The Muse of Zenon: from Syracuse to the Museum of Guadalajara

Abstract

This article traces a statue, which Zenon of Aphrodisias carved, from Syracuse to its discovery at the Palace of Cogolludo in 2007. The study of this statue of the Muse Euterpe broadly demonstrates the appreciation for a figure from the classical world to Early Modern Europe and focuses attention on two understudied moments in the history of sculpture. It shows that Zenon carved the figure in the 4th c. CE, and its story reveals new connections between sculptors of Aphrodisias and specific patrons of the period. The statue's subsequent history attests to the high regard for ancient art and epigraphy in the Iberian Peninsula in 1500–1700. Since the statue probably belonged to Luis de la Cerda, ninth Duke of Medinaceli, it draws attention to a remarkable patron and a neglected aspect of Spanish cultural history.

In 2007, while working at the Palace of Cogolludo, northeast of Madrid, archaeologists discovered a full-figure Roman statue of a woman (Fig. 1). Although the statue was missing its head, arms, and attributes, several features immediately distinguished it as a major find. Carved from a single block of white marble that extends from a low plinth to the base of the neck, it clearly came from an important commission. It bore an inscription naming the sculptor as “Zenon of Aphrodisias,” which was remarkable enough in itself, since it dates from a period when artists did not regularly sign their pieces. Moreover, the sculptor assumed that viewers would appreciate the importance of his native city, Aphrodisias, located in modern-day Turkey. Perhaps strangest of all, the statue appeared in a Renaissance palace at the other end of the Mediterranean (Fig. 2). All of this raised the questions: Who was Zenon? And how did his carving reach Spain?

Fig. 1. Statue signed by Zenon of Aphrodisias. Museum of Guadalajara. (P. Lenaghan, courtesy Museo de Guadalajara, Spain.)

Fig. 2. Map showing the movement of statue and patrons through the Mediterranean over centuries. (P. Lenaghan.)

As we attempted to answer these questions, a remarkable story emerged. Even though many archaeological finds have generated excitement – from as early as 1506, when the Laocoon emerged from the ground, and continuing to more recent times – several considerations set the statue from Cogolludo apart. We will argue its sculptor formed part of a distinguished tradition in Aphrodisias that patrons throughout the Roman empire admired and whose practitioners therefore traveled widely: in this case, the artist went to Syracuse, where he carved the work as part of the renovation of the city's theatre carried out under a Roman governor in the 4th c. CE. It remained in Sicily for centuries, until a Spanish viceroy took it to Spain (perhaps in 1696), where it eventually reached the palace of Cogolludo. Surprisingly, it ended up in the ground outside the building as the structure fell into disrepair. After its rediscovery, it was installed in the Museum of Guadalajara, where it occupies a place of honor.

The history of this statue throws new light on audiences that are seldom studied. Patrons in Late Antique Rome admired sculptors from Aphrodisias to such an extent that an Emperor ennobled one of them. Then, in the 16th and 17th c., aristocrats and scholars recognized this work as a depiction of a Muse and prized it as such. We will suggest that a viceroy of Sicily brought it back to Spain and gave it to his brother-in-law, the ninth Duke of Medinaceli. The duke was not only the owner of the palace at Cogolludo, but demonstrated throughout his career a genuine appreciation for music and classical learning. The cultural profile of Medinaceli and his brother-in-law draws attention to the close ties between the Iberian Peninsula and Italy, a fact that scholars frequently overlook in general, and certainly disregard when assessing the impact of Classical Antiquity in the early modern era. To present this history requires first a close examination of the sculpture with regard to the workshop of Aphrodisias, the epigraphy of the inscription, and the cultural context of the 4th c. To follow the figure's progress to Cogolludo then calls for an analysis of the way Spanish aristocrats and scholars understood ancient art and mythology. By taking this approach, we will provide an unusually full history of the statue from its creation in the Ancient World to its installation in a modern museum.

The statue: condition and iconography

The work itself (just under life-size, H:1.32 m) affords the first clues for the study of its style and iconography. It has lost the original surface finish and color, reflecting extensive exposure to the elements. The figure is missing its head, right wrist and hand, and left forearm. On the outside of the left thigh and right knee, traces remain of marble struts that connected the body to the limbs and the attributes in the hands. Each forearm has two dowel holes (Figs. 3 and 4), while two small holes at the front and back of the break surface at the neck probably result from post-antique interventions, perhaps for a restoration that was left unfinished.¹

Fig. 3. Uneven break surface with two drill holes near the elbow of proper left arm. Museum of Guadalajara. (P. Lenaghan, courtesy Museo de Guadalajara, Spain.)

Fig. 4. Uneven break surface with two drill holes below the elbow of proper right arm. Museum of Guadalajara. (P. Lenaghan, courtesy Museo de Guadalajara, Spain.)

Notwithstanding the losses, the statue's present condition permits some initial observations. Given its material – white marble – it would have been an expensive work, which probably formed part of a significant commission. Further, the practice of carving a figure from a single block only became prevalent after the marble business reached its peak in the 2nd c. It is also notable that no later owner ever replaced the missing head, hands, and attributes.

The statue's pose and attire correspond to a schema that modern scholars call the “Miletus Euterpe.”² The term comes from the figure (Fig. 5) found in 1905 in Miletus, a city on the west coast of Turkey and in the same Roman province as Aphrodisias.³ Scholars of ancient statuary have long observed examples, like this one, of repeated formulas, which they have defined as types. Such classifications enable them to organize individual figures into a taxonomic system of replicas, copies, and variants of prototypes. This approach proves less useful for the issues we wish to address here because it emphasizes the features that derive from the prototype at the expense of the sculptors and patrons who subsequently perpetuated these models. To address these questions, we would like to consider instead the identity of the figure and then examine it in terms of the geography and chronology of comparable sculpture. When one remembers that artists turned to examples in their workshops as they carried out similar projects, these questions may afford a better way to evaluate the people who carved and commissioned these works.

Fig. 5. Euterpe from Miletus. Istanbul Archaeological Museum. (N. Lordoğlu.)

Because sculptors frequently used the Miletus type for Muses, it suggests that the Cogolludo figure represents one as well. Specifically, the figure from Miletus is recognizable as Euterpe, the Muse of music because she held a flute (for which there is a strut along the left side of the body).⁴ In size (H: 1.36 m), composition, and clothing, the two are so close as to suggest that their sculptors were following the same source.⁵ They differ only in minor details, in which Zenon consistently emerges as a more inventive artist. The two sculptors carve a similar neckline of the peplos, yet Zenon decorates it (Fig. 6) by carving round jewels, inset between vertical bands. Similarly, he doubles the himation over itself emphatically just above the left foot (Fig. 7),⁶ and he delineates a lower sole on the sandals. His plinth also features moldings above and below the concave middle area.

Fig. 6. Upper chest with the decorated neckline of peplos. Museum of Guadalajara. (P. Lenaghan, courtesy Museo de Guadalajara, Spain.)

Fig. 7. Left foot wearing sandal with detail of drapery weight and unusual fold in falling peplos above the foot (with error in inscription on plinth below). Museum of Guadalajara. (P. Lenaghan, courtesy Museo de Guadalajara, Spain.)

