Bartłomiej Bednarek - The Myth of Lycurgus in Aeschylus, Naevius, and Beyond

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The Myth of Lycurgus in
Aeschylus, Naevius, and beyond
By
Bartłomiej Bednarek
leiden | boston
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Bocianowi
∵
πρὸς κέντρα μὴ λάκτιζε, μὴ παίσας μογῆις
Aeschylus, Agamemnon 1624
∵
Contents
Acknowledgments xi
List of Figures xii
Introduction 1
The Structure of This Book 4
1 Lycurgus before Theatre 7

1.1 Iliad 6.130–140: Who Are You, My Dear? 7
1.2 Eumelus and the Early Dionysian Saga 12
1.3 The Presuppositions of the Homeric Passage: All that We Will Never
Know about Life, Death, and Lycurgus 15
1.4 Stesichorus fr. 276 (Finglass): The Gift of Dionysus 20
1.4.1 Hephaestus Meets Dionysus in Naxos 22
1.5 Conclusions 27
2 Aeschylus’ Lycurgeia 28
2.1 Introduction 28
2.2 Tragic Trilogy 30
2.2.1 Apollodorus and the Edonoi 30
2.2.2 Eratosthenes and the Bassarai 36
2.2.3 The Neaniskoi 41
2.3 The End of Lycurgus in Sophocles, Aeschylus, and Related Texts 42
2.3.1 Sophocles’ Antigone 955–965 43
2.3.1.1 Introduction: Did Lycurgus Die? 43
2.3.1.2 Sophocles’ Antigone 955–965: What Is This Passage
Actually About? 45
2.3.1.3 The End of the Story 49
2.3.1.4 Rhesus 970–973: Lycurgus’ Immortality? 50
2.3.1.5 Lycurgus’ Imprisonment 51
2.3.1.6 Strabo (10.3.16 = 471.7–10): Lycurgus Deified? 53
2.3.1.7 Nonnus 21.155–169: Lycurgus Deified! 55
2.3.1.8 So, Did He Die in the End? 58
2.3.2 Back to Aeschylus 59
2.4 Orpheus in Fabula 62
2.4.1 Diodorus of Sicily and the Chronology of the Thracian
Kings 64
2.4.2 The Conflict 67
viii contents
2.4.3 Towards a Resolution of the Conflict 69

2.4.4 Orpheus’ Oracular Head 71
2.4.5 Back to Eratosthenes 74
2.4.6 Dionysian Cannibalism 77
2.4.7 Theophrastus’ De pietate, Porphyry’s De abstinentia 2.8.3 81
2.4.8 Resolution of the Conflict 84
2.4.9 Conclusions 86
2.4.10 Appendix: Krater 86
2.5 Reconstruction of the Lycurgeia 88
2.5.1 Edonoi: An Outline of the Plot 89
2.5.2 Bassarai: An Outline of the Plot 90
2.5.2.1 Fragment 58 and the Epiphany of Dionysus 92
2.5.3 Neaniskoi 93
2.5.4 Further Fragments 94
2.5.4.1 Edonoi 94
2.5.4.2 Bassarai 98
2.5.4.3 Neaniskoi 100
2.6 Lycurgus satyricus 102
2.6.1 Beer or Wine? 103
2.7 Appendix i: Euripides’ Bacchae and Its Role in Dionysian
Imagery 111
2.8 Appendix ii: Between Lycurgus’ and Pentheus’ Iconography 114
3 Naevius’ Lycurgus 121

3.1 Fragments 123
3.1.1 Fragment 30–32: Two-legged Birds or Two-legged Worms 123
3.1.2 The Request 127
3.1.3 The Artifice 129
3.1.4 The Chorus 131
3.1.5 A Good Advisor and Lycurgus’ Lesson 133
3.1.6 Rheseis Angelikai and the Locus Amoenus 134
3.1.7 Quadrupeds: Another Hallucination? 137
3.1.8 The Palace Miracle: Social Discord or What? 138
3.2 Beyond Fragments 142
3.2.1 Plautus’ Captivi 561–563: Lycurgus’ Mother 142
3.2.2 Plautus’ Menaechmi 835–871 145
3.2.2.1 Role-Play and Characterisation in the
Menaechmi 152
contents ix
3.2.2.2 Who Is Who in the Menaechmi? 153

3.3 Summary of the Plot 155
3.4 The Readership of Naevius 156
4 Lost in Translation: Lycurgus between Aeschylus, Naevius, Poetry, and

Visual Arts 158
4.1 From Aeschylus to Naevius 158
4.2 Aeschylus’ Afterlife 159
4.3 Plays with Lycurgus in the Title 163
4.4 Iconography 165
4.4.1 Some Methodological Remarks 165
4.4.2 Panthers: Did They Kill Lycurgus? 167
4.4.3 The Difficult Life and Death of Lycurgus’ Wife 173
4.4.4 The Woman Killed by Lycurgus 175
4.4.5 The Painter of Boston and the Fury/Lyssa 179
4.5 Instead of Conclusions 183
4.6 Appendix: The Location of Lycurgus’ Kingdom and the Chronology of
His Myth 184
5 Lycurgus monocrepis 188

5.1 Introduction 188
5.2 Lycurgus’ Self-Mutilation in Greek Literature 188
5.3 Lycurgus’ Self-Mutilation in Latin Literature 189
5.4 The Iconography of Lycurgus monocrepis 193
5.5 The History of Research 197
5.5.1 Spurious and Dubious 202
5.5.2 The Practical Use of a Single Sandal 204
5.5.3 True Instances of Wearing a Single Sandal in Myth and
Fiction 207
5.5.3.1 Drunkenness and Agitation 207
5.5.3.2 Other 208
5.6 Conclusions 209
General Conclusions 211
References 215
General Index 235
Index of Modern Authors 238
Index of Ancient Authors 243
Acknowledgments
This book is one of the fruits of my post-doctoral placement in the Faculty of Hi-
story, University of Warsaw. It was generously financed by the National Centre
of Science as a part of the Fuga program (grant number 2016/20/S/HS3/00062).
A large part of this three-year period, from late 2016 until the end of 2019, I
spent as a guest of various research institutions. I received particularly good
assistance from the American School of Classical Studies in Athens, with its
fabulous Blegen Library, the British School at Athens, the University of Oxford
with its Bodleian and Sackler libraries, the Scuola Normale Superiore di Pisa,
the LAMA center at the University of Pisa, and the ANHiMA center in Paris.
During this period I received some additional financial support from the Fac-
ulty of History, the de Brzezie Lanckoroński Foundation in Warsaw, and the
French Government in the form of a scholarship.
I would like to thank my academic mentor, Marek Węcowski. I also received
much welcome help from Ioanna Patera and Paul Jarvis, the first readers of my
manuscript. I also owe a great debt of gratitude to my communication with
many other scholars, sometimes in the form of laconic emails. Thus, among
others, I would like to thank Iwona Krawczyk, Alexandre Johnston, Georgia
Sermamoglou-Soulmaidi, Glenn Most, Jan Bremmer, Oliver Taplin, Vinciane
Pirenne-Delforge, Scott Smith, Charles Delattre, and Dorota Gorzelany. Partic-
ularly memorable, and perhaps the most important of all, was a conversation
I had with Renate Schlesier in front of the Attic hydria with Lycurgus in the
National Museum in Kraków.
Needless to say, this book would have not been the same if not for the helpful
advice given by Brill’s reviewers.
Figures
Drawings by Adam Chmielewski
1 Attic red-figure hydria, Kraków, National Museum 1225 32

2 Attic red-figure kalpis, Basel, Antikenmuseum BS 481 74
3 Attic red-figure hydria, British Museum E 246 78
4 Attic red-figure hydria, Rome, Villa Giulia 2268 115
5 Attic red-figure pyxis lid, London, British Museum E775 117
6 Attic red-figure pyxis, Heidelberg, private collection 118
7 Bronze volute crater from Derveni, Thessaloniki, Archaeological Museum 119
8 Lucanian red-figure oinochoe, Hornbostel, Martini 1995 no. 14 168
9 Apulian red-figure lutrophoros, Munich, Antikensammlung 3300 (J 853) 169
10 Apulian red-figure amphora, Naples, Museo Nazionale SA 697 170
11 Mosaic from Herculaneum, Naples, Museo Nazionale 9988 172
12 Apoulian red-figure column crater, Ruvo di Puglia, Museo Jatta 32 180
13 Funerary stele of the gladiator Chrysampelos, Ankara, Museum of Anatolian
Civilizations 204
Introduction
In Lucian’s Dialogi deorum (22.1) Zeus praises Dionysus:
εἰ δέ τις ἐπεχείρησε λοιδορήσασθαι αὐτωῖ ὑβρίσας ἐς τὴν τελετήν, καὶ τοῦ-

τον ἐτιμωρήσατο, ἢ καταδήσας τοῖς κλήμασιν ἢ διασπασθῆναι ποιήσας ὑπὸ τῆς
μητρὸς ὥσπερ νεβρόν.
Whenever someone attempted to abuse him by committing an outrage

against his rites, he would punish him either by binding him with vine
branches or making his mother rend him apart like a little fawn.
The passage contains allusions to two mythical events, one of which is quite
plain for virtually every contemporary reader with a classical education: the
person who was punished by Dionysus for an offence against him or his rites
by being rent by his own mother like a fawn is obviously Pentheus. The other
allusion is less transparent. However, as early as the first century bce it became
commonplace to mention Lycurgus and Pentheus together in poetic catalogues
of Dionysus’ feats.1 There are also numerous depictions of Lycurgus entangled
in vine branches and many references, laconic though they may be, to the vio-
lence inflicted on him by the plants.2 Thus, we can be quite sure that the person
alluded to by Lucian was Lycurgus, a mythical hero widely attested in iconog-
raphy (for his depictions are as numerous as those of Pentheus)3 and often
alluded to or mentioned in passing by ancient writers as a presumably recog-
nizable figure. Today, however, he is overshadowed by Pentheus, the hero of a
similar narrative about resistance against Dionysus. The reason for this appears
to be that we do not possess a single text entirely dedicated to the Lycurgus
myth that possesses a poetic value comparable to that of Euripides’ Bacchae.
This does not mean that there were no such works in antiquity. We know
of no less than two Greek tragic tetralogies about Lycurgus (Polyphrasmon’s,
of which little is known, and Aeschylus’), as well as one satyr drama (by Timo-
1 Thus: Paus. 1.20.3; Longus 4.3.2; H. C. 2.19. 14–16; Prop. 3.17.23–24; Ov. Met. 4.22; Fast. 3.721–722;
Trist. 5.3.39–40.
2 LIMC: Lykourgos i 35, 41–43, 51, 70–81. Tbilisi hymn 49–51; Nonn. D. 21. esp. 30–32; Schol. S.
Ant. 957–958; Naev. Lyc. fr. 27–29; Stat. Th. 4.386.
3 In LIMC, there are seventy entries under the heading Pentheus and eighty-one under Lycur-
gus i. These obviously need not be taken as firm statistics as the count includes dubiously and
falsely identified representations.
© Bartłomiej Bednarek, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004463035_002

2 introduction
cles) and one comedy (by Anaxandrides) with a Lycurgus in their titles. It is
very likely that all of these told a story about our Lycurgus. Furthermore, it
is usually assumed that there were no less than two Roman tragedies on the
Lycurgus myth, Naevius’ Lycurgus and Accius’ Stasiastae: the content of the
latter is far from certain, but the former was undoubtedly about our Lycurgus.
In summary, although a majority of the works about Lycurgus are mere titles
and meaningless fragments, two works clearly stand out: Aeschylus’ Lycurgeia
and Naevius’ Lycurgus. This is for three reasons. First, we know a great deal—
relatively—about them, and so we may attempt their reconstruction. Secondly,
there are good reasons to believe that these works were of particularly high
artistic quality. Thirdly, they had a strong impact on the subsequent tradition of
representing Lycurgus in art and literature. Thus, it is impossible to talk about
Lycurgus without a thorough discussion of these two fundamental texts.
Another question that may be asked is why Lycurgus himself is worth talk-
ing about. Perhaps it would be enough to observe that a better understanding
of this figure will help to elucidate some fundamental texts that mention him
in passing or allude to him in a way which either causes consternation to the
scholar (Il. 6.130–140; S. Ant. 955–965) or simply passes unnoticed (A. Ag. 1629–
1632; Pl. Men. 835–871). However, Lycurgus plays a much more important role
in the history of Greek religion than in the history of literature. To a certain
degree, this is the result of a coincidence, as Lycurgus is the hero of the first
attested story about Dionysus (Il. 6.130–140); according to later authors (at least
as early as Aeschylus), this was supposed to have taken place in Thrace. Given
that until recently Dionysus was widely believed to have been a foreign god only
introduced to Greece relatively late (just before Homer or even afterwards),
and that many scholars (e.g., Rohde 1894, Harrison 1903, Dodds 1960) claimed
for Dionysus Thracian origins, the story was often thought of as a reflection
of historical events. Due to its early attestation it was taken as an almost con-
temporary account. Because it was supposed to have happened in Thrace, it
was considered a part of the original Thracian, not-yet-Hellenised mythology
of Dionysus. These statements, however, are partially contradictory and none
of them are tenable any longer. As a result, much has been said about Lycurgus
and much more has been built upon false premises. A return to the sources will
thus help us to correct the course somewhat and open new lines of inquiry.
At the same time, however, some of the fascinating statements made by
scholars cannot be simply dismissed. Most strikingly, it seems that as early as
the late first century ce Lycurgus was worshipped as a god in Syria (thus already
Littmann 1901 and, recently, Parker 2017: 50–51). It is not impossible that Lycur-
gus was a god among the Thracians and/or Phrygians by the time of Strabo
(10.3.16). Many scholars, including West (1990) and Sourvinou-Inwood (1989)
introduction 3
believed that Lycurgus became a prophet of Dionysus and came to be wor-

shipped as his alter-ego by the Thracians and Greeks. This is probably wrong.
Dodds (1960: xxiv, n. 1) and Cazanove (1983) conjectured, on what I believe to
be false grounds, that the myth of Lycurgus played an important role in the
Roman Bacchanals that were violently repressed by the Roman authorities in
186bce. Faraone (2011, 2013) claims that the Lycurgus myth could provide a
model for the initiations, whose existence has left intriguing traces in the form
of the so-called “Orphic” tablets. I, however, find this conjecture as problematic
as it is tempting. What seems more likely is that the anonymous author of the
so-called Tbilisi hymn from the third century ce intended to make worshippers
of Dionysus sing the song about Lycurgus during festivals of the god, thus mak-
ing the hero an example of what awaits those who fail to be initiated into the
mysteries. Perhaps it can be called the best preserved hieros logos of a mystery
cult (Furley 2015).
A similar story, which can be taken as a variant of the Lycurgus myth, was
told about Perseus. It was intentionally or unintentionally conflated with the
Lycurgus myth by some Christian authors (Firmicus Maternus De errore 6.6–9;
Malalas Chron. ii. P. 44). Before the Christian period it clearly served as an aition
of some secret rituals in the Argolid and of Dionysus’ grave at Delphi. Both
myths had profound theological implications regarding the possibility of the
god’s death and resurrection, and so they are arguably related to some mystery
cults. Another variant of the same story was told by Diodorus of Sicily (5.50–52),
who substituted for Lycurgus his brother Boutes. It seems to contain an aetiol-
ogy of some female rituals in Thessaly and possibly in Naxos. The relationship
between these stories and the Agrionia rituals in various parts of Greece has
been already suggested by Meuli (1946: 277, n. 5). It seems that at least some-
times and for similar reasons Lycurgus’ story and its variants were appropriated
by several communities to provide an aetiology for some local customs. Accord-
ing to our sources, the myth was supposed to have taken place in the Pangaion
region or in either some other part of Thrace (Rhodope, Hellespont) or at one
of many alternative locations: Achaia Phtiotis, Boeotian Thebes, Hypoplacian
Thebes, Naxos, Damascus, or possibly some other place in Syria.
Briefly speaking, the Lycurgus story was widely known in antiquity, and for
many reasons it was important to many people. Its exact impact, however, can-
not be properly assessed, and some of its aspects have been overstated in the
scholarship, whereas some other aspects have never been properly recognised.
For these reasons it is certainly worth studying.
4 introduction
The Structure of This Book
Given the prestige and potential of ancient theatre to influence imagery, the
dramatic version of mythical stories can be considered almost normative
(although, strictly speaking, no “norm” was recognised as such). From the anal-
ysis of the corpus of ancient texts and images of Lycurgus, we can see that
virtually everything that was thought about him from the fifth century bce
onwards was either in line with Aeschylus or markedly differed from his ver-
sion. Less demonstrable, though still very likely, is the influence of Naevius’
version on the Roman literature. Thus, in what follows, I take these two poets
as opposite poles between which the material can be organised.
Before turning to the dramatic versions of the myth, in Chapter 1, I begin
with the little that is known about Lycurgus from epic poetry. A natural point
of departure is provided by Iliad 6.130–140, the oldest extant passage that tells
Lycurgus’ story. When we give due consideration to the narratological context
of this passage, which is incorporated into a character’s speech, we see that the
Lycurgus myth plays an organic role in Iliad 6. I argue that the text contains
an implicit comparison between the unwise and juvenile hero, Glaucus, and
Dionysus. It thus presupposes the existence of a tradition in which Dionysus
was described paradoxically as an immortal infant who demonstrated cow-
ardice when he was assaulted by the mortal Lycurgus. As we can deduce from
the summary of the Europeia, which is attributed to Eumelus of Corinth in the
Iliadic scholia (discussed in section 1.2), this vision of Dionysus was canonical
at the time that Iliad 6 was composed. In section 1.3, I focus on the theological
meaning of this episode. Dionysus, as he is characterised by early poets, was
clearly unaware of his divine status; he only discovered it through the violent
act inflicted on him by Lycurgus. It is possible that this myth provided a con-
ceptual background for those who hoped for immortality acquired by ritual
means. In section 1.4, I discuss the little that is known about Stesichorus’ ver-
sion of the story, which points to the existence of another mythic-ritual nexus
in Naxos and, possibly, in Thessaly.
Chapter 2 is devoted to Aeschylus’ Lycurgeia. In order to facilitate further
discussion of this elusive material, in section 2.2, I present the most important
testimonies and fragments of the tetralogy. The internal organisation of this
dossier follows the previous scholarly tradition, which I problematise in the
sections that follow. Section 2.3 presents possible reconstructions of the end
of the story. Many scholars think that Lycurgus became an immortal prophet
of Dionysus, as might be deduced from Rhesus 970–973, Strabo 10.3.16, and
Nonnus’ Dionysiaca 21.155–169. This version of the story is often read back into
Sophocles’ Antigone 955–965 and into Aeschylus. As I argue, however, there is
introduction 5
no reason to believe that any Attic tragedian mentioned Lycurgus’ immortal-

ity. Instead, this idea can be traced back to the first century ce in Syria, where
Lycurgus came to be associated with a local divinity called Shai al-quam.
In the section that follows, I discuss the aftermath of Lycurgus’ death. As
the text of Diodorus of Sicily (6.65.6) suggests, Orpheus succeeded Lycurgus as
king of the Edonians. As stated in ps.-Eratosthenes’ Catasterism 24, Orpheus
was subsequently killed by a group of women who were in a state of Dionysian
frenzy. The question arises as to why Orpheus, an otherwise unequivocally pos-
itive figure, deserved such a fate, which clearly presupposed divine wrath. As I
argue, the most likely answer can be traced in the same work, Catasterism 24,
which, combined with some images of Orpheus’ oracular head, suggests that
the singer committed a religious offence against Dionysus, was punished by
death for that reason, and subsequently was reconciled with him after his own
(Orpheus’) death. This is probably what the last segment of the tragic trilogy
titled the Neaniskoi contained. Before that happened, however, Orpheus was
probably shown as a healer, who expelled the state of frenzy from the Edonians
by means of therapeutic music. An allusion to this event, probably referred to
in the Bassarai, can be traced in several texts that describe Orpheus as a cul-
tural hero, as well as on a hydria in the British Museum that bears a particularly
ugly picture of a Thracian cannibal. A rationalised version of this story seems
to have also been mentioned by Porphyry in his De Abstinentia (2.8.3).
The section that follows (2.5) begins with a summary of the plots of Aeschy-
lus’ tragic trilogy as I have reconstructed them based on the material discussed
in the chapter. Subsequently, I present other extant fragments, some of which
deserve a new interpretation.
Section 2.6 discusses the little that is known concerning the last component
of the Lycurgeia, the satyr drama entitled Lycurgus. As can be judged from its
fragments, it contained references to beer, suggesting that the conflict drama-
tised in this play revolved around the drinking of alcohol. What is less clear
is whether Lycurgus was portrayed as a stereotypically Thracian beer drinker,
who opposed Dionysus as the god of wine, or if he abhorred all fermented bev-
erages. Although nothing is certain, the latter scenario seems more likely.
Chapter 3 treats Naevius’ Lycurgus. Most previous scholars have assumed a
priori that the tragedy told a story about Dionysus’ captivity and liberation, sim-
ilar to that in Euripides’ Bacchae. As a result, philologists have tried to connect
the fragments of Lycurgus with various episodes of the Bacchae. I, however,
offer a radically different approach, beginning with a close reading of fragment
30–32 (Schauer), which contains a brief summary of what is due to happen in
the tragedy: namely, Lycurgus will be lured to the mountains and killed. Sub-
sequently, I discuss further fragments, many of which seem to fit the plot and
6 introduction
are parallel to those of Aeschylus’Bassarai. Further material regarding the con-

tent of the play is presented in the second section of the chapter, in which two
passages from Plautus’ comedies are discussed. The Captivi (561–563) contains
an allusion to the violence that, in a state of madness, Lycurgus inflicted on
his mother (attested also in Hyginus). A long passage in the Menaechmi (935–
971) contains a parody of the scene of Lycurgus’ frenzy, his violent acts, and his
subsequent death. In all likelihood, this was inspired by Naevius’ Lycurgus.
Chapter 4 discusses the troubled history of the transmission of the mythical
material from Aeschylus to Naevius, although I do not offer a teleological vision
of this process. In section 4.2, I discuss what form of Aeschylus’ tetralogy could
have been known to Naevius. Subsequently (4.3), I address the problem of how
the Roman poet could have adapted the Greek model (whether it was Aeschy-
lus’ Lycurgeia or some other play). Section 4.4 engages closely with the analysis
of the texts of ‘late’ mythographers (especially Hyginus and Apollodorus) and
the iconography (especially in South Italian vase paintings) often used by schol-
ars as sources for the Aeschylean tradition. As a result of my analysis, I question
several assumptions regarding the interpretation of the motifs and identifica-
tion of the figures represented in art and mentioned in texts. Thus, I argue that
Hyginus’ statement ( fabula 132) that Lycurgus was killed by panthers proba-
bly results from his misunderstanding of the pictorial language. In addition,
the traditional identification of the woman often represented as being killed
by Lycurgus as his wife is probably wrong. More likely she was the nymph
Ambrosia. Finally, based on the image on a crater by the painter of Boston, I
address the problems surrounding the possible relationship between the Lycur-
gus tragedies and Euripides’ Heracles.
In Chapter 5, I discuss the problem of so-called monocrepidism or monosan-
dalism. According to some sources, in his madness Lycurgus cut off his own leg.
This seems to correspond with representations in art that show him as wearing
a single sandal. Many scholars, from Amelung and Frazer onwards, contend
that this motif had a profound meaning and was related to a ‘primitive’ rit-
ual practice. In the first section of the chapter, I present the texts and images
directly related to the condition of Lycurgus’ legs. According to some ancient
authors, the motif was supposed to underline Lycurgus’ madness or mental agi-
tation. In the second section, I discuss the alleged parallels to Lycurgus’ single
sandal that have been gathered by scholars. I argue that the vast majority of
these cultural texts are simply irrelevant. Other pieces of evidence confirm the
interpretation mentioned above. Thus, the chapter deconstructs the notion of
monosandalism or monocrepidism, one of the particularly intriguing miscon-
ceptions that surround the figure of Lycurgus.
chapter 1
Lycurgus before Theatre
1.1 Iliad 6.130–140: Who Are You, My Dear?
The sixth book of the Iliad describes one of the most bizarre encounters
between two warriors on a battlefield.1 In the beginning (Il. 6.119–122), we are
told that Glaucus and Diomedes left their respective ranks in order to fight
each other in the middle of the area between the two armies. It does not
come as a surprise that the duel was preceded by a verbal exchange.2 Yet,
unexpectedly, the two heroes continue talking for 108 lines (6.123–231) only to
conclude that they should not fight due to the ritual friendship between their
fathers. An exchange of gifts follows that confirms the renewal of the relation-
ship.
The passage begins with what may be taken at face value as a curious ques-
tion asked by Diomedes:
τίς δὲ σύ ἐσσι, φέριστε, καταθνητῶν ἀνθρῶπων;

οὐ μὲν γάρ ποτ᾽ ὄπωπα μάχηι ἔνι κυδιανείρηι
τὸ πρίν, ἀτὰρ μὲν νῦν γε πολὺ προβέβηκας ἁπάντων
σῶι θάρσει, ὅ τ᾽ ἐμὸν δολιχόσκιον ἔγχος ἔμεινας.
δυστήνων δε τε παῖδες ἐμῶι μένει ἀντιόωσιν.
εἰ δέ τις ἀθανάτων γε κατ᾽ οὐρανοῦ εἰλήλουθας,
οὐκ ἂν ἔγωγε θεοῖσιν ἐπουρανίοισι μαχοίμην.
Who are you, my dear, of mortal humans? For I have never seen you before
in battle, which brings fame to men. And now, you have stepped ahead
of everybody else, in your audacity exposing yourself to my spear, which
casts a long shadow. Wretched are those whose children meet my anger.
Or, perhaps, you are an immortal, who came down from heaven—in such
a case I am unwilling to fight celestial gods.
1 On the encounter between Glaucus and Diomedes see, among others: Broccia 1963: 73–105;
Gaisser 1969; Maftei 1976; Andersen 1978: 95–110; Fornaro 1992; Harries 1993; Aceti 2008; and
Graziosi, Haubold 2010: 36–40.
2 On such verbal exchanges, known as flyting, in epics, see Parks 1989; for the phenomenon in
Homer, cf. Martin 1989: 65–77.

8 chapter 1
To explain how bad an idea it is to assault immortals, Diomedes tells a story

which, according to some scholars, does not seem to fit the context particularly
well:3
οὐδὲ γὰρ οὐδὲ Δρύαντος υἱός, κρατερὸς Λυκόοργος,

δὴν ἦν, ὅς ῥα θεοῖσιν ἐπουρανίοισιν ἔριζεν·
ὅς ποτε μαινομένοιο Διωνύσοιο τιθήνας
σεῦε κατ᾽ ἠγάθεον Νυσήϊον· αἱ δ᾽ ἅμα πᾶσαι
θύσθλα χαμαὶ κατέχευαν, ὑπ᾽ανδροφόνοιο Λυκούργου
θεινόμεναι βουπλῆγι· Διώνυσος δὲ φοβηθεὶς
δύσεθ᾽ ἁλὸς κατὰ κῦμα, Θέτις δ᾽ ὑπεδέξατο κόλπωι
δειδιότα· κρατερὸς γὰρ ἔχε τρόμος ἀνδρὸς ὁμοκλῆι.
τῶι μὲν επειτ᾽ ὀδύσαντο θεοὶ ῥεῖα ζώοντες,
καὶ μιν τυφλὸν ἔθηκε Κρόνου πάϊς· οὐδ᾽ ἄρ᾽ ἔτι δὴν
ἦν, ἐπεὶ ἀθανάτοισιν ἀπήχθετο πᾶσι θεοῖσιν·
οὐδ᾽ ἂν ἐγὼ μακάρεσσι θεοῖς ἐθέλοιμι μάχεσθαι.
εἰ δέ τίς ἐσσι βροτῶν, οἳ ἀρούρης καρπὸν ἔδουσιν,
ἆσσον ἴθ᾽, ὥς κεν θᾶσσον ὄλέθρου πείραθ᾽ ἵκηαι.
For not even the son of Dryas, the mighty Lycurgus, lived for long, having
challenged the celestial gods. He did assault the nurses of mad Diony-
sus on holy Nyseion. All at once, they cast down their ritual implements,
under blows of the double-axe of the murderous Lycurgus. As for Diony-
sus, he fearfully dived under the waves of the sea and was received by
Thetis on her bosom, all scared. So much did he tremble at the threats
uttered by the murderous man. Consequently the gods, who live bliss-
fully, started abhorring Lycurgus and the son of Cronus made him blind.
Nor did he live for long, having become hateful to all the immortal gods.
Thus, I am unwilling to fight with the blessed gods. But if you are one of
the mortals, who eat the fruit of the earth, come closer so that you may
sooner reach the threshold of destruction.
The story is bewildering for several reasons. First, this is one of only two pas-
sages in which the poet of the Iliad mentions Dionysus (the other is 14.325).
Secondly, he speaks of him in a paradoxical way, as the story stresses the cow-
ardice of the god, his weakness and inability to face a mortal. Yet the out-
ward goal of the speaker is to substantiate the claim that gods should not be
3 E.g., Düntzer 1872: 259–260; Leaf 1900: 256–257; von der Mühll 1952: 113.
lycurgus before theatre 9
assaulted. This apparent inconsistency was treated by whole generations of

scholars, who used it to argue that the passage was inserted in the poem by
a clumsy bricoleur. This bad poet was identified either as a late interpolator or
as the author of the Iliad (or its sixth book) himself.4 However, upon a more
sympathetic reading, assuming that the mythical exemplum might have been
well-fitted to serve its purpose, we might conclude that the rhetorical strategy
of the hero may be simply less straightforward.5 It might well have been a mat-
ter of irony.
This impression is strengthened by the lexical choices of Diomedes, who
addresses his opponent as φέριστε, the best, the bravest. This word never appears
in exchanges between Homeric warriors on the battlefield. Other occurrences
in Homer (Il. 15.247, 24.387, Od. 1.405, 9.269) suggest that it was used when a
speaker wanted to underline an existing friendly relationship or was willing to
create one with the person so addressed (thus also in Pl. Phdr. 238d).6 In the
passage under discussion, unless Diomedes is attempting to flatter Glaucus, he
is clearly patronising him.
What follows in the text is the statement that Diomedes had not seen Glau-
cus in battle. It is true that we are never told that they had seen one another
before.7 Yet the question Diomedes asked did not necessarily result from gen-
uine curiosity and a desire to know who Glaucus really was, nor was it nec-
essarily anxiety rising from any uncertainty about the possibly divine nature
of his opponent. It could also presuppose that thus far Glaucus had failed to
4 The most recent attempt of this kind was made by West (2011: ad 6.130–140): The mythologi-
cal exemplum comes in strangely in several regards. It sits oddly in the context of the peremptory
demand to know Glaukos’ identity, and distends it out of proportion; it is untypically used to jus-
tify the speaker’s own conduct rather than to influence another’s; and even if Diom[edes] is no
longer in the mood to fight gods, it is somewhat bizarre for him to turn to the story of Lycurgus
as the readiest example of someone who did […] After hearing the story from another poet [the]
P[oet] might have decided that it could aptly be fitted in here. It lies outside his normal range; he
mentions Dionysus otherwise only at Ξ 325. Despite all the admiration I have for West, I think
it is worth quoting this as an example of a tendentious reading, which seems to intentionally
misinterpret the passage.
5 The research on Homeric heroes’ conscious rhetorical strategies is relatively new but
extremely fruitful. See especially De Jong 1987; Martin 1989.
6 De Jong (2004: 163) translates it as my dear.
7 The only passage in the Iliad that mentions Glaucus before the encounter under discussion
occurs in the catalogue of the Trojan allies (Il. 2.876–877). We are not told that he made him-
self famous in battle, but we are not told either that he was a newcomer at Troy (see, e.g.,
Maftei 1976: 13). Importantly, however, Homeric convention allows for a breach of common-
sense logic in scenes such as the teichoskopia, in which the Trojans seem to be unfamiliar
with the Achaean promachoi despite the nine years of the war that had elapsed. Thus, it is
not impossible that Diomedes does not know Glaucus.
10 chapter 1
display his prowess. What speaks in favour of the latter interpretation is the
antithesis constructed by Diomedes, who says: now you have stepped ahead of
everybody else. This suggests that before that (note the opposition: τὸ πρίν—
ἀτὰρ μὲν νῦν γε) Glaucus had done the contrary; namely, that he had not found
the courage to fight as a promachos.8 Moreover, the choice of the epithet that
describes the battle, κυδιάνειρα (bringing men glory), contributes to the overall
impression that Diomedes is insinuating that Glaucus had earlier failed to do
what was expected of a man.9 This allegation will be subsequently addressed
by Glaucus in his own lengthy speech, in which he tells the story of his grandfa-
ther Bellerophon and his manly exploits, only to state at the end that his father
instructed him to follow this model (206–211) and always to excel and distin-
guish himself above others (αἰὲν ἀριστεύειν καὶ ὑπείροχον ἔμμεναι ἄλλων). In other
words, Glaucus explains that he knows what the ideal of manliness is, and he
declares that he is willing to conform to it. Such a reply presupposes that this
is something that Diomedes had put into question.
In this context, the choice of the story about Dionysus as the subject mat-
ter for a digression in Diomedes’ speech seems to result from his conscious
rhetorical strategy. The hero, who is usually described in the Iliad by the epi-
thet κράτερος,10 now uses it in reference to Lycurgus. This may suggest that he
identifies himself with this character.11 By implication, the role left for Glaucus
is that of Dionysus. Diomedes begins by suggesting that Glaucus is not a wor-
thy opponent, who is inevitably bound to meet a miserable fate. He admits a
possibility that this is not meant to happen but only under the condition that
Glaucus is a god. Diomedes declares that in such a case he would refuse to fight;
this may come as a surprise, given that earlier in the same day he had success-
fully faced Aphrodite (5.330–340) and Ares (5.846–863). This suggests that his
apprehension should not be taken at face value. Furthermore, Diomedes illus-
trates his claim with the story about Dionysus, a hyperbolically cowardly god,
who is said to be scared (φοβηθείς), alarmed (δειδιώς), and to shake terribly (κρα-
τερὸς ἔχε τρόμος). Dionysus does not even face his opponent, but instead he runs
away to find comfort in the bosom of the motherly Thetis.12 The subsequent ret-
ribution for the impious act does not come from Dionysus himself, as it is Zeus
and the whole community of immortals that wreak vengeance on Lycurgus. To
8 On the promachoi, see Singor 1995; Hellmann 2000: 157–164.

9 Thus Martin 1989: 127; Graziosi, Haubold 2010: 111.
10 Il. 4.401, 411, 5.143, 151, 251, 286, 814, 7.163, 8.532, 10.369, 446, 536, 11.316, 361, 384, 660, 16.25,
23.290, 472, 812.
11 See, e.g., Privitera 1970: 57; Harries 1993: 136–137.
12 See Gantz 1993: 113; Davies 2000: 20; Faraone 2013: 124.
make things even worse for Dionysus, the vengeance itself seems to be almost
a parody of the calamities that gods usually inflicted on their enemies. After all,
the loss of sight and a short lifespan seem an exceptionally mild punishment.
Thus, Dionysus turns out to be the weakest of weak. The exchange between the
two warriors can be summarised as follows:
Diomedes (ironically): who are you, unmanly creature? Shall I kill you or
shall I spare you on the assumption that you are a god? There was a god
similar to you, one as crazy as you are and as cowardly as you must be, but
it was Lycurgus’ mistake to assault him. Even though the god turned out
to be helpless, some other immortals punished Lycurgus for his impiety.
Glaucus: I am not a god, but a mortal of the line of valiant Bellerophon.
My father instructed me to emulate him.
What follows is the recognition and the exchange of the shields of unequal
value, as Glaucus gives away his golden armour for bronze. The meaning of this
episode has been widely discussed, as it provides a clear exception to the typ-
ical rules of conduct. The narrator himself comments on this: Zeus must have
blurred the Glaucus’ judgement (6.234 ἔνθ᾽ αὖτε Γλαύκωι Κρονίδης φρένας ἐξέλετο
Ζεύς).13 This seems to provide suitable closure for the episode, in which Glaucus
seems to be out of place from the very beginning. In the end, he undervalues
the economic value of his shield just as much as he has overvalued his own
military prowess while facing Diomedes.14
13 See especially Calder 1984; Donlan 1989; Martin 1989: 127–130. On the Homeric gifts see,
e.g., Seaford 1994: 13–25; Scodel 2008: 33–48.
14 It should also be noted that in one of the very few representations of Glaucus in paint-
ing (LIMC: Glaukos v has ten entries, of which only four are relatively certain), the hero
is shown in a scene of combat with his face frontally looking at the spectator (LIMC:
Glaukos v.6, Chalcidian black figure psykter amphora, around 540 bce). Although this
is not the only possible explanation, the artist probably meant to suggest that Glaucus
was in a deranged state of mind (see note 106). Another depiction of the hero (LIMC
Glaukos v.10, black figure Attic hydria of 550–540 bce) juxtaposes a beardless Glaucus
with a bearded Hector, which suggests an age difference. Perhaps the artist thought that
at the time of the Trojan war Glaucus was still a youth. This would explain the paternalis-
ing attitude of Diomedes. On Glaucus naivety, see Harries 1993.
12 chapter 1
1.2 Eumelus and the Early Dionysian Saga
According to the Iliadic scholia (D ad Il. 6.131 = Eumelus fr. 11 Bernabé),15 the
story was known from many sources, but principally from Eumelus, the author
of the Europeia:16
Διόνυσος ὁ Διὸς καὶ Σεμέλης παῖς, ἐν Κυβέλοις τῆς Φρυγίας ὑπὸ τῆς Ῥέας
τυχὼν καθαρμῶν καὶ διδαχθεὶς τὰς τελετὰς καὶ λαβὼν παρὰ τῆς θεὰς τὴν
διασκευήν, ἀνὰ πᾶσαν ἐφέρετο τὴν γῆν χορεύων καὶ τελετὰς ποιούμενος, καὶ
τιμῶν τυγχάνων προηγεῖτο πάντων τῶν ἀνθρώπων. παραγενόμενον δὲ αὐτὸν
εἰς τὴν Θράικην Λυκοῦργος ὁ Δρύαντος, λυπήσας Ἥρας μίσει, μύωπι ἀπελαύ-
νει τῆς γῆς καὶ καθάπτεται τῶν τούτου τιθηνῶν· ἐτύγχανον γὰρ αὐτῶι συν-
οργιάζουσαι· θεηλάτωι δὲ ἐλαυνόμενος μάστιγι τὸν θεὸν ἔσπευδε τιμωρήσα-
σθαι. ὁ δὲ ὑπὸ δέους εἰς τὴν θάλασσαν καταδύνει, καὶ ὑπὸ Θέτιδος ὑπολαμ-
βάνεται καὶ Εὐρυνόμης. ὁ οὖν Λυκοῦργος οὐκ ἀμισθὶ δυσσεβήσας ἔδωκε τὴν
ἐξ ἀνθρώπων δίκην· ἀφηιρέθη γὰρ πρὸς τοῦ Διὸς τοὺς ὀφθαλμούς. τῆς ἱστο-
ρίας πολλοὶ ἐμνήσθησαν, προηγουμένως δὲ ὁ τὴν Εὐρωπίαν πεποιηκὼς Εὔμη-
λος.
Dionysus, the son of Zeus and Semele, having received purification from
Rhea in Phrygian Kybeloi, established the rites and, having acquired the
goddess’ ritual paraphernalia, travelled all over the world, dancing and
performing his rites, worshipped and followed by all people. However,
when he came to Thrace, Lycurgus, the son of Dryas, vexed by Hera’s
hatred, drove him away from the land with a goad and attacked his
nurses (who happened to participate in his rites). Driven by a divine
whip he was eager to punish Dionysus, who, in his fear, dived into the
sea and was received by Thetis and Eurynome. Lycurgus’ impiety did not
remain unavenged, as he was punished in a way commensurate with his
humanity—Zeus deprived him of his eyes. The story was mentioned by
many, principally by Eumelos, the author of the Europeia.
15 Text of Bernabé (PEG).

