins with a near-complete dactylic hexameter (restored by substituting μάχεσθαι for μάρνασθαι).Footnote 171 Pindar’s τοιοῦτόν τι ἔπος could even signal the near-quotation: Adrastus spoke ‘a hexameter (ἔπος) something like this’.Footnote 172 Beyond Adrastus’ speech, the wider context of these lines also likely derives from the Thebaid: Amphiaraus’ death at Thebes was a mainstay of the tradition, with his involvement already presupposed by the Odyssey (15.243–8, cf. 11.326–7),Footnote 173 while Adrastus’ presence at the funeral of his fellow-fighters in the Thebaid is suggested by another surviving fragment in which he leaves Thebes ‘wearing mournful clothes’ (εἵματα λυγρὰ φέρων, fr. 11 GEF).Footnote 174 Pindar’s opening ποτ’ thus not only serves as an introduction and transition to the brief mythical narrative but also grounds it in a specifically literary past: that of the epic Thebaid. As in epic, these indexical ‘pointers to the past’ flag and introduce allusive engagement with other traditions.
Embedding the Cycle
Temporal indices were not limited to mythical and intertextual references in lyric poetry. They also punctuate individual poets’ allusions to their wider cycles of songs. In Archilochus’ Cologne Epode, the narrator refers to the ‘charm’ which Neoboule ‘had before’ (χάρις ἣ πρὶν ἐπῆν, fr. 196a.28), evoking an earlier time from the narrative of their relationship when he still found her desirable (cf. fr. 118, where he longs ‘to touch Neoboule with his hand’, χειρὶ Νεοβούλης θιγεῖν).Footnote 175 In the Epode, by contrast, he considers her unattractive (vv. 24–34) and has moved his attention onto her sister (vv. 35–6). Archilochus’ πρίν not only situates this moment within the larger cycle of the story but also looks back to past poems in which Neoboule’s charm was praised and adored.
Similarly, Alcaeus refers to a number of past events which may reflect other songs. In fr. 129, he recalls how he and his companions ‘once swore’ (πο⸤τ’ ἀπώμ⸥νυ⸤μεν, v. 14) never to abandon their comrades, an oath which Pittacus has now broken (vv. 21–4). Dwelling on this moment is essential for his characterisation of Pittacus’ treachery, but situating the event in the past (ποτ’) equally indexes other poems in which this same moment has already been treated.Footnote 176 Another fragmentary poem refers to past hybris (π̣οτ’ ὔβριν, fr. 76.10) and recalls that ‘we were often thrown down’ (πόλλακις ἐ[σ]φαλη̣[με]ν, fr. 76.13), looking back to past sufferings and their poetic expression, while in another prayer or exhortation, Alcaeus bids someone ‘come … if ever at another time’, positioning the present poem against an ongoing and past relationship (ἄγι … | [αἴ π]οτα κἄλλοτα, fr. 208A.2–3). Such a backward glance is even more explicit in Pindar’s Olympian 13, where the poet remarks that the past Olympic victories of Xenophon’s family ‘have, it seems, already been reported before’ (τὰ δ’ Ὀλυμπίᾳ αὐτῶν | ἔοικεν ἤδη πάροιθε λελέχθαι, Ol. 13.101–2) – a claim which looks back to Pindar’s earlier mention of these successes within this same poem (30, 35–46), but presumably also to previous independent epinicia that celebrated them. The poet’s following wish that he will sing of their future achievements (103) reinforces the sense of a continuing song cycle: he will always be on hand to record and celebrate every milestone in their continued prosperity, in an ongoing sequence of songs.Footnote 177
It is especially Sappho once more, however, who indexes her wider song cycle with temporal references. In one poem, the speaker claims that ‘once long ago, I loved you, Atthis’ (ἠράμαν μὲν ἔγω σέθεν, Ἄτθι, πάλαι ποτά, fr. 49.1), a phrase which – like the reminiscences of Atthis in fr. 96 (cf. §iii.3.3) – evokes a broader Atthis song cycle, which ended with Atthis flying off to another woman, Andromeda (fr. 130.3–4). In other poems, she foregrounds her past relationship with Aphrodite: in fr. 22, we hear that ‘the Cyprus-born goddess herself once blamed me for praying’ (καὶ γ̣ὰρ αὔτ̣α δή πο̣[τ’] ἐμέμφ[ετ’ … | Κ]υπρογέν[ηα] | ὠ̣ς ἄραμα̣[ι], 22.15–17), while in the newly constituted Kypris Poem, she claims that the goddess was not ‘previously’ hostile to her (μ’ οὐ πρό̣τερ’ ἦσ[θ’ ἀπέχθης], fr. 26.7, suppl. Reference Obbink, Burian, Clay and DavisObbink (2020) 228–30). These comments seem to point to other occasions in Sappho’s poetry where she speaks and collaborates with the goddess, such as fr. 1, a poem in which Aphrodite gently chides Sappho for her prayer (15–24) and is asked to be her ally (σύμμαχος, 28) (cf. §iv.3.2) . Elsewhere, she also refers to her brother Charaxus’ activities in a similar way: in fr. 5, she hopes that her brother may atone for all his ‘past’ wrongs ([πρ]όσθ’ ἄμβροτε πάντα, 5.5) and refers to his ‘previous’ suffering (π̣[ά]ροιθ’ ἀχεύων, 5.11).Footnote 178 In all these cases, Sappho gestures to a broader ongoing history and series of events to which she constantly returns in her poems. Literary and biographical history blur into one.
Inventing the Past
There are also occasions where temporal references appear to conceal slight innovations in the mythical record, especially in the work of Pindar. We have previously noted the importation of the local into panhellenic myth, authorised by Pindar’s appeal to the ‘ancient talk of men’ in Olympian 7 (ἀνθρώπων παλαιαί | ῥήσιες, Ol. 7.54–5: §ii.3.4), but we could also add the miniature narrative of Peleus’ and Telamon’s achievements in Nemean 3, which is introduced with the description of Peleus taking delight in παλαιαὶ ἀρεταί, ‘successes of long ago’ (Nem. 3.32–9):
Lord Peleus rejoiced in his successes of long ago, when he had cut his unsurpassed spear – he who even captured Iolcus alone without an army, and pinned down the sea nymph Thetis after a great struggle. And Telamon, with his broad strength, stood alongside Iolaus and destroyed Laomedon, and once followed him in pursuit of the mighty bronze-bowed Amazons; and man-taming fear never checked the sharpness of his mind.