Since the two works not only follow the same typology but render it so closely, the statue from Miletus merits closer study. That it comes from a site in the same province as Aphrodisias, the home of the sculptor of Cogolludo, cannot be overlooked. Moreover, scholars have assigned it to a period from the mid-2nd to the 4th c., which in turn suggests an approximate timeframe for Zenon's work. The broad chronological range for the Miletus figure reflects the history of the Baths of Faustina, the site where it was found with other statues, including six Muses and Apollo. Although the Baths’ original construction occurred ca. 150–175 CE, a governor of Caria named Tatianus refurbished the complex in the second half of the 4th c.⁷ Because the nature of his intervention remains unclear, the statue could range from the Hadrianic to the Late Antique period, depending on whether it was part of the initial program or added later. (Even if installed later, the statue could still have been part of an earlier project from which it was transferred to the Baths.) Regarding the sculptors themselves, Carsten Schneider, who published the ensemble, observed some similarities between the Muses and works from Perge and Ephesus but could not say anything more definite than that the figures were probably imported.⁸ In any event, the inclusion of the Muse as part of the program in a major public project attests to the subject's appeal and the expectation that viewers there would recognize it easily.

Ephesus, the most important city in Asia Minor, provides a second point of comparison for practices in the region between the 2nd and 4th c. CE. There, in the monumental façade of the Library of Celsus, Austrian archaeologists unearthed a Roman-period statue that resembles the one from Cogolludo (Fig. 8).⁹ It has the same diagonal arrangement of the himation, which creates the same fold patterns around the shoulders and over the breasts and stomach. Its legs, however, reverse the stance of the work found in Spain, and its drapery is heavier and has an ordinary classical neckline. Like the Spanish work, it stands on a low molded plinth, a distinctive detail on large statuary that begins to appear from ca. 175 CE onwards.¹⁰ The head of the figure from Ephesus survives, displaying youthful, regular features and hair brushed back off the face and held in place by a band. The body, again dressed in a peplos, a historical or mythical Greek costume, might have held a stylus and tablet in the crook of its left arm, the emblems of Clio (Muse of history) or Calliope (the Muse of epic poetry).

Fig. 8. Sophia from the Library of Celsus. Ephesus Museum, Vienna. (Courtesy of KHM Museumsverband.)

Traditionally dated to the 2nd c. CE, this statue is one of four that stood in the façade's niches.¹¹ These marble figures replaced the original bronze ones, perhaps when the structure underwent remodeling, beginning in the 3rd c. and continuing into the 6th c. Although the statue may originally have depicted a Muse, it was excavated with a 2nd-c. base that identified it as Sophia (the Wisdom) of Celsus. Such a shift would be consistent with the prevailing practice of reusing sculpture in Ephesus. Moreover, the varied aspects of the four figures suggest that they could have been taken from different sites and assigned new identities. Because the personification of Sophia is related to the Muses, it shows that even when the figure acquired a new meaning, enough of the old one remained for it to be given a comparable role. Importantly for our purposes, it is clear the figure and pose maintained an association with learning and the arts from the 2nd c. through the Late Antique period.¹²

This iconography from Asia Minor also appears in Rome on the brilliantly carved Mattei-Villa Celimontana sarcophagus.¹³ Arcaded sarcophagi like this one, in which figures appear in elaborate architectural aediculae, were a specialty of sculptors from Asia Minor. In this case, they may either have traveled to Italy or sent it from their workshop. The piece can date no earlier than ca. 280, since the hairstyle of the central figure only came into fashion then.¹⁴ Portrayed in the guise of Euterpe, this graceful, slim central figure (Fig. 9), presumably representing the deceased, resembles the Guadalajara statue in dress, pose, and curving silhouette. She holds a double flute, the lower end of which is connected to her left thigh by a strut. The artist has, however, reversed the Miletus Euterpe model: perhaps it suited his composition better since three of the other four Muses across the front side assume the same leg position. Given its large size, the sarcophagus was a significant commission and intended for a wealthy patron. Considered from this perspective, it too attests to the wide recognition and importance that this iconography enjoyed.

Fig. 9. Central figure, deceased as Euterpe, from the sarcophagus of Villa Mattei Celimontana. Museo Nazionale Romano. (J. Lenaghan, courtesy of the Ministero della Cultura – Museo Nazionale Romano).

Another comparison similarly underscores the prevalence of the imagery; in this case, an under life-size statue, today in the Getty, which came from the area between Aphrodisias and Dokimeion (Fig. 10).¹⁵ Although difficult to date, it is probably not earlier than the 3rd c. and might well be 4th c.¹⁶ Like the statue found in Cogolludo, it has a slim outline, stands on a molded oval plinth, raises its right forearm, and wears a peplos with a hemmed neckline. The statuette is part of a group of which another unmistakably depicts the Muse Polyhymnia (heavily wrapped in a himation and leaning with her elbow on a pillar, both attributes for that Muse), and a third follows the type repeatedly used for such figures, the “Munich Klio” type.¹⁷ Since its companions portray Muses and it adheres to the Miletus Euterpe type, scholars have identified the Getty statue as Euterpe. It too has a strut on the right thigh below the raised right wrist, and a long break damages the drapery folds below the left wrist. Each hand may once have held a pipe. The highly wrought translucent fine-grained white marble might well be identifiable as coming from the imperial quarries at Gōktepe, 45 km from Aphrodisias. This marble and working markedly resembles small fine-grained statuary found in the “Sculptor's Workshop” in Aphrodisias (two rooms of a small stoa north of the Council House), which continued to produce statuary through the 4th c.¹⁸

Fig. 10. Euterpe, J. Paul Getty Museum, inv. 68.AA.21. (Courtesy of the J. Paul Getty Museum, public domain.)

In their similarities, these examples establish how prevalent the depiction of the gracefully draped female figure seen in the Guadalajara example was in southwestern Asia Minor from the middle of the 2nd c. to the 4th c. The sculptor of the Guadalajara work follows the same model as that of the Miletus version. He carves draperies and a plinth like those on the Ephesus figure. He also creates a willowy silhouette comparable to the Mattei sarcophagus and the Getty piece. Moreover, the contexts for these statues reveal that audiences recognized them as Muses well into Late Antiquity. Closer examination of the Guadalajara sculpture confirms her identification as Euterpe since the position of the arms and the placement of struts on the body could easily accommodate the flutes which that Muse holds in both hands.¹⁹

While the four comparisons above have provided a broad timeframe for the figure, we believe that a detail of the costume narrows this range: the neckline with its carved band of jewels. Since this feature only begins to appear on the crowns and belts of sculpted imperial portraits from ca. 300, as well as on the coins of Constantinian emperors, it suggests that the artist created this Muse in the 4th c.²⁰

Sculptor's signature

While the previous comparisons place the sculpture in the context of carving in Asia Minor, the artist identifies himself with the region and, specifically, with one of the major cities there when he signs the work “Zenon of Aphrodisias.” Appearing on an irregular torus on the plinth and covering the entire front, the inscription reads: ZHNωN AΦPOΔEIIϹIEYϹ EΠOIEI.²¹  The widely spaced letters include lunate sigmas and a w-shaped omega, both of which characterize Late Roman script dating from the 4th c. CE onwards (Figs. 11 and 12). The edge of the plinth is broken above the first letter, the zeta of the name Zenon (Fig. 11), doubtless because of a clamp that once held the statue to its base. Curiously, an error occurs, an unnecessary repetition of the iota in the third syllable of the word Aphrodisian.

Fig. 11. Left edge of the inscribed plinth showing clamp and then ZHNωN. Museum of Guadalajara. (P. Lenaghan, courtesy Museo de Guadalajara, Spain.)

Fig. 12. Right side of the inscribed plinth, showing error of double iotas. Museum of Guadalajara. (P. Lenaghan, courtesy Museo de Guadalajara, Spain.)