16 Although, as Càssola observes (1975: 7, n. 1.), the scholiast does not state explicitly that the
whole story was featured in the Europeia, there is no good reason to doubt this (thus, e.g.,
Bernabé 2013: 54). Moreover, according to Huxley (1969: 76), the mention of Eurynome—
a divinity related to the river god Asopus (as his mother)—would probably suit Eumelus’
agenda, as she is particularly important in the epics attributed to him (see also Bernabé
2013: 57, 60; Debiasi 2004: 25–26; 2015: 82).
The Europeia itself was probably a long epic poem which recounted many
episodes that were directly or indirectly related to the rape of Europa.17 A large
part of it was dedicated to the adventures of Dionysus, and it was organised
according to the sequence of places he visited during his journey. This structure
is clearly hinted at in the Iliadic scholion. The passage in the Iliad summarises
one of its episodes; however, due to the chronological problems18 it is impos-
sible to tell whether its author could have been familiar with the Europeia.
Alternatively, both poets could have followed some source available to them
in a written or oral form.19
What is particularly valuable is that the Homeric passage can be seen against
the backdrop of what the scholiast presents as the standard version of the
narration in the early or relatively early epics attributed to the poet who, as
an alleged member of the Bacchiad family, was widely believed to sympa-
thise with Dionysus.20 The comparison indicates that the Homeric version
leaves aside some part of the narration. It does not state where Dionysus
came from and why he was mad (μαινόμενος). However, these omissions, as
Bernabé observes (2013: 58), are hardly telling, as they may simply be the
result of the speaker’s (Diomedes’) focus. Apart from this, the story is substan-
tially the same. Dionysus is probably a child and he travels with his nurses.
Instead of fighting, he runs to Thetis in fear (ὑπὸ δέους), and Lycurgus is sub-
sequently punished not by Dionysus but by Zeus in a relatively mild fash-
ion.
This allows for some nuance to be added to the statements made by schol-
ars, who claim that Homer’s reticence over Dionysus and his almost conde-
17 Thus already Huxley 1969: 75–76; West 2011: 380–383; Bernabé 2013: 57; Debiasi 2015: 75–
92. The overall structure of the Europeia would probably be reflected in the composition
of Nonnus’ Dionysiaca (see Jeanmaire 1950: 73–78; Debiasi 2015: 75–96, 158–163). For the
myth of Europa in early poetry, see Davies, Finglass 2014: 355.
18 From several sources (Paus. 2.1.1; 4.4.1; 4.33.2; Clem. Al. Strom. 1.131.8; Eus. Chron. Ol. 5.1, 9.1)
we learn of the existence of a certain Corinthian poet Eumelus, active in the eight cen-
tury bce (see also Huxley 1969: 62; Untersteiner 1971: 165). It is far from certain, however,
whether he really authored the poems attributed to him. West (2011: 389–390) dates the
Europeia to not much before 600, although the grounds for this conjecture, as he himself
admits, are frail. Huxley (1969: 76), on equally shaky grounds, suggested a date of around
700 bce.
19 See Privitera 1970: 70–74 (with references to earlier works in note 31); Bernabé 2013: 59–
60; Debiasi 2015: 80–81. More recently Tagliabue (2009) explores the possibility of the
influence of Eumelus’ epics on the sixth book of the Iliad, without, however, adducing
arguments against other ways of explaining the similarities between them.
20 West 2011: 353–355; Debiasi 2015: 84–85 with further bibliography.
14 chapter 1
scending attitude towards this god, when he occasionally breaks the silence,
is a conscious, ideologically biased choice to show Dionysus as the antithesis
of the heroic model.21 Admittedly, the fact that the poet selected this partic-
ular episode from the Dionysian saga might have been a malicious decision
to demean the god. Yet it seems clear that the saga contained this episode in
a form relatively close to the Homeric version. Moreover, there is nothing to
suggest that this story was exceptional and that Dionysus in early epics was a
warlike hero, similar to the Dionysus of Nonnus.22 If it contained an important
message for the worshippers, it clearly did not operate as a mechanistic propa-
ganda device by showing the triumphs of the divinity as a reason to embrace
it. This was perhaps because, unlike Lycurgus, the audiences of Greek epics did
not doubt that Dionysus was a god.23 Given that his divine status was not at
stake, the poets could permit themselves to depict him as a “different god”, and
explore thus the limits of the concept of divinity.
21 E.g., Seaford in his popular monograph on Dionysus (2006: 27) states: Dionysus is not just
rare in Homer but (in the Lykourgos story) weak. The marginality of Dionysus is ideologi-
cal. It belongs to a view of the world that, consciously or unconsciously, expresses the interest
of a social group, in this case the aristocratic clan, whose ideas of heroism and glory are far
removed from the work of the land. All narrative involves selection, and all selection involves
judgement of what is important. See also Seaford 1994: 1–10, 330–331 and Guthrie 1950:
165. Marzullo (1970: 93, quoting Nilsson 1955: i 565 (= 533)) offers a more radical vision of
Homeric censorship, according to which, Dionysus was a pre-Greek divinity, one almost
completely eradicated in Greece by the invasion of the Hellenes. His worship was sup-
posed to survive in the “barbarian” countries that surrounded Greece and in the lower
social strata, including women. Homer was thus supposed to try to deny his familiarity
with this non-Greek-aristocratic divinity. It may sound extremely logical, but this theory
ignores the mechanisms at work in a polytheistic religion.
22 The only other narrative about Dionysus reflected in the Homeric epics is alluded to
at Odyssey 11.321–325. According to this version, Dionysus was probably betrayed by his
fiancé or wife, Ariadne, who preferred the mortal Theseus (cf. E. Hipp. 339; Eratosth. Cat.
5.1 and Hyg. 5.1 with Epimenides fr. 38 Bernabé; Sen. Phaedr.759–760; Him. Or. 9.5). This
is certainly not a heroic exploit worthy of an Olympian. On this version, see Preller 1864,
294–295; 1872, 559–560; Barrett 1964: ad 339; Otto 1965, 185–186; West 1966, ad 949; Jame-
son 1993, 54; Roisman 1999: 61 and n. 38.
23 Perhaps due to the history of the research, scholars often seem to assume that the cult
of Dionysus was propagated by some individuals or groups (even if it did not, as it had
been once thought, originate from abroad). However, there is no reason to believe that it
was propagated any more than the cult of, say, Zeus. The myths are not so much meant
to prove that Dionysus/Zeus/Apollo/Hermes, etc. is a god. They rather explore the idea
of divinity by asking what it means to be a god, and what it means to be one god or
another.
1.3 The Presuppositions of the Homeric Passage: All that We Will

Never Know about Life, Death, and Lycurgus
These observations on the context of the story in which Dionysus appears for
the first time in the history of literature (at least known to us) lead to a con-
clusion that may seem banal in the light of the scholarly tradition of recent
decades:24 Dionysus is an unusual god; in fact, he is hyperbolically weak and
cowardly. Yet I would like to emphasise that in the Iliad Dionysus is already
depicted as an immortal of full status.
This observation becomes particularly meaningful in the context of
Faraone’s insightful article Gender Differentiation and Role Models in the Wor-
ship of Dionysus, in which he observes (2013: 123–124) that the adventures of
Dionysus can be taken as his initiation into immortality. As such, they could
have provided an explanation for the ritual actions of people who assumed a
godlike identity by means of an initiation into the mysteries of Dionysus.25 It is
crucial, however, to underline what kind of rite of passage Dionysus undergoes.
Faraone admits the possibility that Dionysus was not a god at the begin-
ning of the story, and that it was the leap into the sea that turned him into
an immortal (2013: 124).26 Now, it is true that Homer does not call Dionysus a
24 Following Otto (1933), whose monograph on Dionysus initially seemed simply bizarre (see
Nilsson 1955: i 564–565 = 531–532, n. 1), French structuralists (especially Detienne 1977;
1986) set what is today’s mainstream approach to Dionysus. Thus, the monumental edited
volume recently published by Schlesier (2011) is entitled A different god?
25 Already Jeanmaire (1950: 73–78) connected Dionysus’ leap with the initiation, by pointing
towards the analogy in the story in which Theseus jumped into the sea to prove his divine
origins. The similarities between the two myths are striking, and it seems that one could
have influenced the other. However, there seems to be a neat difference between the two
stories: Theseus does not turn out to be immortal, nor does the story seem to be connected
to the mystery rites (pace Faraone 2013: 133–135). With more success, Theseus’ myth has
been connected with his coming of age (thus already Jeanmaire 1939: 324–338 and recently
Beaulieu 2016: 69–79; however, the ritual background of these narrations seems to deserve
renewed scholarly attention and is truly a Pandora’s box for another occasion); this is not
the same as the mystic initiation, even though both fall under van Gennep’s (1909) cate-
gory of rites de passage. For more on this distinction: Graf 2003; Lincoln 2003.
26 Thus also Kerényi 1976: 175–188; Daraki 1985: 34. They build much on the analogy between
the Lycurgus story and the myth in which Perseus assaulted Dionysus. The relationship
between these two narratives seems quite certain (however its exact nature may be dis-
puted) and the connection between Perseus’ story and Dionysus’ visit to the underworld
seems evident. However, for some reason all ancient authors who refer to this story seem
to hesitate to say that Dionysus died. Eustathius (Il. 14.319–320), the scholiast to the Iliad
(14.319), Eusebius (Chron. a. 785), and the scholiast to Aratus (p. 108 Martin) all use the
verb ἀναιρέω. It can mean to kill (e.g., Hdt. 4.66), but it may connote various other ideas,
16 chapter 1
god.27 It is also true that although the passage under discussion mentions gods
several times, it never explicitly states that Dionysus is one of them. Yet, his
divine status can be deduced from the context in which the myth is recounted.
The mythical exemplum is sandwiched between two statements that form a
precise ring composition:
6.129–130
εἰ δέ τις ἀθανάτων γε κατ᾽ οὐρανοῦ εἰλήλουθας,

οὐκ ἂν ἔγωγε θεοῖσιν ἐπουρανίοισιν μαχοῖμεν
Or, perhaps, you are an immortal, who came down from the heaven—in
such a case I am unwilling to fight celestial gods.
6.141–142
οὐδ᾽ ἂν ἐγὼ μακάρεσσι θεοῖς ἐθέλοιμι μάχεσθαι

εἰ δέ τίς ἐσσι βροτῶν …
Thus, I am unwilling to fight blessed celestial gods. But if you are a mor-
tal …
As discussed above, in these lines Diomedes ironically allows for Glaucus to

belong to the same category of beings to which Dionysus belongs. This cate-
such as the removal of something from among people (e.g., Din 3.19). In many contexts
it has nothing to do with killing (all LSJ categories apart from AII). Thus, in the scholia
to Aratus, where both Ariadne and Dionysus are said to have met their end, the former’s
death is referred to in an unmarked way, the latter’s fate in a marked one (to use the seman-
tic terminology): τρωθεῖσα ὑπὸ Περσέως τέθνηκε, καὶ ταύτην ἀμυναι θέλων ὁ Διόνυσος ἀνηιρέθη
ὑπ᾽ αὐτοῦ τοῦ Περσέως (Ariadne was killed, Dionysus … was destroyed/ removed/ made away
with). This may suggest that what happened to Dionysus was very much like death, but not
quite; pace Arrigoni 1999.
27 Faraone (2013: 124) seems to build on the first part of the statement that Gantz (1993: 113)
makes about Dionysus: the latter is nowhere actually called a god in the Iliad, though this
is surely coincidence. It seems to correspond to the passage in Heraclitus (All. 35), who
says that according to some authors Dionysus was not a god in Homer (νομίζουσι τοίνυν
ἔνιοι μηδὲ Διόνυσον εἶναι παρ᾽ Ὁμήρωι θεόν; cf. school. Il. 6.132: σημειοῦνταὶ τινες, ὅτι ὡς περὶ
θεοῦ τοῦ Διωνύσου διαλέγεται). Immediately afterwards, Heraclitus expounds an allegorical
reading of the passage, according to which Dionysus stands for wine and the whole Lycur-
gus episode for the harvest. It is possible that the authors who were supposed to doubt that
Dionysus was a god in Homer had a similar agenda.
gory is labelled as celestial gods, not mortals, who turn into celestial gods when
assaulted by someone stronger. This suggests that for Diomedes, Glaucus, the
poet, and his audience, it was clear that Dionysus was an immortal from the
beginning. Therefore, his leap into the sea does not signify the passage from
mortality to immortality in an ontological sense. There is, however, another
option.
The poet clearly insists on several key concepts. Both the lines that open
the ring composition, as well as those that close it, refer to the opposition
between mortality and immortality. This is clearly what the whole enunciation
is about.28 The theme is also present in the narrative section, which consists
of only eleven lines in which Lycurgus is said twice to have lived a short life.
He is also called a man (ἀνήρ) and a killer of men (ἀνδροφόνος). Diomedes calls
gods immortal (ἀθάνατοι), celestial (ἐπουράνιοι), then celestial again, living bliss-
fully (ῥεῖα ζώοντες), immortal again, and blessed (μάκαροι). What makes Diony-
sus different from other gods is his emotional condition. He is said to be mad
(μαινόμενος), scared (φοβηθείς), alarmed (δειδιώς), and to shake terribly (κρατε-
ρὸς ἔχε τρόμος). This is an obvious antithesis to the blissful existence of other
Olympians.
What Dionysus does when he is assaulted by a murderous mortal is what
every helpless mortal would do. He runs away without trying to fight back.
Additionally, his emotional response is typical for mortals; he is scared. What
happens next already belongs to a different order, as Dionysus does not drown
in the sea. Apparently, this is the moment when he crosses the border between
mortality and immortality, but this border is purely subjective. Dionysus does
not become a god. He merely discovers that he has already been one without
knowing it.
The theological implications of Dionysus’ leap into the sea are certainly
intriguing, although they are far from straightforward. As Faraone argues
(2013), it seems very likely that it was somehow ritually enacted by some wor-
shippers who hoped to become immortal. Yet such texts as the “Orphic” tablet
487 call for circumspection: line 4 (θεὸς ἐγένου ἐξ ἀνθρώπου· ἔριφος ἐς γάλα ἔπε-
τες; you became a god from human: a kid fell into milk) has been thought to refer
in an enigmatic way to a ritual, which might reflect the mythical adventure of
Dionysus and its effect.29 It would turn a human into an immortal. However, it
28 On the role of the parts that open and close a ring composition (Minchin: abstract and
coda) as indicators of the meaning of the enunciation, see Minchin 2001: 185–189; Dou-
glas 2007: 36–38.
29 According to Faraone (2011: 315–316; 2013: 131–132) falling into the milk in these formulae
reflects Dionysus’ leap into the sea. This is supposed to be based on the seemingly natural
18 chapter 1
is clear from the text that the worshippers were supposed to undergo an onto-
logical change resulting from the ritual rather than discover that, like Dionysus,
they had already been immortal.
To complicate things a little further, what may suggest that the passage in
Homer is related to the mystery cult is that, as Bernabé observes (2013: 56),
blindness seems to be a suitable punishment for those who saw something
they were not supposed to see.30 Thus it is tempting to think that Lycurgus’
fate suggests that he witnessed Dionysian rituals that were kept secret from
the uninitiated. Such an interpretation is attested already in the Iliadic scholia,
although it appears alongside an alternative explanation (ad 139 Erbse):
a.¹ τυφλὸν ἔθηκε: ἐπεὶ ἐθεώρει τὰς τελετάς, οἰκείως κολάζεται τὰς ὄψεις.
Made him blind: because he saw the mysteries, he is properly punished

in a way that involves his eyesight.
a.² ἐπεί τὰς τελετὰς ὁρῶν οὐκ ἐσωφρόνει, οἰκείως τὰς ὄψεις κολάζεται.
Because he did not come to his senses when he saw the mysteries, he is
properly punished in a way that involves his eyesight.
Although both of the above statements seem very similar to one another, their
meaning is quite different. According to the latter explanation, Lycurgus was
punished not because it was forbidden to see what he saw, but because he
failed to draw proper conclusions from what he saw. This finds much support
in the later tradition, as Lycurgus was supposed to be particularly obdurate in
association between the seafoam and milk. However, the only passages cited by Faraone
in which such a connection is made in ancient texts are related to the Nereid Galateia,
a sea creature whose name seems to bear a reference to milk (γάλα): scholia on Hes. Th.
250 and Eust. Il. 18.41. Duris of Samos (Jacoby 76 F 58) and Theocritus (11.19–20, 36, 63–66)
mention her in the context of milk and cheese production but make the Cyclops Polyphe-
mus, an archetypal shepherd, responsible for this association. Given that apart from these
playful passages the connection seems to be unattested, the statement that a leap into the
milk equals a leap into the sea remains a matter of loose association. On the intriguing
milk formulae in “Orphic” tablets, see Graf 1993: 245–250 and Edmonds 2004: 90–91 with
further bibliography.
30 Thus also Faraone 2013: 124–126. In contrast, Tatti-Gartziou (2010) offers a whole typology
of the offences punished in Greek mythology by blindness; from these it can be discerned
that this kind of punishment does not presuppose a crime related to seeing.
his resistance to Dionysus. The so-called Tbilisi hymn especially stresses that
Lycurgus saw clear proof of Dionysus’ divine status, but he still refused to wor-
ship him.31
On the other hand, no extant text refers to or even seems to hint at the
crime Lycurgus committed with his eyes. There are no passages that say that
he desired to see the rites, as Pentheus did, or that he accidentally saw some-
thing, as befell Actaeon. The silence of the partially preserved sources on this
point is obviously not proof of the absence of the motif, but it should warn us
against taking its existence for granted. Although in hindsight Iliad 6.130–140
seems to make perfect sense when interpreted as an allusion to the breach of
secrecy that surrounded some Dionysian rituals, this is not what the poet tells
us, nor is it what the summary of the passage in the Europeia preserves. We do
not even know whether, at the time of its composition, secret rituals in honour
of Dionysus were already in existence.32
In conclusion, what can be stated with confidence is only that at some point
some people, including the Iliadic scholiast, saw an allusion to the mystery rites
in the Iliad. It is impossible to tell whether this was intended by the author. It is
tempting to think that this story provided a model for some of the initiations,
but it does not necessarily mean that the narration was initially born as a hieros
logos of these rituals.
31 The Tbilisi Hymn or Zereteli Hymn to Dionysus (probably from the third century ad) was
first published from a papyrus (P. Ross. Georg. 1.11, now in Tbilisi) by Grigol Zereteli in
1918. What has become the standard point of reference is its second edition in a volume
published by Zereteli and Krüger in 1925. The text was subsequently printed by Page in the
Loeb edition of Greek Literary Papyri (1950: no. 129), as well as by Tsirimpas (1953), Heitsch
(1961: no. 56), Sutton (1987: 61–106). Recently, a new edition with commentary and photos
of the papyrus was published by Furley (2007). On this hymn, see also Zumbo 1997; Furley
2015; Bednarek forthcoming.
32 On dating the Europeia, see note 18. Dating Homer, the Iliad, its sixth book, or its lines 119–
236 is notoriously difficult. However, the earliest firm evidence of the Dionysiac or Orphic-
Bacchic mysteries (following the terminology used in Bremmer 2014) comes from c.a.
500 bce and later (Heraclitus, fr. B 14 and the Olbia tablets; for the dating of the mysteries
on their basis, see West 1982: 26) and, as such, it is clearly later than the passage in ques-
tion. As Burkert famously observed (1987: 2), it is a modern myth that mystery cults were
typical for Late Antiquity as a kind of prelude to the Medieval spirituality. Nevertheless,
one shall resist the temptation of postulating their existence in the much more remote
past, where speculation goes beyond the extant evidence. Based on the data provided by
Homer, one may infer that such a mythical figure or ritual role as a maenad was already
recognisable for the audience of the Iliad (6.389, 22.460; cf. Seaford 1994: 330–338; Privitera
1970: 60–62). The relationship between early maenads and Dionysus is less certain. Even
less is known of the existence of secret rites in earlier times. At least as far as the narrative
of Scyles’ participation in the mysteries in Herodotus (4.78–80; around 460 bce) is con-
20 chapter 1
1.4 Stesichorus fr. 276 (Finglass): The Gift of Dionysus
Another passage in the Homeric scholia (Schol. AB Il. 23.92 (ii 251, iv 309 Din-
dorf) = Stesichorus fr. 234 Campbell = 276 Finglass) mentions Lycurgus in the
context of the history of the amphora in which Achilles deposited Patroclus’
ashes:
Διόνυσος Ἥφαιστον γενόμενον ἐν Νάξωι μιᾶι τῶν Κυκλάδων ξενίσας ἔλαβεν

παρ᾽ αὐτοῦ δῶρον χρύσεον ἀμφορέα. διωχθεὶς δὲ ὕστερον ὑπὸ Λυκούργου καὶ
καταφυγὼν εἰς θάλασσαν, φιλοφρόνως αὐτὸν ὑποδεξαμένης Θέτιδος ἔδωκεν
αὐτῆι τὸν ἡφαιστότευκτον ἀμφορέα. ἡ δὴ τῶι παιδὶ ἐχαρίσατο ὅπως μετὰ θάνα-
τον ἐν αὐτῶι ἀποτεθῆι τὰ ὀστᾶ. ἡ ἱστορία παρὰ Στησίχορωι.
Dionysus, having received Hephaestus, when he stayed in Naxos, one of

the Cyclades, was given by him a golden amphora as a gift. Later, after he
was chased by Lycurgus, ran into the sea, and was received by Thetis in a
friendly fashion, he gave Thetis the amphora crafted by Hephaestus. She
gave it to her son so that after his death his bones would be deposited in
it. The story is in Stesichorus.
It is usually assumed that the whole story, as summarised in the scholion,

was told by Stesichorus. This is probably correct. Unfortunately, nothing else
is known about the poem and its subsequent history. Haslam in his influen-
tial article (1991) suggested that the tale was stitched together by Stesichorus,
who simply joined up the dots provided by several Homeric passages and some
motifs that seemed an obvious guess to anyone versatile in the epic tradi-
tion.
The vessel in which Achilles’ and Patroclus’ bones were buried is mentioned
in Iliad 23.91, where it is called a σορός (urn; ὣς δὲ καὶ ὀστέα νῶϊν ὁμὴ σορὸς ἀμφι-
καλύπτοι).33 The line that follows (23.92) characterises it as a golden jar that his
cerned, it seems to presuppose that it was not an exclusively female cult (as a matter of
fact, women’s participation is not mentioned) and that it was not kept secret from the
male Greek inhabitants of Olbia (cf., e.g., Jeanmaire 1950: 89–94; West 1982: 25).
33 From Rumpf (1953: 470) on, there has been a tradition of identifying this vessel with the
amphora carried by Dionysus on the François crater (thus especially Stewart 1983, who
argued for its connection with Stesichorus’ fragment). As Haslam (1991) argued, this is only
a possibility and the image cannot be taken as a direct reference to any poetic version in
which the vessel featured. See also Davies, Finglass 2014: 565.
lady mother gave to Achilles (χρύσεος ἀμφιφορεύς, τόν τοι πόρε πότνια μήτηρ). This
latter verse has been probably interpolated so as to match Odyssey 24.73–75:34
δῶκε δὲ μήτηρ
χρύσεον ἀμφιφορῆα· Διωνύσοιο δὲ δῶρον
φάσκ᾽ ἔμεναι, ἔργον δὲ περικλυτοῦ Ἡφαίστοιο.
The mother gave the golden jar, the gift of Dionysus, as she said, crafted
by famous Hephaestus.
According to Haslam, the vessel mentioned in the Iliad could have suggested to
the poet of the Odyssey 24 an amphora, which it would be more natural to think
of as a gift of Dionysus, the god of wine, which could be kept in it. It is equally
natural that in the Homeric world such a vessel should have been crafted by
Hephaestus. Still according to Haslam, the explanation for the transfer of the
vessel from Dionysus to Thetis was conveniently offered to Stesichorus by the
Iliad (6.130–140), as it is the only passage known to us that brings these two
divinities together on the occasion of Dionysus’ rescue from Lycurgus. Recon-
structed in this way, the whole tale is no more than a work of fiction in the
modern sense of this word; Stesichorus is supposed to have invented a plausi-
ble story behind some “facts” that he found in the works of some other poet(s).
This is not impossible, but it is at least equally possible that there is a longer
tradition behind the narrative, perhaps one old enough to have informed the
Homeric passages.
To begin with, as Privitera (1970: 85–86) observed, the change from σορός
(urn) to ἀμφιφορεύς (large jar) is not a meaningless substitution.35 Moreover,
the Iliad as we have it offers a much simpler explanation for how Thetis could
have acquired the Hephaestus-made vessel than appears in the summary of
Stesichorus and is presupposed by the Odyssey. In book 18 (394–405) Hephaes-
tus himself recounts that he was cast down from Olympus by Hera and rescued
by Thetis and Eurynome. Subsequently he spent several years with them and
produced various metal objects for them. Thus, if there had been no other nar-
rative tradition, the poet of Odyssey 24 could have invented a story based on
the “data” provided by the Iliad. However, unlike in the version attested in the
34 Haslam 1991: 36–37, n. 4; Richardson 1993: ad loc.

35 If, as it has been said, Iliad 23.92 was interpolated in order to match the Odyssey, the change
from σορός to ἀμφιφορεύς finds no precedent in the Iliad. Thus, unless we explain away the
introduction of σορός as an ad hoc innovation of the poet of Odyssey 24, it must be con-
cluded that there was some other tradition behind it than that of the Iliad.
22 chapter 1
Odyssey, this version would have contained σορός rather than ἀμφιφορεύς and
there would have been no place for Dionysus in it. Instead, Thetis would receive
the vessel directly from Hephaestus. Thus, it seems clear that Odyssey 24.73–75
is based on some other tradition than that attested in the Iliad. Nothing certain
can be said about the text(s) that transmitted it: the Europeia is just a likely
guess.
At any rate, it can be stated with some confidence that Stesichorus retold an
existing story rather than putting flesh on the bones provided by a few initially
unrelated Homeric motifs. This means that the Lycurgus episode, as mentioned
in the summary of his poem in the Iliadic scholia, is likely to have been a part of
this tradition even before Stesichorus. The Iliadic scholia connect this tradition
to Naxos by stating that this is where Hephaestus met Dionysus.
1.4.1 Hephaestus Meets Dionysus in Naxos

Most famously, Dionysus and Hephaestus met when Hephaestus returned
to Olympus. The story was recounted in the fragmentarily preserved Home-
ric Hymn i to Dionysus, but it is much better known to us in the version
transmitted by Libanius (Fab. 3.1).36 According to this author, Hephaestus was
cast down from Olympus by Hera and saved by Thetis and Eurynome (as
in Iliad 18.393–408).37 While staying with them, Hephaestus crafted a throne
which he sent as a gift to his mother. When Hera sat in it, she was cap-
tured by invisible bonds, which no one was able to undo. Thus, Zeus resolved
to bring Hephaestus back to Olympus. He delegated the task to Ares, but
Hephaestus repelled the warrior-god with fire. Then a chance was given to
Dionysus, who made his brother drunk and thus persuaded him to come
back to the seat of the gods and set his mother free. Given that no extant
source states where these events took place, it would be natural to expect
36 On the Hymn, see especially two articles by West (2001; 2011), who builds his recon-
struction on the foundations provided by Bergk (1872: 761, n. 48), Wilamowitz (1971:
9–12), Snell (1966), and Merkelbach (1973). Ancient sources to the story: Paus. 1.20.3;
Lib. Fab. 3.1; Aristid. Or. 41.6; Hyg. Fab. 166; Serv. Ecl. 4.62. Bits and pieces are to be
found also (following West 2011a: 31, n. 6) in much earlier texts from Alcaeus onwards:
Alc. frs. 349a–e Voigt; Pind. fr. 283; Epich. Κωμασταὶ ἢ Ἅφαιστος, fr. 73–75 K-A; Achae.
fr. 16b–17; Pl. R. 378d. Iconography: LIMC 103–172; see also: Isler-Kerènyi 2007: 24–27,
75–105; Smith 2007: 68–69; Hedreen 2004; Lissarague 1990: 203–204; Carpenter 1986: 13–
29.
37 It is not clear if in the Homeric Hymn Hephaestus was cast down from Olympus or left it in
another way. One of its fragments (Pap. Oxy. 670.3) contains the words ]αὐτόματος λίπεν[
(left on his own accord), which seem to refer to Hephaestus, but this is certainly too little
to prove that this version was different from that of the Iliad.
that it happened in Lemnos or some other place traditionally connected to

Hephaestus. On the other hand, Naxos, which is mentioned in the Iliadic
scholia as the place where the divine brothers met (not necessarily on this
occasion), was the island that both myth38 and cult39 connected with Diony-
sus.
There is, however, a tradition according to which Dionysus had to compete
with Hephaestus over the possession of the island. It is referred to in the scholia
on a passage in Theocritus, in which the poet alludes to the wine with which
Arcadian centaur Pholos treated Heracles (7.149 (Dübner)):40
ὁ μέντοι οἶνος ἐκεῖνος ὁ δοθεὶς ὑπὸ Διονύσου χαριστήριον, ἀνθ᾽ ὧν αὺτῶι Νάξον
προσένειμεν ὁ Φόλος, κρινομένου παρ᾽ αὐτῶι πρὸς τὸν Ἥφαιστον.
That wine was given by Dionysus as a thank-gift, because Pholos allotted

Naxos to him when the contest against Hephaestus was decided by him.
38 Already the Homeric Hymn i contains a reference to an allegedly false claim (7: ψευδόμε-
νοι) that Dionysus was born there (3: οἳ δ᾽ ἐν Νάξωι, δῖον γένος Εἰραφιῶτα). According to
Diodorus of Sicily (5.52), Naxians claimed not exactly that he was born on the island, but
that he was subsequently brought there and reared by Nymphs. Porphyry (Antr. 20) men-
tions a cave consecrated to Dionysus in Naxos, which was probably thought of as the place
of the god’s upbringing. On its possible identification, see Larson 2001: 181–182.
39 Dionysus and some female divinities where probably worshipped in Naxian Hyria, where
cult activity is attested from the Mycenaean period until the Roman times and beyond,
with a possible break in the dark ages. Admittedly, however, the addressees of the cult
were identified in a tentative manner. The only inscription (IG xii 5, 45: ε]ὐθὺ[ς ἱστάναι
χ]/οπρὸν [καὶ] ὀ[λάς θύ]/εσθα[ι Δ]ιονύς[ωι]/ Κρον[ιῶν]ος) that might have attested to the
worship of Dionysus in the sanctuary is composed of two pieces (published by Markopo-
lis (1892: 366) and de Ridder (1897: 20, 23)) put together by Hiller von Gaertringen (1900).
As Matthaiou recently argued (2013: 72–74), this may not be a match given, among other
factors, that the piece of stone with the letters ΙΟΝΥΣ was found at a large distance from
the site of Hyria. To this I would like to argue that the idea of sacrificing barley groats
that emerges from Hiller’s supplementation is all but problematic (see Bednarek 2017). In
the almost complete absence of written testimonies, some clues have been provided by
the fact that the temple was set in a damp plain, at a distance of three kilometres from
the city. This is a location suitable for a temple of Dionysus. Most importantly, however,
a cuirassed torso of a statue with Dionysiac scenes has been found in the temple. For an
overview of the site, see Lambrinoudakis, Gruben 1987; Lambroudinakis 2002: 1–7; 2004:
63–64; Simantoni-Bournia 2000; 2002. For the evidence of female cults with a perspicu-
ous kourotrophic component, see Simantoni-Bournia 2002: 279–280; 2004–2005: 129–132;
2015.
40 See also Apollod. 2.83–87; DS 4.12; LIMC: Kentauroi et Kentaurides 235–292. It needs
emphasis that nothing in the text commented by the scholiast, nor in the biography of
Pholos, seems to have suggested his connection with Naxos.
24 chapter 1
Given that no other source known to us explains where this wine came from, it
cannot be excluded that this detail was supplied by the scholiast’s guesswork.
Where does wine come from? By default, from Dionysus. And why not from
Naxos, given that the island was one of the places traditionally associated with
this god? Yet the idea of a competition between Dionysus and Hephaestus over
possession of the island is not such a natural guess, and therefore, it is more
likely to have belonged to an older tradition.
A prelude to this event appears to be mentioned in the scholia to the Iliad
(14.296aT). According to it, Hephaestus after his birth was sent by Hera to Naxos
to learn the art of metalwork from a certain Kedalion.41 This statement is hardly
consistent with the already mentioned Homeric passage, in which Hera threw
her son violently from Olympus (Il. 18.393–408). In both cases it seems that
her intention was to remove the unwanted child from the sight of other gods,
which strongly suggests that these are two mutually exclusive variants of the
same episode.42
The most striking difference between the two versions is that only the story
in which Hephaestus is brutally cast down by Hera rather than sent away for
an apprenticeship opens a space for rescue by the sea goddesses. Thus, only
this variant is suitable for the narrative role it plays in Iliad 18, explaining why
Hephaestus was happy to return favour to Thetis by forging a new armour for
Achilles. This is good reason to think that it could have been invented to serve
its narrative purposes. And indeed, if any ad hoc inventions occur in the Iliad,
this looks very much like one of them. The passage even contains a trace of its
prototype, given its striking similarity to the narration concerning Dionysus’
fall to the sea and his subsequent rescue as recounted in Iliad 6.130–140. Unlike
that passage, however, Hephaestus’ story in Iliad 18 features not only Thetis
but also Eurynome. In this, it is similar to Eumelus’ fragment 11 (Bernabé, see
41 τεκοῦσαν γοῦν Ἥφαιστον προσποιεῖσθαι δίχα μίξεως κυεῖν καὶ Κηδαλίωνι τῶι Ναξίωι παρα-
δοῦναι χαλκευτικὴν διδάξαι· διὸ καὶ μέχρι νῦν ὑπόμνημα φυλάσσεσθαι παρὰ Ναξίοις καὶ τὸν
ἀμφιθαλῆ τῆι τάλι συγκατατίθεσθαι (When she [Hera] gave birth to Hephaestus, she claimed
that she conceived him without intercourse and she sent him to Kedalion so that he learned
metal-working. Thus, until today, the Naxians keep commemorating it, as they make a boy
whose parents are both alive lay down with a virgin). Cf. Eust. 3.646 (Il. 14.294). In all other
accounts Kedalion is Hephaestus’ servant rather than his master and he resides in Lemnos
rather than in Naxos. See LIMC: Kedalion with two relatively late visual representations
and an extensive list of literary sources, all of which draw either from Hesiod ( fr. 148a
W-M) or Eratosthenes (Cat. 32).
42 The difference between the two accounts is that in Iliad 18 (397), Hephaestus is unwanted
because he is lame; in the scholia on Il. 14, he is born out of wedlock, as Hera is still not
married to Zeus.
section 1.2). Given that Eurynome does not play any role in the narration, her
presence in the passage suggests that Hephaestus’ story in Iliad 18 was inspired
by the same source as the Europeia was (unless this source was the Europeia
itself).43
All this means that the history of friendly relations between Hephaestus and
Thetis still could have been a matter of fresh poetic innovation when Odyssey
24 was composed. This may explain why in lines 73–75 it was Dionysus who
gave Thetis the vessel crafted by Hephaestus, and not the artisan god himself.
If this reconstruction is correct, it seems likely that the scholia on the Iliad
(14.296aT) preserve an older version than the Iliad itself. According to this ver-
sion Hephaestus was sent by Hera to Naxos for an apprenticeship. And accord-
ing to Stesichorus this is where he met Dionysus, the young god, who lived on
the island in hiding from Hera. On this or some other occasion they competed
over the possession of Naxos. Naturally, they also probably exchanged gifts.
Hephaestus gave Dionysus the vessel that was subsequently given to Thetis.
Dionysus probably gave his brother wine, making him drunk. Possibly on this
occasion Hephaestus decided to return to Olympus. If this were so, a typically
Dionysian paradox would be involved in the story given that banal inebriation
became the means to the acquisition of divine status.
Stesichorus’ version is also said to have included the Lycurgus episode, which
might have been linked to Naxos, according to the shadowy tradition attested
in Hyginus, who thus writes about the Hyades (Fabula 192):
Sunt qui existiment ideo has in sideribus esse quod fuerant nutrices Liberi
Patris, quas Lycurgus ex insula Naxo ediderat.
There are those who believe that they [Hyades] are among stars because
they were the nurses of Liber Pater, whom Lycurgus expelled from the
Naxos Island.
Admittedly, this passage is suspect, because the verb edo seems to be used here
in a sense that finds only distant parallels (e.g., Pl. Mos. 698). If, however, it
means what it seems to mean and does not result from the author’s or a copy-
ist’s mistake, the passage indicates that the story of Lycurgus’ violence against
the nurses of Dionysus was supposed to have taken place on Naxos.44
43 See Braswell 1971: 19–21; Edwards 1991: ad 394–409.