These verses summarise a number of major moments in each hero’s life: Peleus’ acquisition of his famous spear from Mount Pelion, his capture of the city of Iolcus and his marriage to Thetis, as well as Telamon’s involvement in the first sack of Troy and his battle with the Amazons. These are all well-known features of each hero’s mythological biography, here serving as appropriate models of success for Pindar’s laudandus Aristocleidias.Footnote 179 In particular, Peleus’ ‘conquest’ of Thetis is figured in distinctly athletic terms (κατέμαρψεν ἐγκονητί, vv. 35–6), presaging Aristocleidias’ own pancratium success in the present.Footnote 180 But in the case of Peleus’ other two successes, his acquisition of his spear and sack of Iolcus, Pindar’s appeal to ‘successes of long ago’ appears to conceal pointed deviations from the mainstream tradition.Footnote 181 In the case of his spear, the hero is depicted as having cut it himself (ὑπέραλλον αἰχμὰν ταμών, v. 33), unlike earlier epic accounts in which the spear is a wedding gift from Cheiron (Il. 16.140–4 ≈ 19.387–91, Cypr. fr. 4 GEF), and even shaped by the divine hands of Athena and Hephaestus (Cypr. fr. 4 GEF); and in his sack of Iolcus, he is depicted as a lone fighter (μόνος ἄνευ στρατιᾶς, v. 34), unlike other versions in which he is helped by Jason and the Dioscuri.Footnote 182 As the scholia to the passage note, Pindar seems to be ‘indulging Peleus for the sake of his Aeginetan victor’, exaggerating his achievements for rhetorical effect (δόξει δὲ ὁ Πίνδαρος διὰ τὸν Αἰγινήτην χαρίζεσθαι τῷ Πηλεῖ, Σ Nem. 3.57). In fashioning his own supreme spear and in single-handedly sacking Iolcus, this Peleus is a pre-eminent paradigm of Aeginetan success. By introducing these adaptations as παλαιαὶ ἀρεταί, Pindar lends legitimacy to his innovative spin on tradition.
As in epic, therefore, temporal references in lyric poetry frequently signal interactions with other mythical stories and episodes. Temporally marked adjectives and adverbs highlight allusions both to earlier treatments of myths and to a poet’s own earlier poetry. In this way, archaic lyric poets drew on the esteem of tradition to legitimise their poetic authority, while also occasionally concealing their innovative versions of myth in the garb of tradition. The literary past remained a fruitful resource to be both appropriated and reconfigured.
IV.3.2 Iterative Poetics
In addition to general references to the past, many lyric poets were also deeply fascinated by the idea of repetition and recurrence: they frequently presented their poems as self-conscious repetitions – not only of generic topoi, but also of other specific poems.
Déjà Vu: Lyric ‘Again’
Few phenomena in Greek lyric are as familiar as the distinctive tag of δηὖτε and αὖτε (‘again’), a device that is most often associated with love poetry.Footnote 183 Erotic poets constantly narrate episodes of love in a recurring iterative frame. First-person speakers present themselves as the repeated victims of passion with the particle-adverb αὖτε or more emphatic δηὖτε: Love warms Alcman’s heart ‘again’ (δηὖτε, fr. 59a.1); casts Ibycus ‘again’ into the nets of Aphrodite (αὖτε, fr. 287.1); and ‘again’ causes Sappho to tremble with desire (δηὖτε, fr. 130.1). Yet it is Anacreon who employs the motif most often: drunk with love, the poet dives ‘again’ from the Leucadian cliff (δηὖτ’, fr. 376.1); seeks Pythomander’s house ‘again’ to escape Love (δηὖτε, fr. 400.1); is caught ‘again’ in the paradoxical state of loving and not loving (δηὖτε, fr. 428.1); and is struck ‘again’ both by Love’s purple ball (δηὖτε, fr. 358.1) and by the smith-like god’s axe (δηὖτε, fr. 413.1).
The frequency and consistency of this motif has led Sarah Mace to identify it as ‘a distinct compositional form’ in lyric poetry, combining the notion of ‘again’ with a first-person speaker and the god Eros: ‘love … me … again’.Footnote 184 As she demonstrates, it is not a static motif but rather imbued with a variety of tones, from the pathetic to the humorous. Poets could also evoke it in non-first-person contexts: Anacreon describes the bald Alexis as wooing ‘again’ (δηὖτε, fr. 394b), and Sappho asks Abanthis to sing of the maiden Gongyla, for whom desire flies around her ‘again’ (here, ‘love … me … again’ becomes σε δηὖτε πόθος, fr. 22.11).Footnote 185 Individually, as Mace has highlighted, all these examples of erotic recurrence play a key role in the fashioning of each speaker’s persona, presenting their personal experiences of love from a ‘veteran’s perspective’.Footnote 186 Yet given the repetition of the motif across a number of authors and contexts, this recurring topos can also be read on a generic level, marking – in Regina Höschele’s words – ‘the recurrence of love’s overwhelming onset throughout the genre’.Footnote 187 In lyric poetry, love inflicts hurt again and again. By commencing with the tag αὖτε or δηὖτε, lyric poets self-consciously acknowledge this generic reality and situate their poems within the larger tradition of lyric love poetry.Footnote 188 From the perspective of re-performance, moreover, this topos of recurrence plays with the potential repeatability of each poem: every time a song is re-performed, Love’s hurt is renewed.Footnote 189 With this recurring tag, lyric poets gesture to tradition as a whole, troping the very replication of this poetry as an act of iteration.
In treating this material, however, past scholars have focused primarily on the erotic sphere of lyric love poetry. This is understandable, since it is here that we have the greatest number of examples. But, on closer examination, we can see that this self-conscious iteration in fact spreads across many lyric subgenres.Footnote 190 Several cases also accumulate in a more general sympotic context: Anacreon asks for water and wine to be mixed in a ratio of 2:1 so that he may ‘revel again without hybris’ (δηὖτε, fr. 356a) and, in another fragment, bids his companions to abandon excessive Scythian drinking ‘again’ (δηὖτε, fr. 356b); the same poet asks whether he will not be allowed ‘again’ to go home now that he is drunk (δηὖτε, fr. 412) and may also claim that he is mad ‘again’ from drink (ἐμάνην δηὖτε πιών, P. Mich. 3250c recto col. ii.1).Footnote 191 Already in the seventh century, meanwhile, Alcman bids a friend ‘come again to the house of Cleësippus’ (αὖτ’, fr. 174). In each case, sympotic behaviour is presented as a recurrent event, yet each poet is also pointing to the traditionality of these elements in a sympotic context: moderate drinking and travelling to/from houses are staples of sympotic discourse.Footnote 192
So too in political and military contexts. Archilochus asks how (or where) the hapless army is assembled ‘this time’ (δηὖτ’, fr. 88). Anacreon narrates how somebody ‘again plucks (i.e. mocks) the blue-shielded men of Ialysus’ (δηὖτ’, fr. 349) and claims that he has ‘again’ put his hand through a Carian-made shield-strap (δηὖτε, fr. 401).Footnote 193 And Alcaeus talks of a wave coming ‘again’ (αὖ⸥τε), larger than the ‘previous’ (π⸤ρ⸥οτέρ̣⸤ω), evoking and recalling his own tradition of nautical imagery for political disruption (fr. 6: §iii.3.3). The world of lyric is repeatedly marked by an awareness of repetition and recurrence.