Since the inscription names the artist and his place of origin, it implicitly expects the viewer to recognize their importance. Pieces from Aphrodisias enjoyed notable fame in the Late Antique world, both for the imperial marble quarry ca. 45 km from the city and for the talent of its sculptors. The high regard in which patrons held the sculptors is reflected in the commissions they received, which included figures for the imperial villa in Tivoli, where they proudly signed their outstanding works. That they inscribed their names at a time when only those who worked in a major artistic center would do so makes the signature of the man who carved the Muse even more remarkable.²²

Although one might expect to identify him more precisely, the name Zenon repeats among a family of Aphrodisian sculptors who travelled throughout the empire. One can document eight instances of the name in conjunction with extant marble statuary. An Alexandros son of Zenon (1) signed the portrait statue of an important woman of Asia Minor (Claudia Antonia Tatiana) at Aphrodisias (ca. 200 CE). Another Zenon (2?) carved a seated, bare-chested statue (Apollo?) found at Lyttos in Crete.²³ Since he identifies himself as the son of Alexandros, he could be either the grandson of Zenon (1) or perhaps Zenon (1) himself. Another sculptor uses the diminutive Zenion (3) son of Zenion (4) on a blue-grey plaque at the Temple of Zeus in Cyrene.²⁴ The inscription came from a pedestal for an impressive statue of an aegis-bearing Zeus that was erected probably after an earthquake of 262 CE and remained there until at least the 4th c.²⁵ Zenon (5) son of Attinas from Aphrodisias made a statue of the playwright Menander, found in Rome.²⁶ In addition, a headless herm in Rome records a Zenon (6) of Aphrodisias who traveled widely and put up a funerary monument to his wife and young son, named Zenon (7), in Rome.²⁷ Finally, a Flavius Zenon (8), of the second quarter of the 4th c. CE, was so proud of his Roman Constantinian-period praenomen and titles that he signed with those rather than his father's name.²⁸ Moreover, he did so both in Rome and in Aphrodisias.

Because the sculptor of the figure in Gaudalajara does not give his father's name, any of these eight are theoretically possible. Logically, however, we can eliminate the young son (7) on the grounds of his age, and we have solid grounds to rule out Zenon (5) of Attinas, since he signs in typical High Imperial script – neat letters with ordinary omegas and sigmas – which he places on a drapery fold of the figure of Menander rather than its plinth. The signatures of the 4th-c. Flavius Zenon (8) recall the one in Guadalajara in that he never gives a patronymic and uses both the w-shaped omega and the lunate sigma. One could hypothesize that he might have signed simply as Zenon before he attained imperial honors and that such a signature could look very much like the one on the Guadalajara statue (Fig. 13).²⁹ Even so, too many other details of his signature – the narrow spacing of the letters, the ornamental inward curve of the two halves of the omega, the heart-shaped phi – differ from the inscription of the Guadalajara statue that it makes one reluctant to assign them to the same man. Even if we cannot identify the sculptor securely with one of the men listed above and the inscription refers to yet another man, it establishes the Aphrodisian origins of the piece, and the lettering suggests a date in the 4th c. CE.³⁰ In this regard, the inscription corroborates the chronology suggested by the carving of the neckline.

Fig. 13. Plinth with inscription of Fl. Zenon from the Esquiline. Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek, Copenhagen. (Aphrodisias Excavations Archive, courtesy of New York University Excavations at Aphrodisias.)

The inscription centuries later

Whoever the sculptor was, he would surely have been pleased to learn that his work and inscription were still attracting attention centuries after he carved them. From the 16th c. on, scholars have left a meticulous record that enables us to reconstruct part of the statue's later history. In 1547, Simon Vallambert recorded the statue for Jean Matal (Fig. 14).³¹

Syracusis in aedib[us] Alfonsi

Lagunae. in podio muliebris

statuae truncae, marmoreae: Stolam

(Vallamb ex s[chedis]) habet subtilissimam;

qualem nostri sacerdotes gestant,

sub mamillis cinctam, quam

alia quoq[ue] vestis tegit discincta³²

Fig. 14. Detail of Vatican Manuscript 6039 folio 301 showing J. Matal's transcription from the scheda of Simon Vallambert. (Courtesy of the Vatican Apostolic Library.)

(In Syracuse, in the home of Alfonso Lacuna, on the plinth of the torso of a female marble statue: she has a most fine stola [from the entry of Vallambert], of such a kind as our priests wear, belted under the breasts, which another unbelted garment covers).

Underneath and to the left of this description, the manuscript reproduces the inscription:

ZHNΩN

AΦPOΔEICII

EȲC EΠOIEI

The precise description mentions the fine material of the inner garment, which is belted under the breasts and covered by another, unbelted, garment. Describing a “torso,” the text implies that neither head nor arms survived, while it also notes the inscription on the plinth. Yet the manuscript contains three errors in the transcription, which may be mistakes that Matal made when copying from the original scheda. Although the text repeats the error of the double iota in the word Aphrodisian, it places it incorrectly after the sigma rather than before it. It fails to record the w-shaped omega (ω) in the name Zenon faithfully (assigning it instead the horseshoe-shaped omega Ω), and it divides the inscription into three lines. Even so, there can be no doubt that the manuscript records the Guadalajara statue.

From this point, all subsequent references repeat this record more or less dutifully. In 1602, Jan Gruter copied the citation exactly (Fig. 15).³³ In 1624, Giorgio Gualtieri re-published it from Gruter but added an error at the end of the adjective Aphrodisian where he changed the “eus” ending to “os.”³⁴ In CIG III 5374 Boeckh removes the double iota which he ascribes to Gruter. Significantly, however, none of these authors had seen the statue in person, which means that its location, which they all repeat, dates from the 16th c., when Simon Vallambert saw it.

Fig. 15. Gruter entry 1602, which repeats Matal.

Original location and patron

Since the statue was in Syracuse in 1547, this was doubtless its original find location. In the ancient world, it could easily have formed part of the city's celebrated theatre, which traditionally featured such figures prominently, or perhaps it belonged to the nearby Museion, a sacred place dedicated to the Muses.³⁵ Not surprisingly, similar sculptures have appeared in the area. In 1840, the Duke of Serradifalco recorded a statue of a Muse (today in the Museo Archeologico Regionale Paolo Orsi) found at the site, and in 1979, Giuseppe Castellana published two further figures, probably also of Muses, from this area.³⁶ The technique and style of one of them resembles the Guadalaraja sculpture, which strengthens the claim that Zenon's work came from the theatre in Syracuse.

We may even be able to identify the moment when the Guadalajara statue went up, since a governor, Neratius Palmatus, remodeled the theatre's scaena frons in the 4th c. CE. Although now lost, an inscription on an “arch of white marble” reads: Neratius Palmatus V[ir] C[larissimus] C[onsularis aut corrector] / etiam frontem scaenae…. (Neratius Palmatus, a most distinguished man of consular rank [or corrector] also the front of the stage [repaired, restored, decorated]).³⁷ Because his interventions doubtless included the decorative statuary, he could well have commissioned a new figure of a Muse, and such a decision would be consistent with the way Late Antique governors concerned themselves with statuary.³⁸ Although he might have re-employed earlier statues already at hand, the handling and epigraphy of the Guadalajara work, as seen above, suggest a 4th-c. date.