44 See also Rose 1933: ad loc.: ediderat: quamuis sensu careat, nolui mutare, uenit enim mihi in
mentem potuisse Hyginum ἐξεδίωκε inuenire, indeque ἐξέδωκε facere.
26 chapter 1
To a certain degree it seems to find support in a bizarre story related by

Diodorus of Sicily (5.50–52) about Boutes of Thrace, Lycurgus’ brother, who
first colonised Naxos and then sailed to Thessaly to abduct some women from
there. The account of these events looks like a rationalised version of the Lycur-
gus story. At the same time, with all the distortion characteristic for Diodorus,
it is probably an attempt at explaining why some female rites on Naxos were
similar to those in Thessaly.45
This does not prove that in Stesichorus’ poem the Lycurgus episode took
place on Naxos, nor is it stated in the Iliadic scholia that summarise this ver-
sion. It strongly suggests, however, that if such a tradition had not existed before
Stesichorus, it was invented by him or by someone else at a later period.
The mystery of why the story was connected to Naxos is particularly intrigu-
ing. There seem to be three possible scenarios:
1) All the mythical material included in Stesichorus’ poem could be of Nax-
ian origin. Some of its components would subsequently become a part of
the Panhellenic patrimony thanks to such poets as Homer. This is likely,
given that Naxos seems to have been an important centre of Dionysus’
cult from no later than the Geometric period.
2) It is equally possible that the Naxians appropriated foreign, Panhellenic,
or other local traditions in order to create a mythology of Dionysus that
suited their needs. It is not unlikely that they commissioned Stesichorus
(who seems to have no other connection with Naxos) with the task of
composing a song that described the events of Dionysus’ life as a part of
their local history.
45 According to Diodorus, the women called Dionysus’ nurses (Διονύσου τροφοί; cf. Il. 6.132
τιθήναι) were assaulted by the Thracians at the moment of celebrating some rituals in
honour of Dionysus. They cast away their ritual implements (ἱρά; cf. Il. 6.134 θύσθλα χαμαὶ
κατέχευαν) and some ran away towards the sea (like Dionysus in Homer and his nurses in
Phercyd. fr. 130), whereas some others hid in the mountains. One of them, named Koronis,
raped by Boutes, prayed to Dionysus (like Ambrosia prayed to Gaia in Nonn. D. 21.3–63),
who drove the king mad (like Lycurgus in many theatrical versions) and made him leap
into a well (which seems to correspond to πετρώδης δεσμός in S. Ant.958). Having lost their
leader, the Thracians sailed off to Naxos with the abducted women. Curiously enough,
the name of the spot in which the story takes place is different, as Diodorus speaks of a
mountain called Drios, whereas Homer has Nyseion. However, the meaning of the com-
mon noun δρίος (grove, wood, copse, thicket) seems to be close to that of Nyseion, if we are
to believe Pherecydes (fr. 178), who claims that the noun νύσα meant tree. Hence one may
expect that a Nyseion is a place covered with trees. All this suggests that the Boutes story
is an altered version of the Lycurgus myth. On Diodorus’ use of myth, see Sulimani 2011;
Muntz 2017; 2018; Durvye 2018; Ring 2018.
3) The material discussed above may contain bits and pieces that originated
from Naxos as well as those that were appropriated by the Naxians in the
time of Stesichorus, before him, or afterwards.
Unfortunately, in the light of the evidence that is available to us, each of the
above reconstructions seems equally probable. What is particularly important
for the purposes of this book is that besides the Europeia, the Lycurgus myth
was a part of a more complex narrative at least as early as the time of Stesi-
chorus and quite probably much earlier. Unlike the Europeia, this poem, cycle,
or branch of oral tradition treated this story not only as an episode in Diony-
sus’ biography but also as a part of the “universal” history, which seems to have
focused on some other deities (Thetis and Hephaestus). This saga either from
the beginning or from the moment in which it was appropriated became par-
ticularly precious to Naxians, who seem to have claimed that all its events,
including the story of Lycurgus, took place on their island.
1.5 Conclusions
A cursory glimpse over the archaic poetic tradition invites much speculation,
but at the same time it allows for some firm conclusions. Already by the time
that Iliad 6 was composed the Lycurgus myth was well known to the audience
and was apparently already a part of longer epic compositions. The way in
which the Iliad presents Dionysus is intentionally humorous, but it does not
seem to result from a distortion of an earlier tradition. Dionysus was clearly
a strange and funny god even in the eyes of his worshippers, and the part of
the story in which he discovered that he was immortal seems to have been
particularly frivolous. According to at least one of the versions, he made this
discovery thanks to Lycurgus, who, despite his positive role in Dionysus’ biog-
raphy, was an unequivocally impious individual. Nevertheless, his punishment
was relatively mild, which may to a certain degree result from the light tone of
the narrations that transmitted the episode.
In the chapters that follow, I turn to the dramatic versions of the Lycurgus
myth, which are substantially different from the version in the epic tradition. It
seems that from Aeschylus onwards, Dionysus’ emotions and his discovery of
his own divine nature become less relevant than his victims’ condition. In these
versions of the story the poets focus on the suffering of Lycurgus, Orpheus, and
perhaps some other humans. Dionysus turns from a hapless victim avenged by
other gods into an avenger, and the story thus becomes less humorous.
chapter 2
Aeschylus’ Lycurgeia
2.1 Introduction
The Lycurgeia by Aeschylus is probably the most widely discussed text about
Lycurgus, and one of the fragmentarily preserved tetralogies of Aeschylus that
is more frequently commented on. It was a piece of theatrical work greatly
appreciated in antiquity, as we can deduce from the fact that Aristophanes par-
odied it in his Thesmophoriazousae (134–145) and Birds (276) several decades
after its first production. Apparently, it was still remembered and restaged in
fifth-century Attica and beyond (see below). It has also influenced vase paint-
ings and the Roman poet Naevius, whose Lycurgus was based on or influenced
by Aeschylus’ play(s). The tetralogy is known to have brought the legendary
Thracian singer and seer Orpheus on stage (probably) for the first time.1 Given
that it contributed to the creation of Orpheus’ legend and must have to some
degree engaged with the theology attributed to him, it is understandable that
generations of scholars have speculated about the content of the plays. Unfor-
tunately, given the scarcity of reliable sources, the field for speculation is very
wide. This is because, among other factors, the preserved fragments of the plays
are quite disappointing. The indirect tradition, however, is informative, though
perhaps confusing.
The scholia to the already mentioned passage in Aristophanes’ Thesmopho-
riazousae (135; fr. 68) contain information on the title of the tetralogy as well as
its components, which are probably listed, as is usual, in the sequence of their
staging: Edonoi, Bassarai, Neaniskoi, and Lycurgus, the satyr play. Nothing cer-
tain is known about the date of its production, but based on the internal data
it is reasonable to think of the Lycurgeia as one of late works of Aeschylus.2 As
such, it was probably later than Polyphrasmon’s tetralogy of the same title, of
which nothing is known except that it came in third in the competition at the
City Dionysia in 467bce.3
1 The only other tragedy we know of that featured Orpheus is a play by Aristias, a poet and
didaskalos active from no later than 467bce (see TGF T 1–4). Of his Orpheus only one insignif-
icant fragment has been preserved (TGF F5).
2 See West 1990: 48–50.
3 TGF 1.7 T3.

aeschylus’ lycurgeia 29
The content of Aeschylus’Lycurgeia was widely disputed until quite recently.

Initially, scholars such as Welcker (1826: 103–122), Hermann (1834: 3–30) and
Haupt (1896: 137–160) thought that the story of Lycurgus developed in a linear
way from the Edonoi to the Lycurgus (with a possible excursus in the Bassarai).
However, Levi (1909) observed that the satyr play did not necessarily contain
events that are chronologically later than those in the tragedies. It is possible,
therefore, to discuss the Lycurgus separately, as I do below.
From Hermann (1834) onwards, most scholars have assumed that the Bas-
sarai told the story of Orpheus’ death, as it seems to be hinted at in Eratos-
thenes’ Catasterism 24. Accordingly, the story of Lycurgus would be distributed
among two other plays.4 In the Edonoi he was supposed to imprison Diony-
sus. In the Neaniskoi he was punished. West, in his 1983 article (reprinted with
changes and quoted hereafter as West 1990: 26–50), suggested that the Lycur-
gus story was confined to the Edonoi. The Bassarai would thus have been
about Orpheus and the Neaniskoi about a reconciliation between Dionysus and
Apollo, the god worshiped by Orpheus. In spite of occasional voices of protest
(Linforth 1931, Garzya 2000), this vision of the Lycurgeia has become canonical,
if indeed the existence of a canon can be inferred from the consensus between
the Loeb edition (Sommerstein 2008) and the long list of renowned scholars
who have built upon the foundations provided by West.5
In what follows I offer a reassessment of the sources and analyse some
new ones. As a result, I suggest that only part of the premises on which the
existing consensus rests are solid. A new—and at times radically different—
reconstruction of the tetralogy can be offered. Thus, this part of my book is
divided into six sections.
Section 2 presents the most important testimonies and fragments, following
quite closely the trajectory assumed by the majority of contemporary schol-
ars. Section 3 adduces some further pieces of evidence, of which the most
important is Sophocles’ Antigone 955–965. The relevance of most of the pas-
sages discussed in the chapter for the reconstruction of the Lycurgeia has been
already recognised. However, my analysis to a large extent runs against the tra-
ditional thinking about how the story of Lycurgus was supposed to end. Section
4 discusses the role of Orpheus in the tetralogy and how his story could have
been connected to that of Lycurgus. Section 5 offers a possible reconstruction
of the distribution of the material discussed in previous chapters among the
4 Thus, most notably Haupt 1896: 137–160 and Deichgräber 1939: 276–288.
5 Jouan 1992: 74–75; Di Marco 1993; Seaford 2005; 2005a: 28–29; Trzcionkowski 2011; Burges Wat-
son 2015. It is mentioned in passing by, e.g., Austin and Olson 2004: ad 134–135. Wright (2019:
23, 28–29) is moderately sceptical. See also Lesky 1972: 153–154.
30 chapter 2
three tragedies. A presentation of fragments attributed to respective plays fol-

lows. Section 6 is devoted to the discussion of very meagre—but nevertheless
intriguing—fragments of the satyr drama Lycurgus.
2.2 Tragic Trilogy
2.2.1 Apollodorus and the Edonoi

Traditionally scholars have sought the content of the tetralogy, or at least some
part thereof, in the following passage of Apollodorus’ Bibliotheke (3.5):
Λυκοῦργος δὲ παῖς Δρύαντος, Ἠδωνῶν βασιλεύων, οἳ Στρυμόνα ποταμὸν παροι-

κοῦσι, πρῶτος ὑβρίσας ἐξέβαλεν αὐτόν. καὶ Δίονυσος μὲν εἰς θάλασσαν πρὸς
Θέτιν τὴν Νηρέως κατέφυγε, Βάκχαι δὲ ἐγένοντο αἰχμάλωτοι καὶ τὸ συνεπόμε-
νον Σατύρων πλῆθος αὐτῶι. αὖθις δὲ αἱ Βάκχαι ἐλύθησαν ἐξαίφνης, Λυκούργωι
δὲ μανίαν ἐνεποίησε Δίονυσος. ὁ δὲ μεμηνὼς Δρύαντα τὸν παῖδα, ἀμπέλου νομί-
ζων κλῆμα κόπτειν, πελέκει πλήξας ἀπέκτεινε, καὶ ἀκρωτηριάσας αὐτὸν6 ἐσω-
φρόνησε. τῆς δὲ γῆς ἀκάρπου μενούσης, ἔχρησεν ὁ θεὸς καρποφορήσειν αὐτήν,
ἂν θανατωθῆι Λυκοῦργος. Ἠδωνοὶ δὲ ἀκούσαντες εἰς τὸ Παγγαῖον αὐτὸν ἀπα-
γαγόντες ὄρος ἔδησαν, κἀκεῖ κατὰ Διονύσου βούλησιν ὑπὸ ἵππων διαφθαρεὶς
ἀπέθανε.
Lycurgus, the son of Dryas, king of the Edonians, who live around the river
Strymon, was the first to insult him and chase him away. Dionysus fled
to the sea, to Thetis, the daughter of Nereus. Bacchants became prison-
ers and so did the crowd of Satyrs that followed the god. All of a sudden,
the Bacchants were delivered from captivity and Dionysus drove Lycurgus
mad. In his frenzy he killed Dryas, his son, striking him with an axe, think-
ing that he was cutting a vine-twig. Having mutilated him he came to his
senses. As the land remained sterile, the god prophesised that it would
become fertile again once Lycurgus was put to death. Having heard that,
the Edonians led him away to Mount Pangaion, and they bound him and
there by the will of Dionysus he died mutilated by horses.
What Apollodorus offers is a continuous narration concerning the early life of

Dionysus and his travels. The structure of this tale throughout largely resem-
bles that of Nonnus’ Dionysiaca, and probably reflects Eumelus’ Europeia (see
6 On the choice of the form αὐτὸν rather than αὑτὸν, see section 5.2.
section 1.2). Nevertheless, it is unlikely to be derived directly from the latter

epic poem, if for no other reason than that the text is encrusted with elements
foreign to epic poetry, and certainly these elements are later than the Europeia.
The most striking example of such an element comes almost immediately after
the passage quoted above, where Apollodorus tells the story of Pentheus in a
way that closely reflects the plot of Euripides’ Bacchae. No explicit reference
is made, however, to the tragic origins of the passage. This suggests that Apol-
lodorus is summarising a text, whose general outline was based on the epic
model, but that particular episodes might have had a different pedigree. Most
notably, some of them came from tragedies.
The evidence provided by Apollodorus could be dismissed as hardly rele-
vant for Aeschylus’ tetralogy were it not for an Attic red-figure hydria in Kraków
(hereafter called the Kraków hydria).7 The vessel, which dates back to the
mid-fifth century, depicts a version of the story strikingly like that told by the
mythographer.8 In the centre, there is a blood-stained altar, on which a naked
youth is seated, stretching his arms9 towards a bearded man in a Thracian outfit
standing on the viewer’s left. The man is holding a double-axe above his head,
ready to strike with it. Between the boy and the axe, there is a vine-twig, which
is held by Dionysus. It is clear that the man is about to strike the plant, which
is no more than a hallucination sent by the god. Instead of hitting it, he will hit
the youth. There is also a woman kneeling between the man and the altar and
tearing hair from her head. These three figures can be identified as Lycurgus, his
wife (on the woman’s identity, see sections 4.4.3–4), and their son Dryas. To the
viewer’s right, behind Dionysus, there is also a dancing maenad, who seems to
be indifferent to the events taking place next to her and, above the right handle,
a satyr perched on a rock and playing an aulos. Above the left handle behind
Lycurgus there is a torch.
The depiction on the Kraków hydria matches the details of the story told
by Apollodorus in such a precise way that it is hard not to conclude that this
version must have been known in the middle decades of fifth-century Athens.
This strongly suggests the influence of the Aeschylean tetralogy, which was pro-
7 Fig. 1; Kraków, National Museum 1225; ARV2 1121.17; Beazley Addenda2 331; BAD 214835; LIMC
Lykourgos i 26. See Piotrowicz 1908; Carpenter 1997: 37; Gorzelany 2011: 35–36; Topper 2015;
Lamari 2018: 191–192.
8 More about the thorny issue of the relationship between vase painting and poetry in section
4.3.1.
9 In a gesture of supplication. See Naiden 2006: 273 n. 299; Pedrina 2006: 305–307; 2017: 26, 255;
Vahtikari 2014: 40–41.
32 chapter 2
figure 1 Attic red-figure hydria, Kraków, National Museum 1225
duced shortly before this period. The question remains, however, how much of
the narrative transmitted by Apollodorus was actually related by Aeschylus.
What seems quite clear is that the story begins when Dionysus arrives in
the country with his thiasos. This seems to be addressed in the anapaests of
the longest surviving fragment of the Edonoi (Radt 57), which is preserved in
Strabo (10.3.16 (C 470–471)):
τῆς μὲν οὖν Κοτυτοῦς ἐν τοῖς Ἠδωνοῖς Αἰσχύλος μέμνηται καὶ τῶν περὶ αὐτὴν
ὀργάνων· εἰπὼν γὰρ
σεμνὰ Κοτυτοῦς ὄργι᾽ ἔχοντες
τοὺς περὶ τὸν Διόνυσον εὐθέως ἐπιφέρει·
ὁ μὲν ἐν χερσὶν
βόμβυκας ἔχων, τόρνου κάματον,
δακτυλόδικτον πίμπλησι μέλος,
5 μανίας ἐπαγωγὸν ὁμοκλάν,
ὁ δὲ χαλκοδέτοις κοτύλαις ὀτοβεῖ
καὶ πάλιν
ψαλμὸς δ᾽ ἀλαλάζει·
ταυρόφθογγοι δ᾽ ὑπομυκῶνταί
ποθὲν ἐξ ἀφανοῦς φοβεροὶ μῖμοι,
10 τυπάνου δ᾽ εἰκών, ὥσθ᾽ ὑπογαίου
βροντῆς, φέρεται βαρυταρβής
Of Kotys and her implements Aeschylus makes a mention in Edonoi, say-

ing:
“having the august rites10 of Kotys”
Immediately afterwards he mentions the followers of Dionysus:
“one, holding in his hands a double flute made with a turning-lathe,
produces a melody with his fingers, which brings on the cry of frenzy,
the other resounds with bronze-bound cymbals.”
And again:
“the strings shout and a terrible sound mimicking a bellow of bulls
reverberates from some place out of sight, while a terrifying drum
resounds like an underground thunder.”
These words probably belonged to the chorus of Edonians, who entered the
stage already knowing about the advent of Dionysus. What comes next in Apol-
lodorus’ version is the Homeric (Il. 6.130–140) pursuit of Dionysus. West (1990:
26) observes that the god’s flight into the sea does not suit the dramatic stage, and
therefore, he thinks, it was not part of the tragic plot.11
What follows shortly thereafter finds close parallels in Euripides’Bacchae. As
Apollodorus informs us, the god and his followers are taken prisoner. Lycurgus
then interrogates Dionysus in a way parodied by Aristophanes in the Thes-
mophoriazousae (134–145; Radt 61; Euripides’ in-law is addressing the effemi-
nate Agathon):12
10 According to Henrichs (1969: 227), ὄργια here should be understood as musical instru-
ments. This does not find justification in the material analysed by Schuddeboom (2013:
127–196, esp. 133), who observes that this word is never attested before Theocritus (26.13)
as referring to material objects (for a partially opposite view, see Motte, Pirenne-Delforge
1992). However, a certain degree of circularity is involved, as the word ὄργια results from
Nauck’s emendation of the paradosis ὄρια δ᾽ ὄργαν᾽.
11 West’s argument does not seem compelling, given that what was not suitable for perfor-
mance was usually recounted in prologues, choral songs, and messengers’ speeches. What
seems to confirm West’s opinion, however, is that for some reason (which remains a mys-
tery to me), ancient authors always keep the two sequences of events separate; they tell
either the story of Dionysus’ flight to the sea or that of intrafamilial violence. Apollodorus
(or his eclectic source) is the only exception to this rule.
12 The text is that of Austin and Olson 2004. The scholia (136 Holwerda) leave no doubt as
to the attribution of this fragment and the situation in which it appeared: λέγει ἐν τοῖς
Ἠδωνοῖς πρὸς τὸν συλληφθέντα Διόνυσον· ποδαπὸς ὁ γύννις (He [Lycurgus] says to Dionysus
taken prisoner: “from what country is this womanish man?”). What is explicitly quoted as
borrowed from the Lycurgeia are the first three words of the passage, however, as Rau
(1967: 109) observes, the use of the word πάτρα (a tragic form of πατρίς), and the question
regarding the person’s origins (which makes little sense in Agathon’s case) indicate that
the quotation or paraphrasis continues beyond these three lines.
34 chapter 2
καὶ σ᾽ ὦ νεανίσχ᾽ ἥτις εἶ, κατ᾽ Αἰσχύλον

ἐκ τῆς Λυκουργείας ἐρέσθαι βούλομαι.
ποδαπὸς ὁ γύννις; τίς πάτρα; τίς ἡ στολή;
τίς ἡ τάραξις τοῦ βίου;13 τί βάρβιτος
λαλεῖ κροκωτῶι; τί δὲ λύρα κεκρυφάλωι;
τί λήκυθος καὶ στρόφιον; ὡς οὐ ξύμφορον.
τίς δαὶ κατρόπτου καὶ ξίφους κοινωνία;14
σύ τ᾽ αὐτὸς ὦ παῖ πότερον ὡς ἀνὴρ τρέφει;
καὶ ποῦ πέος;15 ποῦ χλαῖνα; ποῦ Λακωνικαί;
ἀλλ᾽ ὡς γυνὴ δῆτ᾽; εἶτα ποῦ τὰ τιτθία;
τί φήις; τί σιγᾶις; ἀλλὰ δῆτ᾽ ἐκ τοῦ μέλους
ζητῶ σ᾽, ἐπειδή γ᾽ αὐτὸς οὐ βούλει φράσαι;
13 According to the scholia (ad loc. Holwerda), ἐντεῦθεν τὴν ἀρχὴν Εὔβουλος ἐποιήσατο τοῦ
Διονυσίου (fr. 25a Hunter), τὰ ἀνόμοια τῶν ἐν τῆι Διονυσίου οἰκίαι καταλέγων· ἐπὶ πλέον μέν-
τοι ( from here Eubulus took the beginning of his Dionysius, enumerating the odd things in
Dionysius’ house, but he went even further). According to Rau (1967: 109) and Hunter (1983:
ad loc.), this suggests that the line was Aeschylean. However, as Austin and Olson (2004:
ad 136) observe, there is no reason not to think that the middle-comedy poet borrowed
the line or the theme from Aristophanes (ἐντεῦθεν). Thus, although it would be tempting
to think that this testimony attests to the popularity of the Lycurgeia in the fourth century,
this is far from certain. Further bibliography in Prato 2001: ad loc.
14 According to Austin and Olson (2004: ad loc.), the line is doubtless taken straight from
Aeschylus, where Dionysus must have appeared in hoplite armour as conqueror of new lands
(thus Kaibel as quoted by Prato). Prato (2001: ad loc.), however, is slightly less confident:
Sommerstein [1994: ad loc.] pensa che la presenza di una spada nel corredo dell’effeminato
Agatone possa spiegarsi con l’eventuale rappresentazione di un guerriero nel dramma in
preparazione, ma è più probabile che essa debba intendersi come un prestito da Eschilo, dove
Dioniso era rappresentato ἐν ὅπλοις (“armato”) nella sua qualità di conquistatore. L’osser-
vazione è nel prezioso commentario inedito che il Kaibel ha affidato a interfogli apposti a
una copia delle Tesmoforiazuse pubblicate da Velsen nel 1883, venuta in possesso di Fraenkel
(maggiori detagli in Austin 1987, p. 67 sg.). Unfortunately, the text of Austin 1987: 67–68
only describes this unpublished commentary (at least at the time, kept in the Librarian’s
room in the Ashmolean), but does not provide any information on the content of the com-
ment on Th. 140, which means that any further discussion becomes a particularly arduous
task. However, some observations can be made. The poetry, such as Nonnus’ Dionysiaca
(sparsim) and Euripides’ Bacchae (798–799), often insists on the paradoxical nature of
the implements such as thyrsi used by Dionysian followers against armed forces. Yet, the
iconography of the Gigantomachy suggests that already before the Lycurgeia, an armed
Dionysus was not unknown. At least some of these representations played on the ambigu-
ity of the relation of Dionysus with weapons. See, e.g., LIMC Dionysos 609 and 628. Thus,
although I do not share the level of confidence expressed by Austin and Olson, I think that
it is not absurd to take line 140 at face value as a suggestion that Dionysus appeared in the
Edonoi with a sword and a mirror—probably, then, with a humorous effect.
15 The reference to the phallus as a part of the comic costume obviously does not come from
Aeschylus.
I’d like to ask you, young man, what kind of woman you are, as Aeschylus
did in the Lycurgeia: from what country is this womanish man? What’s his
fatherland? What’s this dress? What confuses his way of life? What does
a barbitos have to say to a saffron-dyed robe? And a lyre to a hair-net?
What does an oil-flask have to do with a breast-band? How incongru-
ous! What’s this communion between a mirror and a sword? As for you,
boy, are you being raised as a man? Where’s your phallus? Where’s your
chlaina? Where are your Laconian shoes? Or [were you raised] as woman?
[If so,] where’s your breast? What do you say? Why don’t you answer? But
perhaps I should recognise you by your song, seeing that you don’t want
to speak.
What is expected to come next, if the text follows the pattern known to us
from the Bacchae, is the imprisonment of Dionysus and, possibly, his thiasos,
and their subsequent liberation. This latter event is usually thought to have
been preceded by something analogous to the palace miracle in the Bacchae,
a widely commented on and mysterious scene in which Pentheus’ palace, in
whose stable Dionysus was imprisoned, shakes (or is believed to shake), bursts
into flames (or seems to do so), and collapses (or seems to collapse).16 This
appears to find support in fragment 58 (Radt): ἐνθουσιᾶι δὴ δῶμα, βακχεύει στέγη
(the house is in god-sent ecstasy, the roof is in frenzy). As I argue below (section
2.5.4.1), there is no reason to think that this line belonged to the Edonoi and I
think that there is a better place for it in the Bassarai. Nevertheless, it is tempt-
ing to think that the liberation of Dionysus was accompanied by some kind of
portent.
What happens next in the story told by Apollodorus is the frenzy of Lycur-
gus. This, again, seems to be paralleled by the Bacchae. No fragments belonging
to this part of the story seem to have been preserved.
The events subsequently recounted by Apollodorus must have taken place
much later, given that an oracle17 is said to have been consulted because of the
sterility of the land that followed these events. This is the kind of disaster that
is not identified in a matter of hours. Does it mean that this part of the story
already belonged to another tragedy? West (1990: 31) suggests that the sterility
16 See especially Norwood 1908: 37–48; Verrall 1910: 64–81 and Segal 1997: 218–223 for some
radical interpretations and (among others) Dodds 1960: 140–141; Castellani 1976; Kirk 1979:
ad 567–603 for more moderate ones.
17 On some occasions, Apollodorus refers explicitly to other oracles (e.g., 2.43.7: Ἄμμωνος δὲ
χρήσαντος). Otherwise, when no name is mentioned, by default he refers to that of Apollo
in Delphi: 1.84.5; 1.107.3 (cf. Pi P. 4.73–74); 1.110.6 (cf. AR 209); 3.48.3.
36 chapter 2
motif does not come from Aeschylus. Instead, still in the Edonoi, Lycurgus was
supposed to have been led to Pangaion and imprisoned in a cave as a prophet of
Dionysus, allegedly known from the Rhesus (972–973).18 The death by horses,
according to West, does not belong to the Aeschylean version.
In this way, the whole story of Lycurgus, complicated as it is, would be con-
tained in a single tragedy. Given that the plays of Aeschylus had relatively
simple plots, this may seem a little too much, although, as West observed, it
is not completely impossible. What made this scholar want to compress so
many events within the Edonoi is the testimony of Eratosthenes’ Catasterism
24, which may be taken as a suggestion that there was no place for Lycurgus in
the Bassarai, the second tragedy of the tetralogy.
2.2.2 Eratosthenes and the Bassarai

According to the epitome of Eratosthenes’ Catasterism 24, the constellation of
the Lyre originated from the instrument first made by Hermes. In the form pro-
posed by West (1990: 34–35), which contains some supplementations (printed
in angled brackets),19 the crucial part of the text tells the following story:
μετέλαβε δὲ αὐτὴν Ἀπόλλων καὶ συναρμοσάμενος ὠιδὴν Ὀρφεῖ παρέδωκεν·

ὃς Καλλιόπης υἱὸς ὤν, μιᾶς τῶν Μουσῶν, ἐποίησε τὰς χορδὰς ἐννέα ἀπὸ τοῦ
τῶν Μουσῶν ἀριθμοῦ καὶ προήγαγεν ἐπὶ πλέον ἐν τοῖς ἀνθρώποις, δοξαζόμε-
νος οὕτως ὥστε καὶ ὑπόληψιν ἔχειν περὶ αὐτοῦ τοιαῦτην ὅτι ⟨τὰ δένδρα⟩ καὶ
τὰς πέτρας καὶ τὰ θηρία ἐκήλει διὰ τῆς ὠιδῆς. ⟨διὰ δὲ τὴν γυναῖκα εἰς Ἅιδου
καταβὰς καὶ ἰδὼν τὰ ἐκεῖ οἷα ἦν⟩ τὸν μὲν Διόνυσον οὐκ ⟨ἔτι⟩ ἐτίμα, ⟨ὑφ᾽ οὗ ἦν
δεδοξασμένος,⟩ τὸν δὲ Ἥλιον μέγιστον τῶν θεῶν ἐνόμισεν εἶναι, ὅν καὶ Ἀπόλ-
λωνα προσηγόρευσεν. ἐπεγειρόμενός τε τῆς νυκτὸς κατὰ ἕωθεν κατὰ τὸ ὄρος
τὸ καλούμενον Πάγγαιον προσέμενε τὰς ἀνατολάς, ἵνα ἴδηι τὸν Ἥελιον πρῶ-
τος. ὅθεν ὁ Διόνυσος ὀργισθεὶς αὐτῶι ἔπεμψε τὰς Βασσαρίδας (Βάσαρας Τ), ὥς
φησιν Αἰσχύλος ὁ τῶν τραγωιδιῶν ποιητής, αἵ διέσπασαν αὐτὸν καὶ τὰ μέλη
διέρριψαν χωρὶς ἕκαστον. αἱ δὲ Μοῦσαι συναγαγοῦσαι ἔθαψαν ἐπὶ τοῖς καλοῦ-
μένοις Λειβήθροις.
Apollo received it [the lyre] and, having composed a song, gave it to

Orpheus, who, as a son of Calliope, one of the Muses, made nine strings,
according to the number of the Muses and developed it further among
18 For further discussion, see section 2.3.1.4.

19 West’s text combines the two versions of the passage that have been preserved in the so-
called Epitome and in the Fragmenta Vaticana. Of these, the former is often much richer,
but some words and phrases are only to be found in the latter.
people,20 becoming so famous and having such a reputation that his song
would summon ⟨trees⟩ and rocks and animals. ⟨When he descended to
Hades after his wife and he saw the things down there⟩, he did not hon-
our Dionysus ⟨any longer⟩⟨even though he owed his fame to him⟩, but he
thought the Sun, whom he also called Apollo, to be the greatest of the
gods. He would wake up at night and wait for the sunrise before the dawn
on the mountain called Pangaion, so that he would be the first to see the
Sun. Dionysus angry with this, sent Bassarids (Bassarai T) against him, as
Aeschylus, the tragic poet says, and they rent him apart and cast each of
his members separately. The Muses reassembled them and buried them
in a place called Lebethri.
Most scholars claim that this passage compels us to think that Orpheus’ death
was recounted in the Bassarai. Two questions are usually asked: (1) how much
of the story told in the Catasterism belonged to Aeschylus? and (2) how much
space did Aeschylus devote to it?21 It is impossible to answer them without a
close engagement with the epitome of Eratosthenes’ Catasterismi.22
The whole work contains 38 references to recognisable authors. This
includes one mention of ὁ ποιητής (Cat. 26), who can easily be identified as
Homer, and excludes several occurrences of general references such as some say
that.23 Of these 38, 18 specify the title of the work in question. On 20 occasions
no title is mentioned, but some references were so obvious as not to require a
title. This is the case for Aratus (four times), Pherecydes (twice), Peisander of
Rhodes, and Ctesias. This leaves us with twelve references which do not specify
the work in question. Of these four mention Hesiod (Cat. 1, 8, 19, 32). Interest-
20 West prints the text with a comma after ἀνθρώποις. Robert (1878) put a coma after πλέον.
The meaning that results seems to be: he developed it [the lyre] and became famous among
people. Pàmias i Massana and Zucker (BL 2013) do not have comma at all, but their transla-
tion indicates that they follow Robert’s way of thinking. Fortunately, this issue is marginal
for my purposes.
21 Quite recently Garzya (2000: 170–172) offered an alternative interpretation, according to
which the expression ὥς φησιν Αἰσχύλος was supposed to mean that the rare word Βασσα-
ρίδας had been used by Aeschylus (for references to the use of this word, see section 2.4.7).
In this case, no mention of Orpheus’ death would be made in the tragedy. A convincing
response to this objection was subsequently given by Di Benedetto (2004: 108–110).
22 My analysis of the Catasterismi closely follows the method exposed by Di Benedetto (2004:
108–110), but the conclusions I reach are markedly different from his. For the identifica-
tion of works and authors mentioned in the Catasterismi, I used the text and commentary
of Pàmias i Massima and Zucker (BL 2013), as well as the commentary of Santoni (2009).
23 The count includes the references that occur in both branches of the manuscript tradition
(the majority), or in one of them only.
38 chapter 2
ingly, however, there is also one place where one of Hesiod’s titles is mentioned
explicitly. Catasterism 9 begins with ταύτην φησὶν Ἡσίοδος ἐν τῆι Θεογονίαι (Hes-
iod in the Theogony says that she …). All other indirect quotations of Hesiod are
from his Catalogue of Women. This suggests a pattern. “Hesiod” without a title
refers by default to his Catalogue, perhaps because it was so natural to think of
it as a source for the star myths. The only departure from this rule is marked by
a specification of the work in question (the Theogony).
A slightly different pattern, but a pattern nonetheless, is discernible in the
case of dramatic texts. Thus, for example, in Catasterism 18, the author says:
Εὐριπίδης δέ φησιν ἐν Μελανίππηι Ἵππην εἶναι τὴν τοῦ Χείρωνος θυγατέρα (Euripi-
des in the Melanippe says that Hippe was Chiron’s daughter). Quite clearly, the
title of the play is supplied because otherwise we would not know which of
Euripides’ plays the author had in mind. On the other hand, in the story of
Cepheus (Cat. 15), it is said: ἦν δέ, ὡς Εὐριπίδης φησίν, Αἰθίοπων βασιλεύς, Ἀνδρο-
μέδας δὲ πατήρ (he was, as Euripides says, a king of the Aethiopians and the father
of Andromeda). No title is given, but, because we know that Euripides authored
a tragedy entitled Andromeda, it becomes clear that the play in question must
be this one. Similarly, Catasterism 25 mentions the comic poet Cratinus. No title
is specified, but, given that he is mentioned in the context of the Nemesis myth,
and that the name of this divinity is explicitly mentioned, it can be taken as a
reference to the comedy Nemesis. This method of quotation becomes confus-
ing only when our knowledge is limited or textual problems occur.24
These rules can be reconstructed in the following way: no explicit reference
to the title is required if the author cited was known for one particularly impor-
tant work or if one of the works was especially relevant to the Catasterismi (as is
the case for Hesiod). The title could be also omitted when it was identical with
one of the words or names used in the context. There are only two exceptions
to these rules. One is made for Homer (ὁ ποιητής, Cat. 26), whose particular
standing among the poets of the past made a direct reference to the work in
question, or indeed to his name, irrelevant. The other is Musaeus in Cataster-
ism 13, where he is quoted for a substantial part of the myth of Zeus’ early life.
24 In Catasterism 13, a play by Euripides is meant, but we do not know which of the names
of the heroes mentioned in the text should be taken as its title. Catasterism 28 includes
Sositheos, a poet known for satyr plays, and the story has a satyr in it, but we cannot match
it with any title, as we know very few of Sositheos’ titles. Finally, the text of Catasterism 33
(only in the Fragmenta Vaticana) mentions the comic poet Amphis and breaks off almost
immediately afterwards. It is a matter of plausible conjecture that it contained a reference
to the personified Opora, which happens to be the title of one of Amphis’ plays.
Perhaps also in this case, it was obvious to the authorial audience which of the
poems attributed to Musaeus the author had in mind.
All of this means that the phrase Διόνυσος ὀργισθεὶς αὐτῶι ἔπεμψε τὰς Βασσαρί-
δας, ὥς φησιν Αἰσχύλος ὁ τῶν τραγωιδιῶν ποιητής can be taken beyond reasonable
doubt as a reference to a tragedy of Aeschylus with Bassarids in its title. What
does not necessarily follow, however, is that the plot of that play was limited to
this story.
Unfortunately, given that most of the texts mentioned in the Catasterismi
are known to us only indirectly, the relationship between their content and the
use made of them in the epitome is often impossible to reconstruct. As Linforth
observed long ago (1931: 11–17), however, the particular case of Catasterism 29
may be quite significant. The passage speaks of the arrow left behind by Apollo
at the time of his service for Admetus. Euripides’ Alcestis is quoted as a source of
the story, but, as we know very well, it would be highly misleading to think that
this tragedy was about Apollo’s arrow. As a matter of fact, the text of the play
does not mention the arrow, nor any other detail of the story in the Cataster-
ism apart from the temporary enslavement of Apollo and its causes (the killing
of the Cyclopes, referred to in lines 1–7). By the same token, it is possible (1)
that only a small portion of Catasterism 24 covers the story told in the Bas-
sarai, and (2) that this story was marginal to the plot of the tragedy. It could
appear, for example, as a short digression, a kind of mythical exemplum given
to some theomachos, most likely Lycurgus, in order to convince him that one
should not oppose gods or, more specifically, Dionysus.25 Quite conveniently,
there is a ready parallel in the story of Actaeon told by Teiresias as a warning to
Pentheus in Euripides’ Bacchae (337–340).
This, however, as di Marco observed (1993: 126), raises serious problems
regarding the chronology of events. Given that Orpheus is always referred to as
a Thracian, the Bassarids were probably local Thracian Bacchants (Hes. β 305;
Phot. Β 85 = fr. 59 Radt), that the events were supposed to take place in Pangaion
(fr. 23a), and that Dionysus was a newcomer in the country, the story could
hardly have been referred to as a past event at the time when Lycurgus’ resis-
tance took place.26 Therefore, as Di Marco (and the vast majority of scholars)
claims, the story of Orpheus must have been central to the plot of the Bassarai.
The only apparent remaining problem was how to explain why it was not
considered a digression from the central theme of the Lycurgus story. Accord-
ing to Di Marco, a link between the two characters may be provided by fragment
25 Thus, e.g., Séchan 1926: 68–69; Gantz 1980: 141; Carpanelli 2018: 41. For further references
see Di Marco 1993: 126–127.
26 See also Deichgräber 1939: 282.
40 chapter 2
60 Radt of the Edonoi (τίς ποτ᾽ ἔσθ᾽ ὁ μουσόμαντις †ἄλλος ἀβρατοῦς ὃν σθένει†)
in which a person called μουσόμαντις is mentioned. If this is a reference to
Orpheus, it seems reasonable to suppose that the seer was present at the court
of Lycurgus from the very beginning of the tetralogy, perhaps as an advisor to
the king.27 As a proponent of what has been construed as a traditional system
of Thracian beliefs, Orpheus would honour the Sun and have no understanding
of Dionysus; for this reason he would be punished by the female followers of
the god in the Bassarai.28
The problems begin with the questions about the technical aspects of this
punishment. We can assume that the chorus consisted of Bassarids, and we
may also assume that no killing took place on stage. There is a possibility that
it happened before the chorus entered, but this seems unlikely. As has been
said, a reconstruction of the tetralogy that reserves the entire length of the Bas-
sarai for the Orpheus story is a possibility, on the assumption that the events
of the Lycurgus myth were rather cramped in the Edonoi. It seems impossible
that yet another, presumably complex story was relegated to the prologue or
parodos of the tragedy that followed it and was referred to in retrospect. West
argued that for this reason the Bassarai was more likely to concentrate on the
conflict that led to the killing of Orpheus. At some point, the chorus would
leave, kill Orpheus offstage, and then come back in order to describe what they
had done. At first glance, according to our knowledge of the Greek scenic con-
ventions, this does not seem completely impossible. We know of three other
choruses that temporarily left the stage (A. Eu. 231, 245; S. Aj. 814, 866; E. Alc.
746, 872). None of them, however, did this in order to commit a murder. Instead,
in the (admittedly few) cases known to us, the chorus seems to do little when
absent.
This is the reason why it is tempting to think of Euripides’Bacchae as a possi-
ble parallel. Here we have one thiasos on stage and other thiasoi roaming freely
beyond the spectators’ view, and, quite obviously, the latter are responsible for
27 Thus already Hermann 1834: 16.