In other cases, poets even sum up the essence of their own lyric subgenres as acts of repetition. For iambus, Hipponax claims that he must ‘once again’ take the otherwise unknown σκότος (‘swindler’?) Metrotimus to court (Μητροτίμῳ δηὖτέ με χρὴ τῷ σκότῳ δικάζεσθαι, fr. 122), an admission that has been interpreted as an ironic reference to his arch-enemy Bupalus, elsewhere called a ‘mother-fucker’ (μητροκοίτης, fr. 12.2).Footnote 194 His statement thus hints at the frequency with which he clashes with Bupalus in his iambics.Footnote 195 Similarly, in Pindar’s second Olympian, the poet pictures himself preparing his poetic quiver and asks ‘at whom do we shoot, launching arrows of fame this time from a gentle heart?’ (τίνα βάλλομεν | ἐκ μαλθακᾶς αὖτε φρενὸς εὐκλέας ὀϊστοὺς ἱέντες; Ol. 2.89–90).Footnote 196 Appropriately, he summarises the essence of his epinician activity with a common epinician metaphor.Footnote 197 In a hymnic context, meanwhile, Sappho bids the Muses ‘come again’, leaving a ‘golden’ location, perhaps the house of Zeus (δεῦρο δηὖτε Μοῖσαι χρύσιον λίποισαι, fr. 127), a request which highlights the frequency of Muse invocations not just in the literary tradition, but also in her own poetry (cf. fr. 128: δεῦτέ νυν ἄβραι Χάριτες καλλίκομοί τε Μοῖσαι).Footnote 198 In all these cases, the poet marks out key features of their lyric subgenre, self-consciously highlighting its core and recurring attributes: abuse, praise and Muse-invocation. Far from simply serving as a tool of characterisation, as Mace argued, αὖτε and δηὖτε nod knowingly to the established norms and traditions of lyric poetry.
Intertextual Repetitions
Taken together, these various ‘agains’ highlight a distinctly generic self-consciousness, situating each poet’s work within a pre-existing genre, defined by a series of repeating and recurring topoi. But it is worth asking whether we can see the establishment of any more precise intertextual connections here. It may be tempting to trace a neat literary history of gradual development from a primarily generic self-consciousness in archaic lyric to a more distinctively intertextual self-consciousness in later literature. But given the more specific intertextual connections we have already identified in epic and lyric more generally, it is worth pushing a little further. If epic poetry can employ self-conscious markers of inter- and intratextual iteration (§iv.2.2), why not lyric? The extremely fragmentary nature of most of our texts makes it difficult to identify any such cases, but we can find some hints of potentially ‘iterative’ relationships, especially within an individual poet’s corpus. Here, we shall explore possible examples from Sappho, Bacchylides, Pindar and Stesichorus.
Our first case is Sappho fr. 1, the poet’s prayer to Aphrodite, which has an incessant interest in repetition. The poem was most likely positioned at the start of the Alexandrian collection of Sappho’s works, presumably in recognition of its programmatic qualities.Footnote 199 Scholars have long recognised its engagement with epic traditions, but here my focus will be on its connections to Sappho’s own oeuvre.Footnote 200 Sappho calls on Aphrodite to come and support her if the goddess has ever responded to her appeals on a previous occasion (κἀτέρωτα, fr. 1.5) and legitimises her request by recounting such an earlier time when the goddess did in fact visit (fr. 1.15–20):
You asked what I had suffered this time and why I was calling this time, and what in my raving heart I most wanted to happen to me: ‘Whom should I persuade this time … to bring to your love?Footnote 201 Who wrongs you, O Sappho?’
As on that occasion, Sappho concludes by asking Aphrodite to ‘come to me now too’ to free her from distress (ἔλθε μοι καὶ νῦν, fr. 1.25). Such temporal framing is a typical part of cletic hymns, justifying present action through a past relationship (da-quia-dedisti).Footnote 202 And Sappho’s incessant repetition of δηὖτε here contributes to the characterisation of her relationship with Aphrodite: even on this previous visit, the goddess was complaining about the frequency of her summons! When set against the literary background that we have traced above, however, this repetition also gains a further indexical resonance, situating her poem squarely within the genre of erotic love poetry.Footnote 203 Indeed, this iterative emphasis adds to the programmatic nature of the fragment, marking her poetry within a long-standing tradition of erotic discomfort.Footnote 204 Sappho’s hymnic appeal offers a generic case of never-ending love writ large, highlighting the constant merry-go-round of lyric love.
Besides this generic self-consciousness, however, fr. 1 also seems to mark itself as an intertextual repetition of specifically Sapphic poetry. We have previously noted Sappho’s tendency to reflect on connections between her broader ‘song cycles’ (§iii.3.3; iv.3.1), and such a possibility is equally likely here. Indeed, Obbink has previously proposed such an interpretation, arguing on papyrological grounds that Sappho’s appeal in fr. 1 may point back to an earlier poem. He notes evidence of a further text preceding fr. 1 on P. Oxy. 2288 and suggests that this could have been another Sapphic poem ‘which Aphrodite alludes to and partly quotes’ in fr. 1.Footnote 205 This is an alluring suggestion, but the papyrological arguments are not particularly compelling on their own: even if it came from the same papyrus, the preceding text in P. Oxy. 2288 could just as well be prefatory material or part of a later column in the papyrus (depending on which way it had been rolled).Footnote 206 Moreover, a recent study has convincingly demonstrated that this extra layer in fact derives from a completely separate papyrus that has been added to reinforce the Sappho roll.Footnote 207 And in any case, Obbink’s concern with the fixed ordering of Sappho’s Alexandrian collection is anachronistic when considering her poetry’s original reception in the archaic period.Footnote 208 Yet even so, I would argue that Obbink’s intuition was right, and that a stronger case can be made for seeing fr. 1 as a ‘repeat’ of other Sapphic poetry.
This case depends on the numerous thematic and verbal parallels between fr. 1 and other extant poems from Sappho’s corpus. Aphrodite is a frequent feature of Sapphic song, mentioned or referred to in over twenty-five fragments; and in many of these Sappho invokes or converses with the goddess in a similar manner and with similar language to fr. 1.Footnote 209 Fr. 60, for example, contains a similar mixture of calling, wishing, fighting and persuasion,Footnote 210 while fr. 86 is another prayer to the goddess which likely looks back to another past situation ([κλ]ῦθί μ̣’ ἄρας αἴ π[οτα κἀτέρωτα], ‘hear my prayer if ever before’, fr. 86.5 ~ 1.5). Most emphatic, however, are the numerous parallels with Sappho’s newly reconstituted Kypris Poem (fr. 26): as in fr. 1, Sappho directly addresses Aphrodite with a question and indefinite relative clause, complaining about the power and sufferings of love.Footnote 211 Audiences of fr. 1 who were already familiar with the Kypris Poem could easily suppose that such a song lies behind Aphrodite’s repeated δηὖτε; we have indeed heard Sappho complaining to the goddess before.Footnote 212 Of course, this is not to argue that the Kypris Poem is the precise and only precedent lying behind fr. 1. We have already noted possible connections with other far more fragmentary Sapphic poems (frr. 60, 84), and we could doubtless identify even more if we had access to her now-lost corpus. Yet even from what we have, the scenario envisioned in fr. 1 seems to be a recurring Sapphic situation, and one which Aphrodite’s repeated δηὖτε foregrounds.Footnote 213
Moreover, fr. 1 is not the only Sapphic poem to index its iterative nature in this way. When desire ‘again’ flies around in fr. 22 (δηὖτε, 22.11) and prompts Abanthis to be ‘all aflutter’ at the sight of Gongyla’s dress (ἐπτόαισ’ ἴδοισαν, 22.14), we may be invited to detect Abanthis’ replay of the physiological response to love so memorably described in fr. 31 (ἐπτόαισεν, 31.6; ἴδω, 31.7). Even more strikingly, in the very first line of the Kypris Poem, Sappho similarly talks of ‘often’ being overwhelmed by love (θαμέω̣ς̣, fr. 26.1) and later recalls beseeching Aphrodite ‘many times’ (γονωμέ̣ν̣α̣ι̣ [δὲ] | πόλ̣λ̣α, fr. 26.6–7) when the goddess was not ‘previously’ hostile to her (οὐ πρό̣τερ’ ἦσ[θ’ ἀπέχθης], fr. 26.7, suppl. Reference Obbink, Burian, Clay and DavisObbink (2020)).Footnote 214 Just like fr. 1, these remarks highlight the cyclical concerns of Sappho’s poetry and could even look back to fr. 1 itself as a ‘former’ attempt to beseech the goddess (cf. λίσσομαί σε, 1.2). On a number of occasions, Sappho’s poems thus index their repetitive nature, establishing a world of incessant and recurring ideas. Fr. 1 and the Kypris Poem, in particular, exhibit a number of close connections which allow each to be interpreted in the light of the other. Sappho’s poetry is an echo chamber of interconnected and reverberating themes.