As the man responsible for the project, Neratius Palmatus becomes an important figure in the history of Zenon's statue. Unfortunately, the sources present conflicting evidence as to his biography. His name indicates that he belonged to the gens Neratia, a distinguished senatorial family from Saepinum (modern-day Altilia in the Italian region of Molise). In addition to the inscription cited above, three other references to a Neratius Palmatus survive: (1) the plinth of a statue dedicated to Jupiter Optimus Maximus in Rome; (2) a fragmentary inscription recording repairs to the Roman Senate house; and (3) the Theodosian Code, where he is cited as the Prefect of the City (of Rome) in 412.³⁹ If the three references are to the same person, it suggests a successful Roman senator who held a post in Sicily, perhaps at the end of the 4th c. He then returned to Rome, where he dedicated the statue to Jupiter and later became Prefect of the City.⁴⁰ This theory, however, raises questions. No date is given for the dedication of the statue of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, but he would have had to erect it well before his time as prefect in 412, because it is hard to envision such an act in the early 5th c., by which time the Christian church exercised a stronger role in the city and condemned pagan rites. The sources may, however, refer to two kinsmen with the same name but from different generations, as both Mario Torelli and Laura Chioffi have suggested.⁴¹ A member of the Roman elite, in particular, seems far more likely to put up such a figure in the 4th c. than in the 5th.⁴²

We would then have two men named Neratius Palmatus, with the one from the first half of the century overseeing the theatre in Syracuse and then dedicating the statue of Jupiter. His choice of sculpture in both contexts leads to further considerations. Although the statue of Jupiter appeared at his family's residence in Rome on the Esquiline, its distinctive iconography also reveals links to Aphrodisias. Depicting an aegis-wearing Zeus, it repeats a formula found in two works, one excavated in Aphrodisias and another one at Cyrene, signed by the Aphrodisian Zenion son of Zenion.⁴³ That a Roman aristocrat turned to artists from the same city in Asia Minor suggests he had a predilection for them.

The preference may well have run in the family. The inscription on the Jupiter employs the same terminology, dominus conditorque loci (master and founder) to define Neratius Palmatus, the donor, as that which his kinsman Neratius Cerealis (PVR 352, Cos 358) used in the mid-4th c. A successful senator, Cerealis was related by marriage to the Constantinian imperial family and, in particular, had been a strong ally of Constantius II against the pretender Magnentius.⁴⁴ He was actively involved in numerous sculptural projects throughout Rome. In 351, he dedicated a prominent equestrian portrait to the emperor in front of the Senate House in the Roman Forum.⁴⁵ He also built a bath complex between Santa Maria Maggiore and today's Stazione Termini, for which he erected at least 10 figures.⁴⁶ There is reason to suspect that the number was higher, since archaeologists have found broken statuary and plinths nearby from a further 14 mid-4th-c. works that may come from these baths or Cerealis's nearby domus.⁴⁷ If we assign these projects to him, he emerges as a major patron of Aphrodisian sculptors since many of them identify themselves with that city: Flavius Zenon appears on six inscriptions,⁴⁸ Flavius Chryseros on five,⁴⁹ and Flavius Andronicus on two,⁵⁰ while another fragment cites an Aphrodisian whose name has not survived.⁵¹ Moreover, these inscriptions can date no earlier than the 4th c. because they give the sculptors’ titles as perfectissimi and use the nomen of the Constantinian family, Flavius, without a praenomen.⁵² In a later example at Aphrodisias, one of these men, Flavius Zenon, adds another title to his name: comes, or companion, of the emperor.⁵³ Although widely used in the 4th c., the word designates someone with access to the ruler. Where Charlotte Roueché previously wondered how the artists received these titles, we can now suggest that Cerealis and his projects provided the Aphrodisians with the necessary entrée to imperial circles.⁵⁴

The close ties between patron and sculptors result from a long-standing relationship that ran for at least two generations. The fact that various members of the Neratius family had turned to the Aphrodisians for projects in Rome and Sicily suggests how deeply rooted the link was and how highly the family regarded these artists. By assigning the work in Syracuse to a man active in the first half of the 4th c., we can place the Guadalajara statue within this context more precisely.⁵⁵ When Palmatus had Zenon carve the statue of the Muse, he was hiring a school of sculptors that his family would subsequently employ extensively in the metropolitan center. The family's projects probably brought these sculptors to the attention of a Roman emperor (perhaps Constantius II), who subsequently bestowed the title of comes on one of them, Flavius Zenon.⁵⁶ In this scenario, the statue that was once in Syracuse and is now in Guadalajara represents the beginning of a fascinating history of the patronage of a talented team of artists by a culturally sophisticated 4th-c. Roman elite.

We can draw further inferences from the pattern if we reconsider the contexts for the statues at the Baths of Faustina in Miletus and the Library of Celsus in Ephesus. In each case, renovations also occurred in the following centuries. The example of the theatre in Sicily can offer a guide for the other projects. The work of Zenon underscores the quality of the sculptors in that period. The commission also attests to the high value 4th-c. patrons placed on classical imagery. Thus, where scholars have previously been reluctant to assign the works to a later date, we might want to reconsider. In particular, the governor Tatianus who sponsored the project in Miletus could well have resembled his counterpart in Sicily in commissioning new statues. If so, the similarities observed between the Miletus Muse and the one found in Cogolludo would reflect so much more than the repetition of a type: they show the continued vitality of an artistic and mythological tradition.

After the theatre in Syracuse: the house of Alfonso Laguna

Zenon's statue graced the Theatre in Syracuse for centuries, probably until the structure fell into disuse and someone carried it off. After the Roman Empire, Sicily experienced a tumultuous history of invasions and shifting reigns that, in the later Middle Ages, culminated in Aragonese rule and eventual incorporation into the territories that king Ferdinand and queen Isabel of Castile and León governed. In the 16th c., when the Spanish authorities “swept away” the stage building and upper seating of the Theatre in Syracuse, whatever sculpture still remained there became fair game.⁵⁷ We can say with reasonable certainty that by 1547, Zenon's work had found its way to the house of Alfonso Laguna in that city. The evidence for this, and for the ways it later reached the palace in Cogolludo, reflect the high regard in which scholars and aristocrats held the classical world. Because parts of this story, particularly the relationship between Spain and southern Italy, have not been examined in detail, it throws a new light not just on the patterns of collecting but on broader cultural developments.

The evidence for the provenance of the statue comes from Vatican Mss. 6039 f. 84 v., which unmistakably describes the statue by Zenon and identifies its location as the house of Alfonso Laguna in Syracuse. Richard Cooper has established that this information was supplied by the French scholar, Simon Vallambert, who saw the statue there, probably in 1547.⁵⁸ He was traveling through the region collecting inscriptions, which he then presented to a compatriot Jean Matal, who in turn compiled them. Matal did this while working as the secretary of the learned prelate, Antonio Agustín, as part of a project which the two had undertaken from 1545 to 1551 to form a corpus of inscriptions.⁵⁹ Given the large scope of the project, Matal had turned to others for help. For example, although he went as far as Naples, he left expeditions further south to others. Simon Vallambert apparently gathered inscriptions from Sicily and Puglia. Because Matal was so scrupulous in assembling his information, he noted his sources, and in this case, he credits his colleague, indicating “Vallamb[erti]. ex s[cheda].”. Finally, since Cooper shows that Vallambert undertook this trip in 1547, it establishes a date for the whereabouts of the statue at that time.⁶⁰

The information Matal recorded enjoyed only the limited circulation of a manuscript. The inscription and, with it, knowledge of the statue reached a wider audience when it appeared in the published corpuses of Gruter in 1602 (MXXI n. I) and Gualtherus in 1624 (108). Although neither Vallambert, Matal, nor any subsequent writer identified the statue as Euterpe, 16th-c. scholars and artists would easily have made the connection. The flourishing interest in antiquities and associated iconography during the Renaissance had given them the ability to recognize such figures. They appeared in works as different as Andrea Mantegna's Parnassus (Musée du Louvre, Paris, 1497), Baldassare Peruzzi's Salone delle Prospettive (Villa Farnesina, Rome, 1518–19), and Marcantonio Raimondi's engravings. Similarly, Ripa's Iconologia (1603) describes Euterpe as a beautiful young woman holding some form of pipes.⁶¹ Thus, we can reasonably expect that, from this point on, any learned owner of Zenon's figure would certainly have recognized it as the Muse of music.