28 This has been postulated by Deichgräber (1939: 283; see also West 1990: 39) on the basis of
fr. 582 of Sophocles’ Tereus, from which it is supposed to transpire that Thracians honoured
the Sun as the supreme god (Ἥλιε, φιλίπποις Θραιξὶ πρέσβιστον σέβας, Sun, the most revered
light among the Thracians who rejoice in horses). However, this tradition may very well
derive from the Lycurgeia (thus Sommerstein, Fitzpatrick, Talboy 2006: ad loc.). Another
Sophocles’ fragment (752) suggests that the cult of the sun was associated with the intel-
lectuals (οἱ σοφοί). These two pieces of information combined may indicate that what
Deichgräber took to be a reference to the traditional Thracian beliefs might have been
referring instead to a Thracian intellectual, Orpheus himself, whose ideas could have dif-
fered radically from those of his compatriots.
the killing. This parallel, however, can be misleading, given that Euripides intro-
duces a clear-cut opposition between two categories of Dionysian females.29
Unlike the local Theban women driven mad by Dionysus for punitive reasons
and consistently referred to as maenads, the Bacchants of the chorus are for-
eigners who worship the god, as they follow him on his journey.30 Even though
they are in a Bacchic mood, they are not in a frenzy. Thus, although there is
something disturbing in their idle presence in the city of Thebes, they should
be regarded as a cultic thiasos rather than a group of maddened females ready
to tear humans and animals alike asunder in response to any attempt to bring
them under control.31 Aeschylus, on the other hand, has only one category of
Dionysian women, as Bassarids form the chorus and kill Orpheus. It would thus
be natural to expect that it is the chorus, and not some absent thiasos, that is
responsible for the murder.
The most natural solution is that the killing took place after the chorus left at
the end of the play. If that were so, the Bassarai could contain exactly what the
Catasterism says it contained:32 by the end of the play Dionysus would appear
and send the chorus away to Pangaion (ἔπεμψε τὰς Βασσαρίδας) to kill Orpheus.
The aftermath would be reserved for the last segment of the tragic trilogy, the
Neaniskoi. I will return to this in section 5.
2.2.3 The Neaniskoi

So little survives of the Neaniskoi that all serious attempts to reconstruct this
tragedy are based on interpretations of its title. It clearly presupposes that the
chorus consisted of young men. Had their age some particular meaning? West
(1990: 47) thought that it did. He supported this claim with a statement made by
G. Murray (1940: 155), who wrote that the word [νεανίσκοι] means merely ‘Young
Men’, but it is specifically used of the initiates who have passed through the ordeals
29 Thus, among others: Detienne 1986: 33; Hedreen 1994: 49–51; Villanueva Puig 2009: 51–52;
Porres Caballero 2013: 159–160.
30 This opposition is underlined by the lexical usage. The women of the chorus are usually
called βάκχαι, and the only exception is line 601, where they refer to themselves as μαινάδες
(see Seaford 1996: 36 and ad loc.). Interestingly, this happens in a moment of particu-
larly strong emotional import, as the chorus is experiencing a god-sent earthquake. On
the opposition between βάκχαι and μαινάδες see also Henrichs 1982: 146; Schlesier 1993:
93.
31 The chorus of the Bacchae is so perfectly composed that they even express apprehension
when criticising the king (775–776: ταρβῶ μὲν εἰπεῖν τοὺς λόγους ἐλευθέρους/ πρὸς τὸν τύραν-
νον).
32 Catasterismi are generally very precise in their references to the secondary material, at
least in the few cases in which we can check them against an extant text that is cited: Cat.
2, 9, 18, 37 (Arat.), 9 (Hes. Th.), 26 (Il.), 29 (E. Alc.).
42 chapter 2
that transform a human being from Boy to Man. I suspect that the Neaniskoi were
really the Edonoi converted. West elaborated a little more on this, observing that
the Edonians who had already known Dionysus now acknowledged also the
syncretic divinity of Apollo-Sun (as may be deduced from the Catasterism 24).
There is, unfortunately, a serious flaw in the premises. Murray was strongly con-
vinced that age-groups in classical Greece were closely related to the identity
constructed by means of rites of passage. These included a tribal initiation as
well as some offshoots thereof, such as an initiation into a mystery cult. Thus, a
single mention of young men was enough for him to assume this set of associ-
ations. It is, however, doubtful that ancient Greeks shared this way of thinking.
After all, the rituals surrounding the coming of age on the one hand, and initi-
ation into a religious group on the other, do not have to have much in common
apart from the fact that both can be described in etic terms as rites of passage.33
Therefore, a claim that the word neaniskos is inevitably evocative of religious
conversion should not be taken as a real possibility. However, the fact that the
premises were false does not necessitate that the conclusion was wholly incor-
rect. I will return to this below.
2.3 The End of Lycurgus in Sophocles, Aeschylus, and Related Texts
As I mentioned earlier, until Levi’s seminal article on the satyr drama Lycurgus
(1909), it was assumed that the story of the main hero developed in a linear way
from the Edonoi to that last component of the tetralogy. This presented schol-
ars with the serious difficulty of explaining how Lycurgus managed to inflict
violence on Dionysus, be severely punished and, nevertheless, appear again in
the cheerful drama at the end of the Lycurgeia. The solution which became
more durable than the problem itself is that Lycurgus was not actually killed
by Dionysus but rather imprisoned and subsequently immortalised. This may
be corroborated to a certain extent by the bizarre ending of the story in Homer
(Il. 6.130–140), where the punishment that immediately follows Lycurgus’ act
of impiety is surprisingly mild, as we are told that he was blinded by Zeus. Non-
nus (D. 21.155–169) goes so far as to claim explicitly that he became a god, which
finds support in the cult practice attested in Syria as early as the end of the
first century ce. Apart from this, there is a very ambiguous passage in Strabo
(10.3.16), which, rightly or not, has been often quoted as evidence concerning
33 Much has been written on the subject-matter. Of particular importance is the volume
edited by Dodd and Faraone (2003).
the cult that Lycurgus was supposed to receive among the Thracians and Phry-
gians. Finally, many scholars, including West (1990), thought that ps.-Euripides’
Rhesus (970–973) contained an allusion to Lycurgus’ immortality. It is therefore
reasonable to argue that Lycurgus was thought of as an immortal, at least in
certain periods and places.34
As if to counterbalance these testimonies, we have several texts in which
Lycurgus is explicitly said to have died. Most notably, the end of the Tbilisi hymn
(52–57) describes the sufferings of Lycurgus in Hades. Apollodorus (3.5) says
that he died mutilated by horses. According to Diodorus of Sicily (3.66.5), he
died after all kinds of torture. Finally, although he does not say that Lycurgus
died immediately after his impious act or that his death directly resulted from
it, Homer states that he did not live for long.
In the present section, I discuss the texts which state, seem to state, or merely
allude to Lycurgus’ immortality. Apart from the already mentioned passages a
stanza from the fourth stasimon of Sophocles’ Antigone (955–965) is of par-
ticular importance: it speaks of Lycurgus’ fate in an elusive fashion. However,
despite the ambiguities involved, it is justly thought of as one of the most
important testimonies on the Aeschylean version of the story. Thus, I begin
this section with as wide as possible a discussion of the meanings that the pas-
sage might convey. Subsequently, I turn to other texts that have conditioned
the scholarly tradition of the reading of Sophocles. Finally, I turn to a new piece
of evidence, a passage from Aeschylus’ Agamemnon (1629–1632), in which the
poet alludes to the Lycurgeia in a way that becomes evident when seen against
the background provided by Sophocles.
2.3.1 Sophocles’ Antigone 955–965

2.3.1.1 Introduction: Did Lycurgus Die?
A close reading of the passage in Sophocles requires as full as possible an under-
standing of the presumptions with which ancient spectators would approach
it.35 Some of their ideas certainly resulted from its immediate context while
others could emerge from the audience’s previous familiarity with the Lycurgus
myth. Sophocles was certainly not strictly confined to reporting pre-existing
34 In the present chapter, I refrain from the discussion of Stesichorus’ Eriphyle fr. 92 (= Apol-
lod. 3.10.3; Schol. Eur. Alc. 1; Schol. Pind. P. 3.96; Philod. Piet. N1609V; S.E. M. 1.260–261) in
which it is said that Asclepius brought back to life Capaneus and a certain Lycurgus. As
Davies and Finglass (2014: ad loc.) observe, this is almost certainly a reference to another
Lycurgus, most likely the son of Pheres and the king of Nemea, or the son of Pronax and
Adrastus’ nephew.
35 This is one of the points very eloquently advocated by Sourvinou-Inwood (1989a; 1990).
See also note 51.
44 chapter 2
versions of the stories, but, as a poet, he was permitted and perhaps even
expected to manipulate them by suppressing some motifs while emphasising
others. Thus, it seems legitimate to speak of such a concept as a Sophoclean
version. There are, however, some limits to the arbitrariness of poetic choices
conditioned by the tradition and by the general norms of communication.36
In the case of the Sophoclean Lycurgus, the tradition had already had sev-
eral exponents, including Homer, Eumelus, and Polyphrasmon. The most influ-
ential point of reference, however, was quite clearly provided by Aeschylus’
Lycurgeia, which was probably produced for the first time no more than twenty
years before the Antigone and was subsequently performed repeatedly, if not
in the city, then at least in other theatres of Attica (see below).37 It seems, thus,
a reasonable assumption that Sophocles’ version, although it cannot be taken
as a mere summary of Aeschylus, does not contradict him. At the same time,
it must have been difficult to appreciate all of Sophocles’ originality, as well as
to grasp all the meanings to which he merely alluded, without familiarity with
the Lycurgeia.
The following analysis of the passage involves a twofold approach. Firstly, I
analyse it from the internal (narrative) perspective by asking what the group
of Theban elders wants to communicate to Antigone and, possibly, to Creon.
Secondly, I move towards an external (authorial) perspective by inquiring into
the meaning of the passage for the whole tragedy. The difference between these
two approaches is striking. A reader and a spectator (though perhaps the latter
to a lesser extent), once they have learnt how the play ends, can appreciate an
36 For the sake of an argument, it is germane to imagine a stasimon in which a chorus in

a matter of fact manner recounts a story of Achilles, describing him as Patroclus’ horse
that outlived his master. Given its absurdity in face of the commonly shared mythological
knowledge, such a tale would be taken as a breach of Grice’s maxim of quality and inter-
preted as a signal for some kind of inference. Is the chorus lying? Is it a mistake? Is it a
joke, a sign of madness, ignorance, or dementia? Or does it make of the chorus a group of
sophists, who try to rationalise the myth? In order to avoid such confusion, the poet was
bound to make his chorus avoid statements that could be taken as flagrantly contradictory
to what the audience expected to hear. What set the perimeter of the poetic licence (in
the case of stories reported by a chorus or character and treated within a given tragedy as
mythical exempla dissociated from the main plot) was therefore a tradition known to the
authorial audience.
37 The date of the Antigone is unknown. Given that Sophocles is supposed to have written
and produced tragedies from no later than 468 bce (Plu. Cim. 9.8–9), it cannot be excluded
that the Antigone predated the Lycurgeia. No scholar, however, goes as far as to date it to
such an early period. Traditionally the date range between 442/1 (Jebb 1900: xlv–xlvii) and
438 (Lewis 1988) is given. More recently, Scullion (2002: 85–86) postulated the date around
450 bce. On this controversy, see Cairns 2016: 1–3.
authorial irony resulting from the fact that the song sung by the Theban elders
eventually turns out to foreshadow events that they (the elders) did not expect.
2.3.1.2 Sophocles’ Antigone 955–965: What Is This Passage Actually

About?
ζεύχθη δ᾽ ὀξύχολος παῖς ὁ Δρύαντος,

Ἠδωνῶν βασιλεύς, κερτομίοις ὀργαῖς
ἐκ Διονύσου πετρώ-
δει κατάφρακτος ἐν δεσμῶι.
οὕτω τᾶς μανίας δεινὸν ἀποστάζει
ἀνθηρόν τε μένος. κεῖνος ἐπέγνω μανίαις
ψαύων τὸν θεὸν ἐν κερτομίοις γλῶσσαις.
παύεσκε μὲν γὰρ ἐνθέους
γυναῖκας εὔιόν τε πῦρ,38
φιλαύλους τ᾽ ἠρέθιζε Μούσας.39
38 It is usually taken as a reference to torches carried by maenads, as in the Bacchae 307.

The Kraków hydria also features a torch behind Lycurgus’ back. The ritual use of torches
is attested in Livy 39.13.12: matronas Baccharum habitu crinibus sparsis cum ardentibus
facibus decurrere ad Tiberim, demissasque in aquam faces, quia uiuum sulphur cum calce
insit, integra flamma efferre (matrons in Bacchic outfit with their hair loose, burning torches
in hand run down to Tiber and dip their torches in water, which leaves the flames intact due
to the content of pure sulphur and calcium). According to Cazanove (1983), this ritual was
related to the story of Lycurgus in its Homeric version, as the matrons would enact the
run towards the sea. A torch submerged in water but not extinguished would symbolise
Dionysus, who discovered his immortality through a similar experience. This is an attrac-
tive hypothesis, but like everything that surrounds mystery cults, it remains a matter of
speculation. It is also impossible to tell whether the ritual attested to in Rome just before
186 bce can be read back into Sophocles, who speaks of fire rather than torches. The only
scholar who seems to address this is Müller (1967: ad loc.), who states that it metaphori-
cally stands for Antigone’s religious zeal. Perhaps this is the case. It can be also related to
the passage, in which the reversal of the divine order caused by Creon hampers the flames
from burning on Teiresias’ altar (1005–1011).
39 There has been some debate whether the last word of the stanza should be written with
majuscule or minuscule (thus Lloyd-Jones and Wilson). However, given that the text was
primarily meant to be listened to rather than read, this is a minor issue. Some effort has
been put into showing that the Muses were occasionally associated with Dionysus (See
Jebb 1900: ad loc.; Susanetti 2012: ad loc.), but it is clear that they did not belong to his
court by default as maenads and satyrs did. This does not mean, however, that they were
so completely foreign to the Dionysiac sphere that φιλαύλοι Μούσαι has to be taken as a
metaphor referring to maenads, as Sourvinou-Inwood (1989: 149) argued, nor does it mean
that Sophocles suddenly departed from the story of Lycurgus by adding a motif from the
Thamyris myth, as Brown (1987: ad loc.) thought. The suggestion that the music was at
46 chapter 2
Also the king of Edonians, impetuous son of Dryas, was harnessed, shut
by Dionysus in a rocky prison because of his insulting anger. Thus, he dis-
tilled from the terrible outburst and frenzy of madness. He learnt to know
the god whom he assailed in madness with abusive words. He was try-
ing to stop god-inspired women and the Bacchic flame, and he upset the
Muses, who are fond of the aulos.
The passage comes from the notoriously problematic fourth stasimon of the
Antigone, which follows lines 937–943, in which the heroine bids farewell to the
city of Thebes.40 It contains three mythical stories whose relation to the events
is not fully transparent.41 First comes Danae (944–954), then Lycurgus (955–
965), and lastly the blinded sons of Cleopatra (966–987). Apparently, the audi-
ence were supposed to grasp some parallels between these three tales and the
whole plot of the Antigone. Unfortunately, due to our limited knowledge of the
mythical tradition, especially the myth of Cleopatra, as well as the serious tex-
tual problems besetting lines 966–969, the stasimon remains obscure, which
hampers our effort to understand the passage concerning Lycurgus. We may
be assisted, however, by the fact that the communicative situation in which
the song was sung seems quite easy to pinpoint.
The chorus explicitly addresses Antigone (949: ὦ παῖ παῖ; 987: ὦ παῖ) and
offers her an outward moral by the end of the first and last thematic segments:
the power of fate is unalterable,42 which seems to be the central message of
the ode.43 Much of its vagueness clearly results from the ambiguous attitude of
issue in Aeschylus’ Lycurgeia, comes from the longest fragment of the Edonoi in our pos-
session (Radt 57), in which ecstatic music is described by the chorus in parodos. It seems
a reasonable guess that Lycurgus’ reaction to this was negative. As for the presence of
the Muses in person in the Lycurgeia, it is likely that at least one of them appeared after
Orpheus’ death. In the narrow context of the Antigone, the mention of the Muses that are
in fond of the aulos can be taken as a reference to the ban on the mourning over Polyneices’
body, given that the aulos played an important role in funerary celebrations (See Alexiou
1974: 6–7, 60; Comotti 1989: 71).
40 The secondary literature is vast. It includes Bowra 1944: 104–105; Errandonea 1952; Lin-
forth 1961: 231–233; Winnington-Ingram 1980: 98–107; Sourvionou-Inwood 1989a; Van Nes
Ditmars 1992: 132–150; Reitze 2017: 718–732. I have also made use of the commentaries by
Jebb 1900; Müller 1967; Kamerbeek 1978; Brown 1987; Griffith 1999; Susanetti 2012.
41 Kitzinger (2008: 57–61) has recently suggested that the ode could have been intentionally
disorganised and chaotic, but I have an impression that such a communicative strategy
would be too subtle even for Sophocles.
42 951: ἀλλ᾽ ἁ μοιριδία τις δύνασις δεινά κτλ. (awesome is the power of fate); 986–987: ἀλλὰ κἀπ᾽
ἐκειναι/ Μοῖραι μακραίωνες ἔσχον (but also she was subdued by the long-lived Moirai). See,
e.g., Burton 1980: 127.
43 See Winnington-Ingram 1980: 99–100; Kitzinger 2008: 57–61.
the chorus towards Antigone, but I have an impression that it disturbs a con-
temporary reader more than it did the ancient spectators, who were free from
some of our presumptions about the play and its characters. Antigone is not a
lone heroine fighting against oppression, as a romantic tradition would have it,
nor is she simply a woman out of place44 as feminist criticism would stress. She
has some traits of both.45 As for Creon: at first, he seems to be a good king of
the heroic age with some obvious traits of a perfect democratic leader. Subse-
quently, however, he breaks under the burden of absolute power, with which he
gradually becomes more and more obsessed, though at the same time becom-
ing less and less capable of wielding it.46 The whole tragedy is, therefore, not
about a struggle between right and wrong but rather about a clash between
two strangely complex personalities and viewpoints. For this reason the cho-
rus cannot be simply for Antigone and against Creon or vice versa. They are
clearly baffled. Thus, earlier in the play, though not without some hesitation,
the chorus admits that Antigone did well in burying her brother, even though it
maintains that she was wrong to disobey the ruler (872–875).47 They agree that
44 This position has been defended most eloquently by Sourvinou-Inwood (1989: 138–141;
1989a: 145; 1990), who contrasted Antigone with Danae: Danae did not give up her female
role; she was a passive victim imprisoned because her father feared the consequences of her
fulfilment of that role, procreation. Antigone is imprisoned because she took on the role of a
(rebellious) male who acted in opposition to the polis and as a result refused the fulfilment of
her female role. Thus, unlike for Danae, the imprisonment will turn out badly for Antigone.
This is, however, something that the audience still does not know and Sophocles does
not provide any clues that he intends to contrast the two heroines (καί in 944 is at best
ambiguous and no mention of Danae’s innocence is made). Upon rereading of the text, it
may seem that there is a certain irony involved in quoting the story of Danae as a parallel
for Antigone. It is unlikely, however, that it was perceived in such a way by the audience
at the first performance of the play, nor should the intention of the chorus be understood
as cruel, as Tyrell and Bennett (1998: 124) put it.
45 References: Cairns 2016: 166 n. 51.
46 Creon’s declarations of his political ideals in 175–191 and 658–676 seem to be perfectly
in line with democratic ideology, which is further confirmed by Demosthenes 19.247 (see
Sourvinou-Inwood 1989: 141–144). What makes Creon an interesting character is that he
does not manage to live up to his own standards, or, as Cairns (2016: 53) puts it, he is not
just a stage tyrant, but rather a well-intentioned man tested in time of stress and found want-
ing. For Creon’s evolution from a more democratic towards a tyrannical character, see also
Foley 1995: 137. Perhaps the most striking illustration of the deranged state of mind of the
hero is provided by lines 770–771, in which he admits that he does not actually remember
whom he sentenced to death. Knox (1964: 53) took this passage as exemplifying Creon’s
cowardly reasoning, but this seems to miss the point because, among other reasons, it pre-
supposes a very subtle political calculation which was supposed to remain implicit and yet
somehow perceivable by the audience.
47 The praise of Antigone’s deed could not have been more restrained (872: σέβειν μὲν εὐσέ-
48 chapter 2
she should be castigated and punished, but is death a suitable punishment for a
very young girl, who has not even been married? Quite naturally, it seems that,
although there is a strong consolatory component in the words of the fourth
stasimon, it is mixed with a paternalistic reprimand for Antigone’s lack of wis-
dom and, perhaps more subtly, for disapproval of Creon’s blind obstinacy.48
This complex communicative strategy has been well recognised by Win-
nington-Ingram (1980: 98–109). He observed that having introduced the story
of Danae, whose imprisonment is outwardly compared with that of Antigone
(note καί in 944), the chorus seems still to have Antigone in mind when they
turn to the myth of Lycurgus. The first word of this antistrophe, ζεύχθη (955)
picks up the κατεζεύχθη from line 946. Then, we learn that Lycurgus was shut
in rocky bonds, πετρώδει κατάφρακτος ἐν δεσμῶι. This clearly resembles the fate
of both Danae and Antigone. It may also be meaningful that Lycurgus is called
here παῖς ὁ Δρύαντος. This is not an unusual periphrasis, but in the present con-
text it may enforce the associations with the nominal addressee of the ode,
Antigone, who is called παῖς in its beginning and end.
Yet almost immediately the focus of the comparison starts turning towards
Creon. He, certainly more than Antigone, deserves the characterisation of
being quick to anger (ὀξύχολος). This shift becomes much clearer by the end
of the stanza, where Lycurgus is said to have attempted to restrain the god-
inspired women. This is very much what Creon was doing when trying to bring
Antigone under control, for she is time after time characterised as wild and
mad, just like a maenad.49 Thus, the story conveys two important messages
for Antigone. Firstly, that imprisonment can be beneficial for her because, like
Lycurgus, she may be still healed from her madness. More importantly, how-
ever, there is a chance that Creon (also like Lycurgus) will come to understand
his mistake. At the dramaturgical level it seems fitting, as it foreshadows the
peripeteia, by suggesting that the outcome of the action can be completely dif-
ferent from what it seemed to Antigone and, probably, to the spectators.
βειά τις (reverence is a kind of piety)), but it has to be remembered that it was uttered in the
presence of Creon. Other passages that refer to the endorsement of Antigone’s stance by
wide circles come from Haemon’s speech (693–700) and, as Sourvinou-Inwood (1989: 144;
1990: 14–16) contended, they can be suspected as purely rhetorical, although the question
arises whether the audience were expected to be immune to such rhetorical devices. See
Cairns 2016: 49–51.
48 On the relation between Antigone and the elders, see also di Benedetto 1983: 29–32.
49 Antigone called mad by the chorus: 383; 471; 929–930; 99 (by Ismene); 562 (by Creon).
Antigone as a maenad: Sourvinou-Inwood 1989: 141; 1989a: 152–153.
2.3.1.3 The End of the Story

According to Winnington-Ingram (1980: 102), Lycurgus’ imprisonment was not
the end of this hero’s punishment. Unfortunately, the scholar did not elaborate
on this point. Some commentators, on the other hand, admit the possibility
of an opposite reading.50 Most notably, Sourvinou-Inwood in her seminal arti-
cle on the fourth stasimon (1989) argued that if Antigone was a bad woman
in the eyes of the supposedly predominantly male audience, then Creon was
unequivocally good.51 This is why Lycurgus as his counterpart was not supposed
to suffer too much. Therefore, according to Sourvinou-Inwood, his punishment
was particularly mild even if we compare it to what befell him in Homer.
This interpretation was based on two assumptions. First, Sophocles was sup-
posed to follow Aeschylus’ Lycurgeia as reconstructed by West (1990: esp. 32).
In its finale, as informed by the most probably erroneous reading of the Rhe-
sus (on which more below), Lycurgus did not die but was imprisoned in a cave
as an immortal prophet identified with Dionysus. In order to make this recon-
struction work, West (1990: 27) conjectured that Apollodorus’ account (Ἠδωνοὶ
δὲ ἀκούσαντες εἰς τὸ Παγγαῖον αὐτὸν ἀπαγαγόντες ὄρος ἐδησαν, κἀκεῖ κατὰ Διονύσου
βούλησιν ὑπὸ ἵππων διαφθαρεὶς ἀπέθανε) contained two alternative versions, of
which one, the imprisonment (or binding, to be more exact) would have been
the Aeschylean, whereas the death by horses would have some other, unknown
origin. I will return to this issue below.
The second assumption on which Sourvinou-Inwood based her interpreta-
tion is that Sophocles’ intertext was unlikely to contain more than Sophocles
stated explicitly. Otherwise, given the analogies between Lycurgus and Creon,
the chorus of Theban elders would seem to make a subversive allusion by sug-
gesting that the latter was about to meet a bad fate. Yet, however logical this
may seem, the dynamics of the allusivity at work here seem to be quite differ-
ent.
As has been discussed, there are some clear parallels between Creon and
Lycurgus. Viewed from the external perspective, a version of the story in which
Lycurgus outlives his family members, only to discover that he was responsible
for their death, seems particularly well-fitted to function as a parallel for Creon’s
50 Thus: Bowra 1944: 10; Brown 1984: ad 955–965; Susanetti 2012: ad loc. See also West 1990:
32.
51 Sourvinou-Inwood fell into a typical pitfall of the structuralist approach, which leaves no
space for anything that transcends clear-cut oppositions. Criticism of such attitude: Foley
1995: esp. 132; Cairns 2016: 44–46 with further references. For the most balanced reading
of the conflict in the Antigone, which does not downplay the role of the audience’s purely
emotional responses to ambivalent characters, see Cairns 2016: 29–57.
50 chapter 2
fate. However, regardless of how far this parallelism reaches, it does not exclude
the possibility that Lycurgus died once he understood his mistake (nor was his
counterpart, Creon, immortal). Similarly, from the internal perspective of the
elders, when they address Antigone, not only is it irrelevant whether Creon
is due to die, but they also ignore the fact that he is about to suffer and lose
his family. They do not seem to be concerned with such a possibility. What is
important is that he may come to understand his error. The tension between
these two perspectives contributes to the creation of the tragic irony; the The-
ban elders were right when they implicitly compared Creon to Lycurgus. Like
Lycurgus, he would learn. What they did not know at the moment of speak-
ing was that Creon was due to become even more like Lycurgus by virtue of
learning when it was already too late. What is crucial from both the internal
and external points of view is that the perpetrator is due to realise his error,
whereas his mortality or immortality does not seem to be at stake.
Thus, the passage in the Antigone, intriguing as it is, contains no informa-
tion regarding Lycurgus’ death (or lack thereof). Ps.-Euripides’ Rhesus seems
even less informative.
2.3.1.4 Rhesus 970–973: Lycurgus’ Immortality?

Near the end of the play, the Muse is thus speaking about the post-mortem fate
of her son:
κρυπτὸς δ᾽ ἐν ἄντροις τῆς ὑπαργύρου χθονός

ἀνθρωποδαίμων κείσεται βλέπων φάος,
βάκχου προφήτης, ὥστε Παγγαίου πέτραν
ὤικησε, σεμνὸς τοῖσιν εἰδόσιν θεός.
972: ὅς γε Matthiae: ὅς τε Q
Concealed in a cave within the silver-veined soil a man-god will lie see-
ing the light like a prophet of Bacchus, who came to inhabit the cliff of
Pangaion, a deity revered by those who know.
Following Musgrave (1762: 96), it is very tempting to think that the prophet to
whom Rhesus is compared is Lycurgus, whom the Edonians imprisoned in a
cave in Pangaion and who was subsequently deified as an alter-ego of Diony-
sus.52 The problem is that the text in the form quoted above is certainly corrupt.
52 An extensive list (which does not pretend to be a complete bibliography) of scholars who
As Diggle (1994: 320–326) has convincingly argued, such an occurrence of the

comparative ὥστε with a finite verb which follows the subject of the phrase it
introduces would be hardly acceptable in Greek tragedy.53 Thus, the two alter-
native solutions, and especially that proposed by Matthiae (1824: ad 969), ὅς γε,
seem much more appropriate. With such an emendation the passage can be
translated in the following way:
Concealed in a cave within the silver-veined soil a man-god will lie seeing
the light as a prophet of Bacchus, who came to inhabit the cliff of Pan-
gaion, a deity revered by those who know.
This almost cosmetic change eliminates from the text the reference to any
other prophet than the one that Rhesus was supposed to become. Thus, there is
nothing that may be interpreted as an allusion to Lycurgus.54 In the traditional
reading of the text as printed above, such an allusion appeared very probable
since, like Rhesus, Lycurgus in Sophocles seems to have been imprisoned in
a cave. However, as I argue in the section that follows, whether this is what
Sophocles meant is far from certain.
2.3.1.5 Lycurgus’ Imprisonment

As it has been said, the sense of the allusion introduced by the stanza about
Lycurgus in Sophocles’ Antigone was at first ambivalent, and only as the song
developed would the audience understand that the hero had more in com-
mon with Creon than with Antigone. This results chiefly from the formal link
between this antistrophe and the preceding strophe provided by the word ζεύ-
χθη and the intriguing phrase πετρώδει κατάφρακτος ἐν δεσμῶι, which connects
the passage about Lycurgus with the imprisonment of Danae and Antigone.55
were convinced that the prophet under discussion was Lycurgus is given by Diggle (1994:
320 n. 2).
53 See also: Fries 2014: ad loc.; Liapis 2003: n. 15; 2007: n. 69; 2012: ad loc.; Feickert 2005: ad
loc.; Plichon 2001: 17–18.
54 Among other candidates for the prophet in the cave, Orpheus and Zalmoxis have been
proposed. For references, see Diggle 1994: 321.
55 The motif of a cave also provides a link between the stories of Danae, Lycurgus, and
Cleopatra narrated in lines 966–987. In the latter passage, distant caves are referred to
as a place in which Cleopatra was brought up (983: τηλέποροις δ᾽ ἐν ἄντροις). This image of
the (presumably) happy childhood of a god’s daughter stands in a sharp contrast to her
and her sons’ suffering that followed her marriage (related to the movement away from
the paternal dwelling represented by the cave). Thus, a cave in the stasimon evokes three
different sets of connotations. It can be a place where a person is sent against their will and
where he or she unexpectedly finds what they were supposed to be deprived of (Danae).
52 chapter 2
Its meaning, however, has never been very clear, as can be discerned from the
confusion of the scholiasts. One of them (Elmsley: ad loc.) writes: πετρώδει] τῶι
στερεῶι δεσμῶι τῆς ἀμπέλου (rocky: with firm bond of vine-shoot). Another scho-
liast (Dindorf: ad loc.) is much more eloquent:
Λυκοῦργος ὁ Δρύαντος παῖς, βασιλεὺς Μακεδόνων, τιμῶν πάντας τοὺς θεοὺς,

ἀθέως διέκειτο πρὸς Διόνυσον, καὶ ἐπειρᾶτο τάς τε βάκχας αὐτοῦ καὶ τοὺς
χοροὺς καθαιρεῖν. ἐξενεχθεὶς οὖν ποτὲ εἰς πόλεμον καὶ τροπῆς γενομένης, ἐπεὶ
φεύγειν ἤρξατο, συνεποδίσθη ἐν κλήματι ὑπὸ Διονύσου, καὶ ἀπορριφείς εἰς κρη-
μνὸν τὸ ζῆν ἀπολώλεκεν. ἕτεροι δέ φασιν ὡς λαβόντες αὐτὸν οἱ πολέμιοι συμπο-
δισθέντα καὶ εἰς ἄντρον ἐμβαλόντες καὶ τὴν εἴσοδον κλείσαντες ἐλιμαγχόεσαν,
ὅ καὶ κρεῖττον· συνάιδει γὰρ τῶι πετρώδει δεσμῶι κατάφρακτος. εἰ δὲ πρὸς τὸ
ἄνω εἴποις τὸ πετρῶδει, ἀντὶ τοῦ στερρῶι νοήσεις. λέγει δὲ τὴν Λυκούργου ἱστο-
ρίαν, οὐχ ὅτι ἡ Ἁντιγόνη ἀσεβὴς ἦν, ὧσπερ ἐκεῖνος, ἀλλὰ διὰ μόνον τὸ πάθος.
Lycurgus, the son of Dryas, the king of Macedonians, who worshipped all
gods, was ill-disposed towards Dionysus, denying his divinity, and tried
to suppress his Bacchae and choruses. Some time, having gone on a war,
when he started fleeing in a retreat, Dionysus entangled him in a vine, he
fell down a cliff and lost his life. Others say that his enemies bound him,
threw him into a cave, and blocked the exit, thus starving him to death.
This is more likely, as it accords with the “shut in a rocky prison”. In the
former case, you should understand “firm” by “rocky”. He [Sophocles] tells
the story of Lycurgus not because Antigone was impious like him, but only
due to the similarity of the fate they met.
Of the two versions told by this scholiast, the first one clearly results from a
confusion between the myth of Lycurgus and that of Telephus. As for the other,
I am unable to identify its source. However, given that it is very much unlike
anything we know about Lycurgus, it seems most likely that it came into exis-
tence due to an interference with some other story. Thus, we learn little about
versions of the Lycurgus myth from this scholiast. What is important, however,
is that according to both compilers, the expression πετρώδης δεσμός could refer
not only to a prison, but also to particularly strong bonds.
To my knowledge, none of the modern translators or commentators goes so
far as to claim that πετρώδει κατάφρακτος ἐν δεσμῶι refers to something else than
It can be a place where one find insight, even in spite of themselves (Lycurgus). A cave can
be also a place that offers protection that is longed for by the person who has (forcibly?)
left it.
imprisonment in a strict sense of the word. Some of them, however, suggest that
it could have been Sophocles’ innovation. As, for example, Cairns (2016: 33) puts
it, the detail that he was imprisoned is found only in this version and may have
been invented for the sake of the comparison.56 All other sources suggest binding
rather than imprisonment. Thus, Apollodorus says that Lycurgus was bound by
the Edonians (ἔδησαν).57 In the Tbilisi hymn, (49–51) Dionysus makes the vine
bind Lycurgus. In Nonnus’ Dionysiaca (21, esp. 30–32), the Nymph Ambrosia is
turned into a vine that assaults Lycurgus. As I argue below, Naevius also speaks
of binding Lycurgus in fr. 30–32 and he may allude to it in fr. 27–29. Finally,
Statius in the Thebaid (4.386) mentions a vine-grove that overpowered Lycur-
gus (pampineumque iubes nemus inreptare Lycurgo: you order the vine-grove to
creep over Lycurgus).58 The motif of Lycurgus captured by vines also pervades
the iconography.59
Admittedly, this material does not prove that by πετρώδης δεσμός Sophocles
meant a very strong bond rather than imprisonment in a cave, but the former
interpretation seems more probable.60 Therefore, the fate of Lycurgus in the
Antigone seems to have very little in common with that of Rhesus. However,
the elimination of the Rhesus passage from the dossier of texts relevant for the
Lycurgus myth does not solve the problem of his deification and reconcilement
with Dionysus, which may be hinted at in a passage in Strabo, to which I turn
in the following section.
2.3.1.6 Strabo (10.3.16 = 471.7–10): Lycurgus Deified?