Such self-conscious repetitions are even more prevalent in epinician poetry, enabled by the cyclical nature of the Panhellenic athletic circuit: the same poets constantly competed to celebrate success at the same series of games, and this success was often achieved by the same recurring individuals and families. In such a context, epinician poets frequently mark their poems as self-conscious repeats, following in the tracks of previous ones. In Bacchylides’ twelfth epinician, for example, the poet bids the Muse Clio steer his mind now ‘if ever you did before also’ (εἰ δή ποτε καὶ πάρος, Bacchyl. 12.4). As in Sappho fr. 1, this hymnic clesis extends beyond its religious function, inviting the Muse and audience to recall earlier poetry in which Clio had been invoked (e.g. Κλεοῖ, Bacchyl. 3.3, 468 bce; Κ̣λ̣ειώ, 13.9, Κλειώ, 13.228: 480s bce).Footnote 215 In Bacchylides fr. 20c (470 bce?), the poet similarly intends to send a song for Hieron ‘if ever before I sang the praises of Pherenicus who won the victory with his swift feet both at Delphi and by the Alpheus’ (εἰ κ[αὶ | πρ]όσθεν ὑμνήσας τὸν [ἐν Κίρρᾳ θ’ ἑλόντα | πο]σσὶ λαιψ̣[η]ρ̣ο̣[ῖ]ς Φερ[ένικον ἐπ’ Ἀλ-]|φ̣[ε]ῷ τε ν[ί]καν, Bacchyl. fr. 20c.7–10). This retrospective glance may well look back to Bacchylides 5 (476 bce), a poem that similarly celebrated the horse’s double victory and unmatched speed (esp. Bacchyl. 5.37–41: Φερένικον | Ἀλφεὸν παρ’ εὐρυδίναν | πῶλον ἀέλλοδρόμαν | … νικάσαντα … | Πυθῶνί τ’ ἐν ἀγαθέᾳ).Footnote 216 The opening of Bacchylides 4 (470 bce), meanwhile, sets itself firmly against a tradition of earlier celebrations: the city of Syracuse is ‘still’ loved by Apollo (ἔτι, 4.1); Hieron is ‘hymned for the third time’ at Delphi (τρίτον … ἀ[είδε]ται, 4.4–5); and the poet claims that ‘the sweet-voiced cock of lyre-ruling Urania’ has already ‘cried out once before’ ([ποτέ], 4.7–9, suppl. Maehler) – another possible back reference to Bacchylides 5.Footnote 217
Pindar, too, makes such self-reflexive cross-references. He begins Pythian 6 by explicitly marking his act of repetition (Pyth. 6.1–4):
Listen! For indeed, we are again ploughing the field of rolling-eyed Aphrodite and the Graces, approaching the sacred navel of the loud-roaring earth.
The emphasis on iteration here looks back to the proem of Paean 6, the only other extant song in which Pindar associates Aphrodite and the Graces, and in which he similarly ‘approaches’ (προσοιχόμενοι, Pyth. 6.4 ~ ἦλθον, Pae. 6.9) ‘the navel of the earth’ (ὀμφαλὸν … χθονός, Pyth. 6.3–4 ~ χθονὸς ὀμφαλόν, Pae. 6.17).Footnote 218 The invocation of the goddesses invites an audience to recall Pindar’s earlier poem, here marked not by a temporal adverb but the iterative prefix ἀνα-.Footnote 219 The opening injunction to ‘listen’ (ἀκούσατ᾿) further alerts an audience to pay attention, to be ready to spot the reference.Footnote 220 Through this self-conscious iteration, Pindar adds authority to the poem that follows, presenting himself as an experienced singer, familiar with the terrain of the Muses.
At the start of Isthmian 6, meanwhile, Pindar explicitly marks his celebration of Phylacidas’ boys’ pancratium victory as a sequel to Nemean 5, his previous poem for Phylacidas’ older brother Pytheas: he mixes a ‘second mixing bowl of the Muses’ songs’ (δεύτερον κρατῆρα Μοισαίων μελέων, 6.2) and ‘now again’ celebrates a victory (νῦν αὖτε, 6.5), just as he had ‘first’ at Nemea (ἐν Νεμέᾳ μὲν πρῶτον, 6.3).Footnote 221 In this case, the iteration is reinforced by a number of verbal echoes of Nemean 5’s opening,Footnote 222 as well as the insistence that Phylacidas is the ‘youngest’ of Lampon’s sons (παίδων ὁπλοτάτου, 6.6), mirroring the chronological relationship between Pindar’s epinicia: just as Phylacidas follows the precedent of his older brother, so too does Isthmian 6 follow on from Pindar’s older poem.Footnote 223 This initial emphasis on repetition augments the praise of Phylacidas and his family, highlighting their ongoing athletic successes, as does the later mention of the family’s other past victories, including those by the boys’ uncle Euthymenes (6.56–64).Footnote 224 But there may also be more at stake in this opening: Pindar’s insistence on the close connection between his two poems may be an attempt to efface the memory of Bacchylides, who had also celebrated Pytheas’ original Nemean victory (Bacchyl. 13).Footnote 225 Pindar makes no explicit mention of his rival’s poemFootnote 226 and instead wishes for a ‘third’ libation at Olympia (τρίτον, Isth. 6.7–9): he wishes to achieve a monopoly over all celebrations of Lampon’s family, past (Nemean), present (Isthmian) and future (Olympian). In self-consciously marking his poem as a sequel, Pindar establishes a continuous but claustrophobic literary history limited to his own songs.