By the 17th c., scholars repeated the statue's location as being in the house of Alfonso Laguna, even if by then he was probably no longer alive. Unfortunately, efforts to identify him have so far yielded no results.⁶² In any event, he must have enjoyed some status to own such a figure and to be identified by name, even if he was not sufficiently distinguished to leave more of a historical record. Consequently, one can only speculate: Was he Spanish or Italian? Did he have an ecclesiastic or secular training, and what interests led him to display the statue in his house? Similarly, no record survives as to how he acquired the figure.

From Syracuse to Spain: previous theories

If one were to believe the later publications of the inscription, the statue remained in Syracuse well into the 17th c., or even the 19th c. This simply means that scholars were repeating information from previous sources without confirming it. The anomaly is possible because we have no record as to how or when the statue left Laguna's house and reached the palace at Cogolludo.

The fact that Vallambert saw the statue in Syracuse in 1547 closes the door on one possibility: that it came to Spain when the palace in Cogolludo was first erected. Today, the building exists in a restored condition after suffering severe damage. Even so, the façade and courtyard stand out as a monument of early Renaissance architecture in Castile. Although the exact date of construction remains uncertain, scholars have traditionally accepted Manuel Gómez-Moreno's theory that the first Duke of Medinaceli, Luis de la Cerda (1442/43–1501), had it built in the last decades of the 15th c.⁶³ They attribute the Italianate style of the building to the duke's ties with the Mendoza family, who actively espoused an interest in Classical Antiquity. The palace and town of Cogolludo was special to the de la Cerda family, since the heir to the title of Duke of Medinaceli often received the title of Marquis of Cogolludo as well. Although it would have proved fascinating to learn that the first duke had acquired the statue and displayed it in his new palace, the statue was still in Italy when he died in 1501. The subsequent history of the family and palace do not offer many clues. As the de la Cerdas married into other noble families, they added new titles and more impressive seats to their holdings, so that by the 18th c., they had lost interest in the Cogolludo palace, and it gradually fell into disrepair.

In 2012, Juan Luis Pérez Arribas and Javier Pérez Fernández presented the intriguing theory that the statue of the Muse had belonged to Pedro Afán de Ribera (ca. 1508–71), the first Duke of Alcalá de los Gazules. While serving as viceroy of Naples (1558–71), he had assembled a significant collection of antique statues that he shipped back to Spain and installed in his palace in Seville, the Casa de Pilatos.⁶⁴ Notwithstanding the appeal of this hypothesis, several problems emerge upon closer examination. Since the Muse was in Syracuse in 1547 when Vallambert saw it, one would have to explain how it came to the duke's attention so that he acquired it. The chronology is tight, but not impossible, because the duke arrived in Naples in 1559 and his collection only reached Seville at some point between 1568 and 1570. This assumes, however, that the viceroy had an agent in Syracuse who acquired the statue for him. What little one knows makes this unlikely since his collection came principally, but not exclusively, from Rome, Naples, and Capua.⁶⁵ As Markus Trunk shows, the duke often turned to Fernando Torres, who dealt in marbles and antiques, primarily in Rome and Naples.⁶⁶

The statue, moreover, differs from all those in the Casa de Pilatos in an important regard: it is unrestored, whereas the statues in Seville have been carefully reworked and finished as was the custom of the day.⁶⁷ Moreover, Alcalá took great care to have his entire collection treated by the sculptor Giuliano Menichini, who declared that “se las recogí todas en la ciudad de Nápoles en el palacio real adonde las aderecé, pulí y ordené.”⁶⁸ The duke then had this artist and an architect, Benevenuto Tortello, travel with the collection and ensure its proper installation in his palace in Seville. That the Muse appears today without a new head and hands means that, notwithstanding Menechini's extensive involvement with the collection, he never worked on this sculpture. It would similarly have had to escape treatment again in 1702–5, when Domenico Lemico carried out a second round of conservation.⁶⁹ Given the size and quality of Zenon's figure, it is hard to imagine how two such comprehensive projects would have missed it.

Even after making allowances for the unrestored condition of the statue, the question remains as to when and how it would have left the palace in Seville and reached the one in Cogolludo, since in the 16th c., they belonged to different families, Afán de Ribera (dukes of Alcalá) and de la Cerda (dukes of Medinaceli) respectively. Pérez Arribas and Pérez Fernández address this question by suggesting that after the latter inherited the title and property in Seville in the 17th c., any Duke of Medinaceli could have shipped the statue to their palace in Madrid and then sent it from there to Cogolludo.⁷⁰ Nonetheless, this too seems unlikely. To begin with, nothing suggests that the statue belonged to first Duke of Alcalá or his immediate descendants. It also fails to appear in two documents (1632 and 1637) that record the holdings of the third Duke of Alcalá, Fernando Afán de Ribera, great nephew of Pedro Afán de Ribera.⁷¹ The two lines merged in 1639, when Ana María Luisa Enríquez de Ribera became Duchess of Alcalá after marrying the seventh Duke of Medinaceli. Her eldest son (the eighth Duke of Medinaceli) then inherited the title of Duke of Alcalá and the Seville palace which he, in turn, passed on to his son Luis de la Cerda, the ninth Duke of Medinaceli. Because no one could have moved the statue to Cogolludo before these events occurred, it must have been in Seville when the eighth and ninth Dukes of Medinaceli inherited the palace — if the first Duke of Alcalá had acquired it. Although the dukes of Medinaceli could have transferred works elsewhere, they were apparently content to leave the Casa de Pilatos as they had found it in 1639. Only much later, in 1763, did they move sculptures to their Madrid palace, but after having drawn up an inventory 12 years previously.⁷² Although this inventory records the ancient statues in detail, it does not describe anything that could be identified as the figure by Zenon.⁷³ Since the collection of the first Duke of Alcalá had remained intact, the document of 1751 offers an important record of his holdings. As such, it shows that he did not acquire the Muse.

Spanish collectors and scholars of antiquities

If the first Duke of Alcalá did not own the figure, the question arises as to who might have. Any plausible candidate would be interested in Classical Antiquity so that when he traveled to Sicily, or more broadly southern Italy, he would have taken note of the statue. One person already mentioned comes to mind, Antonio Agustín, particularly since he stopped in Syracuse when he visited the island in 1559–60 to inspect the churches there. Unfortunately, this intriguing possibility leads to a frustrating negative. Although the learned prelate was interested in inscriptions and also had a collection of antiquities (which included some statues), the documentation reveals that he did not own the statue. This fact, in turn, raises the question of why he would not have acquired it when he doubtless saw it. Although the decision may surprise us, it actually fits with the nature of his interests. According to Gloria Mora, Agustín devoted himself to epigraphy as a tool to solve historical questions and establish the identities of portraits.⁷⁴ As such, a headless statue whose inscription proclaimed its maker, rather than its subject or a historical event, would have held less appeal for this scholar.