While discussing the similarities between Thracian and Phrygian music (or rit-
uals? or both?), Strabo quotes some lines of Aeschylus’ Edonoi (Radt 57), which
contain references to the rites of Kotys and the music brought to Thrace by
Dionysus. Subsequently, he states:
56 See also: Gantz 1993: 113; Brown 1987: ad loc.

57 Interestingly, Kamerbeeck in his commentary on the Antigone (1978: ad loc.), clearly under
influence of Sophocles’ text, makes a remarkable mistake, when he writes: after having
been driven mad he [Lycurgus] was incarcerated in a cave on Mount Pangaeus, according to
Apollod. iii 5.1. Apollodorus does not mention a cave.
58 Cf. Statius Th. 4.655, 7.180.
59 LIMC: Lykourgos i 32–81, with an exception for 36, 47, 48, 49. Particularly relevant are 51
and 70–81.
60 On the margin of my manuscript, Ioanna Patera suggested that it need not be taken for
granted that only one version of the story is correct. Indeed, the scholia quoted above sug-
gest that at least from Sophocles on, there could have existed a controversy and that two
variants of the story were equally true for those who retold it. Whether or not this duplic-
ity was inherited by Sophocles from earlier tradition (Aeschylus?) can only be a matter of
speculation.
54 chapter 2
ταῦτα γὰρ ἔοικε τοῖς Φρυγίοις· καὶ οὐκ ἀπεικός γε, ὥσπερ αὐτοὶ οἱ Φρύγες Θραι-
κῶν ἄποικοί εἰσιν, οὕτω καὶ τὰ ἱερὰ ἐκεῖθεν μετενηνέχθαι. καὶ τὸν Διόνυσον δὲ
καὶ τὸν Ἠδωνὸν Λυκοῦργον συνάγοντες εἰς ἕν τὴν ὁμοιοτροπίαν τῶν ἱερῶν αἰνίτ-
τονται.
This resembles what is habitual among the Phrygians and, given that the
Phrygians are Thracian colonists, it is not unlikely that their rites as well
were transferred from there. They also hint at the similarity of rituals by
bringing together Dionysus and the Thracian Lycurgus.
It is usually assumed that συνάγω εἰς ἕν means to identify (LSJ: s.v. συνάγω iib).
The subject of the sentence is not explicit. Thus, for example Jones (Loeb
1961: Also when they identify Dionysus and the Edonian Lycurgus, they hint at
the homogeneity of their sacred rites) retains the ambiguous they, which proba-
bly should be construed with Phrygians in the previous sentence.61 As I men-
tioned earlier, Sophocles in his stanza about Lycurgus lays particular emphasis
on learning. If the passage in Strabo could be read back into Sophocles and,
via Sophocles, into Aeschylus, it would mean that after some hopeless strug-
gle against the god, Lycurgus in bonds understood his mistake and became
not Dionysus’ prophet, as may be suggested by the problematic version of the
Rhesus text, but rather Dionysus himself. This seems a strange idea, but its
strangeness is not a sufficient bar to its feasibility. After all, religious beliefs are
often paradoxical, and this seems to hold particularly true for the ideas sur-
rounding Dionysus.
An interesting alternative was proposed by Radt (2002–2011: ad loc.), who
stated that the implicit subject of the sentence must be the poets mentioned
in 469.10 and taken up implicitly in 470.14–17, 26–27. According to him, the
expression συνάγοντες εἰς ἕν need not evoke identification between the god and
his (former) enemy, given that Strabo used it several times, often in reference
to bringing something in a discourse in conjunction with something else.62 Thus,
61 In Falconer’s translation from 1856 they must be construed with the Phrygians from the
preceding clause. On the other hand, Lasserre (BL 1971) has: quand donc les Thraces con-
fendet en une seule figure Dionysos et Lycurgos, dieu des Édones, ils se réfèrent implicitement
au déroulement similaire de leurs cultes respectifs. Apart from the arbitrary choice of the
subject, the translator added one more gratuitous piece of information by calling Lycurgus
a god of the Edonians. Even though there are no references to the Antigone or the Rhesus
in the foot- or endnotes, it is clear that Lasserre had in mind an interpretation dependent
on a particular reading of these tragedies. However, once this connection is rejected (see
section 2.3.1.4), the translator’s additions can be easily dismissed.
62 1.2.20.1; 10.3.8.2; 10.3.14.1; 11.7.4.8; 14.5.29.5. Among the numerous occurrences of this
according to Radt, the passage contains a reference to poets, who bring together
Dionysus and Lycurgus, clearly by telling a story about their clash.63 In such a
case, it does not contain any piece of information regarding Lycurgus’ deifica-
tion and identification with Dionysus.
Even though I find Radt’s interpretation convincing, the more traditional
reading of the passage cannot be excluded. In such a case, it could be taken as
a reference to religious ideas held most likely in Strabo’s contemporary Phry-
gia, where Lycurgus (probably known there from Greek literature) could be
thought of as Dionysus’ alter-ego. It is also possible that while συνάγοντες εἰς
ἕν means to identify, the implicit subject of the sentence are the poets (as Radt
claims). This would mean that Aeschylus (mentioned in the passage) and other
Greek authors identified Lycurgus with Dionysus. I do not think this is the correct
interpretation of the passage, but I do not find compelling arguments against
it. Therefore, the only possible conclusion is that Strabo’s text is ambiguous,
which becomes particularly disturbing in light of the information provided by
Nonnus regarding another instance of religious eclecticism.
2.3.1.7 Nonnus 21.155–169: Lycurgus Deified!
155 καὶ χθονὸς [Ἥρη] ἐπρήυνε τινάκτορα κυανοχαίτην

γνωτὸν ἑὸν καὶ Ζῆνα πόσιν καὶ μητέρα Ῥείην,
ῥυσαμένη Λυκόοργον, ὅπως ἐναρίθμιος εἴη
ἀθανάτοις· Ἄραβες δὲ πολυκνίσων ἐπὶ βωμῶν,
ὡς θεόν, υἷα Δρύαντος ἐμειλίξαντο θυηελαῖς,
160 ἀντὶ Διωνύσοιο μελιρραθάμιγγος ὀπώρης
λύθρον ἐπισπένδοντες ἀβακχεύτωι Λυκοόργωι.
καὶ τὰ μὲν ὣς ἤμελλε γέρων χρόνος ὀψὲ τελέσσαι·
Ζεὺς δὲ πατήρ, ἵνα μή τις ἀγηνορέων βροτὸς ἀνὴρ
ἄλλος ἔχων μίμημα δοριθρασέος Λυκοόργου
165 μῶμον ἀναστήσειεν ἀμωμήτωι Διονύσωι,
αἰνομανῆ Λυκόοργον ἐθήκατο τυφλὸν ἀλήτην,
ἄστεος ἀγνώστοιο παλινδίνητον ὁδίτην,
πομπὸν ἀναγκαίης διζήμενον ἀτραπιτοῖο,
πολλάκις αὐτοκέλευθα περιπταίοντα πεδίλοις.
expression in other works of some interest may be, e.g., E. Or. 1640 (Apollo is speaking):
Ἕλληνας εἰς ἓν καὶ Φρύγας συνήγαγον (I brought Hellenes and Phrygians together = I made
them clash in a battle).
63 Die Ähnlichkeit der Riten deuten sie auch dadurch an dass sie Dionysos und den Edoner
Lykurgos miteinander verknüpfen.
56 chapter 2
She [Hera] placated the dark-haired Earth-shaker, her brother and hus-
band Zeus and mother Rheia, saving Lycurgus so that he would become
an immortal. By his altars rich in vapour, Arabs propitiate the son of Dryas
as a god with sacrifices. 160 Instead of the honey-dripping fruit of Diony-
sus they pour out blood to uninitiated/joyless Lycurgus. The old Time was
due to accomplish it much later. Meanwhile, to ensure that no mortal
man would emulate bold in war Lycurgus in his audacity 165 and that he
would be the only one to blame blameless Dionysus, father Zeus turned
raving Lycurgus into a blind wanderer, who rambles the city and does not
recognise it, who out of necessity keeps searching for someone to guide
him along the paths. He would also often tread roads with sandals all
alone.
The passage in the Dionysiaca contains more than one end of the story.
Lines 162–169 take up the Homeric motif of Lycurgus’ blindness, which, how-
ever, instead of being a prelude to his premature death, only retards his immor-
talisation. Lines 155–161 contain an otherwise unattested finale, which, curi-
ously enough, comes after what seems to be yet another (third) variant of
Lycurgus’ death. Namely, what Hera saves him from are the bonds of the nymph
Ambrosia, who was turned into a vine. As far as the narrative is concerned, the
story could have ended here, as once he is imprisoned or bound, Lycurgus does
not resume the fight against Dionysus. Thus, Nonnus does not keep him alive
because he needs him for reasons directly related to the economy of the plot.
It seems rather that he multiplies versions simply to explore the limits of an
intertextual game by inventing a way to add a new detail to the story which
already seemed to be finished.
This could presuppose the existence of a literary version of the story, which
predated Nonnus, in which Lycurgus became immortal as a god of the Arabs. It
is not impossible that such a version was known to Diodorus of Sicily (3.65.7),
who stated that some poets, including Antimachus (of Colophon, first half of
the fourth century bce, fr. 162) located the events of the story in Arabia. How-
ever, the only thing that can be said about Antimachus’ version is that it was
probably based on Greek literary associations rather than on epichoric tra-
ditions, and that he probably connected the Homeric Nyseion with the Nysa
mentioned in the first Homeric Hymn to Dionysus (1.8).64 Thus, it would be
sheer speculation to discuss how this shadowy tradition interfered with local
beliefs and practices. However, already in 1901, Clerment-Ganneau (382–402)
64 See Matthews 1996: ad loc.

turned attention to two inscriptions that in all likelihood contain references to

a Nabataean god identified with Greek Lycurgus.65
The first of these texts was inscribed in 96 ce on a small altar in Palmyra in
the Nabataean language. It comprises a dedication to Shai al-quam, a god asso-
ciated with war. Lines 4–5 of this inscription characterise him as the one who
does not drink wine. Already its first publisher (Littmann 1901: ad loc.) took
it to mean that libations of wine were not supposed to be made on the altar.
Clerment-Ganneau observed that this ritual norm made Shai al-quam antithet-
ical to Dushara, a divinity often identified with the Greek Dionysus.66 His divine
opponent could be thus associated with Nonnus’ Lycurgus, especially consider-
ing that in the Dionysiaca the hero is said to be a son of Ares (thus, close to Shai
al-quam)67 and in 21.158–161 wineless libations in his honour are mentioned.
Finally, the story in Nonnus takes place somewhere in Syria.
All of this would look like just one of many logical but hazardous construc-
tions proposed by scholars but for another inscription, this time in Greek,
that was found in Hebran (Hauran, Syria) and dated to the Antonine period.
It reads [Θ]ΕΩΛΥΚΟΥΡΓΩ.68 Clearly, there was a divinity named Lycurgus
worshipped in Syria in the early imperial age, and given Nonnus’ testimony it
seems likely that he was at least occasionally identified with our Lycurgus. This
becomes all the more probable in light of five other inscriptions in the Greek
language found in Hauran and cited by Sourdel (1952: 82), all of which contain
dedications to the god Lycurgus.69
Another trace of this local tradition seems to be preserved by Damascius in
his Life of Isidore (fr. 136a) as summarised by Photius (384a):
ὅτι Διόνυσος, φησί, Λυκοῦργον καὶ τοὺς ἑπομένους αὐτῶι Ἄραβας κατηγωνί-
σατο οἴνωι ἀπ᾽ ἀσκοῦ καταρράνας τὴν πολεμίαν στρατιάν· ἐξ οὗ καὶ τὴν πόλιν
65 See also Dussaud 1907: 153–156; Dostálová 1994; Gonnelli 2003: 414.
66 Thus Hes. Δ 2277 Latte. See Bowersock 1994: 245–250; Athanassiadi 1999: 136; Parker 2017:
50–51.
67 See Sourdel 1952: 77–78; Bowersock 1994: 46–47.
68 Clermont-Ganneau 1905: 317.
69 The names of the dedicants are not Greek or Roman (Μ(α)[ν]ος Σοαδου, Αβιδιθος Μαση-
χου). One altar has been dedicated by a whole tribe (the inscription (SEG vii 1102) reads
Θεῶ Λυκουργῶ φυλῆς Αζ … ην[ῶν] or φυλὴ Σαζ…). The iconography of this Lycurgus (repro-
ductions in Sourdel 1952: pl. ii and iii), although quite obscure, can be associated with our
Lycurgus, given that on one altar a hand with a lightning bolt has been represented (in
Tbilisi Hymn 16–17 Dionysus appears to Lycurgus surrounded by lightings), whereas the
other altar associates a human figure (Lycurgus himself?) with two objects that probably
represent clusters of grapes (perhaps an allusion to the destruction of the vine).
58 chapter 2
ἐκάλεσε Δαμασκόν. οἱ δὲ τὴν ἐπωνυμίαν διδόασι τῆι πόλει ἀπὸ γίγαντός τινος,
ὧι ὄνομα Ἀσκός, ὅν ὁ Ζεὺς ἐδάμασεν ἐνταῦθα. ἄλλοι δὲ καὶ ἄλλας λέγουσι τῆς
ἐπωνυμίας αἰτίας. ὁ δὲ συγγραφεὺς ἐκ ταύτης ὥρμητο τῆς πόλεως.
He [Damascius] says that Dionysus prevailed upon Lycurgus and Arabs

who followed him by means of the wine that sprinkled from a wine-
skin against the enemy forces. This is why he called the city Damaskos
(damazo + askos). Others derive this name from a certain Giant, whose
name was Askos, whom Zeus overpowered on that spot. Others give some
other explanations. The writer himself originated from that city.
The use of wine against Lycurgus can be a way of explaining why he abhorred
it after his deification. It can be also taken as a way of rationalising the motif
of the violent vine. Perhaps it was both at the same time. The fact that Photius
reminds the reader that Damascius originated from the city whose aetiology
he narrated suggests that this was for some reason meaningful. Clearly, it gives
the impression that this version was rooted in a local tradition, or that it was at
least acceptable to someone familiar with it.
As Athanassiadi (1999: 307 n. 362) observes, it is likely that Damascius was an
acquaintance of Nonnus. Thus, it is possible that the former transmitted orally
to the latter the story of Lycurgus in Syria as well as some further information on
its background, perhaps concerning some cult details. Thus, it remains possible
that there is no strong literary tradition behind Nonnus’ account of Lycurgus’
deification among Arabs. He might instead have learnt about it directly from
Damascius, a particularly learned local. Nevertheless, the alternative scenario,
according to which the variant in the Dionysiaca had a literary tradition behind
it, one recognisable to the well-read reader, cannot be rejected. It has an obvi-
ous appeal, as long as one is tempted to think of Nonnus’ work in terms of a
pre-postmodern and highly intertextual game.
2.3.1.8 So, Did He Die in the End?

This digression about Lycurgus’ immortality remains central to our under-
standing of this figure in the face of the long tradition of reading this motif
back into Sophocles, and thence into Aeschylus. Aeschylus can then be taken
as a witness of the Greek concept of Lycurgus’ immortality, which was per-
haps known already to the author of the Iliad 6. Alternatively, this idea can
be thought of as Thracian, Phrygian or Thraco-Phrygian (as may be deduced
from Strabo). The stakes are high, then.
As discussed above, there was an attested tradition in Syria in the second
century ce, according to which Lycurgus was almost certainly a god and prob-
ably identified with Shai al-quam. Our postcolonial sensitivity makes us want
to ask some questions regarding the dynamics of this identification, but, given
the scarcity of the material data, these are better left unanswered. At any rate,
the Syrian cult subsequently referred to by Nonnus is the only context in which
the deification of Lycurgus is certain.
The next potential milestone is provided by the passage in Strabo, which
probably does not contain any allusion to Lycurgus’ immortality; admittedly,
however, it is ambiguous. The next clue would be traditionally provided by the
Rhesus (970–973). Fortunately, it can be dismissed with confidence. Finally, we
come to Sophocles, in whose version there is no overt suggestion of Lycurgus’
immortality. The poet does not mention his death because it is irrelevant for
his purposes; this obviously does not presuppose immortality.
All this suggests that despite its prima facie attractiveness, the material
regarding Lycurgus’ deification is hardly pertinent as far as the Attic tragedies
are concerned. Despite certain doubts aroused by the ambiguity of Strabo’s
text, it seems most probable that Sophocles, Aeschylus, and other tragic poets
knew nothing about it. Instead, what remains clear is that the hero was taught
through ordeal not to harass the god. This conclusion might also be drawn
from an obscure allusion to Lycurgus that Aeschylus made in the Agamemnon,
which has been thus far ignored by scholars.
2.3.2 Back to Aeschylus

In Agamemnon 1629–1632 Aegisthus rebukes the chorus in the following way:
Ὀρφεῖ δὲ γλῶσσαν τὴν ἐναντίαν ἔχεις

ὁ μὲν γὰρ ἦγε πάντ᾽ ἀπὸ φθογγῆς χαρᾶι,
σὺ δ᾽ ἐξορίνας νηπίοις ὑλάγμασιν
ἄξηι· κρατηθεὶς δ᾽ ἡμερώτερος φανῆι.
The tongue you have is the opposite of that of Orpheus, as he led every-
thing enchanted with his voice, whereas you, who exasperate it with your
stupid barking, will be led off. You will appear tamer once you are brought
under control.
The passage is a part of the epilogue, which Dawe (2004) described as stylisti-
cally clumsy and therefore spurious.70 However, the lines under discussion are
70 A partially opposite view: Medda 2017: 191.

60 chapter 2
more refined than they perhaps seem, provided that they are understood as an
allusion to another work of Aeschylus.
What does it mean to be the opposite of Orpheus? Given that (probably) not
long before the Agamemnon Aeschylus staged his Lycurgeia, in which he juxta-
posed Orpheus with Lycurgus, the latter hero seems to be an obvious candidate
and, indeed, when read against the background of the Sophoclean passage, the
lines of Aeschylus make perfect sense.
Both authors stress Lycurgus’ verbal aggression (Sophocles: ψαύων τὸν θεὸν ἐν
κερτομίοις γλῶσσαις—Aeschylus: ἐξορίνας νηπίοις ὑλάγμασιν).71 Even more strik-
ing is the use of the form ἄξηι (a future middle voice with a passive meaning).
As Dawe (2004: 117–118) observed, the meaning that is usually attributed to it,
take into custody, to prison and defended by Fraenkel (1950: ad loc.)72 finds no
parallels in tragedy or Pindar. In Homer (Il. 9.594) and in Herodotus (e.g., 3.21.2),
however, the word ἄγω is used to refer to being led into captivity, but, as Dawe
puts it, always in a context which makes the meaning plain. Thus, according to
Dawe, the way in which the author expressed the idea of being taken prisoner
is particularly clumsy and non-Aeschylean. However, if the poet had Lycurgus
in mind, the emphasis here could have fallen not so much on the captivity
itself as on being led into it, as in Apollodorus: εἰς τὸ Παγγαῖον αὐτὸν ἀπαγα-
γόντες ὄρος ἐδησαν. In this version, as in Naevius (see below) and presumably
in Aeschylus’ Lycurgeia, bonds and captivity follow what is described with the
verb ἄγω/ἀπάγω. Nevertheless, Lycurgus goes into the mountains as—at least
seemingly—a free man. Much attention seems to have been paid by ancient
authors to the circumstances of this event (on which below). What follows it
in the Agamemnon is an act of domestication: κρατηθεὶς δ᾽ ἡμερώτερος φανῆι.
Not surprisingly, this is precisely the point upon which Sophocles lays much
emphasis: ζεύχθη … πετρώδει κατάφρακτος ἐν δεσμῶι … οὕτω τᾶς μανίας δεινὸν
ἀποστάζει ἀνθηρόν τε μένος. κεῖνος ἐπέγνω …
The recognition of the allusion in lines 1629–1632 sheds a new light on the
whole exchange between Aegisthus and the chorus. Goldhill (1984: 96–98)
underlined the contrast between Clytemnestra’s rhetorical skills and Aegisthus’
impotence as a speaker, which seems to harmonise with his characterisation
throughout as an unmanly and feeble opportunist. To a large extent this may
be so, but there is method in Aegisthus’ madness. By claiming that his oppo-
nents are like Lycurgus, he implicitly appropriates the role of Dionysus. This
happens immediately after the chorus calls him a woman (1625: γύναι), and
71 See also Nonn. D.132–146.

72 Cf., e.g., Sommerstein Loeb 2008: you’ll be led off under arrest.
it stresses the contrast between the warlike Agamemnon and his own cow-
ardice. The communicative strategy of Aegisthus seems thus perfectly logical.
Instead of trying to persuade the chorus that he is not effeminate, he turns the
tables on them by saying that this is exactly what makes him fearsome in the
manner of Dionysus who, in spite of his effeminacy, would not spare his ene-
mies.
The way in which Aegisthus intended to castigate the elders, which seems
similar to what Dionysus did to Lycurgus, is explained in lines 1619–1623 (text
of Fraenkel):
γνώσηι γέρων ὢν ὡς διδάσκεσθαι βαρὺ

τῶι τηλικούτωι, σωφρονεῖν εἰρημένον.
δεσμὸς δὲ καὶ τὸ γῆρας αἵ τε νήστιδες
δύαι διδάσκειν ἐξοχώταται φρενῶν
ἰατρομάντεις.
δεσμὸς Tr: δεσμὸν F: δεσμοὶ Karsten
You will understand, despite your years, that it is painful to learn at your
age, when you are told to be reasonable. Bonds, however, and fasting are
the two most prominent healers of the mind that may teach the old age.
The passage is highly ambiguous. On the one hand, there is no small irony in the
emphasis upon the beneficial effects of the cure and learning Aegisthus offers
to the elders. At the same time, however, he seems quite frank in appropriating
what may seem a tone of objectivity and wisdom. In his first speech (1577–
1611), Aegisthus described the killing of Agamemnon as an act of justice rather
than as an effect of his personal rancour or ambition. By doing this, he intro-
duced himself as an instrument of the divine order. This claim for objectivity
likewise pervades the passage under discussion, which ends with two prover-
bial phrases (1623–1624): οὐχ ὁρᾶις ὁρῶν τάδε;/ πρὸς κέντρα μὴ λάκτιζε, μὴ παίσας
μογῆις (can’t you see it while it is plain? Don’t kick against the goad, or else you
strike it and suffer). Aegisthus’ verbal aggression here is obviously preposterous
and exposes him as a usurper. Nevertheless, the model he follows could have
been as noble as Aegisthus was not. Thus, it seems that already in lines 1619–
1623, he had turned to the Lycurgeia as a model, putting himself in a position
analogous to Dionysus’.
The extraordinary value of the passage lies in its preservation and provision
of an authorial comment by Aeschylus on the meaning of the story of Lycurgus.
It is hard to imagine that this implicit self-quotation distorts the content and
62 chapter 2
import of the Lycurgeia. Thus, thanks to this, we can conclude that Sophocles’
version is close to Aeschylus’. The fidelity of Apollodorus’ account also finds
confirmation, at least as far as a portion of his last sentence is concerned (εἰς τὸ
Παγγαῖον αὐτὸν ἀπαγαγόντες ὄρος). Finally, it becomes irresistible to think that
fragment 58 of Naevius’Lycurgus (sed quasi amnis † cis † rapit, sed tamen inflexu
flectitur) refers to the learning through ordeal (see section 3.1.5). It also empha-
sises the interconnectedness of the stories of Orpheus and Lycurgus, to which
I turn in the section that follows.
2.4 Orpheus in Fabula
Thus far, we have seen that the Lycurgeia probably contained a reference to
the arrival of Dionysus in Thrace, his captivity (both attested in fragments of
the Edonoi), Lycurgus’ madness, and his filicide (the Kraków hydria). Subse-
quently, the hero was led to the mountains and bound or imprisoned, and thus
he realised his error (Sophocles and the Agamemnon). Orpheus also played a
role in the tetralogy, for from Eratosthenes we learn that his death at the hands
of the Bassarids was addressed in it. It seems to be attested in the Agamemnon
that the effect that Orpheus’ music had on everything (πάντα)—thus, clearly,
not only on human listeners—was at least mentioned in the Lycurgeia. Two
important questions follow. The first many scholars in the past have asked:
how are the Lycurgus and Orpheus stories linked to one another? However,
before any answer is attempted, the second and more fundamental issue must
be dealt with: should these two stories really be interpreted as related to each
other?73
From Welcker (1824) onwards, many scholars have thought of the Aeschy-
lean dramas as belonging to didaskaliai or tetralogies, quadripartite groups con-
sisting of three tragedies and one satyr drama that were performed in a single
day during the City Dionysia.74 Many of them formed thematic and narrational
cycles; some of them, however, clearly did not. This is the case with Aeschylus’
production from 472bce, which consisted of Phineus, The Persians, Glaucus of
Potniae, and Prometheus the Firebearer. Even though some links between the
tragedies that belonged to that production can be detected,75 it seems clear
73 I owe this point to Glenn Most.

74 For the discussion on the Aeschylean tetralogy in general, see especially Taplin 1977: 195–
196, 464; Gantz 1979; 1980; Rosenmeyer 1982: 336–368; Sommerstein 2010: 32–44.
75 See Moreau 1992/1993; Sommerstein 2010: 62–65; Stewart 2017: 113–114.
that these affinities are at best superficial. An important question is whether

the production of 472 was exceptional76 and whether the Lycurgeia was not
like it.
There are two important clues, which, although not decisive, point towards
the unity of the Lycurgeia. Aristophanes in the Thesmophoriazousae (134–135),
while quoting from the Edonoi (κατ᾽ Αἰσχύλον/ ἐκ τῆς Λυκουργείας), uses the
name of the whole tetralogy, instead of a single play. Unless he did it metri causa
(which always is a possibility), it suggests that in his imagination Aeschylus’
production was a single entity. Even more straightforward is the evidence of
the scholiast (ad loc.), who explains that Aristophanes refers here to a tetralogy
(τὴν τετραλογίαν λέγει Λυκούργειαν· Ἠδωνούς, Βασσαρίδας, Νεανίσκους, Λυκοῦρ-
γον τὸν σατυρικόν) rather than to a didascalia. As Gantz has argued (1979: 291–
293, 96–97), there is a marked difference between these two terms. The more
widely used διδασκαλία refers to any group of plays produced in a single day
(like Aeschylus’ production from 472), whereas τετραλογία covers a narrower
semantic field of a cycle of four plays that were bound by a common narrative
link. Admittedly, however, none of the seven occurrences of the word presents
an undisputable case. For instance, one of the τετραλογίαι known as such from
the ancient sources is Aeschylus’ Lycurgeia, whose nature is under discussion
here, whereas another is the Lycurgeia of Polyphrasmon, of which nothing cer-
tain is known.77
This means that there are no external proofs of the narrative unity of the
Lycurgeia that could convince a sworn sceptic. However, such a unity seems
much more likely than not. In what follows, I offer a tentative reconstruction
of the tragic trilogy, hoping to show that it makes more sense to think of Lycur-
gus and Orpheus as two heroes of the same myth rather than as two monads,
whose stories were juxtaposed by Aeschylus but not combined. First, let us turn
to the only extant text in which such a connection is made explicit.
76 As Gantz put it (1980: 134), there are almost certainly four productions (we know of ) in which
Aischylos linked the plots of the separate plays to form an overall story. Against this figure we
have on the other side evidence for one production in which the plots were surely not linked
(that of 472 b.c.). Obviously, these figures do not provide firm statistics that could allow
for establishing a ratio between connected and disconnected productions by Aeschylus.
77 It can be argued, however, that the Didascalia C4 juxtaposes the list of Aeschylus’ dramas
and the list of Aristas’ dramas (alternatively referred to collectively as τοῦ πατρὸς Πρατί-
νου τραγωιδίαι) with Polyphrasmon’s Λυκουργεία τετραλογία. This may presuppose that the
author of the entry interpreted the Lycurgeia as a unified cycle in marked opposition to
the other two assemblages of disconnected plays.
64 chapter 2
2.4.1 Diodorus of Sicily and the Chronology of the Thracian Kings

Diodorus of Sicily (3.65.4–6) offers a Euhemeristic version of the Lycurgus
story.78 In his view, Dionysus was a general who travelled from Asia to Europe
followed by an army composed of men and women. Owing to the artifice of
Lycurgus, who deceitfully assumed a friendly disposition towards the stranger,
Dionysus left the majority of his troops on the other side of Hellespont when
entering Thrace. Subsequently:
τὸν δὲ Διόνυσον παρά τινος τῶν ἐγχωρίων, ὃς ἐκαλεῖτο Χάροψ, μαθόντα τὴν
ἐπιβουλὴν καταπλαγῆναι διὰ τὸ τὴν δύναμιν ἐν τῶι πέραν εἶναι, παντελῶς δ᾽
ὀλίγους αὐτῶι τῶν φίλων συνδιαβεβηκέναι. 5 Διόπερ λάθραι τούτου διαπλεύ-
σαντος πρὸς τὸ σφέτερον στρατόπεδον, τὸν μὲν Λυκοῦργόν φασιν ἐπιθέμενον
ταῖς Μαινάσιν ἐν τῶι καλουμένωι Νυσίωι πάσας ἀποκτεῖναι, τὸν δὲ Διόνυσον
περαιώσαντα τὰς δυνάμεις μάχηι κρατῆσαι τῶν Θραικῶν, καὶ τὸν Λυκοῦργον
ζωγρήσαντα τυφλῶσαί τε καὶ πᾶσαν αἰκίαν εἰσενεγκάμενον ἀνασταυρῶσαι. 6
Μετὰ δὲ ταῦτα τῶι μὲν Χάροπι χάριν ἀποδιδόντα τῆς εὐεργεσίας παραδοῦναι
τὴν τῶν Θραικῶν βασιλείαν καὶ διδάξαι τὰ κατὰ τὰς τελετὰς ὄργια· Χάροπος δ᾽
υἱὸν γενόμενον Οἴαγρον παραλαβεῖν τήν τε βασιλείαν καὶ τὰς ἐν τοῖς μυστηρί-
οις παραδεδομένας τελετάς, ἃς ὕστερον Ὀρφέα τὸν Οἰάγρου μαθόντα παρὰ τοῦ
πατρός, καὶ φύσει καὶ παιδείαι τῶν ἁπάντων διενεγκάντα, πολλὰ μεταθεῖναι
τῶν ἐν τοῖς ὀργίοις· διὸ καὶ τὰς ὑπὸ τοῦ Διονύσου γενομένας τελετὰς Ὀρφικὰς
προσαγορευθῆναι.
Having learnt about this treachery from a native, whose name was
Charops, Dionysus was struck with terror, as his forces were still on the
other side of the strait, for very few of his friends had crossed it with
him. 5 For this reason, he secretly sailed back to his encampment, while
Lycurgus, as they say, attacked the Maenads in what is called Nysion and
killed them all. Then, Dionysus, having crossed the strait with his forces,
defeated the Thracians in a battle, took Lycurgus prisoner, blinded him,
and having inflicted all kinds of tortures onto him, crucified him. 6 After
that, he returned Charops’ favour by placing the dominion of Thrace in
his hands and teaching him the mystic rites connected with the initia-
tions. Charops then had a son, Oiagrus, and passed the kingdom to him,
as well as the initiatory rites transmitted to him in the mysteries, which
were later learnt by Orpheus, Oigarus’ son, from his father. Orpheus sur-
78 On the methods and purposes of Diodorus’ use of myth, see recently Sulimani 2011; Muntz
2017; 2018; Durvye 2018; Ring 2018.
passed everyone in his talent and education, and he altered many things
in the mysteries. For this reason, the initiatory rites established by Diony-
sus are also called Orphic.
At first glance, this passage seems to have little to do with the mythical tradi-
tion. Yet, on closer inspection, it turns out that Diodorus, while making sub-
stantial changes to the meaning of the whole story, accumulates a plethora of
motifs known from the poetic versions in order to anchor it in what a reader
would recognise as a tradition. Dionysus is thus struck by terror, just as he is
in Homer (Il. 6.130–140).79 Here he takes refuge on the other side of the strait,
whereas in Homer, he plunged into the sea. The Maenads are massacred in a
place called Nysion, which corresponds to the Homeric assault of Dionysian
women in Nyseion. Lycurgus is blinded here by his enemies—in Homer he
is blinded by Zeus. Interestingly, even the motif of crucifixion corresponds to
an element known from the poetic tradition (this time, later than Homer), in
which Lycurgus died bound by plants.80
What seems to find no parallels is the figure of Charops, a person not men-
tioned in any passage related to Lycurgus or Orpheus. Otherwise, Orpheus was
said to be a son of one of the Muses, either by Apollo (Kern test. 22 = Bern-
abé 894–898) or by Oiagrus (Kern test. 23 = Bernabé 890–894). Apart from
Diodorus, only three authors mention Oiagrus’ father. The Certamen Homeri et
Hesiodi (4 (36,8 Wil.)) and Charax (Jacoby 103 F 62) call him Pieros, while Non-
nus (D. 13.428–431; 22.168–190) speaks of Ares. Even if there existed any kind of
mainstream tradition regarding the identity of Oiagrus’ father (if so, the Certa-
men and Charax are probably its more reliable exponents), Diodorus does not
follow it. Why does he introduce the character of Charops? In the first place he
did so for a narrative purpose, as his intervention is a simple way of explaining
why Dionysus did not fall into Lycurgus’ trap.
The other reason may be encoded in Charops’ name. Although Diodorus is
not explicit about it, I would venture a guess that this betrays a trace of ratio-
nalisation, which seems to have originated from wordplay. The word χάροψ is a
poetic form of the common adjective χαροπός, which denotes a colour that is
79 In Homer, Dionysus is said to be scarred (φοβηθείς), alarmed (δεδιώς) and to shake terribly
(κρατερὸς ἔχε τρόμος).
80 Thus the Tbilisi Hymn 49–50 (cf. 19–20) and Nonn. D. 21.26–89 (where Lycurgus does not
die but suffers bound and whipped by plants). See also Naev. fr. 27–29; Stat. Th. 4.386,
7.180; S. Ant. 957–958 with scholia and discussion in section 3.1.2. For the iconography of
Lycurgus overpowered by vines, see representations among LIMC: Lykourgos i 32–81, with
an exception for 36, 47,48,49. Particularly relevant are 51 and 70–81.
66 chapter 2
difficult to define or means gleaming (close to γλαυκός). As such, it was often

used to describe the sea, among others, by Nonnus in the context of Dionysus
taking refuge from Lycurgus (D. 20.370): χαροποῖς ῥοθίοισι καλυπτομένου Διονύ-
σου (when Dionysus disappeared under gleaming waves). Behind his naming of
Dionysus’ saviour as Charops may thus lie a re-interpretation of an episode
known from the poetic tradition as an alleged result of the misunderstanding of
some facts: Diodorus seems to claim that Dionysus was saved by a man whose
name meant gleaming, and that this is why poets say that he ran for safety into
the gleaming sea.
Regardless whether Charops was first introduced by Diodorus, according to
his version Orpheus was a younger contemporary of Lycurgus. Even though
such a temporal configuration of the two characters seems to make perfect
sense, it has not previously been considered as a possible principle organis-
ing the events of the Lycurgeia. As I said above, according to the fuller version
of Eratosthenes’ Catasterism 24 Orpheus owed his fame to Dionysus, but he
neglected his cult and worshipped the sun as the supreme god, which pro-
voked Dionysus’ anger and cost the singer his life (τὸν μὲν Διόνυσον οὐκ ⟨ἔτι⟩
ἐτίμα, ⟨ὑφ᾽ οὗ ἦν δεδοξασμένος,⟩ τὸν δὲ Ἥλιον μέγιστον τῶν θεῶν ἐνόμισεν εἶναι,
ὅν καὶ Ἀπόλλωνα προσηγόρευσεν). What has attracted scholarly attention and
made Di Marco (1993: 122–123) and subsequently Burges Watson (2015: 460)
reject the supplementations of the text offered by West (in angled brackets) is
the apparent contradiction between the statement that Orpheus received his
lyre and learnt his art from Apollo but was famous thanks to Dionysus. How-
ever, this may be contradictory only under the assumption that all these events
took place at a short interval from one another. As Di Marco (1993: 122) puts it,
Orfeo ci è costantemente presentato come nativo della Tracia, quella Tracia in cui
Dioniso proprio ora sembra fare il suo ingresso; dalla narrazione dei Catasterismi
sembrerebbe invece di capire che Orfeo derivi la sua fama da una lunga consuetu-
dine con il dio. Ma una consuetudine maturata quando? In light of the passage
in Diodorus, this does not seem to be a problem. Upon one of the possible read-
ings, Orpheus owed his fame or position to Dionysus (ἦν δεδοξασμένος) not as a
Dionysian musician or seer, but as an heir of the throne bestowed to his ances-
tors by the god. There would be thus no contradiction between this statement
and anything that is said about his religious and artistic connections with other
deities. We may thus imagine that the Edonoi told the story of Dionysus’ first
arrival in Thrace, Lycurgus’ resistance to him, and his subsequent punishment.
The Bassarai would then tell a story that took place one or two generations later
(a similar temporal gap occurs, e.g., between the Agamemnon and the Libation
Bearers), in which Orpheus offended Dionysus and paid the price for it too.
Whether this attribution of the material to two tragedies is the best solution
will be discussed in the section that follows (5). In the present section, how-
ever, I turn to the issue of what offence Orpheus committed against Dionysus
that caused divine anger.
2.4.2 The Conflict

What transpires from the iconography is the gender differentiation between
those who followed Orpheus and those who did the contrary.81 Thus, with only
an exception for divinities (such as Persephone), women are immune to the
charm of his music and when they are shown in art, they are killing or about to
kill Orpheus.82 Men, on the other hand, always listen and sometimes are clearly
enchanted (e.g., LIMC Orpheus 9).
This pattern is reflected in some of the literary sources. Most notably, Phan-
ocles (fr. 1 Powell) made Thracian women wreak vengeance on Orpheus for no
other reason than that he rejected them in favour of homosexuality, which he
introduced to Thrace.83 Thus, it would be tempting to think of the Lycurgeia
as the first gay tetralogy whose action revolved around the aetiology of homo-
sexuality. Perhaps a trace of such a tradition can be found in Catasterism 24
in which Eratosthenes says that Apollo bestowed his lyre along with a song on
Orpheus. We are not told why Apollo was so generous, but unless Orpheus was
his son (as in one of the versions),84 the only reason why the god would lavish
his gifts on the young mortal was that he was in love with him.85 If this were so,
Orpheus as a former eromenos of Apollo could introduce the habit of pederasty
to Thrace by using the godly instrument and song for this purpose.86
Unfortunately, however glamorous it may seem, this interpretation finds no
support in the data directly related to the Lycurgeia. We cannot even state
whether any connexion between Orpheus and homosexuality predates Phan-
ocles. Yet, what seems likely is that the third component of Aeschylus’ tetralogy,
81 Note the contrast between LIMC Orpheus 7–15 and 28–63.