Repeatedly in epinician poetry, therefore, poets acknowledge their previous work as a starting point for the present, not only emphasising the enduring success of their laudandi, but also asserting their own impressive credentials and growing canon of songs. As a final example of such literary repetition, however, let us turn to Stesichorus’ Palinode, a notoriously controversial text whose precise nature and arrangement are uncertain. Based on conflicting ancient testimony, scholars disagree whether we should conceive of one or two Palinodes and whether one (or both) of these should be regarded as identical to the Stesichorean poem elsewhere called the Helen.Footnote 227 The issue is irresolvable on current evidence, and any proposed solution depends on how one weighs up a mass of inconsistent, unclear and unreliable sources.Footnote 228 For our purposes, however, we only need note that Stesichorus produced different poems (or portions of a single poem) that offered contradictory views on Helen. In the first (which I shall call the Helen), she was the archetypal adulterer of the epic tradition, one of Tyndareus’ polygamous and unfaithful daughters (διγάμους τε καὶ τριγάμους … | καὶ λιπεσάνορας, fr. 85.4–5); in the second (which I shall call the Palinode), she was recast as blameless, having neither set sail on Paris’ ships nor arrived in Troy. It was in fact only a phantom (eidolon) of Helen that Paris took to Troy, while the heroine herself stayed behind with Proteus in Egypt (fr. 90.11–15). In a terse fragment, the poet famously acknowledges his departure from tradition (fr. 91a):
This story is not true: you did not go on the well-benched ships, nor did you come to the citadel of Troy.
As it stands, this is a radical revision. Stesichorus not only recants his earlier account in the Helen but also rewrites the whole epic tradition – undermining one of its core moments, the very event that catalysed the entire Trojan war.Footnote 229 In language that pointedly appropriates epic phraseology (especially the common noun-epithet phrase νῆες ἐΰσσελμοι), Stesichorus sets himself against the likes of Homer and Hesiod, the major epic poets who preserved the traditional account.Footnote 230
The recantation itself, whether it formed an independent poem or a new section of a larger work, apparently began with an invocation to a goddess (fr. 90.8–9):
Come hither again, goddess, you who love song and dance.
The identity of this goddess is unclear from the fragment alone, but given the adjective φιλόμολπε, it is most likely a Muse, rather than Helen herself.Footnote 231 What immediately concerns us here, however, is the temporal specificity of the adverb αὖτε: like Sappho and the epinician poets, Stesichorus asks a goddess to visit him ‘again’. As with the Sapphic fragments (frr. 1, 127), this αὖτε could be little more than a reciprocal prayer formula, recognising the generic frequency of such invocations, as Malcolm Davies and Patrick Finglass suggest. For them, the adverb ‘acknowledges that the poet regularly invokes the Muse, and implies his hope that she will assist him now as before’.Footnote 232 However, given the more specific context of the Palinode, explicitly following and correcting the version of events in the Helen, there are strong grounds for seeing αὖτε here as a specific back reference to Stesichorus’ ‘traditional’ presentation of his protagonist in the Helen.Footnote 233 In so doing, Stesichorus would be casting the Palinode as secondary and derivative, directly linking it to his previous treatment of the myth, just as Hesiod appears to correct his Theogonic description of Eris at the start of the Works and Days – and as the Epigonoi follows on from the Thebaid, again with an adverbial αὖτε.Footnote 234 In short, Stesichorus’ αὖτε marks his return to and reversal of (πάλιν-) the same topic in another ode (-ᾠδή) – a pointedly intertextual case of allusive iteration.
However, it is unnecessary to choose between the generic and intertextual significance of αὖτε. Both are surely active at the same time in this poem. On the one hand, Stesichorus explicitly signposts his revision of his earlier Helen, but he also signals the traditionality of Muse invocations in general, reinforcing his appropriation of the epic tradition. Although Stesichorus may refer primarily to his own Muse invocations (e.g. fr. 277a), an awareness of the trope’s traditionality cannot but evoke the epic genre, in which the Muses played a significant role. Stesichorus’ iterative emphasis may thus also nod to epic tradition at large, setting himself against the habits of Homer and Hesiod.Footnote 235 Indeed, the papyrus commentary which preserves this verse claims that Stesichorus explicitly opposed himself to Homer in one Palinode and Hesiod in another ([μέμ]φεται τὸν Ὅμηρο[ν] … τὸν Ἡσίοδ[ον] μέμ[φετ]αι, fr. 90.1–6). This – of course – does not prove that these foremost representatives of the epic tradition were mentioned by name in the poem(s), given that an ancient commentator could have simply interpreted them as the implicit target of Stesichorus’ critique.Footnote 236 But Plato’s narrative of Stesichorus’ blinding does at least suggest some direct competitiveness with Homer: whereas Stesichorus discovered the cause of his blindness by being μουσικός and resolved it by recanting his Helen (he was not ignorant: οὐκ ἠγνόησεν), Homer remained unaware (οὐκ ᾔσθετο) and blind (Pl. Phaedr. 243a). If this derives at all from Stesichorus’ poem, as has been plausibly argued, we would thus have a clear case of Stesichorean poetic one-upmanship.Footnote 237 In asking the Muse to come ‘again’, the poet not only contrasts the Palinode’s account with that of his earlier Helen, but also with the epic tradition as a whole: the Muse comes again, as she repeatedly does, but now for a very different purpose.
In any case, however we decide to interpret this iterative marker, questions must remain over the sincerity of this opposition with epic. After all, Stesichorus’ οὐκ ἔστ’ ἔτυμος λόγος οὗτος (fr. 91a.1) is strikingly close to Penelope’s words in the Odyssey when she (wrongly) refuses to accept the reality of Odysseus’ return: ἀλλ’ οὐκ ἔσθ’ ὅδε μῦθος ἐτήτυμος (‘but this is no true story’, Od. 23.62). As Jesús Carruesco has argued, this ‘textual allusion to Penelope’s manifestly false words in the Odyssey undermines the assertion “this is not a true story” and leaves open the possibility of viewing the Palinode as a dissoi logoi structure, where truth and untruth are not as clear-cut as we are being told’.Footnote 238 Like the Muses in Hesiod’s Theogony, who can so readily mix truth and fiction (Theog. 27–8: §ii.2.4), so too here the Muse whom Stesichorus invokes seems very capable of blurring the truth. In calling the same Muse to return and legitimise a radically different version of the Helen myth, Stesichorus problematises the tensions inherent in the Muses’ authority – how can we trust them if they can tell such varied tales? Stesichorus challenges the distinction of truth and falsity. Poetry and tradition repeat themselves, and in so doing, the true story can easily get lost.
Stesichorus’ Palinode thus offers the most extreme case of a larger trend of repetition and recurrence in Greek lyric. Our extant fragments are dominated by an iterative poetics, in which the repetitive nature of poetic composition and key generic topoi are stressed. A wide range of lyric poets highlight both the repeatability of generic conventions and the potential reperformance of their own poems. But on occasion, they also foreground the repetition of specific themes, motifs and even specific poems, displaying a growing sense of a distinctive cycle or sequence of song.
IV.3.3 Poetic Predecessors
Besides these allusive temporal markers, some lyric poets also went further than their epic counterparts in directly acknowledging and citing their literary forebears. Thanks to the less detached voice of lyric, these poets could actively refer to their predecessors with an epigonal self-awareness, both naming them approvingly as a source of authority and citing them antagonistically as in need of correction. In Chapter i, we have already discussed lyric poets’ direct naming of their forebears (§i.2.3). Here, I shall focus instead on vague appeals to anonymous predecessors, a loaded gesture of epigonality which at times even conceals the citation of specific texts. Temporal relations in lyric poetry were not just elaborated in the world of myth itself, but also explicitly between these poets and earlier generations of singers.