The search for the collector who brought the statue to Spain and installed it in Cogolludo must extend further afield. In the process, various considerations establish the possible chronology. Because the Vatican manuscript records the statue in Sicily in 1547, it obviously cannot have reached Spain before then. On the other hand, it must have arrived before 1700–1720 since by that point, the Medinaceli family had stopped using the palace as a residence, and it would fall into ever greater disrepair in the following centuries.⁷⁵ Broader developments ca. 1700 also argue against a later date. As Spain's power declined, its ties to Italy changed markedly, and grandees stopped serving as viceroys in Naples or Sicily. The accession of the Bourbon king Philip V (1700) and the ensuing War of Spanish Succession (1701–14) and its resolution definitively altered relations between the two countries. In particular, aristocrats could no longer expect to hold such important positions in Italy, and when the last viceroys left Naples (1707) and Sicily (1713), the political system that had facilitated the import of Italian art into the Iberian peninsula came to an end. Moreover, the new French dynasty brought a different cultural agenda and fashions which nobles followed.

The palace in Cogolludo itself offers a further clue to the date of the statue's arrival. As early as 1548, documents refer to a “sala de marmol,” located off the principal courtyard and with access onto the garden.⁷⁶ Because, to judge by the name, the space was decorated with marble statues, presumably antique, the Muse by Zenon probably stood there as part of a group of such works. This idea gains credence since archaeologists found the figure nearby, almost as if someone carried it out of the “sala” and then buried it. Such a gallery attests to a taste for antique art by one of the owners.

The collection and display of this sculpture in early modern Spain has only recently attracted attention from scholars.⁷⁷ Not just the Casa de Pilatos but also the Palacio de Mirabel in Cáceres offer precious examples of how two aristocrats, Pedro Afán de Ribera and Luis de Ávila y Zúñiga (1500–1573) respectively, might have installed these pieces in their residences.⁷⁸ In addition to these exceptional cases, published documents attest to major collections owned by other nobles, who used them to decorate rooms, libraries, or gardens with a range of classicizing works. Juan Fernández Velasco y Tovar (1550–1613), Duke of Frías and Condestable de Castilla, displayed classical sculpture of emperors and philosophers in his palaces in Madrid and Villalpando.⁷⁹ This preference matched the literary taste on display in his library and in his correspondence with the celebrated scholar El Brocense (Francisco Sánchez de las Brozas, ca. 1523–1600). Although a recent study finds no evidence that he studied with the humanist, or even at the university of Salamanca, the authors point to the duke's service in Naples and Milan, where he had the chance to appreciate such art.⁸⁰ Moreover, his palace in Villalpando had a space identified as a “museo.”⁸¹ In the Tesoros of 1611, Sebastián de Covarrubias defines the word as “lugar consagrado a las musas,” which John Stevens expanded upon in his Spanish-English dictionary of 1706 as “any place dedicated to Learning, a Study, a Library.” Therefore, given the aristocrat's taste, the document surely refers to an area devoted to the Muses, where he displayed figures of ancient philosophers and gods. All of this confirms the image of a cultivated patron of the arts and learning. Similarly, Juan Alfonso Pimentel Enríquez (1553–1621), Count and Duke of Benavente, served as viceroy of Naples, where he too came to prize ancient sculpture.⁸² Upon his death, his various residences in Benavente boasted an ample selection of statues of Roman emperors, philosophers, and gods like Venus, Cupid, Bacchus, Neptune, and Pallas.

In this context, the existence of a “sala de marmol” in Cogolludo speaks not only to the sophistication of the owners, but also to how they shared a taste with other cultivated Spanish aristocrats. They could thus put the statue by Zenon into an appropriate setting, which already existed, when it arrived. Moreover, one can safely presume that the member of the Medinaceli who brought the statue to the palace appreciated this aspect as he (or she) added the statue to the family's holdings and installed it in a gallery with other similar works.

Summarizing these considerations, we can construct a profile for the owner of the palace who was most likely to have acquired the statue. Since it probably happened at some point between the late 16th c. and the early 18th c., we are looking at a limited number of people. They would have had ties to southern Italy, ideally as a viceroy to Naples or Sicily, where they might have developed an appreciation for Classical Antiquity and its art. This aspect takes on greater importance when one remembers that all the collectors of this art cited above had spent extended periods in Italy, where they acquired these works. Moreover, such a person would have also demonstrated this taste in his patronage in other areas.

The ninth Duke of Medinaceli

From this perspective, the ninth Duke of Medinaceli, Luis Francisco de la Cerda Fernández de Córdoba Folch de Cardona y Aragón (1660–1711), stands out. Although long known to historians, he only came to the attention of art historians in 1989, when Vicente Lleó Cañal published an inventory of the paintings he owned.⁸³ The document revealed a discerning collector, but one more attuned to 17th-c. Italy, with generous holdings of Gaspar van Wittel (Vanvitelli), Guido Reni, Carlo Maratta, and Luca Giordano, among others. Thus, a preference for secular subjects, generally views or mythological themes, prevails, all of which distinguishes the duke from contemporary Spaniards. While Lleó Cañal observed the duke was a “passionate opera lover,” it fell to José María Domínguez Rodríguez to examine this facet of the duke's life.⁸⁴ In a meticulous study, the scholar reveals an aristocrat not just avid for music but immersed in the culture of his day, devoted to Classical Antiquity, and participating actively in contemporary academies. This perspective suggests how Medinaceli might have valued one of the pictures he owned: Velázquez's Fable of Arachne. In it, the painter uses the myth of the competition between the mortal Arachne and the goddess Athena to make a statement about artistic creation, which he underscores by including Titian's canvas of The Rape of Europa as the tapestry being woven. Until Lleó Cañal identified it in the inventory, no one had known of Medinaceli's ownership, but this fact now suggests further insights. Given his interests in Classical Antiquity and Italian art, one can easily imagine how the fable of Athena and Arachne, as well as the allusions to Titian's painting, would have appealed to this sophisticated collector.⁸⁵ He might similarly have appreciated the statue by Zenon as an example from the ancient world he so admired that portrayed the Muse of music, an art form he so thoroughly enjoyed.

Medinaceli's biography reveals a man remarkable for the breadth of his cultural patronage, devotion to antiquity, and extended service in Italy.⁸⁶ Over the course of his political career, he spent almost 18 years in Italy. He began in Naples as Capitán General de las Galeras (1684–87), moved to Rome to serve as Ambassador to the Holy See (1687–96), and then returned to Naples as Viceroy (1696–1702). He owed the first appointment to his father, the eighth Duke of Medinaceli (1637–91), who held the post of first minister under Charles II (1680–85). In Naples, the young man began his career under the viceroy Gaspar de Haro Marqués del Carpio, who was also his uncle and would serve as a powerful example as a patron of theatre, music, and art. In fact, by the end of his tour of duty, Medinaceli had become so acclimated that, when he appealed to Venetian envoys, he claimed that he spoke as “buen italiano, pues habiendo transcurrido en la península diecisiete años de mi carrera, amo Italia y querría que se defendiese por sí misma.”⁸⁷

As the duke carried out his duties, he followed local customs, developing a keen appreciation for the cultural practices of Naples and Rome. In his career, he consistently employed Italian forms to express the political aspirations and positions of the Spanish monarchy. Instead of using Spanish plays and music to promote his case, Medinaceli turned to Italian musical forms.⁸⁸ In Rome, he sponsored serenate and operas, while in Naples, he took over the management of the opera house of San Bartolomeo so that he could stage productions as a vehicle for propaganda. In the Eternal City, he modeled himself on Queen Christina of Sweden (1626–89) who had taken up residence there in 1655, after her abdication and conversion to Catholicism. Medinaceli, who would have known her, went so far as take on two members of her household after her death, the singer Giorgina and the marquis Pompeo Azzolino.⁸⁹ Both became such integral parts of his entourage that they followed him to Naples and then to Madrid when his tenure as viceroy ended. The example of Christina of Sweden has further meaning in the context of the statue by Zenon. Her impressive collection of ancient sculpture included a series of Muses that she had installed in a room where they symbolized her cultural patronage.⁹⁰ Medinaceli, who doubtless saw them there, could have remembered this installation when considering how to display the statue by Zenon. In that case, one can easily imagine his desire to show it in his own palace so as to make a similar point about his patronage.