82 What may seem to be an exception is a red-figure bell-krater from 440–430, depicted
on which, according to the description in LIMC (Orpheus 26), is a woman approach-
ing Orpheus with a harp. More likely, however, the object she holds is a curve knife (thus
Richter 1946: 125–126), which indicates that her intentions are hostile.
83 See also Ov. Met. 10.83–85. Connon (FHG 26 F1.45.4) and Pausanias (9.30.5) speak of the
exclusion of women from the Orphic thiasoi. This does not exclude that the vengeance
they took resulted from their sexual frustration rather than from religious considerations,
but there is nothing in these texts that points in such a direction.
84 Kern test. 22; Bernabé 894–898.
85 On gifts bestowed by gods on their eromenoi, see Gärtner 2008: 21–22. On Orpheus as
Apollo’s lover, cf. ps-Clem. Rom. Hom. 5.15.2.
86 It should be stressed that both Phanocles (fr. 1.9–10) and Ovid (Met. 10.83–85) make
Orpheus “import” homosexuality to Thrace rather than invent it.
68 chapter 2
the Neaniskoi, featured a group of men enchanted by Orpheus in a way that

was reflected in contemporary vase paintings (see below).87 Whether or not
there was anything outwardly erotic in the relationship between the singer, his
audience, and the source of his inspiration, it could nonetheless have been just
enough to suggest to some later poets that it was not all about music or religion.
On the other hand, although Phanocles says that the envy for their husbands
made Thracian women kill Orpheus, West (1990: 38) is certainly right to discern
the reason why Aeschylus makes specifically Bassarids and not just ordinary
women tear the singer asunder. As he observes, Aeschylus is the first author
known to us who makes maenads attack Orpheus; this becomes meaningful
when seen against the background of—most likely—slightly earlier vase paint-
ings, in which the singer is killed by women, usually Thracian women, but never
maenads. As West rightly observed (1990: 38): Bacchants only attack those with
whom Dionysus is angry; and Dionysus opposes only those who oppose him. This
means that even if Aeschylus need not necessarily be credited with the inven-
tion of the conflict between Dionysus and Orpheus, he clearly favoured this
version over what seems to have been the mainstream variant. Thus, the reli-
gious conflict must have been of particular importance for the Lycurgeia, but
its nature could have been quite banal.
As Hyginus (Astr. 2.7) has it, Orpheus, while searching for his wife in the
netherworld, deorum progeniem suo carmine laudasse praeter Liberum patrem;
hunc enim obliuione ductus praetermisit, ut Oeneus in sacrificio Dianam (he
praised the gods’ lineage with the exception of Liber pater, for he failed to mention
him out of forgetfulness, like Oeneus who omitted Diana when sacrificing). West
(1990: 39) states that this version cannot be Aeschylean, because in Aeschylus’
play Orpheus could recall the descent only in retrospect (most likely in a prologue),
and we cannot imagine him relating that he sang a theogony but forgot Dionysus.
This is hardly compelling, given that some other character, including Dionysus
himself, could have reported Orpheus’ omission.
Other sources contain a slightly different variant, which, nota bene, does
not exclude Hyginus’ version. Thus, according to the scholia to Germanicus
(p. 84.6): negligentius Liberum colere coepit, solemque Apollinem dixit esse (he
started worshiping Liber in a more negligent way, saying that Apollo is the sun).
Aratus Latinus p. 231.14 (Liberum patrem iam non honorauit, a quo fuerat glori-
ficatus, Solem autem maximum deorum nominauit) contains a verbatim trans-
lation of Eratosthenes’ Catasterism 24: τὸν μὲν Διόνυσον οὐκ ⟨ἔτι⟩ ἐτίμα, ⟨ὑφ᾽ οὗ
87 On the homoerotic overtones of this early iconography of Orpheus, see Burges Watson
2015: 461 (with further references).
ἦν δεδοξασμένος,⟩ τὸν δὲ Ἥλιον μέγιστον τῶν θεῶν ἐνόμισεν εἶναι, ὅν καὶ Ἀπόλλωνα
προσηγόρευσεν (he did not honour Dionysus ⟨any longer⟩⟨even though he owed his
fame to him⟩, but he thought the Sun, whom he also called Apollo, to be the greatest
of the gods.). All these passages agree on two important points. First, Orpheus’
fault resulted from his particularly fervent worship of Sun-Apollo but only as
its corollary, because the fault itself was related to the cult sphere rather than
to the doctrine as such (hunc enim obliuione ductus praetermisit/ negligentius
Liberum colere coepit/ iam non honorauit/ οὐκ ⟨ἔτι⟩ ἐτίμα). Moreover, Hyginus
and the scholia to Germanicus explicitly state (whereas Eratosthenes and Ara-
tus Latinus do not deny) that it was a matter of non-voluntary negligence rather
than an intentional exclusion of Dionysus.
These are hardly reliable sources, but at the same time they are the only
sources we have that in an approximate way set the parameters for the recon-
struction of Orpheus’ religion as depicted in the Lycurgeia. What is clear is that
Orpheus extolled Apollo. He probably did it in a way that might have seemed
uncanny but not unacceptable to the Athenian audience. While doing this, he
failed to worship Dionysus. At some point, the problem of this negligence must
have been explicitly brought up by someone in such a way as to make sure
that the audience understood what Orpheus was punished for. Yet it seems
unlikely that Orpheus himself uttered outward heresies that offended Diony-
sus, for example, by questioning his divine status. He was not a Lycurgus or
Pentheus.
2.4.3 Towards a Resolution of the Conflict

Even though it seems that Aeschylus was profoundly concerned with religion,
it is not theology that made him famous. He was first and foremost a tragic
poet. This must be kept in mind when reconstructing his plays, which might
have dealt with religious thought but cannot be taken as an expression of their
author’s radical rejection of the mainstream beliefs in favour of some new or
exotic ideas. His tragedies cannot be thought of as thorough polemics against
such views either. Instead, what Aeschylus did as a tragic poet was to tell stories
about mythical conflicts and their unexpected resolutions. Given the festival
context of the plays’ production, this must have been a way of worshiping
Dionysus in a fashion that was acceptable and, at least to a certain degree,
understandable for a common citizen of Athens. This means that the story in
the Lycurgeia must have ended in a way unambiguously positive for Diony-
sus.88
88 The 1980s and 1990s were marked by fervent research on the political dimension of Athe-
70 chapter 2
At the same time, what we learn from the external data is that, despite
Orpheus’ misconduct and punishment, the Lycurgeia must have ended with
a post-mortem reconciliation between the poet and Dionysus. To a certain
degree this can be deduced from the passage in the Agamemnon (1629–1632),
in which Orpheus is clearly described in a positive light. We see it more clearly,
however, in Euripides’ Bacchae 560–566, which contain praise of Pieria as a
place connected to Orpheus and as such blessed and revered by Dionysus. The
pro-Macedonian inclinations of Euripides may be to a certain extent responsi-
ble for this reference,89 but that is not enough to explain why the poet thought
that such a statement would fit a play about Dionysus, unless the conflict
between this divinity and Orpheus was thought of as definitely resolved in a
way that made the singer dear to Dionysus.90 These observations have a strong
impact on our understanding of the tetralogy in the context of what is known
about the popular perception of “Orphism” in classical Athens.91
In the famous passage from Euripides’ Hippolytus (952–955: ἤδη νυν αὔχει
καὶ δι᾽ ἀψύχου βορᾶς/ σίτοις καπήλευ᾽ Ὀρφέα τ᾽ ἄνακτ᾽ ἔχων/ βάκχευε πολλῶν
γραμμάτων τιμῶν καπνούς; keep boasting now and peddle with your lifeless food,
having Orpheus as your leader, revel whilst worshipping the smoke of manifold
writings!), in an outburst of anger, Theseus accuses his son of all kinds of impi-
ety, which, allegedly, transpired in spite of his mask of “Orphic” asceticism. As
Barrett (1964: ad loc.) observed, Hipp[olytus] is of course no Orphic at all, nor
nian theatre and of the civic cult of Dionysus. Perhaps the most iconic book on such
topics was the volume Nothing to do with Dionysus? edited by Winkler and Zeitlin (1990).
Although today a large part of the works from that period seem exaggerated (for a reap-
praisal see especially Carter 2011), it remains obvious that in the time of Aeschylus Diony-
sus occupied a prominent and unquestionable place within the civic pantheon. His sacred
area (if we include the theatre) was by far the largest sanctuary of Athens. Similarly, if we
count the number of days in which his annual festivals were celebrated, Dionysus turns
out to be even more important than Athena herself! For these reasons, despite the ear-
lier scholarly tradition, it is clear (pace di Benedetto 2004: 12–15) that there was nothing
subversive in praising such a seemingly subversive divinity.
89 On Euripides in Macedon, see recently Moloney 2014: 234–240; Lamari 2017: 45–53; Stew-
art 2017: 118–138 with further references.
90 It also seems that no later than the end of the fifth century bce Orpheus came to be
associated with the development of the Eleusinian Mysteries (Kern test. 102–104; cf. Graf
1974: 22–39; Sommerstein 1996: ad 1032). He could not have been thus represented in
the tragedy as an outright theomachos and his theology could not have been shown as
impious, as this would have undermined the prestige of one of most important Greek
sanctuaries, which played a particularly important role in the Attic religious ideology.
91 Note that by using the term “Orphism” in inverted comas, I refrain from making statements
about the historicity of Orpheus, his ideas and poetry. By “Orphic” I mean those things that
for some reasons were thought of (among some people) as originating from Orpheus.
does Th[eseus] imagine that he is. The lines are a mere gibe. As such, however,
they presuppose that in 428bce, when the Hippolytus was produced, the audi-
ence in the theatre of Dionysus were familiar with the category of “Orphics” and
associated them with a particular mode of life as well as with some writings.
Slightly later (414 bce) Aristophanes in his Birds (693–702) included a par-
ody of an “Orphic” theogony, which featured a primordial egg. Such an intertex-
tual game does not necessarily presuppose that each member of the audience
was closely familiar with a particular poem that was parodied. Nevertheless, the
parody would be senseless unless most of the spectators were able to recognise
the allusion to something they at least vaguely knew.
Thus, it may be concluded that the two passages from the Hippolytus and the
Birds indicate that the audience in the theatre of Dionysus in the second half
of the fifth century bce had some stereotypical idea of “Orphism” as a system
of beliefs and behavioural norms. Some of the audience were probably quite
familiar with some kind of “Orphism”. Some of them might have also identi-
fied themselves as “Orphics”, yet it is safe to assume that this was a minority.92
Given that the Lycurgeia was one of the few productions that featured Orpheus
(if it was not indeed the only one),93 it is tempting to think that this tetralogy
contributed to shaping the stereotypical image of the singer, his music, and his
religious ideas. A fortiori, it seems safe to assume that the tetralogy did not con-
tradict these stereotypes in a radical way.
2.4.4 Orpheus’ Oracular Head

At first glance, the two following statements that seem to hold true for the
Lycurgeia are contradictory: Dionysus, an unequivocally positive character of
the tetralogy, punished Orpheus with death for a religious offence against him.
Nevertheless, Orpheus was dear to Dionysus and was no less a positive char-
acter. Already West (1990: 45) suggested something that Burges Watson (2013;
2015) turned into a solution of this apparent paradox.
Given that, according to Eratosthenes’ Catasterism 24, the Muses collected
the parts of Orpheus’ body and carried them for burial at Lebethrai, it is likely
that one of them, most likely Calliope, appeared on stage with her son’s head,
like Agaue did in Euripides. Orpheus’ head in the poetic and artistic tradi-
tion has its autonomous life, most famously addressed by Virgil (G. 4.520–
92 This can be deduced, among others, from the famous passage in Herodotus (2.81), which
refers to “Orphics” as a group recognisable to his readers, but clearly not representing the
mainstream culture.
93 It is not impossible that also Aristias’ Orpheus had a chorus of “Orphics”, but nothing cer-
tain is known about it. See note 1.
72 chapter 2
527) and Ovid (Met. 11.50–60). Even before this, it is mentioned by Phanocles
(fr. 1) and attested as early as around 440bce on an Attic red-figure kalpis by
a painter from the Polygnotus circle. According to Philostratus (Her. 28.8–14),
the head was brought by sea to Lesbos where it became an oracle consulted
by, among others, Odysseus and Cyrus the Great. According to the same author
(VA 4.14), its prestige became so overwhelming that Apollo made it stop oper-
ating because people had ceased to consult his oracles. Given that Philostratus
is the only author who mentions Orpheus’ oracle on Lesbos and that the anec-
dotes he tells about it seem very much like his other confabulations, Linforth
(1941: 129–134) rejected the whole testimony.94 It has been, however, partially
revived by Burges Watson (2013), who, while being suspicious about the anec-
dotes recounted by Philostratus, did not reject the notion of the very existence
of the oracle.
This is certainly a methodologically sound approach. However, the con-
nections between this and other oracles mentioned in ancient literature that
Burges Watson postulates seem problematic. First, she suggests that Orpheus’
head could have been referred to by Apollodorus (3.5), when he states that
the god proclaimed (ἔχρησεν ὁ θεὸς) that Lycurgus should be put to death. This
is the way in which Apollodorus usually speaks of the oracle at Delphi. As
far as the available material is concerned, when he has some other oracle in
mind, he does not fail to refer to it explicitly.95 Thus, it does not seem to be
a reference to the Lesbian oracle. Another passage in which Orpheus’ oracle
is mentioned according to Burges Watson is the already discussed passage in
the Rhesus (970–973 in the version which excludes Lycurgus as the Bacchic
prophet). She writes (2013: 454): Orpheus (or his head) is an obvious candidate
for the first priesthood of this oracle. This is possible, but it does not seem nec-
essary, given that the text does not hint at any change of the priest or prophet
in charge of the oracle, unless we accept its version that presupposes a refer-
ence to more than one prophet (which is not acceptable, as discussed in section
2.3.1.4). There is thus no place to fit in Orpheus.96 A further problem that this
94 By doing this Linforth runs against a long tradition, whose first exponent seems to have
been Minervini (1857).
95 See note 17.
96 Another question concerns the number and exact location of Thracian oracles referred
to by Herodotus (7.111), Euripides (Hec. 1267 with scholia), Suetonius (Aug. 94.5), and Cas-
sius Dio (51.25.4–5). This list might possibly include, as Liapis (2003) argues, Epicharmus
(fr. 206 K.-A.) and Asclepiades (FGH 12 F 5). According to Perdrizet (1910: 41–43), there
were no fewer than two oracles of Dionysus in Thrace. One of them, alluded to in Rhe-
sus (970–973), would have been situated in the Pangaion. The other, of which Suetonius
writes, was in Haemus. Some other scholars (e.g., Müller 1987: 49; Curnow 2004: 84; Liapis
interpretation raises is that Philostratus explicitly speaks of the oracle on Les-

bos rather than in Pangaion. All this calls for a rather sceptical approach to the
notion of Orpheus’ oracle, at least conceived of in the terms in which Philostra-
tus speaks of it, as a place where individuals could find answers to questions
regarding their affairs.
This does not mean, however, that Orpheus’ severed head did not possess
an oracular capacity in a wider sense of the word. Thus, I think that Burges
Watson (2013, following Schmidt 1972) rightly identified the representation on
the already mentioned red-figure kalpis (Fig. 2) as that of a consultation of
Orpheus’ head. The consultor, however, is not just an ordinary man but one of
the poets credited with the transmission of Orpheus’ wisdom in a poetic form,
perhaps Terpander (Schmidt), Musaeus, or Linus (both suggested by Burges
Watson, who prefers the latter one).97 As further examples of vase paintings
and mirror engravings depicting a young man writing on tablets the words
dictated by Orpheus’ head suggest, this seems to be the moment of the trans-
mission of the dead seer’s religious knowledge and the very foundation of a
Mystery cult.98
If this reconstruction is correct, the most valuable lesson that Orpheus
taught posterity was what he communicated when he was already dead. Given
that he was decapitated by Bassarids for some offence against Dionysus, it is
clear that beforehand he must have committed an error, which he realised
thanks to the punishment. This helps to solve some of the apparent logical
problems involved in the reconstruction of the Lycurgeia. Some of the state-
ments about the Aeschylean Orpheus’ ideas can also contradict what may be
construed as the “Orphic” doctrine,99 given that this doctrine was shown as
something that would only eventually come into being in its definite form.100 If
2007: 397; Ustinova 2009: 104–105) assume that there was only one Thracian oracle of
Sabazius-Dionysus, regarding whose location the ancient authorities made contradictory
statements.
97 To these possible candidates I would also add Eumolpus. Linforth (1941: 123–138) argues
for Musaeus, which he interprets not as a proper name but as a title (the servant of the
Muses) assumed by a poet who was believed to write under the direction of Orpheus.
98 LIMC Orpheus 68. See also LIMC Orpheus 69–70 and Aliunea 1–4. These images link the
oracle with the Muses and Apollo.
99 By making a reference to what may be construed as belonging to the “Orphic” doctrine, I
tend to avoid taking a stance in the discussion of whether an “Orphic” doctrine has ever
existed as a relatively stable and coherent system of beliefs. The discussion with further
bibliography is presented by Edmonds in several publications (cf. esp. 2013: 11–92).
100 For example, Tortorelli Ghidini (2013) underlines the seeming paradox resulting from, on
the one hand, the presence of “Bacchic” elements in the “Orphic” doctrine (or the oppo-
site way around), as deduced from the “Orphic” tablets (Bernabé, Jiménez San Cristóbal
74 chapter 2
figure 2 Attic red-figure kalpis, Basel, Antikenmuseum BS 481
the aetiology of the Mysteries (perhaps the Eleusinian Mysteries) was included
in the tetralogy, as Burges Watson suggested (2015: 471),101 it is clear that there
was no place for an exposition of their theology and rituals in detail. This
was not only because this would not fit the tragedy, but also and especially
because they were supposed to be kept secret. It would not be surprising, how-
ever, if someone—for example the Muse, or Orpheus’ head—foretold that the
new doctrine would be shared in secrecy with the appropriate person, such as
Musaeus (particularly suitable due to his Attic connections).
2.4.5 Back to Eratosthenes

As noted above, the sentence in Catasterism 24 that comes immediately after
the statement that Orpheus was killed by the Bassarids, in which we are told
that Muses gathered his severed limbs and buried them (αἱ δὲ Μοῦσαι συν-
αγαγοῦσαι ἔθαψαν ἐπὶ τοῖς καλοῦμένοις Λειβήθροις), is likely to summarise the
aftermath of his death in the Lycurgeia. What are the other parts of the Catas-
terism that correspond to the events of this tetralogy? Not much can be proved,
but some hypothetical statements can be made.
We are told that Bassarids were sent to kill Orpheus at sunrise on top of Pan-
gaion, where he would go every morning to greet the Sun. Given that maenads
2008: 194–195); and, on the other hand, the fact that Orpheus was supposed to suffer a
cruel death inflicted by Dionysus in the Lycurgeia.
101 See also Graf 1974: 22–39.
are usually nocturnal and tend to gather in mountainous locales, it seems nat-
ural that the killing should take place there. Making Orpheus greet the Sun was
a very convenient way of explaining why he wandered alone in mountains at
night.102 This is all logical and fits a tragedy. It is not proof that this material was
not later than Aeschylus, but there is no argument to the contrary.
What should not also raise a serious a priori objection is the part of the nar-
ration in which Orpheus is said to have descended to the netherworld in search
of his wife. In spite of Heurgon’s (1932) convincing argument that the motif of
Orpheus’ love for Euridice played a much less conspicuous role in earlier ver-
sions of the story than from Virgil onwards, his katabasis is attested as a part
of his already established imagery no later than in 438 bce, when Euripides
referred to it in his Alcestis (357–362):
εἰ δ᾽ Ὀρφέως μοι γλῶσσα καὶ μέλος παρῆν,

ὥστ᾽ ἢ κόρην Δήμητρος ἢ κείνης πόσιν
ὕμνοισι κηλήσαντά σ᾽ ἐξ Ἄιδου λαβεῖν,
κατῆλθον ἄν, καί μ᾽ οὔθ᾽ ὁ Πλούτωνος κύων
οὔθ᾽ οὑπὶ κώπηι ψυχοπομπὸς ἂν Χάρων
ἔσχ᾽ ἄν, πρὶν ἐς φῶς σὸν καταστῆσαι βίον.
If I had the tongue and the music of Orpheus, with which to bewitch
Demeter’s daughter or her lord with hymns to fetch you from Hades, I
would descend and neither Pluto’s dog nor the conductor of souls, Charon
with his oar, would stop me before I brought your life to the light.
This passage is precious, as its last line seems to contain an allusion to the
cosmology and theology of Orpheus described in Catasterism 24 in a form of
the reference to the light (ἐς φῶς) as a metonym for the world of the living. It
is true that darkness and, more specifically, the lack of the sunlight is a tradi-
tional feature of Greek imagery of the netherworld.103 Therefore, the figure of
speech used by Euripides does not prove that he must have alluded to any spe-
cific intertext. Yet this poetic choice becomes meaningful when read against the
background of the religious conflict described in the Catasterism. Accordingly,
as a result of his katabasis, Orpheus came to worship as the central divinity the
Sun, the god absent from Hades. Obviously, this does not mean that Aeschy-
102 On the role of the sun in the Aeschylean Orpheus’ theology, see note 28 and section 2.4.10.
103 See especially Od. 12.377–388, where Helios threatens Zeus that he will go shining in the
Hades unless his demand is fulfilled. This suggests that the presence of the sun in Hades
would subvert the cosmic order. See Marinatos 2010: 195–197; Létoublon 2010: 167–168.
76 chapter 2
lus must have mentioned the katabasis, but this seems very likely, given that
the Lycurgeia was probably the most important text that shaped the collective
imagery of “Orphism” and the myth of Orpheus in the fifth century Athens.
As for other motifs,
1) The history of the lyre could have been recounted or alluded to in the
tetralogy. It could even begin ab ovo, that is, from the moment in which
Hermes devised this instrument. Even more likely is that it was referred
to as Apollo’s gift to Orpheus. An erotic relationship between the god and
the singer may have been mentioned as well; however, this is far from cer-
tain.
2) West (1990: 35–36), while accepting most of the content of the Cataster-
ism as a summary of Orpheus’ story in the Lycurgeia, categorically rejected
the possibility that Aeschylus spoke of the addition of two strings to the
lyre, as this would turn it into a very unusual instrument. This, however,
does not seem to be a problem, given that Orpheus’ lyre actually was
unusual. Its particular power could be (but did not have to be) partially
explained as a result of its special construction.
3) The power of Orpheus’ song, which enchanted trees, rocks, and animals,
might have been reflected in fragment 146 (in Ath. 503c):
Νίκανδρος δ᾽ ὁ Θυατειρηνὸς καλεῖσθαί φησι ψυκτήρια καὶ τοὺς ἀλσώδεις καὶ

συσκίους τόπους τοὺς τοῖς θεοῖς ἀνειμένους, ἐν οἷς ἔστιν ἀναψῦξαι. Αἰσχύλος
Νεανίσκοις·
αὔρας ὑπηκόοισιν ἐν ψυκτηρίοις.
αὔρας Velcknaer (1786: ad 199) : σαὔρας codd. ὑπηκόοισιν A : ὑποσκιοίσιν CE
Nicander of Thyateira says that wooded and shady places dedicated to

the gods are called psykteria, in which one can take relaxation. Aeschy-
lus in Neaniskoi:
breezes in hearkening groves.
The context of the quotation leaves no doubt as to the meaning of the word
ψυκτήρια. The other two words made scholars suspicious. Although it cannot
be excluded that the passage mentioned lizards (Hermann (1834: 26) offers
two possible if not necessarily very plausible reconstructions of the sentence
with σαύρας), almost all scholars prefer the αὔρας. Ὑπηκόοισιν at first glance is
strange, but Maas (1973: 510) defended it on the basis of a Pindaric (Ol. 3.24)
usage of the verb ὑπακούω with the meaning to be subject to (LSJ ii.5). How-
ever, the more obvious, literary meaning of the verb can be defended on the
assumption that the play was about or at least mentioned Orpheus. In such a
case, places covered with trees could be said to have listened to the singer quite
literally. It would be thus a reference to the miraculous power of his music.
At any rate, it seems that the story of Orpheus’ heresy and conversion at the
moment of his death could be enough to fill one tragedy. There would be some
parallels between this tale and that about Lycurgus, but there would be also
some crucial differences. There can be little doubt that Lycurgus was impious
and obdurate in his resistance against Dionysus. He was taught a lesson through
the suffering inflicted on him, which probably led to his death. Unlike him, the
figure of Orpheus was probably depicted with much sympathy, as a noble and
pious but at the same time slightly confused individual (Euripides’ Hippoly-
tus comes immediately to mind as a parallel), who pays for his trespass against
Dionysus.
These similarities and differences between the two stories could have been
enough for Aeschylus to include them in one tetralogy, whose central theme
could be thus defined as the resistance of the Thracians against Dionysus. Nev-
ertheless, there are some other possible links between the stories. As I have
stated, from the passage in Diodorus of Sicily we can suppose that Orpheus
inherited Lycurgus’ throne from his ancestors. Yet, there is another, more intri-
cate way in which the story of Orpheus could have been related to that of
Lycurgus, which I discuss in the section that follows.
2.4.6 Dionysian Cannibalism104

A fine red-figure hydria, probably manufactured slightly before 450 bce in
Attica,105 features a particularly ugly and clumsily painted scene, which seems
to be unparalleled in the whole corpus of ancient vases. In the centre of the
image there is a frontal depiction of a bearded man in a Thracian outfit with
the body of a dead child on his left arm.106 With his other hand he lifts to his
104 This is a summary of my article Bednarek 2019. The section that follows presents some
additional evidence.
105 Fig. 3; British Museum E 246; BAD 9981; LIMC Dionysos 796 = Lykourgos i 15. The vase
was found in a tomb in Rhodes, but its Athenian provenance seems beyond doubt. It has
been dated in various ways; Smith 1890: 343 (followed by Jeanmaire (1951: 407)) thought it
was produced in the fourth century bce, but more recent scholars (Green 1982: 242; LIMC
Lykourgos i 15, Dionysus 796; Schefold 1981: 87; Tsiafakis 2000: 382; Topper 2015: 151) tend
to date it around 450 bce or slightly earlier.
106 Green (1982: 242) observes that the frontality of the central figure may be evocative of
a mask and, as such, of the theatrical origins of the scene. What seems even more rele-
vant are associations of the frontal representation with madness (see Korshak 1987: 23–25;
Frontisi-Ducroux 1995: 199).
78 chapter 2
figure 3 Attic red-figure hydria, British Museum E 246
mouth a severed limb of the child. To the viewer’s right another Thracian is
running away from the scene. To the viewer’s left Dionysus makes a gesture,
the meaning of which does not seem clear (is it a command or a protest?).107
At any rate—and in marked contrast to the Thracian to our right—the god is
not scared or revolted.
The scene has thus far been interpreted as a Titan devouring the child
Zagreus108 or as Lycurgus eating his son Dryas.109 Both interpretations, as I have
argued (Bednarek 2019), have serious flaws that make them untenable. This
leaves us with a depiction on a vase dated to the period close to the production
of the Lycurgeia of a story that involved Thracians, Dionysus and eating a child.
There is no such story attested in our sources, but there is a very similar one in
the Lycurgus episode in Nonnus’Dionysiaca, which transfers the whole story to
Syria. The relevant part of the narration (21.118–123) begins after a lacuna:
107 The gesture of Dionysus has been variously interpreted. Smith (1890: 344) describes it as
an expression of surprise; Guthrie (1935: 130) has: I cannot feel any doubt that Dionysos by
his look and gesture expresses dismay and protest; Jeanmaire (1951: 407): réprobation; Bloch
(1980: pl. xii): reprobation ou consentement?; Kefalidou (2009: 95): Dionysus is totally agree-
able to what is taking place.
108 Smith 1890; Guthrie 1935: 130–133; Jeanmaire 1951: 407–408; Schefold 1981: 87; BAP 9981.
109 Metzger 1951: 263, n. 3; Brommer 1973: 503; Raeck 1981: 88; Green 1982: 242; Tsiafakis 2000:
381–382; Kefalidou 2009: 95; Topper 2015: 152. In LIMC (Lykourgos i 15) the image figures
among dubious representations of Lycurgus.
ἄλλος ὑποπτήσσων μανιώδεα Πανὸς ἱμάσθλην

εἰς ἐνοπὴν ἄγραυλον Ἄραψ βακχεύετο ποιμήν.
τοῖα μὲν οἰστρήεντι χόλωι κυμαίνετο βούτης
δαιτρεύων ἑὰ τέκνα καὶ υἱέας εἰλαπινάζων
παιδοβόροις γενύεσσι· νοοσφαλέων δὲ βοτήρων
ἄτροφον ἀρσενόπαιδα τόκον τυμβεύσατο γαστήρ …
Another Arabian shepherd, crouching under Pan’s whip of frenzy, went

into maddened battle among the fields. Also, an oxherd, driven mad by
rage, seethed and cut up his own children, feasting on his sons with child-
devouring jaws. Stomachs of deranged herdsmen became the graves of
their ill-fed male offspring …
The passage breaks off with another lacuna. Thus, we never learn how the
frenzy of Arabian shepherds ended. However, there can be little doubt that the
lost part of the text described not only the crisis but also its solution.
The passage in Nonnus and the hydria from London at first glance seem quite
distant from one another. However, when combined they may suggest that in
the time and place where the vase was manufactured (mid-fifth century bce
Attica) the story told in the Dionysiaca could have been already known in a
version that featured Thracian rather than Arabian cannibal(s) and was some-
how related to Lycurgus story. This begins to make more sense when combined
with pieces of information regarding another hero of that myth, Orpheus, that
are otherwise difficult to understand.
To begin with, in Aristophanes’ Frogs (1032), the spirit of Aeschylus makes
an uncanny reference to Orpheus, while speaking of the merits of several leg-
endary or semi-legendary poets:
Ὀρφεὺς μὲν γὰρ τελετάς θ᾽ ἡμῖν κατέδειξε φόνων τ᾽ ἀπέχεσθαι
Orpheus taught us the rites and to abstain from bloodshed.
At first glance, it may seem that the speaker meant the alleged vegetarianism of
Orpheus and his followers.110 Yet such praise of abstinence from animal meat
and killing animals would make little sense in the context of a festival centered
around a hecatomb.111 Thus, as Graf observed,112 it is much more likely that the
110 See references in Graf 1974: 34, n. 64.

111 Sommerstein 1996: ad loc.; Dover 1993: ad loc.
112 Graf 1974: 34–36. See also Guthrie 1935: 40–41; Linforth 1941: 67–71; 255–257.
80 chapter 2
reference was made to the role of Orpheus as a cultural hero, who taught prim-
itive human beings agriculture and food processing, thus turning them away
from mutual murder and allelophagy. This finds some support in the general
theories of the evolution of human culture developed by Greek intellectuals
from Prodicus to Porphyry and beyond. At the same time, it agrees with two ref-
erences to Orpheus conceived of, if not a protos heuretes, then at least a person
to a large extent responsible for the introduction and spread of civilised food.
Themistius (Or. 30.349a) states that divine worship would be impossible
without agriculture, because its products are given to the gods as offerings and
sacrifices. Subsequently he mentions Prodicus, probably in order to substanti-
ate the claim that the very notion113 of divinity comes from agriculture. He then
continues:114
οὐ μὴν οὐδὲ Ὀρφέως τελετάς τε καὶ ὄργια γεωργίας ἐκτὸς συμβέβηκεν εἶναι,
ἀλλὰ καὶ ὁ μῦθος τοῦτο αἰνίττεται, πάντα κηλεῖν τε καὶ θέλγειν τὸν Ὀρφέα
λέγων, ὑπὸ τῶν καρπῶν τῶν ἡμέρων ὧν γεωργία παρέχει πᾶσαν ἡμερῶσαι
φύσιν καὶ θηρίων δίαιταν, καὶ τὸ ἐν ταῖς ψυχαῖς θηριῶδες ἐκκόψαι καὶ ἡμερῶσαι.
The Orphic initiations and secret rites are not even foreign to agriculture,
but also the myth alludes to this by saying that Orpheus bewitched and
enchanted all things; he domesticated the whole nature and behaviour
of wild beasts, and he cut out and harnessed what is beastly in souls by
means of the cultivated crops which agriculture provides.
It would be tempting to think that this rationalised version of the story pre-
viously appeared in Prodicus, but Themistius is not explicit in attributing this
part of the material to the sophist.115 Whatever its origin, it clearly presupposes
the existence of a myth in which Orpheus is linked not only to music and a
divine cult, but also to the development or spread of agriculture. A similar view
is also expressed by Horace in the Ars poetica:116
siluestris homines sacer interpresque deorum

caedibus et uictu foedo deterruit Orpheus,
dictus ob hoc lenire tigris rabidosque leones
113 Manuscripts have εὔνοιαν instead of the more probable ἔννοιαν proposed by Diels. See May-
hew 2011: ad loc.
114 Them. Or. 30 (350b–c, ed. Schenkl 1971).
115 It is not included in the editions of Prodicus’ fragments of Diels-Krantz, Graham 2010, or
Mayhew 2011.
116 Hor. AP 391–393 (ed. Brink 1971).
the holy prophet of the gods, Orpheus, deterred savage people from
bloodshed and disgraceful food, and for this reason he is said to placate
tigers and furious lions
This passage may serve as a link between Themistius and Aristophanes, as it

attests to the existence of a rationalised version of the story (taming animals as
a figure of speech).117 At the same time, it emphasises the dietary aspect of the
innovation introduced by Orpheus among savage people.118 Given that such
a rationalisation is attested as early as before the end of fifth century (Aristo-
phanes’ Frogs was staged in 405bce), it seems reasonable to conclude that the
myth existed earlier, in some other form, one not yet rationalised.
The image on the hydria from London, which was most likely produced in
450bce or slightly earlier, suggests that the Lycurgus story known in Attica dur-
ing that period contained the motif of cannibalism attested by Nonnus. No
extant fragments of the Lycurgeia seem to be related to it, nor does any tes-
timony refer to it in a direct way. However, Apollodorus’ account may contain a
trace of it, as the killing of his son by Lycurgus was supposed to bring about the
barrenness of the land, which was subsequently dealt with under the guidance
of Apollo’s oracle. Quite obviously, the lack of crops is not tantamount to can-
nibalism, but they may have been related to each other as two sides of the same
coin: Lycurgus’ crimes brought a natural disaster in the form of barrenness, and
a cultural regression to the god-sent cannibalistic frenzy.
Both calamities could be cured more or less simultaneously: the fertility of
the land was restored by putting Lycurgus to death, and the frenzy caused by
Dionysus could be dealt with by Orpheus by means of therapeutic music. This
music, in a later rationalised version, could be thought of as the propagation of
agriculture and the introduction of civilised food in place of cannibalism. The
rationalisation would also involve describing this story as a feature of the uni-
versal history of humanity. This seems to be reflected by the notorious passage
in Porphyry’s De abstinentia 2.8.3.
2.4.7 Theophrastus’ De pietate, Porphyry’s De abstinentia 2.8.3
Βασσάρων δὲ δὴ τῶν τὸ πάλαι τὰς Ταύρων θυσίας οὐ μόνον ζηλωσάντων, ἀλλὰ

καὶ τῆι τῶν ἀνθρωποθυσιῶν βακχείαι βορὰν τούτοις προσθεμένων—καθάπερ
ἡμεῖς νῦν ἐπὶ τῶν ζώιων· ἀπαρξάμενοι γὰρ τὰ λοιπὰ δαῖτα τιθέμεθα—τίς οὐκ
117 On such an allegorical interpretation, see Molina 2008: 42–45.