Following Predecessors
In some cases, poetic πρότεροι are cited as a source of authority, whose example a poet readily follows. This phenomenon is especially prevalent in Pindar. In Nemean 6, the Theban poet closes his description of Achilles’ victory over Memnon (Nem. 6.49–53) with the claim that he follows the ‘highway of song’ that was found by ‘older poets’ (καὶ ταῦτα μὲν παλαιότεροι | ὁδὸν ἀμαξιτὸν εὗρον· ἕπομαι δὲ καὶ αὐτὸς ἔχων μελέταν, Nem. 6.53–4). The poet marks his epigonal relationship to the epic tradition, especially that of the Aethiopis (arg. 2d GEF), with a firm sense of belatedness.Footnote 239 Similarly in Nemean 3, the poet intersperses his account of Achilles’ life (Nem. 3.43–63) with the claim that ‘The story I have to tell was told by my predecessors’ (λεγόμενον δὲ τοῦτο προτέρων | ἔπος ἔχω, Nem. 3.52–3). Here too, this gesture marks the traditionality of the whole account, both the preceding details of Achilles’ upbringing (Nem. 3.43–52) and the following highlights of his military career, which – as in Nemean 6 – include his Aethiopic clash with Memnon (Nem. 3.56–63).Footnote 240 Pindar pictures his predecessors as a monolithic block, acknowledging the authoritative weight of the epic tradition.
As with indexical appeals to hearsay, however, generalised plurals can also conceal a reference to specific literary predecessors. In Pythian 3, for example, Pindar cites his πρότεροι for a statement which scholars both ancient and modern have read as a reference to our Iliad (Pyth. 3.80–2):
But if you know how to understand the true essence of sayings, Hieron, you know by learning from predecessors that the immortals apportion to mortals a pair of evils for every one good.
If Hieron can understand the true meaning of sayings, Pindar claims, he will know the lesson of their πρότεροι, that the immortals apportion to humans a pair of evils for every good. Since antiquity, this gnomic statement has plausibly been interpreted as a reference to Achilles’ famous description of the jars of Zeus in Iliad 24: δοιοὶ γάρ τε πίθοι κατακείαται ἐν Διὸς οὔδει | δώρων οἷα δίδωσι κακῶν, ἕτερος δὲ ἑάων (Il. 24.527–8).Footnote 241 But while most other ancient commentators interpreted the passage as referring to two jars, one of evil and one of good (e.g. Pl. Resp. 2.379d; Plut. Quomodo adul. 24a–b), Pindar appears to have creatively misread the text to make two parts of evil for every one part of good, a ratio which chimes with the ode’s larger concern with the ‘preponderance of pain’.Footnote 242 Of course, there are no precise verbal echoes between these specific lines, and Pindar does not even mention jars, which might lead us to suspect that he is simply referring to a more general gnome. Yet the ensuing paradigmatic presence of Peleus in both texts reinforces the connection: in each poem, the hero enjoys unsurpassed prosperity (ὄλβον ὑπέρτατον, Pyth. 3.89 ~ πάντας γὰρ ἐπ’ ἀνθρώπους ἐκέκαστο | ὄλβῳ τε πλούτῳ τε, Il. 24.535–6) and marries the divine Thetis (Pyth. 3.92–6 ~ Il. 24.537), but suffers because of the misfortune of his only child (μόνον, Pyth. 3.100–3 ~ ἕνα, Il. 24.540).Footnote 243 In both cases, moreover, the moral is the same: one must accept one’s lot (Pyth. 3.103–4 ~ Il. 24.543–51). Given this series of parallels, it is thus tempting to see verses 81–2 as a pointed variatio (and misreading) of the Iliadic sentiment, suited to Pindar’s larger consolatory goal, co-opting the authority of his Homeric predecessor. Moreover, besides the appeal to πρότεροι, this allusion is further triggered by a string of nearby indices, including Pindar’s emphasis on words (λόγοι) and understanding (ἐπίστᾳ, οἶσθα), alongside the footnoting λέγονται that introduces the account of Peleus (Pyth. 3.88). This accumulation of indexical markers encourages us to look to the specific Iliadic intertext underlying Pindar’s rather vague gesture to his πρότεροι. Behind the generalised ‘predecessors’, we find a precise reference to the greatest of them all, Homer himself.
Such epigonal awareness is even clearer in the opening of Isthmian 2, as Pindar sketches out his own literary history by drawing a contrast between the behaviour of former poets (‘men of long ago’, οἱ μὲν πάλαι … φῶτες) and modern-day hirelings obsessed with a profit. Whereas the former freely shot forth pederastic hymns at beautiful boys, the Muse of Pindar’s day has now become a greedy labourer (Isth. 2.1–11):
Those men of long ago, O Thrasybulus, who used to mount the chariot of the golden-circleted Muses, encountering the famous lyre, readily shot their honey-sounding songs of love at any beautiful boy whose sweetest late-summer bloom could woo fair-throned Aphrodite. For in those days the Muse was not yet a lover of profit, nor a working girl; nor were sweet, soft-voiced songs sold off with silvered faces by honey-voiced Terpsichore. But now she instructs us to bear in mind the Argive’s saying which comes … very close to the truth: ‘Money, money makes the man’, said he who lost both his possessions and friends.
Here too, a vague reference to earlier men (οἱ … πάλαι … φῶτες, v. 1) bears a specific poetic resonance, recalling earlier literary traditions, reinforced by the indexical reference to these poets’ ‘famous lyre’ (κλυτᾷ φόρμιγγι, v. 2). The scholia cite Alcaeus, Ibycus and Anacreon as the kinds of predecessors that Pindar must have in mind,Footnote 244 and Pindar’s language supports this inference. Already in antiquity, scholars noted specific echoes of both Anacreon and Alcaeus: the former wistfully recalls a time when ‘Persuasion did not shine all silver’ (οὐδ’ ἀργυρῆ κω τότ’ ἔλαμπε Πειθώ, Anac. fr. 384), comparable to Pindar’s nostalgic reminiscence of a time before the silver-faced songs of his own day (οὐδ’ … κω τότ’ ~ οὐ … πω τότ’, v. 6; ἀργυρῆ ~ ἀργυρωθεῖσαι, v. 8), while Alcaeus is also recorded as citing the proverb of Aristodemus in Sparta, presumably the same person as Pindar’s ‘Argive man’ (fr. 360 ~ vv. 9–11).Footnote 245 But there is more besides these long-acknowledged intertexts. One of the few earlier poetic appearances of the noun ὀπώρα is Alcaeus’ τερένας ἄνθος ὀπώρας (‘the flower of tender late-summer’, fr. 397 ~ ὀπώραν, v. 5), a fragment whose floral imagery suggests a potentially pederastic context.Footnote 246 More generally, the erotic flavour of these verses is reinforced by the degrading prostitution of the Muse Terpischore: ἐργάτις (v. 6) here suggests ‘courtesan’ (cf. Archil. fr. 208), and ἐπέρναντο (v. 7) aurally evokes the role of the πόρνη,Footnote 247 while the description of silver-faced songs (v. 8) recalls the white-painted faces of Greek prostitutes in addition to the payment of silver coins.Footnote 248 Through his vague reference to ‘men of long ago’, Pindar conjures up a whole genre of pederastic poetry – and potentially even specific poets – as a foil for the epinician poetry of the modern day.Footnote 249 His reference to οἱ πάλαι φῶτες marks his allusive interaction.