Like the Swedish queen, Medinaceli also prized scholarship and sought out membership in the Accademia degli Arcadi, the very academy she had founded. Eventually, in 1696, he gained admission, just before he departed for Naples. In his new posting, he worked hard to gain the support of the Neapolitan elite and intellectuals.⁹¹ As part of this program, he established an academy in the Viceroy's palace called the Academia Medinaceli or the Accademia Palatina, which not surprisingly maintained close ties with its Roman counterpart.⁹² On 20 March 1698, the new body convened. For the next four years, its members would meet twice a month, sitting in a circle around a table where they read poetry and gave lectures. Held in the duke's presence, the sessions were dedicated to restoring letters, with a primary focus on ancient history.⁹³ Of the surviving lectures, 52 discussed the biographies of emperors, while others covered subjects from the Republic, ancient Greece, and kingdoms of the Near East.⁹⁴ Thematically, the presentations followed (or repeated) ancient sources, while frequently framing the questions in terms of virtue and public authority. Although modern scholars have traditionally studied the academy with an eye to the future of great figures like Giambattista Vico and Pietro Gianone, such an approach overlooks the role it played at the time, and also the role that Medinaceli conceived for it as a means of bolstering the political order by fostering an appreciation of Classical Antiquity.

Political propaganda and personal pleasure similarly mingled in Medinaceli's patronage of music in Naples, particularly in its use of themes from the past.⁹⁵ Recently, Domínguez Rodríguez has proposed that cantatas were performed after meetings of the academy. But regardless of whether one followed literally on the heels of the other, the subjects and approaches developed in the lectures and poems carried over into these musical works and the operas performed under the duke's management. In fact, the five operas with texts created specifically for Naples relate directly to themes that the academicians discussed and the ideals that Medinaceli wanted to disseminate.⁹⁶ Taking examples from Roman history, they offered lessons in public virtue, reason of state, and the general good. Strikingly, the questions of betrayal raised in the last opera Medinaceli presented might have had additional impact since it premiered after he had effectively quelled the conspiracy of the Macchia. His opponents failed in large part because they could not rally the nobles and legal class of Naples, many of whom had participated in the academy. In effect, Medinaceli's policies and propaganda had worked to maintain a political system, even if subsequent events revealed how tenuous the hold of the Spanish monarchy was.

A remarkable urban project Luis de la Cerda sponsored at the outset of his time in Naples offers another instance of the way his practical political aims and love of antiquity aligned. Shortly after his arrival, he ordered the construction of a paved avenue along the seafront in the outlying district of Chiaia, where aristocrats were acquiring summer homes. Lined with trees and enhanced with 12 fountains, the road served primarily as a promenade for carriage drives by the city's elite and as a theatre for viceregal festivities and military parades.⁹⁷ Importantly, the project would have appealed to many of the people who formed part of the academy that Luis de la Cerda would shortly convene. Punctuated with monuments to Virgil and the Neapolitan poet Jacopo Sannazaro, the avenue recreated Arcadian ideals of rural peace that appealed to the academic tradition Medinaceli admired. In its complex program, it alluded to the Greek origins of Naples, Ancient Rome, and the Aragonese rulers of Naples so that it evoked both the classical past and Renaissance revivals, and of course it used history to legitimize his rule as viceroy.⁹⁸

The Duke in Spain and Manuel Martí

On his return to Spain in 1702, the Duke of Medinaceli found himself in a substantially different environment. Where he had dominated society in Naples, he was now just one of many aristocrats in Madrid, albeit one of the wealthiest. Moreover, the political dynamic had changed completely under the rule of the new king, Philip V. In this climate, Medinaceli continued his patronage of music, but on a lesser scale and in private. At the same time, he still concerned himself with antiquity and art as he looked to the maintenance of his palaces and collections. Conscious of the importance of the sculpture in the Casa de Pilatos, he arranged for a prominent Neapolitan artist, Domenico Lemico, to undertake necessary restorations from 1702 to 1705.⁹⁹ In 1706, he asked for reports on state of the palace in Cogolludo with an eye to making the necessary repairs.¹⁰⁰ His father had lived in the palace for several years beginning in 1685 before moving to Guadalajara and ultimately to Madrid, where he died in 1691.¹⁰¹ Since the elder duke had done this after retiring from the court, his son may now have been considering doing something similar. But Medinaceli did not neglect his other properties, and three years later, he requested similar evaluations for those in Andalucía: Seville, Puerto de Sta María (Cádiz), Bornos (Cádiz), and Montilla (Córdoba).¹⁰²

The duke also brought with him an impressive library and the antiquities that he had acquired in Italy. As in Rome and Naples, he surrounded himself with men who had participated actively in the Italian academies, but one stands out: the celebrated scholar and Valencian cleric Manuel Martí, whom he had met at the Accademia degli Arcadi. ¹⁰³ As early as 1696, the duke had sought the services of Martí to catalogue his collection in Rome. Nonetheless, the expert had resisted duke's invitation because he was already a member of the household of another prominent figure, the cardinal José Saénz de Aguirre, who harbored a deep animosity toward the aristocrat. To extricate himself from the awkward situation, Martí applied for the vacant posting of Dean of the Colegiata of San Nicolás in Alicante, and when he received it, he left Italy. By the time Medinaceli returned to Spain, however, the scholar had grown so disenchanted with life in Alicante, that in 1704 he gladly accepted the opportunity to work for the duke. As Martí recounts how he began his new assignment, the reader vividly senses his gratitude and pride at the trust his patron placed in him:

Entrególe las llaves de su biblioteca, que habia traido de Nápoles y fue del marques del Carpio, y tambien de su museo, que se componia de un numero infinito de cimelios antiguos de todo genero, y un estudio de medallas que compró en Nápoles y era el mejor que habia en aquella ciudad; no se puede ponderar el gusto que tuvo el deán cuando se vio constituido en aquel campo amenisimo. Y más, cuando le dijo el duque que el estudio de las medallas y demás antigüedades, no queria que estuvieran en la biblioteca, que estaba en el jardin, sino que lo tuviera él en su cuarto.¹⁰⁴

If the time Martí spent working for Medinaceli proved the happiest and most productive of his life, the political arena brought serious challenges for his patron during these years in Spain. The crisis of the succession to the Spanish throne had led to a war between the supporters of the French claimant Philip V and those of the Habsburg Charles III. In this atmosphere, a powerful noble like Medinaceli had to tread carefully, even though he had always professed loyalty to Philip V. On his return, he resisted the king's efforts to engage him in the regime, relinquishing various positions, using his health as an excuse. He may have recalled the example of his father, who had resigned as First Minister to Charles II and retired to the palace of Cogolludo in 1685. Although Philip V seems to have distrusted the duke, the young king turned to him to head his government in 1709, when he found himself abandoned by most of his French allies.¹⁰⁵ Reluctantly, Medinaceli accepted, although the two men held radically different views as to the extent of royal authority and government in Spain. After the monarch had entrusted the duke with the delicate negotiations to seek an end to the war, he suddenly and unexpectedly arrested his minister on 15 April 1710, placing him in the Alcazar of Segovia. The duke steadfastly denied any wrongdoing and demanded a trial by men who understood statecraft. As the enemy forces supporting the Habsburg claimant approached Madrid, Philip V had his former minister transferred to a prison in Pamplona, where he died in the following year without ever having been charged with any crime.