118 On uictus foedus as cannibalism: Brink 1971: ad loc. with further references; Rudd 1989: ad
loc.
82 chapter 2
ἀκήκοεν ὅτι μετὰ μανίας προσπίπτοντές τε καὶ δάκνοντες ἀλλήλους, ἔτι δὲ πρὸς
ἀλήθειαν αἱμοδαιτοῦντες οὐκ ἐπαύσαντο πρὶν τὸ γένος ἐξαναλῶσαι τῶν πρώτων
παρ᾽ αὐτοῖς τῆς τοιαύτης ἁψαμένων θυσίας;
Long ago, there were the Bassaroi, who not only emulated the sacrifices of
the Taurians, but also added feasts to this (Bacchic) frenzy of human sac-
rifices, just like we do now with animals—having offered the first fruits
we turn the rest into a meal. Who has not heard that in their madness
they assaulted each other and bit one another so that in truth they did
not stop revelling in blood before they utterly destroyed the first family
among them, who engaged in this kind of sacrifices?
Most likely, this passage derives from Theophrastus’ treatise περὶ εὐσεβείας119
and as such is the product of a tendentious interpretation of a traditional story
meant to describe a past or “ethnographic” habit related to animal sacrifice
as an act of cruelty. Porphyry and, possibly already Theophrastus, referred to
the story in question as something very well known (τίς οὐκ ἀκήκοεν), which
may seem to be an instance of the common rhetorical technique of introduc-
ing something unheard of in the guise of common knowledge.120 However,
given that Theophrastus’ method consisted of reinterpreting traditional mate-
rial rather than fabricating stories from scratch, it seems more likely that the
narrative about the Bassaroi was not entirely of his own invention. Yet the way
he presented it was probably innovative.
What seems bewildering is that we do not hear about the people called
Bassaroi from any other authority. This made Lobeck (1829: 293) connect this
ethnonym with the words Bassareus and bassara, both of which are related to
Thrace and Dionysus.121 Thus, the Bassaroi were supposed to be one of the Thra-
cian tribes (which seems all the more probable given that immediately before
this Porphyry speaks of the Thoes, whom he calls the neighbours of Thrace) and
the habit under discussion—one of the primitive Dionysian rituals. This is also
how it was interpreted by Detienne (1979: 151–152), who described the alleged
habits of the Bassaroi as one of the typical maenadic rituals based on the tear-
ing asunder and consumption of human beings. This seems to be almost right if
119 See especially Bernays 1866: esp. 57–62; Pötscher 1964; Fortenbaugh 1984: 54–65, 262–274;
Obbink 1988.
120 Clark (2000: ad loc.) suggests that the story could have been widely known from Aeschy-
lus’ Bassarai. I agree, although not without some qualifications.
121 See, e.g., Hes. s.v. βασσάραι; Etym. Magn. s.v. βάσσαρα et Βασσαρίδες; Clem. Al. Protr. 2.22.4;
Hor. C. 1.18.11.
we allow for one substantial modification. Killing, tearing asunder, and eating
human beings are not attested in the real cult.122 Instead, it seems to belong to
the myth that describes the results of its rejection or negligence. If it were so,
the passage can be read as a rationalised version of the plot of the Lycurgeia.
Accordingly, the story took place among the Bassaroi, the people clearly
named after the Bassarids (unless the name of the Bassarids actually derives
from this shadowy ethnonym) in the aftermath of their rejection of Dionysus.
The cannibalistic frenzy induced by Dionysus and aptly called βακχεία by Por-
phyry corresponds to the condition described by Nonnus and depicted on the
hydria from London. The extinction of the family of those who first engaged in
this kind of sacrifices is a reference to the annihilation of Lycurgus’ family. The
use of the word θυσία to a certain extent results from Theophrastus’/Porphyry’s
bias which makes him widen the semantic field of the word in such a way that
it could cover as many cruel acts as possible. Yet, there seems to be more to
it than this. The passage is introduced by a reference to the alleged habits of
the Taurians, who are known especially well from Euripides’Iphigenia in Tauris
and Herodotus (4.103).123 Accordingly, the Taurians were supposed to sacrifice
all strangers to their goddess. They would cut off the head of the victim, attach
it to a stake or a cross, and push the body to the sea from the cliff on which the
temple was situated. This corresponds to the description of Lycurgus’ practice
in Nonnus’ Dionysiaca (20.151–153):
ὀθνείους ἀθέμιστος ἀμεμφέας εἰς μόρον ἕλκων,

αἰνομανὴς Λυκόοργος· ἀποκταμένων δὲ σιδήρωι
ἔστεφεν ἀνδρομέοισιν ἑὸν πυλεῶνα καρήνοις
… horribly raving lawless Lycurgus dragged innocent foreigners to death.

He killed them with iron and decorated his gates with human heads …
Even more to the point, the violence inflicted by Lycurgus on Dionysus in the
Iliad (6.130–140) by means of a double-axe (if this is what a βουπλήξ is) is
very much like the sacrifice of an itinerant foreigner, given that the god was
a stranger (nota bene, of Greek origin) in Lycurgus’ country: the double-axe
is a typical sacrificial implement and Dionysus was chased to the sea. Apol-
122 See, e.g., Obbink 1993 and Schlesier’s article in Der Neue Pauly (s.v. Dionysos). A thor-
ough discussion of the relationship between the real and imagined practices in the cult
of Dionysus is the aim of my forthcoming project, which I am due to complete with the
financial support of the National Science Centre in 2022.
123 See also Rives 1995: 67–70 with further references.
84 chapter 2
lodorus adds that Lycurgus, having killed his son with the same double-axe, cut
off the extremities of his body (ἀκροτεριάζω). None of these two acts needed to be
interpreted as a sacrifice by Homer, Aeschylus, or Apollodorus.124 Yet, upon his
tendentious reading of the traditional material, Theophrastus/Porphyry could
refer to them as the first in a series of sacrifices, while describing as sacrifices
also the aftermath: the disastrous frenzy, which involved not only killing, but
also eating human beings.
2.4.8 Resolution of the Conflict

As I argued above, Theophrastus/Porphyry offers a rationalised and therefore
quite different version of the events compared to its poetic prototype(s). This
nevertheless confirms the existence of such a prototype. It is important to note
that by placing it among the Bassaroi, he links the story in question to the
complex of stories surrounding the Bassarids and/or Dionysus Bassareus. Even
though he does not mention Orpheus, the connection between the singer and
the cannibalistic epidemic among the Thracians is suggested by the passages
in Aristophanes, Themistius and Horace quoted above.
If, as it has been said, Orpheus cured the Thracians with music, it seems clear
that he did it by means of the Apolline art,125 which, as we see from Strabo
10.3.16 (see section 2.3.1.6), could have been shown by Aeschylus as foreign not
only to the Dionysian circle but also to the local Edonian tradition. However,
the impious act that cost him life did not consist of playing the lyre or, at least,
not only of it. As Eratosthenes says in Catasterism 24, Orpheus went so far in
his zealous dedication to the cult of Apollo-Sun as to neglect Dionysus. Burges
Watson (2015: 471–474) associates the resolution of this conflict with fragment
341 Radt (incertarum fabularum), which Nauck (1889) attributed to the Bassarai
(because of the bacchaics):
ὁ κισσεὺς Ἀπόλλων, ὁ Βακχειόμαντις
the ivy-crowned Apollo, the Bacchic seer.
124 However, some of the vase paintings evoke sacrificial connotations of Lycurgus’ violence.
Thus, an Apulian krater in London (LIMC Lykourgos i 28 = Lyssa 8) features a capsised
hydria next to an altar, and an Apulian amphora in Naples (LIMC Lykourgos i 20) the leg
of an animal. These and similar clues suggest that Lycurgus was about to perform a sacri-
fice at the moment when something happened—he saw Dionysian thiasos, went mad, or
perhaps both (see Faraone 2013: 126).
125 Orpheus is never depicted in art or said to have played any other instrument than his
Apolline lyre or kithara (test. Kern 56–58, Bernabé 971–977). No wind or percussion instru-
ments ever appear to be associated with him.
According to Burges Watson, the line could refer to the identification of

Dionysus with Apollo and to the establishment of such a mixed divinity at Del-
phi. This conjecture is based on the fact that Macrobius (Sat. 1.18.6) quotes the
line while discussing the identification of Dionysus with Apollo worshipped on
Mt. Parnassus.
This fits the pattern of the development of the plot of the Lycurgeia pos-
tulated already by other scholars (e.g., West 1990: 47; Seaford 2005: 605), who
thought that a reconciliation between the two divinities was necessary after the
killing of Apollo’s protégé by Dionysus’ followers. However, a parallel in Euripi-
des’ Hippolytus 1416–1422 calls for caution. In this tragedy, Artemis expresses
her anger at Aphrodite for killing Hippolytus and declares that she is going to
return the blow by striking the mortal Aphrodite loves the most. This is how
the conflict between the divinities is settled. Apparently, at least for Euripi-
des, human beings were just gods’ and goddess’ toys, and even the cruellest
treatment they received from a deity need not cause serious strife between
immortals.
This does not mean that there would be no place for a reconciliation, or
at least for an expression of Apollo’s favourable disposition towards Dionysus.
It would make sense in the tetralogy about this latter divinity’s first arrival to
Thrace especially in face of their subsequent (to the events of the Lycurgeia)
coexistence in the sanctuary at Delphi.126 Whether this would involve a com-
plete identification between the two gods or a mere exchange of attributes
(thus Di Marco 1993: 132–134)127 remains an open question. Given that this
former scenario seems to have been shocking at the time when Philodamus
composed his Paean (340–339bce),128 the latter seems more likely in the time
of Aeschylus.
126 Bouché-Leclercq (1880: 378–382) was the first scholar to claim that Dionysus was wor-
shipped in Delphi even before Apollo took over the oracle. However, this conjecture was
based entirely on preconceptions related to the irrational aspect of Pythia’s activities (see
also Jeanmaire 1950: 187–198 and 492–493 with further references). What should not raise
any serious doubts is the suggestion that Dionysus was well at home in Delphi by the end
of the fifth century bce. In Eurpides’ Ion (550–554) Xuthus states that he had been in Del-
phi at a Bacchic revel. This obviously does not mean that such was the reality of the heroic
age, but it shows that Euripides’ audience did not think the cult of Dionysus at Delphi to
be a novelty. See also Roux 1976: 30–31, 131–132, 175–184; Seaford 2006: 84–85.
127 See also Wilamowitz 1932: 136.
128 See Käppel 1992: 207–284; Strauss Clay 1996.
86 chapter 2
2.4.9 Conclusions
According to Burges Watson (2015) the Lycurgeia—or more specifically, the
Bassarai (whether or not this attribution is correct, see below)—contained an
aetiology of two of the most important institutions in Greek/Attic religious life:
Delphi and Eleusis. The presence of both in the Lycurgeia is likely, but neither
is certain. What might be stated, however, is that Aeschylus’ tetralogy largely
contributed to the shaping of these institutions’ image due to its influence on
the perception of Orpheus, especially among those members of his audience
who did not define themselves as “Orphics”.
It is remarkable that when Plato (Lg. 620a–c) enumerates the souls of the
heroes known from the poetic tradition whom Er saw in the netherworld (Ajax,
Agamemnon, Thersites, etc.), Orpheus features among them. Apparently, he
was at least sometimes thought of as one of these mythical figures rather than
a poet responsible for the creation of the mythical tradition. At least until Apol-
lonius of Rhodes, the Lycurgeia seems to have been the most important text
that put Orpheus among the heroes rather than authors.
In the section that follows, I return to the problem of the composition of
the Lycurgeia and the interconnectedness between the Lycurgus and Orpheus
stories. In the second part of the book, in which I discuss the post-Aeschylean
tradition of the Lycurgus myth in Greek and Roman tragedies, I will occasion-
ally return to the possible involvement of Orpheus in these plays. However, as
far as one can judge from the extant sources, Orpheus’ role in Naevius’ Lycur-
gus and related dramas, if he played one, was far less conspicuous than in the
Lycurgeia.
2.4.10 Appendix: Krater

According to West (1990: 40–41), an intriguing testimony may be provided by
Plutarch, who makes the hero of his De sera numinum vindicta (566b–c) refer
to the alleged experience of Orpheus. This was most likely described in an
“Orphic” poem, possibly the Krater by Zopyrus, which might have been known
to Aeschylus and which certainly predates his Lycurgeia.129
ἑώρα δὲ τρεῖς δαίμονας ὁμοῦ καθημένους ἐν σχήματι τριγώνου πρὸς ἀλλήλους

τὰ ῥεύματα μέτροις τισὶν ἀνακεραννύντας. ἔλεγεν οὖν ὁ τοῦ Θεσπεσίου ψυχο-
πομπὸς ἄχρι τούτου τὸν Ὀρφέα προελθεῖν ὅτε τὴν ψυχὴν τῆς γυναικὸς μετή-
ιει, καὶ μὴ καλῶς διαμνημονεύσαντα λόγον εἰς ἀνθρώπους κίβδηλον ἐξενεγκεῖν
129 On this poem, see West 1983: 11–13; Di Marco 1993: 119–120; Bernabé 2008a: 397–398.
ὡς κοινὸν εἴη μαντεῖον ἐν Δελφοῖς Ἀπόλλωνος καὶ Νυκτός· οὐδενὸς γὰρ Ἀπόλ-
λωνι Νύκτα κοινωνεῖν.
He saw three daemons, seated together in a triangle, who mixed the flows
in a due proportion. Then, said the guide of Thespesius’ soul, Orpheus had
advanced up to this point, when he was searching for his wife’s soul, and
not remembering it properly he disseminated falsehood among people,
claiming that Apollo and the Night had a common oracle in Delphi. As a
matter of fact, Apollo and the Night have nothing in common.
Di Marco (1993: 120) rejected this testimony on what seems to be false grounds,
as it attributes to Orpheus the idea of peaceful coexistence between two mutu-
ally exclusive beings: Apollo and the Night. According to Di Marco, it contra-
dicted the notion of Orpheus’ preference for Apollo as the supreme divinity
(Catasterism 24). Such a contradiction, however, seems to be only illusory con-
sidering that Orpheus in Aeschylus was probably shown as changing his reli-
gious ideas and attitudes. This does not mean, however, that the passage must
be relevant for our purposes. First, we cannot be sure that Plutarch draws inspi-
ration from the Krater. Secondly, we do not know much about the Krater itself.
It remains a matter of conjecture whether Aeschylus was familiar with it. Even
if he was, it does not follow that he engaged with it in his plays. Nevertheless,
this testimony, the relevance of which is so difficult to establish, deserves at
least a cursory glimpse due to its intriguing content.
The theological doctrine referred to in Plutarch seems to be complemen-
tary to the ideas ascribed to Orpheus in Catasterism 24. As discussed, according
to Eratosthenes, Orpheus identified Apollo with the Sun. From Plutarch we
learn that the singer ignored the fact that Apollo shares nothing with the Night.
These two statements combined make perfect sense, because it is a matter of
common-sense astronomical knowledge that the night is possible only in the
absence of the sun. Thus, the two divinities, if the Sun and the Night are con-
ceived of as divinities, are mutually exclusive.
The error that Orpheus was supposed to have committed, according to
Plutarch, is in the statement that these two entities share the oracle at Delphi.
This in turn is bewildering because the only other text that mentions Night
in relation to Delphi is the rather obscure hypothesis of Pindar’s Pythica (a
22 Drachmann), which substitutes Nyx for Ge in the sequence of the divini-
ties that held the oracle before Apollo.130 Regardless of what made the author
130 See Pirenne-Delforge 2018: 148–149.

88 chapter 2
depart from the accepted tradition, he did not claim that Apollo had ever
shared the oracle with Night. Thus, the only person known to make this claim
would be Orpheus as characterised by Plutarch. The statement is described as
erroneous and so it seems to fly in the face of what we know of the oracle at
Delphi. It could make some sense, however, if “Night” were understood as a
rather confused reference to Dionysus. This may be relevant for the Lycurgeia,
given that this tetralogy was likely to contain the aetiology of the paradoxical
coexistence between Dionysus and Apollo at Delphi. Dionysus would take over
during the winter months, at the time of Apollo’s absence.131
One might speculatively offer the following reconstruction of the tradition
behind Plutarch’s passage: Orpheus in the netherworld has learnt about the
(onto-)logical opposition between Apollo/Sun and the lack thereof. What he
initially misunderstood was that they were complementary rather than in a
strictly binary opposition. What Apollo’s absence brings about is the presence
of his beloved brother Dionysus. This is the lesson that Orpheus learnt when
leaving the world of the living for the second time.
It is possible that this is exactly how Aeschylus represented Orpheus’ heresy.
Nevertheless, there is no way of proving the existence of direct links.
2.5 Reconstruction of the Lycurgeia
As I argued above, the passage in Porphyry (Abst. 2.8.3), when combined with
passages in Horace (AP 391–393), Themistius Or. 30.349a, and Nonnus’Dionysi-
aca (21.117–123), as well as the hydria from London, suggest that the story of
Lycurgus in Aeschylus’ version featured the cannibalistic frenzy that followed
Lycurgus’ killing of his son. This disease was subsequently cured by Orpheus.
Following Apollodorus, one may postulate an intricate relationship between
the characters and events. To put it schematically, their course would be the
following:
Dionysus arrives in Thrace. Lycurgus captures and interrogates him. The

god is miraculously liberated. Lycurgus goes mad, kills and mutilates his
son, then recovers his senses. The soil stops bearing fruit, the Thracians
kill and eat their children. Orpheus cures them with Apolline music. Fol-
lowing an oracle, the Thracians put Lycurgus to death, which brings back
131 See references in note 126.

the fertility of the land. Orpheus is punished for his negligence of Diony-
sus. The death makes him appreciate the role of Dionysus within the poly-
theistic system. Aetiologies of the Orpheus cult at Lebethrai, the Dionysus
cult at Delphi, and the (Eleusinian) mysteries could follow.
It is possible that all these events formed the action of the Edonoi and the Bas-
sarai. However, as I argue below, it is even more likely that they were distributed
among all three tragedies of the Lycurgeia, including the Neaniskoi. In what
follows, I indicate the points at which each of the plays could end, and I offer
a tentative reconstruction of each of the plots. Subsequently, I discuss all the
fragments that I have not touched upon thus far. The aim is to offer a coher-
ent image of the tragic trilogy with no loose ends. By doing this, I construct a
cumulative argument in favour of the unity of the trilogy.132
2.5.1 Edonoi: An Outline of the Plot

As I mentioned earlier (section 2.2.1), if the motif of the sterility of the land
belonged to the Lycurgeia, it seems to indicate a temporal gap between the
events that surrounded the killing of his son by Lycurgus and what happened
later. Given that such an event can be expected to develop over months or years,
it seems likely that it was narrated already in the second tragedy. Thus, the
Edonoi could end in the climactic moment almost immediately after Dryas’
death. This sets one of the most important parameters of the reconstruc-
tion.
As the title suggests, the Edonoi featured a chorus of local men. In the paro-
dos (fr. 57), they entered singing about the arrival of the foreign divinity and his
thiasos. They might have been already enthusiastic about Dionysus, but Lycur-
gus was not. After an exchange with the chorus and possibly with a good advisor
(a μουσόμαντις?) somehow parallel to Teiresias in the Bacchae, he has Diony-
sus arrested. An interrogation follows. Subsequently the god is sent to prison
but almost immediately set free. This is a good moment for the beginning of
Lycurgus’ hallucinations. Following the lead of Dionysus (like in the Bacchae)
or chasing him, the king leaves the stage. What follows will be narrated by a wit-
ness: Lycurgus, thinking that he is destroying a vine, kills his son. It is likely that
the parallels between the Bacchae and the Edonoi do not end here. The prob-
lematic words of Apollodorus—ἀκρωτηριάσας αὐτὸν ἐσωφρόνησε—may refer
132 My argument based on coherence, as Van Straten (1995: 9) puts it, carries a certain risk
of circularity. However, as Van Straten continues, so does riding a bicycle. As long as one is
aware of the mechanics involved it need not be fatal.
90 chapter 2
exactly to the moment in which Lycurgus returns to the city with his son’s
head and only subsequently, just like Agaue, returns to his senses.133 A lament
ensues.
2.5.2 Bassarai: An Outline of the Plot

Upon the testimony of Eratosthenes, the only thing that can be said without
doubt is that in the Bassarai, Dionysus sent the Bassarids against Orpheus. As
discussed, this could have happened at various moments in the play, but most
likely this request was followed by the exodos of the chorus, who went to exe-
cute the order.
According to my reconstruction, when the tragedy begins, some time has
elapsed since the events of the Edonoi. The violence inflicted by Lycurgus on
members of his own family, which might have contaminated a sanctuary (as
suggested by iconography),134 has caused the sterility of the land and the canni-
balistic frenzy among the people. As in some other versions of the story (includ-
ing the Antigone), Lycurgus is extremely obdurate in his resistance against
Dionysus, despite some obvious indications of his divine nature. Perhaps like
other tragic tyrants he believes that someone else (Dionysus), not he, is respon-
sible for the calamity. He thus persecutes the god and his followers and perhaps
succeeds in arresting the Bassarids. This could explain why instead of roaming
in the mountains they stayed in the place represented by the theatrical space.
This, most probably, was the front of Lycurgus’ palace, as was required by the-
atrical convention.135
133 See section 5.2.

134 A sacred space is evoked by LIMC Lykourgos i 12, 13, 14, 20, 26, 28. Particularly relevant
is the Attic hydria from the last quarter of the fifth century, now in Villa Giulia (LIMC 12;
discussed also in section 2.7). It shows the events as taking place in the vicinity of a rural
sanctuary. Importantly, this element of the composition is not used as a “prop”, which
suggests that it carries its own meaning, thus contributing to the characterisation of the
space (I owe this idea to Ariadne Konstantinou). The interpretation of the Kraków hydria
is much less straightforward, given that the altar represented in it can be taken as a con-
ventional component of the supplication scene. In such a case, it would have no meaning
of its own. For the sacrificial connotations of some of the South-Italian paintings, see note
124. The double-axe Lycurgus is using in most of his representations may evoke a sacrifice
(thus already Kerényi 1976: 176–177); however, given its conventional character, it is diffi-
cult to tell whether these associations were always meant by the artists. See Topper 2015
and my discussion with some of her statements in Bednarek 2019.
135 Almost all tragedies known to us, apart from Prometheus and Philoctetes, were set in a
“civilised” space, such as a city, a military camp, or a sanctuary. Although in later periods
this could have been influenced by the presence of the scenic building (introduced per-
haps before the Lycurgeia, see Wilamowitz 1935: 148–172; Taplin 1977: 452–459), the earlier
plays such as the Persae, Supplices and Septem are no exceptions to this rule.
At some point, perhaps close to the beginning of the play, someone brings
the news concerning the oracle and its instructions to alleviate the sterility of
the land. As Apollodorus has it: ἔχρησεν ὁ θεὸς καρποφορήσειν αὐτήν, ἂν θανατω-
θῆι Λυκοῦργος. However, in the tragedy it might have been less straightforward.
It might have said, for example, that the cure for the land’s sterility is to put
to death the one who killed Dryas. Lycurgus understood it in his own way and
tried to punish either Dionysus, his followers, the vine, or the axe. The harder
he tried, the more insane he appeared. The more obvious his own guilt became,
the harder he tried to deny it.
What is Orpheus’ place in this story? Both he, as well as his father or grandfa-
ther, could appear at various points in the play as a wise advisor to the king (who
ignored his admonitions, as tragic tyrants usually did). What remains clear is
that Orpheus himself, as Apollo’s personal protégé, was the most likely person
to bring the oracular response.136 He would thus appear on stage close to the
beginning of the play, set the narrative machine in motion, and then disap-
pear under some pretext, perhaps because, like Teiresias in the Bacchae, he was
offended by Lycurgus. Sooner or later, however, the news about his ritual activ-
ity and healing the Bacchic mania was brought by a messenger or chorus. At
any rate, the central character of the play was probably Lycurgus. By its con-
clusion, as Apollodorus states, he was led by the Edonians to Mount Pangaion.
This seems to be a likely end to the story, but again one suspects that it was not
that simple. Like in the Bacchae, the king could have left the stage of his own
accord, convinced that he was departing on a mission (this was clearly so in
Naevius (see below)). He was then bound or imprisoned and probably killed
once he realised his error.
The news of this event was narrated by someone, perhaps one of the sol-
diers. However terrifying the narration could have been, it would evoke an
optimistic message. The country was free from the tyrant, the disastrous steril-
ity of the land, and the cannibalistic frenzy. The Bassarids, if they had been
kept prisoner, were now free to go, and one might guess that they rejoiced at
the news of the death of Dionysus’ enemy. At this point, however, the audience
was reminded of one more issue, which was perhaps marginal or even hith-
erto unmentioned. Orpheus, who had seemed to be a positive character, now
had to be castigated. This could be communicated to the chorus by Dionysus
himself, who was speaking ex machina.137 Having heard the instructions, the
136 As has been said in note 17, the oracle in question was almost certainly that of Delphi.
137 On the use of μηχανή in Aeschylus’ plays, see Taplin 1977: 443–447.
92 chapter 2
Bassarids would leave the orchestra, thus prompting the audience’s anxiety to
learn about the aftermath.
2.5.2.1 Fragment 58 and the Epiphany of Dionysus

As Longinus (15.6 (p. 37,5 Jahn-Valhen)) wrote:
καὶ παρὰ μὲν Αἰσχύλωι παραδόξως τὰ τοῦ Λυκούργου βασίλεια κατὰ τὴν ἐπι-
φάνειαν τοῦ Διονύσου θεοφορεῖται,
ἐνθουσιᾶι δὴ δῶμα, βακχεύει στέγη·
ὁ δ᾽ Εὐριπίδης τὸ αὐτὸ τοῦθ᾽ ἑτέρως ἐφηδύνας ἐξεφώνησε,
πᾶν δὲ συνεβάκχευεν ὄρος.
Also, in Aeschylus, at the epiphany of Dionysus, the palace of Lycurgus is

possessed by the god in a strange way:
“the house is in god-sent ecstasy, the roof is in Bacchic frenzy.”
Euripides expressed the same idea in a different way, having added to it
some sweetness:
“the entire mountain-range joined in Bacchic revelry.”
E. Ba. 726
This fragment was assigned by Welcker (1824: 322–323; 1826: 105–106)138 to the
Edonoi as a reference to the building’s reaction to the first arrival of the god.
Weinreich (1929: 282) offered what has become the canonical interpretation:139
namely, this epiphany took place when Dionysus was set free in a way paral-
lel to the Bacchae, where a real or imagined earthquake destroyed Pentheus’
palace (see above). Longinus, however, does not say that this line comes from
the Edonoi. He does not say either that it is a parallel to the palace miracle
in the Bacchae, as the line he quotes from this tragedy comes from the first
messenger’s speech in which a shepherd speaks of maenads in the mountains.
Moreover, the line describes the palace as rejoicing in Bacchic ecstasy rather
than falling apart.140 Regardless of whether it should be taken literally as a ref-
erence to the “behaviour” of the building itself, or figuratively as a description
of the condition of the people inside it (thus Di Benedetto 2004: ad 585–593),
138 Thus, also Hermann 1834: 9.

139 Thus, e.g., Deichgräber 1939: 254; Murray 1940: 157; Dodds 1960: xxxii; West 1990: 30; Segal
1997: 93–94.
140 This is not just a matter of the speaker’s (whoever he or she is) perspective, given that
Longinus himself states that the building is possessed by the god (θεοφορεῖται).
this can hardly be a description of a disaster.141 It also does not fit the presum-
ably sombre scene in which Dionysus, perhaps incognito, arrives at the palace
as a prisoner in the Edonoi.
Although the word ἐπιφάνεια has a much wider semantic field than the
English epiphany, in this case, judging by the contents of the fragment and the
way it is introduced by Longinus, it seems that it comes from a part of the tetral-
ogy in which Dionysus appears somewhere near the palace in full glory, and it
is a moment of joy. Although such a scene could belong to any part of any play
of the tetralogy, a repetition of joyful epiphanies would be anticlimactic. This
means that, having postulated the existence of one such event at the end of the
Bassarai, it is reasonable to assume that it was one of very few such events at
most, and most likely the only one. The line fits it very neatly, given that both
the chorus and the palace would have good reasons to rejoice at their liberation
from Lycurgus.
2.5.3 Neaniskoi
The Neaniskoi could begin with a mirror reflection of the exodos of the Bas-
sarai if that former tragedy had a chorus of Orpheus’ followers, young men
who left the mountains and entered the city free from madness and filled
with zeal for the new religious ideas brought them by the seer. It is also likely
that the singer appeared on stage as their leader. Although there would be
no place for a scrupulous discussion of theological issues, it is tempting to
think that some “Orphic” songs were presented to the audience (they would
subsequently become a part of the mainstream Athenian culture by virtue of
their production in the theatre). There would probably be enough room for a
theogony, perhaps sung in the parodos (hence the audience of Aristophanes’
Birds would be familiar with this genre of “Orphic” poetry). At some point,
the past events had to be narrated. It is likely that the katabasis was one of
them.
It is difficult to tell what characters, apart from Orpheus, the first half of
this tragedy could feature. The text of Diodorus of Sicily may suggest that the
singer’s father or grandfather could play a role in it as a new king of Thrace.
What is clear is that at some point Orpheus left for Mount Pangaion, and
141 Horace in Carmen 2.19 (14–16: [ fas est mihi cantare] tectaque Penthei/disiecta non leni
ruina,/ thracis et exitium Lycurgi: [I may] sing the house of Pentheus torn down with no gen-
tle collapse and the doom of Thracian Lycurgus) juxtaposes Lycurgus with Pentheus, but he
refers to the collapse of the palace as a (presumably particularly memorable) part of the
story only of that latter hero. Although I do not intend to push this argument too far, this
may suggest that, unlike that of Pentheus, the house of Lycurgus was not destroyed.
94 chapter 2
that his death at the Bassarids’ hands was subsequently narrated. Unlike other
Greek heroes, however, Orpheus was always given a second chance. Thus,
despite being decapitated by maenads, he did not stop singing. It seems likely
that his oracular head featured in the epilogue of the Neaniskoi, just like the
mute head of Pentheus in the Bacchae and that of Dryas in the Edonoi. It could
be suitably held by his mother, one of the Muses, who appeared to the youths,
while carrying it for the burial, whereas an actor offstage could make it seem to
sing a palinode of its previous heresies. This would provide an opportunity to
resolve all conflicts. Orpheus would receive a burial at Lebethrai and become
a hero. The power of Dionysus, which had been previously recognised by the
Edonians, would be now confirmed by Apollo. This is where the aetiology of
their coexistence at Delphi fits perfectly and where the fragment 341 Radt (ὁ
κισσεὺς Ἀπόλλων, ὁ Βακχειόμαντις: the ivy-crowned Apollo, the Bacchic seer) may
fit better than in the Bassarai, to which Nauck (1889) attributed it.142
2.5.4 Further Fragments

As I have already mentioned, most of the extant fragments of the Lycurgeia
offer little or no information regarding the development of the stories. In what
follows, I quote all the passages attributed to this tetralogy that have not been
discussed thus far, as well as some fragments that deserve a little more thorough
commentary than I offered above. Unless specified otherwise, all passages are
quoted as they appear in TGF volume edited by Radt.
2.5.4.1 Edonoi
59 (in Phot.: s.v. βασσάραι)143
βασσάραι· χιτῶνες, οὗς ἐφόρουν αἱ Θράικιαι βάκχαι, καλούμενοι οὕτως ἀπὸ τοῦ
Βασσαρέως Διονύσου. ἦσαν δὲ ποικίλοι καὶ ποδήρεις. Αἰσχύλος ἐν Ἠδωνοῖς·
ὅστις χιτῶνας βασσάρας τε Λυδίας
ἔχει ποδήρεις
Bassarai: chitons that were worn by Thracian Bacchae called so after

Dionysus Bassareus. They were many-coloured and reached the feet.
Aeschylus in Edonoi:
Whosoever wears Bassarai and Lydian chitons of foot-length.
142 As Burges Watson (2015: 474) suggested, it could be sung by the Muse(s).
143 For other versions, see Radt in TFG.
The passage is usually interpreted as an unfriendly remark that Lycurgus

makes about the effeminate look of Dionysus. This is possible, but a reference
to the followers of the god seems more probable, given that Dionysus could
hardly wear two different chitons at the same time.
60 (in Schol. in Ar. Av. 276 (text of Holwerda 1991, text of Aves of Dunbar 1995))
Aves: τὶς ποτ᾽ ἐσθ᾽ ὁ μουσόμαντις, ἄτοπος ὄρνις ὀριβάτης;

Scholia: ἄτοπος ὄρνις ὀρειβάτης· τοῦτο εἶπεν εἰς τὸ τερατῶδες τοῦ ὄρνιθος
ἀφορῶν. οὐδὲν πρὸς τὸ προκείμενον. παρὰ τὰ ἐξ Ἠδωνῶν Αἰσχύλου
τίς ποτ᾽ ἔσθ᾽ ὁ μουσόμαντις †ἄλλος ἀβρατοῦς ὃν σθένει†
Birds: Who in the world is this prophet of the Muses, an outlandish bird
that climbs the mountains?
Scholia: an outlandish bird that climbs the mountains: he says that
in reference to the prodigious bird. Out of place. Following that from
Aeschylus’ Edonoi:
“Who in the world is this prophet of the Muses ††”
Despite all difficulties involved, the fragment gives us a precious glimpse of the
use of quotations from tragedy in Aristophanic comedy.144 Line 276 comes from
the scene in which Peisetairos and Euelpides learn the names of some birds.
The bird mentioned here is characterised as a foreigner (line 277) with an out-
landish complexion (ἔξεδρον χροιὰν ἔχων) or (as textual problems occur here)
occupying an unlucky quarter (ἔξεδρον χωρὰν ἔχων).
Calling a bird a μουσόμαντις can be accepted, because birds sing and because
their behaviour was analysed in ornithomancy, but the joke would be flat unless
the audience grasped the allusion to the tragedy. Interestingly, although only
the first half of the line in Aristophanes is a direct quotation from Aeschy-
lus, it seems that the rest of it (ἄτοπος ὄρνις ὀριβάτης) echoed the Aeschylean
words, albeit with some humorous distortion. Most strikingly, what has been
preserved as a nonsensical ἀβρατοῦς corresponds neatly with ὀριβάτης (both
words have the same consonants). It is likely that the line represents a reaction
of the comic hero to some strange movement of a scenic bird, which climbed
some elevated element of the acting area. Again, the full appreciation of the
144 See the commentaries of Dunbar 1995: ad loc.; Sommerstein 1987: ad loc.; Del Corno 1987:
ad loc.
96 chapter 2
humour probably involved the recognition of the correspondence between the

somewhat trivialised behaviour of the bird and the Aeschylean μουσόμαντις,
who climbed mountains and could be called ἄτοπος.
Unfortunately, this does not bring us any closer to identifying which char-
acter of the Edonoi could be called μουσόμαντις, given that they all (including
Lycurgus), seem to have climbed mountains and were out of place at least at
some point. The fragment is often taken as evidence of Orpheus’ involvement
in the Edonoi, but as I argued above, it is also possible that this tragedy featured
Orpheus’ grandfather or father, rather than Orpheus himself, each of whom
might have been connected with the Muses. It is also possible that the line con-
tains a reference to Dionysus, especially if the god appeared incognito, as he
does in the Bacchae.
**61a (in Proverb. L²Vb16 ed. Cohn).
τί δ᾽ ἀσπίδι ξύνθημα καὶ καρχησίωι;

παρόσον οὐ συμφωνεῖ
What is the connection between a shield and a drinking-cup? Inasmuch

as it does not harmonise.
It has been suggested by Kassel (1966: 10–12) that this could be a line from
the Lycurgeia, somehow related to fr. 61, in which Lycurgus derides Dionysus’
effeminate look. This is plausible but uncertain.
62 (in B Schol. Il. 9.539)
Ξενοφῶντα δὲ γένος τι Ἰνδῶν φάναι τὸν χλούνην εἶναι, καθάπερ καὶ παρ᾽ Αἰσχύ-
λωι ἐν Ἐδωνοῖς·
μακροσκελὴς μέν· ἆρα μὴ χλούνης τις ἦν;
Cf. Eust. Il. 9.539
ὅτι δὲ καὶ ἐντομίαν ὁ χλούνης δηλοῖ, οὐ μόνον Αἰσχύλος δίδωσι χρῆσιν, άλλὰ καὶ
Αἰλιανὸς μάλιστα ἐν τοῖς Περὶ προνοίας (fr. 10 Hercher), χλούνην λέγων τὸν
ἀπόκοπον· καὶ Ἀριστοτέλης δὲ (HA 578a32–b3) χλούνην σῦν τὸν τομίαν νοεῖ.
Xenophon, on the other hand, is said to have called chloune a race of Indi-
ans, as also in Aeschylus’ Edonians:
Long-legged. Is he some sort of chlounes?
Eustathius:
That chloune refers to a castrated individual is confirmed not only by

Aeschylus, but also, and especially, by Aelianus, in On providence (fr. 10
Hersher), where he calls chloune a castrated one. Aristotle also associates
chloune with a castrated animal.
The passages quoted above suggest that the meaning of the word χλούνης was
unclear already to ancient and Byzantine commentators; however, as Mureddu
(1992; 1994) observed, the most probable meaning is that indicated explicitly by
the Homeric scholiast. Accordingly, the fragment would contain a reference to
a fantastic race of Indian human-like creatures characterised by particularly
swift legs, as mentioned by Strabo (2.1.9; 15.1.57). The line is probably an ironic
statement that Dionysus was a fast runner, obviously when he was running
away from pursuit. This could fit two episodes: his running towards the sea
when chased by Lycurgus (as in Il. 6.130–140), or when someone (a soldier?)
was about to capture him before bringing him on stage.
63 (in Hes. s.v. ἄδασμος)
ἄδασμος· οὐδένα δασμὸν ἐκτελοῦσα [οὐ τελοῦσα ἐνοίκιον]. Αἰσχύλος Ἠδονοῖς.
tribute-free: she who does not pay a tribute [she who does not pay a rent].
Aeschylus in the Edonoi.
The feminine form of the participle may indicate that the reference was made
to a female bacchant.
64 (in Hes. s.v. αἰγίζειν; cf. Suda s.v.)
αἰγίζειν· διασπᾶν. ἐκ μεταφορᾶς. παρ᾽ ὃ καὶ τὸ αἰγίζεσθαι, ἀπὸ τῶν καταιγίδων.