Challenging Predecessors
In other cases, however, Pindar and his fellow lyric poets cite their predecessors in a more agonistic mode, polemically positioning themselves against what has come before. Commonly cited in this regard is Pindar’s Olympian 1, in which the poet explicitly speaks out against his forebears by ‘correcting’ their version of Tantalus’ banquet with the gods (υἱὲ Ταντάλου, σὲ δ’ ἀντία προτέρων φθέγξομαι, ‘son of Tantalus, I shall talk of you contrary to my predecessors’, Ol. 1.36).Footnote 250 In the traditional version more familiar to us from later sources, Tantalus was invited to a banquet of the gods and served his own dismembered son to his hosts in a cauldron; the goddess Demeter (or in some versions Thetis) inadvertently consumed the boy’s shoulder while distracted with grief for her daughter Persephone; and after the gods realised the trick, Hermes revived Pelops, who was given a new ivory shoulder crafted by Hephaestus to replace that which had been eaten.Footnote 251 Pindar’s polemic clearly presupposes the pre-existence of this traditional version, as does the Pindaric scholia’s attribution to his contemporary Bacchylides of a tale in which Rhea was responsible for restoring Pelops by lowering him into a cauldron (Bacchyl. fr. 42).Footnote 252 Rather than accept this account, however, Pindar proposes an alternative version, in which Poseidon fell in love with Pelops and took him away, just as Zeus later did Ganymedes;Footnote 253 Tantalus’ punishment was for stealing ambrosia and nectar from the gods, not serving his own son to them (Ol. 1.54–66); and Pelops’ ivory shoulder was simply a defect with which he was born (Ol. 1.26–7). Just as Stesichorus revised the fate of Helen (§iv.3.2), so here Pindar rewrites that of Pelops.Footnote 254 The mainstream account, he asserts, is a malicious invention of envious neighbours which has managed to infiltrate the literary tradition.Footnote 255
Far from cashing in on the prestige of his literary predecessors, therefore, Pindar here antagonistically opposes them (as he does the ‘talk of mortals’ more generally: βροτῶν φάτις, 1.28–9). He asserts his own authority by highlighting the inadequacies of those who have come before him.Footnote 256 Naturally, there are clear advantages to his sanitised version of the myth. Not only is it in keeping with the positive sensibilities of epinician poetry, allowing him to speak well of the gods (cf. 1.35, 52–3), but it also enhances the paradigmatic value of the Tantalus myth for the present poem. In rewriting tradition, Pindar stresses the civilised decorum of Tantalus’ feast: it is εὐνομώτατον (‘most orderly’, 1.37) and his homeland Sipylus is φίλαν (‘friendly’, 1.38). The result is a far more effective parallel for the poem’s laudandus, Hieron, whose own table was earlier described with the same adjective (φίλαν, 1.16).Footnote 257 Yet for all this reframing, traces of the older myth still linger. Besides Pelops’ ivory shoulder (1.27), his emergence from a cauldron (1.26) and the neighbours’ malicious talk of cannibalism (1.47–51), we also hear that Tantalus could not ‘digest’ his good fortune (καταπέψαι, 1.55), a loaded alimentary metaphor.Footnote 258 Pindar acknowledges and alludes to the traditional version of the myth, while simultaneously deauthorising it. Pindar’s appeal to his predecessors is not simply a legitimising act or allusive marker, but a means for the poet to situate himself and his version of a myth against what has come before.Footnote 259 In this case, the plural πρότεροι may well encompass prior tradition as a whole, but it could also perhaps conceal a specific reference to Bacchylides’ own treatment of the myth (fr. 42) if that poem were produced earlier – a means for Pindar to dismiss his rival’s version as passé.Footnote 260
Such an agonistic mode is also visible in elegiac poetry. In Xenophanes’ elegy on the well-ordered symposium, the poet dismisses the battles of Titans, Giants and Centaurs as the ‘fabrications of our predecessors’ (fr. 1.19–24 IEG):
Praise that man who brings noble thoughts to light after drinking, so that there may be recollection of and striving after excellence. And do not treatFootnote 261 the battles of Titans or Giants or Centaurs, the fabrications of our predecessors, or violent factions: there is nothing of use in them. But always have good forethought about the gods.
Here too, Xenophanes’ πρότεροι highlight poetic precedent: Xenophanes’ dismissal of the chaotic battles fought by Titans, Giants and Centaurs evokes the warring world of epic, especially those poems in which such primeval conflicts took centre stage: Hesiod’s Theogony (Theog. 617–720) and the Cyclic Titanomachy. But other epics also invoked such subjects in passing: the Centauromachy features on Heracles’ shield in the Hesiodic Aspis (Scut. 178–90) and is also cited by Antinous in the Odyssey (Od. 21.295–304: §iv.2.1) – appropriately enough for the sympotic context of Xenophanes’ fragment, a tale itself concerned with the dangerous excesses of wine.Footnote 262 Xenophanes’ reference to the ‘battles of Titans or Giants or Centaurs’ thus emblematises epic poetry as a whole, summing up the essence of the genre and its tumultuous depiction of the divine. This generic association is reinforced by the very language of these verses: the rare adjective σφεδανός (‘violent’) has a distinctively epic ring,Footnote 263 while πλάσμα<τα> τῶν προτέρων offers a playful variation on the epic phrase κλεῖα προτέρων ἀνθρώπων (Theog. 100).Footnote 264 In addition, the closing mention of ‘forethought’ (προμηθείην, 24) may allude to the hybristic Prometheus, another negative exemplum from the hexameter tradition (Theog. 507–616; Op. 47–105).Footnote 265 Just as Pindar’s predecessors in Isthmian 2 were pederastic poets, so too Xenophanes’ πρότεροι are epic singers.