The dramatic events of Medinaceli's arrest and subsequent death in prison shocked contemporaries and continue to puzzle historians.¹⁰⁶ Understandably, the political ramifications have overshadowed their consequences in the cultural arena. With such a distinguished and attentive patron no longer on hand, the family lost interest in its cultural inheritance. The new duke made a “gift” of Velázquez's Fable of Arachne to Philip V, doubtless in part to ease the stigma of his predecessor's alleged guilt. Such indifference also makes it harder to trace the history of the statue by Zenon, and any projects that would have left a documentary trail never came to pass. After Medinaceli's death, the career of his handpicked classicist, Martí, underscores this point. He stayed with the family, although he moved from Madrid to Seville, where he lived in the Casa de Pilatos. Throughout his stay, he maintained ties with international colleagues including Bernard de Montfaucon (1655–1741), who published drawings that the Spaniard provided of statues from the Medinaceli collection. In this context, it is striking that Martí never sent any news about the Muse, which might well have appealed to the French scholar. In any event, Martí found the current duke so uncongenial that he eventually said he would rather burn a volume of his works than dedicate them to his new patron.¹⁰⁷ In such an inhospitable environment, Martí chose to return to Italy in 1717. Before taking this decision, he had applied for the post of royal librarian to Philip V but was rejected, perhaps because of his associations with his previous patron. In this context, one can understand his frustrations with his Spanish life. In any case, with his departure, the last person who might have left a record of the statue exits the scene. Moreover, because he clearly no longer enjoyed working for the family, it reveals how exceptional Medinaceli had been in his appreciation of his cultural heritage.

Medinaceli's brother-in-law: the Duke of Uceda

If the preceding summary has demonstrated how the installation of the statue by Zenon in Cogolludo is consistent with the duke's career, the question of how he came to own it remains open. He could well have acquired it during his tenure as viceroy of Naples, but there is another intriguing possibility that takes us much closer to the house of Alfonso Laguna in Syracuse, where Vallambert saw the statue in 1547: it might have come as a gift from Medinaceli's brother-in-law, Juan Francisco Pacheco Téllez Girón de Mendoza, Duke of Uceda (1649–1718). Like Medinaceli, Uceda enjoyed a long career in Italy, where he served as viceroy to Sicily (1687–96) and later as an ambassador in Rome and Genoa (1699–1711).¹⁰⁸ As events unfolded in Spain, he watched Medinaceli's fall with surprise. Ultimately fearing that the same fate awaited him, he switched his allegiance to Charles III in 1711. This decision meant that when the French defeated the Habsburg forces in Spain, the duke followed his new master back to Vienna, where he died in exile. As a consequence of his desertion, the Bourbon authorities immediately impounded his properties in Madrid. Although the family subsequently recovered most of them as part of the final peace settlement of 1725, his library remained in royal hands.¹⁰⁹

Like Medinaceli, Uceda was an active patron of the arts. He sponsored Italian music and built a new theatre in Palermo, while he also collected books, art, and antiquities.¹¹⁰ A hundred years later, the historian Giovanni Evangelista di Blasi observed that when the viceroy left Sicily: “Oltrache parti egli carico di denari, portò seco una superba raccolta di pitture, di statue, e di altre pregevoli antichità, e manifatture, delle quali spogliò il regno, e che otienne a vile prezzo o in dono, mostrando, piacere di averle.”¹¹¹ It is tempting to speculate that the statue by Zenon figured among the “pregevoli antichità” described, and this hypothesis becomes even more appealing when one learns that the duke visited Syracuse in 1695.¹¹² In part, Uceda had come to inspect the city and nearby areas after an earthquake had devastated them two years before. Confronted with the widespread disaster, his government had responded vigorously, and the reconstruction had occupied his attention for the ensuing years.¹¹³ As locals sought to curry favor with him, one might well have given or “sold” him the statue. The viceroy, in turn, could later have presented the sculpture to his brother-in-law, knowing that Luis de la Cerda would appreciate it as an antiquity and as a Muse of music. In spite of the fact that Uceda had always aspired to serve as viceroy of Naples and competed with Medinaceli for the post, the two had maintained a cordial relationship. Certainly, Uceda's correspondence as published by Luis María García-Badell Arías attests to the close working relationship they enjoyed at this time. In particular, as Uceda received the news of his brother-in-law's arrest, he insisted on his own innocence and that of Medinaceli.¹¹⁴ Given the adversity that overtook both men, surviving documents which might shed light on the statue are understandably limited.

Conclusion

This study has shown how adversity has dogged the statue, yet many of its owners have valued it greatly. The tale spans the Mediterranean (Fig. 2) when a 4th-c. sculptor from Aphrodisias traveled to Sicily because a governor from Rome had commissioned the work. At the end of the 17th c., a Spaniard took the statue back to the Iberian Peninsula. There, a proud owner displayed it in his palace in Cogolludo, only to have someone else later bury it in the grounds. After its rediscovery in 2007, it now stands proudly in the nearby museum at Guadalajara. In spite of the twists and turns, its history attests to the continued appeal it has exerted in such different settings.

In Late Antique Rome, cultivated patrons turned to the celebrated school of sculptors from Aphrodisias for public imagery. These artists from Asia Minor elaborated their versions of known types, which set them apart and earned them widespread recognition in their day. When a governor in Sicily undertook the renovation of the theatre of Syracuse, he may have started a family tradition of commissioning sculptors from Aphrodisias. As such, the Muse from Cogolludo is part of a pattern in which these talented 4th-c. sculptors received commissions from discerning patrons for projects not just in the metropolitan center but in outposts like Syracuse. Since this case embodies a general practice, it can shed light on the way others refurbished public monuments or complexes, like the Baths of Miletus. Comparing it with the theatre of Syracuse not only offers a possible new date for the figures there; it also underscores the vitality of a sculptural tradition.

As the centuries passed, sophisticated scholars and collectors in Renaissance Sicily and Rome doubtless understood the figure's value as a record of the glories of the ancient world they were beginning to admire afresh. Building on this knowledge, Roman antiquarians of the 16th and 17th c. easily recognized the work as Euterpe, the Muse of music. As such, it would have appealed greatly to a distinguished patron like the ninth Duke of Medinaceli, who prized both Classical Antiquity and music. In fact, he was singularly suited to admiring the work and incorporating it into his cultural program, yet when he installed it in the palace of Cogolludo, he was also following a custom that a handful of distinguished Spanish collectors had established. The subsequent neglect that befell the piece attests to a decline not just in the family's fortunes but more broadly in the appreciation of classical culture.

When the statue appeared in 2007, however, its prospects improved dramatically as scholars immediately recognized its importance and installed it prominently in the Museum of Guadalajara. There it proudly stands today, not only attesting to the talent of Zenon but also acting as a reflection of the changing tastes for ancient art and our recognition today of the important legacy of classical tradition.