Yet Xenophanes is particularly dismissive of his πρότεροι here, especially in his description of their πλάσματα, ‘fabrications’. The precise nuance of the noun is not entirely clear in this context, given that this is by far its earliest attestation. In later literature, it became a technical term for ‘fiction’, the narration of unreal but plausible events, set in opposition to both ‘myth’ and ‘history’.Footnote 266 We should be wary of importing too much anachronistic baggage here, but given that early instances of its cognate verb πλάσσω convey a sense of deception and trickery, an association with fictionality certainly seems likely.Footnote 267 Alongside the dismissive οὐδὲν χρηστόν in the following line, Xenophanes’ sympotic strictures form part of his larger criticism of epic poetry and its main protagonists, Homer and Hesiod (cf. D8 L–M). In contrast to epic, ἀρετή and ἐσθλά have very little to do with strife and conflict in Xenophanes’ world view.Footnote 268
In these past two examples, Pindar’s and Xenophanes’ references to predecessors appear to act primarily on a generic level, evoking tradition as a whole, even if we have detected possible links with the likes of Bacchylides and Hesiod. Both poems, moreover, seem to derive from a Syracusan context, perhaps reflecting a broader intellectual culture of scepticism towards traditional myth at Hieron’s court.Footnote 269 Yet as with Pythian 3’s Iliadic citation, such polemical references to πρότεροι can also convey a more precise intertextual reference. In one of Mimnermus’ elegiac fragments, the poet attributes his knowledge of a brave, unknown Smyrnaean to his predecessors (fr. 14):Footnote 270
Not such were that man’s might and heroic spirit, as I learn from my predecessors, who saw him routing the Lydian cavalry’s packed ranks on the plain of Hermus, wielding his ash-spear. Pallas Athena never at all faulted his heart’s fierce might, when he rushed among the front-fighters in the conflict of bloody war, defying the enemy’s sharp missiles. For no man among his foes remained his better at going about the task of harsh war, when he sped <with his bronze armour shining like> the rays of the swift sun.Footnote 271
On the face of it, this opening simply highlights the source of Mimnermus’ eulogistic account, ascribing it to the authority of his elders. Yet it may also trigger recognition of an intertextual parallel that underlies the whole fragment. As Grethlein has highlighted, these verses engage extensively with the account of Diomedes’ aristeia at Troy familiar to us from the Iliad.Footnote 272 Not only does the opening opposition of sight and hearing, alongside Mimnermus’ appeal to ancestral knowledge (vv. 1–2), echo Agamemnon’s similar words when chiding Diomedes (Il. 4.370–5),Footnote 273 but the following description of the warrior’s successes also mirror those of the Iliadic Diomedes. In particular, verses 3–4 echo the Iliadic simile in which the torrent-like hero routs the Trojans (ἂμ πεδίον, Il. 5.87; πυκιναὶ κλονέοντο φάλαγγες |, Il. 5.93, ἂμ πεδίον … κλονέοντα φάλαγγας |, Il. 5.96 ~ πυκινὰς κλονέοντα φάλαγγας | Ἕρμιον ἂμ πεδίον, vv. 3–4). Alone, these verbal parallels may not be sufficient to suggest a connection with this specific mythical episode, especially given the formulaic nature of the language involved.Footnote 274 But Mimnermus’ subsequent description of the warrior resonates more specifically against the fortunes of Diomedes: whereas the Iliadic hero was chided by Athena for avoiding battle (Il. 5.800–13), we are told that this Smyrnaean warrior never received such criticism from the same goddess (v. 5), while he is also said to defy his enemies’ ‘bitter missiles’ (πικρὰ … βέλεα, v. 8), unlike the Iliadic Diomedes, who could not avoid being struck by the ‘bitter arrow’ of Pandarus (πικρὸς ὀϊστός, Il. 5.99; βέλος ὠκύ, 5.106). To these parallels noted by Grethlein, we could also add the fact that this Smyrnaean warrior was better than all his enemies (vv. 9–10), just as nobody could rival the Iliadic Diomedes (οὐδέ τίς οἱ δύναται μένος ἰσοφαρίζειν, Il. 6.101). Taken together, these echoes suggest that Mimnermus’ poem engages directly with the fabula of Diomedes’ aristeia at Troy, an episode which Mimnermus and his audience would have likely known, either via a version of the Iliad or some other epic treatment. After all, Mimnermus apparently treated Diomedes’ unhappy nostos elsewhere (fr. 22), and in another fragment he makes a possible allusion to Iliad 6.146–9 (fr. 2), an episode in which Diomedes also plays a prominent role; the poet was evidently familiar with the hero and his story.Footnote 275 By stressing his reliance on the talk of his πρότεροι at the start of this fragment, Mimnermus invites his audience to recall what they too have heard from the epic past and to spot the underlying allusion.Footnote 276
Crucially, however, this epic parallel involves a game of antagonistic one-upmanship: Mimnermus’ unnamed Smyrnaean proves superior to the Iliadic Diomedes, since he emphatically receives no censure from Athena at any time (οὔ ποτε πάμπαν, v. 5) and averts multiple πικρὰ … βέλεα (v. 8), whereas Diomedes was struck by a single arrow. He surpasses his epic predecessor as much as he does his contemporary foes (vv. 9–10). We cannot be certain of the wider context of this fragment, but it most likely involves an unfavourable contrast between this stellar Smyrnaean and the present spirit of Mimnermus’ contemporaries (οὐ … τοῖον, vv. 1–2).Footnote 277 In that case, the warrior fulfils a role parallel to the Iliadic Tydeus, a paradigm of past excellence for a lacklustre present. It is thus surely not a coincidence that Diomedes is the allusive model underlying this intergenerational synkrisis: as we have seen, he is a major paradigm of epigonal thinking in the Iliad, and Agamemnon’s censure in Iliad 4 is a major moment when he is first set against his father (§ii.2.2; iv.2.3). Mimnermus seems to pick up on these intergenerational tensions from the epic tradition and adapt them for his own context. But there remains an underlying competitive edge to this reworking. Mimnermus’ new subject matter even surpasses Diomedes, an implicit assertion of his supremacy in the face of the epic tradition: the recent historical present outdoes the mythical past.Footnote 278 The appeal to πρότεροι in verse 2 thus introduces a competitive nod to epic predecessors, whose accounts of Diomedes fall short of Mimnermus’ Smyrnaean hero.
Lyric poets, therefore, not only employed temporal adjectives and adverbs to mark their allusive engagement with earlier traditions but also cited their literary predecessors explicitly. Such epigonal references were often considerably antagonistic, as with the cases of Mimnermus, Xenophanes and Pindar’s first Olympian Ode. But they were also a means to point to specific moments in earlier traditions, as in Mimnermus and Pythian 3. What had remained an implicit mode of figuring epigonality in archaic epic gradually transformed into a direct and active trope. With a keen awareness of their literary heritage, Greek lyric poets appealed to their predecessors as a source of authority and contention; and in so doing, they marked out their own distinctive place in the map of literary history.
IV.4 Conclusions
In archaic epic and lyric, temporality frequently serves as an index of allusion. We have seen how temporal adjectives and adverbs repeatedly signpost engagement with earlier mythological and poetic traditions, often inviting an audience to supplement bare references with their wider knowledge of tradition. Yet in addition, both corpora of poetry exhibit a strong interest in the iterative aspects of poetic composition: Homeric epic frequently marks cross references within individual poems as acts of repetition, while lyric poets flag their compositions as self-conscious replays of tradition or even specific prior poems.
Such temporal indices bear an implicit sense of epigonality, as epic and lyric poets situate their poetry against a wider, pre-existing tradition. But such an anxiety of influence particularly comes into play surrounding the discourse of πρότεροι. In epic, intergenerational tensions in the mythical world serve as a model for the poet’s own relationship with his tradition, while in lyric, this concern becomes explicit, as poets repeatedly evoke their πρότεροι directly, at times even pointing to specific texts.
The various categories of temporal indices with which we began, therefore, can already be found throughout archaic Greek poetry, reinforcing the conclusions we have drawn from our explorations of indexical hearsay and memory. Archaic Greek poets already display a strong sense of literary history, situating their present against the poetic and mythological past and figuring this relationship through a range of temporal indices. Indexical temporality was deeply embedded in archaic Greek poetics from the very start.
Given the recurring prominence of indices in archaic Greek poetry, it is time to turn to some broader conclusions. These will be the concern of the Epilogue.
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