Αἰσχύλος (fr. 481 Radt). ὁ δ᾽ αὐτὸς ἐν Ἠδωνοῖς καὶ τὰς νεβρίδας οὕτω λέγει.
aigizein: “to tear asunder”. From a figurative usage. Similarly, aigizesthai

from gusts of wind [or passion?]. Aeschylus. The same author in the
Edonoi thus spoke of fawnskins.
Both sparagmos and fawnskins are a conventional part of the maenadic im-
agery.
98 chapter 2
65 (in Hes. s.v. Ἀμφίδρομος)
Ἀμφίδρομος· Αἰσχύλος Σεμέλη ( fr. 222) ἔπλασε δαίμονα καὶ περὶ τὰ ἀμφιδρό-
μια, ὡσεὶ ἔλεγες τὸν γενέθλιον. δηλοῖ δὲ καὶ ἐξ ἑκατέρου μέρους θεόμενον, ἢ
προηγούμενον, ἢ ὁρμᾶν δυνάμενον, ὡς Αἰσχύλος Ἠδωνοῖς.
θεόμενον cod. : θεώμενον Musurus
Amphidromos: Aeschylus in the Semele also introduced a deity of amphi-

dromia like the one you call genethlios (that of birth). It also refers to
someone/something who is seen (?) from both sides or is led or able to
start moving, as Aeschylus in the Edonoi.
The use of δηλοῖ δέ και indicates that, unlike in the Semele, Aeschylus did not
refer to a divinity called Amphidromos in the Edonoi. Instead, he probably used
the word ἀμφίδρομος as a common noun. Its meaning, however—not to men-
tion the role it played in the tragedy—remains obscure.
66 (in Hes. s.v. ἄσσιστα)
ἄσσιστα· ἔγγιστα. Αἰσχύλος Ἠδωνοῖς.
assista: the closest. Aeschylus in Edonoi.
67 (in Erot. s.v. ἴκταρ)
ἴκταρ· ἐγγὺς παρὰ τοῖς Ἀττικοῖς, ὡς καὶ Αἰσχύλος ἐν Εὐμενίσι φησί (997–998)
… μέμνεται ὁ αὐτὸς τῆς λέξεως ἐν Ἠδωνοῖς.
iktar: close to in Attic authors, as Aeschylus says in Eumenides … The same

poet used it in Edonoi.
2.5.4.2 Bassarai
23 (in Heph. 13.8. p. 43 Consbruch)
ὁ ταῦρος δ᾽ ἔοικεν κυρίξειν· τίν᾽ ἀρχὰν (?)

***
φθάσαντος δ᾽ ἐπ᾽ ἔργοις προπηδήσεταί νιν
A bull seems to be butting with his horns: what beginning (?)

***
Having hastened to act [he?] will spring before (???)
As Wilamowitz (1921: 335 n. 1) observed, these two lines, quoted by Hephaes-

tion as an example of bacchaic meter, could have originally come from two
separate parts of the play. No grammatical or logical continuity between them
need therefore be postulated.145 The textual problems involved in the second
line thus do not affect our understanding of the first. Given that these verses
are quoted as an illustration of a metrical phenomenon, they need not neces-
sarily be taken as autonomous grammatical units. Thus, for example, τίν᾽ ἀρχάν
does not have to be construed with κυρίξειν.
Having said this, I do not attempt to interpret the second line of the passage.
There are two possible interpretations of the first line:
1) Someone seems to see an aggressive bull. A parallel can be found in
Euripides’ Bacchae (920–922), where Pentheus sees Dionysus in the form
of a bull. In 1017 the chorus also invokes Dionysus to appear in the form
of a bull.
2) Someone is compared to an aggressive bull. Such a figure of speech is
attested in some other poetic texts (E. HF 869–870, fr. 689; AR 1.1261–1265)
in descriptions of madness.146
In a play that featured vengeance wrought by Dionysus and a maddened per-
son (perhaps more than one), both interpretations seem equally probable. If
the Doric form ἀρχάν is correct, the line should be from a choral part.
23a
Παγγαίου γὰρ ἀργυρήλατον

πρῶν᾽ †ες τὸ τῆς ἀστραπῆς† πευκᾶεν σέλας
The foreland of silver-bearing Pangaion †against of the lightning† flash

of pine-torches
The passage is valuable as it contains the name Pangaion as a probable indi-

cation of the mountain where the events took place. It is tempting to asso-
ciate the mention of torches with a torch on the Kraków hydria as well as the
torch mentioned by Plautus (Men. 941) and fire referred to by Sophocles (Ant.
964). However, given that torches are among the conventional attributes of the
145 Further elaboration: Palumbo 1966: 407–409.

146 See Papadopoulou 2005: 65.
100 chapter 2
Dionysian cult, this mention does not have to be meaningful.147 The form πευ-
κᾶεν suggests that it comes from a choral part.
24
σκάρφει παλαιῶι κἀπιβωμίωι ψόλωι
with what once has been a dry stick and with soot from an altar
There are many reasons why these items could be mentioned in the play, but it
seems that no plausible hypothesis has been ever offered.148
25
εἰλλόμενον
shut in
The word is quoted by Hesychius (ε 907) with its synonym, εἰργόμενον. It would
be tempting to think that it was quoted because it was memorable and there-
fore important for the tragedy. Interestingly, bonds and a rocky prison is what
signalled the end of Lycurgus in Apollodorus (Ἠδωνοί […] αὐτὸν ἔδησαν) and
Sophocles (Ant. 957–958 πετρώ/δει κατάφρακτος ἐν δεσμῶι; see below) respec-
tively. This fragment may thus be taken as a suggestion that the Bassarai told
the story of Lycurgus’ death.
2.5.4.3 Neaniskoi
146a (in Phot. α 1346)
ἀμφιλαφῆ κακά· ξένως εἴρηται Αἰσχύλωι Νεανίσκοις·

πρὸς δ᾽ ἐπὶ τοῖς ἀμφιλαφῆ πήματ᾽ ἔχων ἀθανάτων
terrible evil: a different way of saying than in Aeschylus’ Neaniskoi:

and on top of this, having terrible miseries sent by immortals.
147 Seaford (2005: 604) interprets the juxtaposition of a torch with a lightning as a reference
to a mystic initiation, which may be the correct direction. However, due to the textual
problems and lack of context it seems unwise to push this argument any further.
148 For example, Deichgräber thought that this fragment could contain an aition of the Thra-
cian habit of tattooing women.
The line could be placed in various contexts. It may be related to the mysteries.
146b (in Et. Gen. α 1151)
ἀρειμάνιος· σημαίνει τὸν πολεμικόν […] ἔχομεν δὲ τήν χρῆσιν παρ᾽ Αἰσχύλωι
οἷον ἐν Νεανίσκοις·
καὶ καρτερὸς γὰρ καὶ v _ ἀρείφατος
full of Ares-like frenzy: means warlike […] the usage is attested in Aeschy-
lus in Neaniskoi:
mighty and … warlike.
The lack of context does not permit interpretation.
147 (in Hes. α 7117 Latte)
ἀρείφατον λῆμα· ἰσχυρόν, ἀντὶ ⟨τοῦ⟩ Ἄρει ἐοικός. Αἰσχύλος Νεανισκοις.
warlike insolence: violent, equivalent of Ares-like. Aeschylus in Neanis-

koi.
The same as above.
148 (in Hes. α 8713 Latte).
ἀφοίβατον· ἀκάθαρτον. Αἰσχύλος Νεανίσκοις.
uncleansed: unpurified. Aeschylus in Neaniskoi.
It would be tempting to associate the purification or lack thereof with the

“Orphic” doctrine. However, given the pervasiveness of purifications in Greek
religious life in general, this temptation ought to be resisted.
149 (in Phot. s.v. Ὀκτώπαν)
Ὀκτώπαν ποταμὸν Αἰσχύλος διαπέπλακε Νεανίσκοις.
river Oktopan (or Octopas?) was Aeschylus invented (?) in Neaniskoi.
Such a river could be a part of the imaginary Thrace, Netherworld, or any other
place.
102 chapter 2
2.6 Lycurgus Satyricus
That this play was a satyr drama is explicitly stated in the scholia to Aristo-
phanes’ Thesmophoriazousae 134–135 (T 67 Radt). Its content has been recon-
structed in a variety of ways by Welcker (1826: 121–122), Hermann (1834: 27–
30), Levi (1909), Séchan (1926: 77–79), Deichgräber (1939: 273–276), Vysoký
(1955), Radt (TGF), West (1990: 49–50), Jouan (1992: 76), and Sommerstein
(Loeb 2008).149 Of paramount importance is the observation of Levi (1909),
who stated that although a satyr drama was enacted after a tragic trilogy, its
plot was not necessarily posterior to the plot of the last tragedy in sequence.150
In the Oedipodea, for instance, the satyr drama Sphinx told the story that most
likely took place before the action of Oedipus (the second tragedy) and after
Laius (the first tragedy).151 This means that the plot of Lycurgus might have
been based on virtually any part of the hero’s story, including some episodes
prior to those of the tragedies. On the assumption that the whole tetralogy was
summarized by Apollodorus (3.5.2), Levi suggested that the part of the mythog-
rapher’s account in which satyrs are mentioned might have derived from the
satyr drama:
Βάκχαι δὲ ἐγένοντο αἰχμάλωτοι καὶ τὸ συνεπόμενον Σατύρων πλῆθος αὐτῶι.

αὖθις δὲ αἱ Βάκχαι ἐλύθησαν ἐξαίφνης, Λυκούργωι δὲ μανίαν ἐνεποίησε Δίονυ-
σος.
Bacchants became prisoners and so did the crowd of satyrs who followed
the god. On a sudden, the Bacchants were delivered from captivity and
Dionysus produced madness in Lycurgus.
Indeed, the statement that satyrs were taken prisoner seems to have been
added as an afterthought. What is more, the fact that their liberation is not
mentioned is striking. Did they remain in captivity when Bacchants were set
free? Or is it just a matter of the author’s insignificant omission? At any rate,
it is tempting to think that this little inconsistency indicates that Apollodorus
149 Simon (1982: 138) suggested that a representation on a psykter of Douris (London E 768:
ARV² 466 no. 262) may reflect the play, given that one of the satyrs represented on it wears
a Thracian garment. This is certainly too little to prove anything, although there are no
good arguments to the opposite effect. At any rate, the picture does not seem to add to
our understanding of the play.
150 See Krumeich, Prechstein, Seidensticker 1999: 34–37.
151 On the controversy regarding the content of the play, see Robert 1915: 259–261; Simon 1981;
Krumeich, Prechstein, Seidensticker 1999: 189–196; Podlecki 2005: 8; Radt (TGF): ad loc.
combined two different sources that described the same moment of the story
in two different ways. Thus, according to Levi, the satyr drama dramatized the
interaction between Lycurgus and the satyrs kept in captivity. This is paral-
leled by the plot of Euripides’ Cyclops (where the satyrs are imprisoned and
enslaved). It may also have found some reflection in humorous passages of
Nonnos’ Dionysiaca (20.226–227, 248–250), where Lycurgus says that he would
cut off the silens’ tails and use them as a horse whip, whereas the sileni them-
selves would become his servants, worshiping him and Ares with songs. In both
cases, however, the influence of Aeschylus is far from certain, nor needs it to
have been direct.
Surviving fragments of the play do not seem to offer much. Nevertheless,
they have had a strong impact on the imagination of numerous scholars, who
drew from them fascinating, although at times fantastic, conclusions.
2.6.1 Beer or Wine?

Of particular interest is fragment 124 preserved in Athenaeus 447c:
τὸν δὲ κρίθινον οἶνον καὶ βρῦτόν τινες καλοῦσιν […] μνημονεύει τοῦ πώματος
Αἰσχύλος ἐν Λυκούργωι·
κἀκ τῶνδ᾽ ἔπινε βρῦτον ἰσχναίνων χρόνωι
κἀσεμνοκόμπει τοῦτ᾽ ἐν ἀνδρείαι στέγηι.
The wine made from barley is called by some brytos […] the drink is men-
tioned by Aeschylus in Lycurgus:
And he drank brytos from them making [them?] thinner/dryer as the
time wore on and he boasted of it in the hall of men.
The passage as it stands in the extant manuscripts appears to be incorrect.152

Unfortunately, the lack of context only enhances the creativity of editors,
who have proposed emendations of almost every word in the fragment. What
remains clear thanks to Athenaeus is that Aeschylus referred here to drink-
ing brytos, an alcoholic beverage brewed from barley. We are not told who the
speaker is, or who the person talked about might be, but it seems reasonable
to assume that the whole story takes place in Thrace. Given that within Greek
imagery beer was associated with some non-Greek cultures, such as those of
152 κἀκ τῶν δ᾽ ἔπινες βρῦτον ἰσχαίνων χρόνωι/ καὶ σεμνοκόπτει τοῦτ᾽ ἐν ἀνδρείαι στέγηι. Particu-
larly problematic seems to be the shift from the second to third singular and the use of a
potential hapax legomenon σεμνοκόπτω. Both are possible but obscure.
104 chapter 2
Egypt and Thrace,153 it is a natural guess that the beer-drinker mentioned by

Aeschylus’ character was a “barbarian”: most likely Lycurgus himself.
Herrmann (1834: 28) suggested that the first line of the fragment contains
a reference to cups or wineskins (ἐκ τῶνδε) from which the beer was drunk.
According to this scholar (followed by some others)154 these vessels were made
of the skulls or skins of people killed by Lycurgus, which could explain why
they are said to dry up over time (ἰσχναίνω). This seems to find some support
in Nonnus’ lines 20.149–181, where Lycurgus is said to have had a habit of mur-
dering his guests and keeping their heads, hands and feet as a kind of trophy
displayed over his gateway. However, nothing in Nonnus or anywhere in the
whole tradition about Lycurgus indicates that he used parts of human corpses
as drinking vessels.155 Neither does the passage itself suggest that it contained
any reference to such gruesome details of Lycurgus’ behaviour as killing his
guests, or the quasi-cannibalistic use of their bodies. It seems safer to assume
that Aeschylus referred here to something else, perhaps the banal fact that the
wineskins in which the beer was kept gradually shrunk as their content was
being used.156
The verb σεμνοκομπέω in the second line suggests that the character either
considered the act of drinking beer as a glorious feat (perhaps because of its
appalling taste) or simply boasted of something while under influence of alco-
hol. The former eventuality seems more natural if we accept an elegant emen-
dation proposed by Herwerden (1862: 2): τοῦτ᾽ ἐν ἀνδρείαι τιθείς, which results
in a sense: taking it as a sign of his manly virtue. This change, however, does not
seem necessary since the text also makes sense without it. Ἀνδρεία στέγη (men’s
hall) could simply refer to a sympotic setting in which the drunk man displayed
his unruly behaviour.
The meaning of the beer drinking may be interpreted in two different ways.
More commonly accepted is the approach advocated by Deichgräber (1939:
274–275), who observed that the imperfect form of the verbs in the fragment
may suggest that it is a reference to a past habit of Lycurgus, who used to drink
153 A useful overview of passages regarding the use of various intoxicating drinks in the
ancient Mediterranean is provided by Harrison (1903: 416–426). Of more recent date, see
Nelson 2005: especially 9–37.
154 Sommerstein 1990–1993: 59 and in Loeb 2008: ad loc.; Radt TGF: ad loc.; Podlecki 2005: 6.
155 The closest parallel seems to be that indicated by A.H. Sommerstein in Loeb (2008: ad
loc.): thirteen centuries after Aeschylus, in ad 811, another ruler in Thrace—Krum, khan of the
Bulgars—allegedly made a drinking cup of the skull of the Byzantine emperor Nikephoros i
(Theophanes Confessor, Chronographia p. 491.17–22 de Boor).
156 See Blumenthal 1942: 110; Di Marco 1987: 172–173.
beer before he became acquainted with wine introduced by Dionysus.157 On

the other hand, some later texts suggest that Dionysus, although he was chiefly
associated with grape-made liquor, was thought of as a god of intoxicant bever-
ages in general.158 Thus it is possible, as Vysoký (1955) argued, that in the satyr
drama the god brought to Thrace not the vine (or not only the vine) but the art
of producing a drink stereotypically associated with that country. This seems
likely given that, in Aeschylus’ time, there was no reason to think that Thracians
had converted from beer to wine already in mythical times. On the other hand,
an aetiology of beer, initially rejected and subsequently accepted by Thracians,
would be in order.
What makes the picture fuzzier is the unfriendly attitude that Aeschylus
expressed towards beer in Supplices 952–953, where Pelasgos answers the her-
ald who threatened him with Egyptian invasion: ἀλλ᾽ ἄρσενάς τοι τῆσδε γῆς
οἰκήτορας/ εὑρήσετ᾽, οὐ πίνοντας ἐκ κριθῶν μέθυ ( you will find that those who
inhabit this land are men, not drinkers of barley brew). The context leaves lit-
tle doubt that drinking the barley beverage was understood as compromising
Egyptians’ manliness.159 Why it was so may be a matter of conjecture. Despite
its highly speculative character, the reconstruction of the connotations evoked
by the passage proposed by Sommerstein (1990–1993) seem very plausible.160
Accordingly, given the ambiguity of the meaning of the word κρίθη (barleycorn/
penis) the expression in Supplices should be taken as an allegation of sexual
misconduct on the part of Egyptian men, who compromised their masculin-
ity by performing fellatio on other men. It finds further support in Archilochus’
fragment 42 W,161 in which a fellating woman is compared to a Thracian or Phry-
gian drinking his beer through a straw (as it was customary due to the nature
of early beer that contained a large amount of residue).162
The connotation of unmanliness attached to beer drinking may somehow
correspond to ἀνδρεία (manly virtue) or ἀνδρεία στέγη (men’s hall) mentioned
in the Lycurgus fragment, where it is either said that Lycurgus (or someone
157 See Séchan 1926: 79; Simon 1982: 138; Radt in TGF: ad loc.; West 1990: 48; Nelson 2005: 27–
28.
158 D.S. 4.2.5; Jul. In AP 9.368. See also Harrison 1903: 416–426.
159 Pace Vysoký 1955: 172–173.
160 A reconstruction proposed by Nelson (2005: 25–37), according to whom it was not the way
the beer was drunk but the alleged qualities of this beverage itself, seems less plausible as
he retrojects speculations of later medical authors into much earlier poetry.
161 ὥσπερ αὐλῶι βρῦτον ἢ Θρέϊξ ἀνὴρ/ ἢ Φρὺξ ἔμυζε· κύβδα δ᾽ ἦν πονεομένη.
162 See Nelson 2005: 16–21. He mentions (2005: 32) three other passages that might have sug-
gested negative connotations of beer in classical Greece (S. fr. 610 Radt; Crat. fr. 103 K.-A.;
Antiph. fr. 47 K.-A.), but unfortunately none of them is clear.
106 chapter 2
else) believed the contrary, namely that drinking beer proved his manliness
(ἀνδρεία), or that he drunk it in an all-men’s setting (ἐν ἀνδρεία στέγη). These
possibilities, as Sommerstein observes,163 may boil down to the same idea:
the character thought that drinking beer was an example of manly behaviour.
Given that various versions of the Lycurgus myth lay emphasis on the oppo-
sition between (excessive) manliness and lack thereof and that it was clearly
addressed in the Aeschylean tetralogy (esp. fr. 61), it is tempting to trace this
motif here. It needs particular emphasis, however, that there is no good reason
to construe the opposition between wine and beer as strictly binary. Indeed, it
seems that wine, although the act of its drinking did not evoke obscene conno-
tations, was associated with softness, luxury and inactivity (e.g. Il. 6.264–265).
The same can be said about Dionysus himself and this is exactly why mythical
excessively manly theomachoi despised him. Unless the play under discussion
completely broke with this tradition, it is reasonable to suppose that it followed
a typical pattern of Dionysian myth: the macho-man, who derides the effem-
inate god, should be punished by falling into the power of Dionysus. He will
thus turn into the opposite of what he initially represented.
This pattern in a paradoxical way is present in Hyginus’ fabula 132, which,
apart from the fragment under discussion, is the only text known to us in which
Lycurgus drinks alcohol:
Lycurgus Dryantis filius Liberum de regno fugauit; quem cum negaret

deum esse uinumque bibisset et ebrius matrem suam uiolare uoluisset,
tunc uites excidere est conatus, quod diceret illud malum medicamen-
tum esse quod mentes immutaret. qui insania ab Libero obiecta uxorem
suam et filium interfecit …
Lycurgus, the son of Dryas, chased Liber away from his kingdom. As he
denied his divinity and drunk wine, he got drunk and intended to rape
his mother. Then, he tried to cut down the vines, as he claimed that it was
a poison, since it alters the mind. In a rage inflicted by Liber, he killed his
son and wife …
In the majority of texts available to us, Lycurgus opposes Dionysus without

a clearly stated reason. Perhaps he simply does so out of his impulsiveness.
Plutarch is the only author who says that Lycurgus’ hostility towards the vine
resulted from his contempt for drunkenness (De audiendis poetis 15d–e):
163 Sommerstein in Loeb 2008: ad loc.

‘οὐδὲ γὰρ οὐδὲ Δρύαντος υἱὸς κρατερὸς Λυκόοργος’ ὑγιαίνοντα νοῦν εἶχεν, ὅτι
πολλῶν μεθυσκομένων καὶ παροινούντων τὰς ἀμπέλους περιιὼν ἐξέκοπτεν ἀντὶ
τοῦ τὰς κρήνας ἐγγυτέρω προσαγαγεῖν καὶ ‘μαινόμενον’ θεόν, ὥς φησιν ὁ Πλά-
των (Leg. 773d) ‘ἑτέρωι θεῶι νέφοντι κολαζόμενον’ σωφρονίζειν. ἀφαιρεῖ γὰρ ἡ
κρᾶσις τοῦ οἴνου τὸ βλάπτον, οὐ συναιροῦσα τὸ χρήσιμον.
“Neither the son of Dryas, fierce Lycurgus” had a healthy mind, as, when
many others were drunk and unruly, he went about cutting vines instead
of bringing spring water closer and thus tempering the “mad god—as
Plato (Leg. 773d) calls it—chastising him with a sober deity”, as mixing
with water takes away the harm of wine without compromising its bene-
fits.
It is interesting that Plutarch seems to be thinking of Lycurgus as a Hellenistic

monarch, who may contribute to his subjects’ well-being through a building
programme, as the words τὰς κρήνας ἐγγυτέρω προσαγαγεῖν evoke the construc-
tion of an aqueduct rather than bringing water in vessels. In depicting Lycurgus
as more of a puritan than a savage, Plutarch’s account seems to be paralleled
by Servius auctus, where the king is characterised as abstinent (Verg. Aen. 3.14
… brevioris commentarii version):
Lycurgus autem rex Thraciae fuit, qui, ut habet fabula, dum contemnens
Liberum eius amputat uites, crura sua incidit. re uera autem abstemius
fuit—quos constat acrioris esse naturae, quod etiam de Demosthene dic-
tum est
Lycurgus was a king of Thrace, who, as the story goes, out of his contempt
for Liber, cut down his vines and cut his legs off. As a matter of fact, he
was an abstinent, which is known as a trait of ardent nature, which was
also said about Demosthenes.164
Finally, Lycurgus’ hostility towards drinking, this time resulting in his disrup-
tive behaviour, is addressed by Timo (fr. 4 Diels in Ath. 10.445e):
164 According to Demosthenes (6.30; 19.46), his political opponents called him a water-
drinker. It may be of some interest that an association between Demosthenes and Lycur-
gus, the king of Edonians, could be a trace of some humorous tradition that linked this
Lycurgus with his namesake, the Athenian orator contemporary of Demosthenes and, just
like him, an enemy of Macedonian kings. Given that Alexander at some point (perhaps
108 chapter 2
ἠὲ βαρὺν βουπλῆγα τομώτερον ἢ Λυκόοργος,

ὅς ῥα Διωνύσου ἀρρυθμοπότας ἐπεκοπτεν,
ἐκ δὲ ῥυτὰ ῥίπτασκεν ἀπληστοίνους τ᾽ ἀρυταίνας
or heavy double axe and sharper one than [that of?] Lycurgus, which/who
easily struck down the immoderate drunkards of Dionysus and tossed
away drinking-horns and ladles insatiate in wine.
Di Marco (1987) plausibly suggested that Timo’s epigram could have drawn
inspiration from Aeschylus’ Lycurgeia.165 He also observed that the sympotic
setting of the scene described by Timo could echo ἀνδρεῖα στέγη, the hall of
men, most likely mentioned in fragment 124 of the Lycurgus. Despite these
associations, Di Marco contended that the event referred to by Timo was a part
of the tragic trilogy, rather than the satyr drama itself. As an afterthought, he
added that this motif could have returned in Lycurgus, but its original place
was most likely in the same rhesis angelike, in which (probably in the Edonoi)
the murder of king’s family was recounted (Di Marco 1987: 171): nella sua follia
il re tracio non solo (come potevamo finora ipotizzare) aveva ucciso sua moglie e
suo figlio, ma aveva aggredito gli stessi seguaci di Dioniso intenti a celebrare la
vittoria del dio nella sala del palazzo reale.
Although nothing is completely impossible in a fragmentary drama, Di
Marco’s reconstruction seems unnecessarily complicated. In particular, the
idea of Lycurgus invading a drinking party and breaking crockery with the same
axe with which he has just killed his son seems anticlimactic.166 Instead, a much
simpler solution can be proposed. It results from the duplicity of Dionysus, the
god who can wield his power through drunkenness as well as through more
mysterious means. The former clearly belongs to the satyr drama, the latter to
tragedy (for instance, the whole point of the Bacchae seems to be that Dionysus
is not just a god of drunkenness, as Pentheus thought). Both of Dionysius’ modi
operandi can be used in a similar kind of narration concerning a person who
loses control over themselves as a result of either getting drunk or falling in
posthumously) came to be identified with Dionysus, the ground for allusions based on
associations between a water-drinking orator and the mythical enemy of the god must
have been fertile.
165 See also Di Marco 1989: 120–122 (ad loc.); Clayman 2009: 89.
166 Di Marco 1987: 171: non si può dubitare che quella scure fosse la stessa (author’s emphasis)
sotto i cui colpi immediatamente prima erano caduti o immediatamente dopo erano desti-
nati a cadere i familiari del re tracio.
some other manner into the power of the vengeful deity. Even though both can
be serious, stories about drunkenness have strong comic potential, and as such
were often used for humoristic purposes by ancient playwrights. This suggests
that even though Aeschylus in his Lycurgus could return to the same events that
he dramatised in some of the tragedies of the Lycurgeia, it would be natural to
expect him to offer their topsy-turvy version in the satyr play. Thus in the Edonoi
Lycurgus opposed Dionysus for some serious, if not necessarily explicitly stated
reason. This might be contrasted with his views in the Lycurgus: as Hyginus says
(quem cum negaret deum esse uinumque bibisset), in this play Lycurgus simply
disbelieved in the god’s ability to change an innocuous grape juice or a barley
drink into something substantially different. His scepticism made him drink
fermented liquor in excess and get drunk. This is the part of the story to which
fragment 124 may belong.
As I argue below (section 3.2.1), apart from Hyginus, there are three texts
(Plautus’ Captivi 561–563; Schol. in Ov. Ibis 345–346 B,G,P; Hor. C. 1.18.9–11) that
take up the motif of an attempted incest with Lycurgus’ mother. This is specif-
ically described in fabula 132 as a result of excessive drinking. It is likely that
it also featured in the prologue of Naevius’ Lycurgus. Although there is no evi-
dence to such an effect, it is tempting to think that this motif ultimately derives
from Aeschylus’Lycurgus, which is the only play we know of that seems to have
featured Lycurgus misbehaving after alcohol.167
It is possible that Lycurgus decided to cut down the vines when still drunk,
but it is not the only possibility. It is likely that this form of resistance against
Dionysus as well as disrupting drinking parties, as referred to by Timo, belonged
to a subsequent period of his activity in which Lycurgus turned into an aggres-
sive puritan who abhorred alcohol in all forms and regardless of quantities.
This could be the background of the characteristics of Lycurgus formulated
by Plutarch and Servius. At any rate, there is no reason to postulate Lycurgus’
drunkenness in the tragedies, as this motif clearly (even if not necessarily exclu-
sively) belongs to a satyr play.
2.6.2 Further Fragments and Testimony

Apart from the fascinating 124, the fragments of Lycurgus add very little to our
understanding of this play.
167 This motif does not seem to be as horrendous as it may appear at first glance, given that
Lycurgus wanted to violate his mother, but he apparently failed to do so (matrem suam
uiolare uoluisset), perhaps as a result of excessive drinking. Whatever form this part of the
story took, it had a strong comic potential and could belong to a satyr play.
110 chapter 2
125
Αἰσχύλος ἐν Λυκούργωι ἀλληγορικῶς τούς δεσμοὺς κημοὺς εἴρηκε διὰ τούτων

‘καὶ τούσδε κημοὺς στόματος’
Because of this, Aeschylus in Lycurgus figuratively called bonds kemoi

(muzzles):
‘And these muzzles of mouth …’
Deichgräber (1939: 273) thought that someone on stage must have appeared
with a muzzle on his face and was possibly also bound.168 Alternatively, the
whole expression κημοὶ στόματος can be taken as a figure of speech (ἀλληγορι-
κῶς). Its meaning could be parallel to that of δεσμοὶ στόματος in Nonnus’Dionysi-
aca where it refers to an inability (26.261) or unwillingness to speak (42.155).
Although it can only be a matter of conjecture, it is tempting to think that it
referred either to the influence of alcohol or the obligation to keep secrets (per-
haps related to the mystery cult).
126
ἀνέχουσα· ἄνω ἔχουσα, ὡς ἐν Λυκούργωι Αἰσχύλος

‘ἄκουε δ᾽ ἂν᾽ οὖς ἔχων’
ἀντὶ τοῦ ἄνω τὸ οὖς ἔχων
anechousa: holding up, as Aeschylus in Lycurgus: “listen holding your ear

up” instead of “with your ear up”.
For comic purposes someone might have spoken these words to a satyr, a crea-
ture that keeps its ears high by nature.169
Testimonium:
Schol. Theocr. 10.18:
Ἀρίσταρχος ἐν ὑπομνήσει Λυκούργου Αἰσχύλου φησὶ τὴν ἀκρίδα ταύτην, εἰ τινὶ

προσβλέψειε ζώιωι, τούτωι κακόν τι γενέσθαι.
168 See also Hermann 1834: 29; Vysoký 1955: 174; Haupt 1896: 156; Levi 1909: 246–247; West 1990:
48.
169 Deichgräber 1939: 273; Vysoký 1955: 174.
Aristarchus in his commentary on Aeschylus’ Lycurgus says that if some

living creature is looked at by this kind of grasshopper [scil. mantis],
something bad is about to happen to it [the creature].
The passage presupposes that Aristarchus wrote a commentary on the play,

which is otherwise unattested. The play must have mentioned or alluded to
a mantis religiosa. Although it is impossible to determine the character of
this reference, I would like to venture a guess that a kind of wordplay might
have been involved, given that as early as in times of Theocritus (10.18) this
species of insect was known under the Greek name μάντις. This otherwise
denotes a seer, a kind of religious specialist common in tragic poetry (e.g.
Orpheus).
2.7 Appendix i: Euripides’ Bacchae and Its Role in Dionysian Imagery
The fact that the stories of Lycurgus and Pentheus have much in common
with one another was banal already in antiquity.170 This affinity might have
prompted the mutual influence between tragedies that dramatised their sto-
ries, which, in turn, made the association even more natural. Thus scholars turn
to the Pentheus story in its best-known version, that of Euripides, in search
of material that they can use in reconstructions of Aeschylus’ and Naevius’
tragedies about Lycurgus.171 As the discussion of Neavius’ Lycurgus will show,
the influence of the Bacchae on the scholarly tradition was often so strong that
scholars failed to notice that particular fragments do not actually match their
alleged place in a reconstructed plot. This makes the discussion of the influ-
ence of Aeschylus’ Lycurgeia on Euripides’ Bacchae a particularly arduous task,
in which a certain level of circularity seems to be unavoidable. What may assist,
however, is our (unfortunately limited) knowledge about the Pentheus story
before Euripides.
An important clue is provided by a summary of the Euripides’ play (spuri-
ously?) attributed to Aristophanes of Byzantium:
170 See note 1.

171 See Zieliński 1925: 65–68; Deichgräber 1939: 243; Dodds 1960: xxviii–xxx. The habit of using
the Bacchae in reconstructions of the Lycurgus plays is older than that, though its influ-
ence remains unstated. For example, Ribbeck (1875: 55–61) quotes Euripides four times,
without explicitly saying that the structure of the Lycurgus throughout was supposed to
be parallel to the Bacchae. Yet, this is what he implicitly postulates.
112 chapter 2
Διόνυσος ἀποθεωθεὶς μὴ βουλομένου Πενθέως τὰ ὄργια αὐτοῦ ἀναλαμβάνειν,

εἰς μανίαν ἀγαγὼν τὰς τῆς μητρὸς ἀδελφάς, ἠνάγκασε Πενθέα διασπάσαι. ἡ
μυθοποιία κεῖται παρ᾽ Αἰσχύλωι ἐν Πενθεῖ.
When Dionysus was deified and Pentheus did not want to accept his rites,
the god drove his mother’s sisters mad and made them tear Pentheus
asunder. The story is in Aeschylus’ Pentheus.
Of Aeschylus’ play entitled Pentheus only one line survives (fr. 183 Radt), and
although it contains an intriguing reference to blood, it is of little help in recon-
structing the version of the events.172 However, it could be hardly different
from what is said about Pentheus’ death in Aeschylus’ Eumenides 25–26: βάκ-
χαις ἐστρατήγησεν θεός/ λαγώ δίκην Πενθεῖ καταρράψας μόρον (the god lead the
troops of Bacchae, contriving a hare’s fate for Pentheus). This, in turn, is not quite
what happens in Euripides’ play: Dionysus in that version does not act as a mili-
tary leader of the Bacchae (which the verb ἐστρατήγησεν seems to presuppose).
Even more baffling, in the prologue, Dionysus mentions such a possibility (50–
52), but the course of events eventually turns out differently:
ἢν δὲ Θηβαίων πόλις
ὀργῆι σὺν ὅπλοις ἐξ ὄρους βάκχας ἄγειν
ζητῆι, ξυνάψω μαινάσι στρατηλατῶν.
If the city of Thebans in its anger tries to drive the Bacchae from the
mountains with arms, I will engage them in a battle, leading the army of
maenads.
As March in her seminal article (1989)173 has shown, the most probable expla-
nation of these discrepancies is that the statement made by Aristophanes of
Byzantium should not be taken to mean that Euripides followed the Aeschy-
lean version very closely. Accordingly, in Aeschylus, Pentheus was supposed
to be defeated in a battle against Maenads, as the passage in the Eumenides
suggests. It might be also discerned from the vase paintings, which, at least
until Euripides, always show Pentheus as a warrior and do not contain any
hint of his madness or cross-dressing.174 Playing on spectators’ expectations,
172 μηδ᾽ αἵματος πέμφιγα πρὸς πέδωι βάληις.

173 See also March 1990: 49–62; Di Benedetto 2004: 16–18 and ad 50–52; MacLeod 2006.
174 The only picture that is likely to show Pentheus in drag is on an Apulian phiale (British
Museum F133) from ca. 350. See Taplin 2007: 156–158 with a reproduction.
Euripides made several suggestions—including the misleading statement in

the prologue—that the action of the tragedy would take the traditional
course.175 From line 810 on, however, it develops in an unexpected direction,
as Pentheus lets himself be overcome by Dionysian frenzy, dresses as a mae-
nad, and allows Dionysus to lure him out of the city.
As I argue below, these motifs can be traced in Naevius’ Lycurgus, in which
the main hero was lured out of the city in a maenad’s costume. As for Aeschylus’
Lycurgeia, there is no direct evidence for this occurring. This silence, however,
is not decisive. Also, in the case of Pentheus, neither the summary quoted
above, nor Apollodorus’ narration in 3.36, nor Theocritus’ Idyll 26 contain any
reference to the cross-dressing. Perhaps it was less important for ancient writ-
ers than for many contemporary scholars.176 However, what can be taken as a
suggestion that Aeschylus had Lycurgus dressed in woman’s clothes are the ref-
erences to Dionysus’ effeminacy derided by the hero (fr. 61 and possibly 59, 61a).
The tragic irony would be perfect if such an act of verbal aggression against the
god was followed by a complete reversal involving Lycurgus’ transvestism.
There seems to be one more clue. Euripides’ Bacchae is by no means the
first drama that features a man dressing as a woman, given that the same
motif appears in Aristophanes’ Thesmophoriazousae (staged five years before
the Bacchae). In face of the similarity between these scenes, as well as the
fact that the comedy is about Euripides himself, it would be tempting to think
that the Thesmophoriazousae contains a parody of the Bacchae. However, on
chronological grounds this must be excluded.177 Given the centrality of this
motif for the Thesmophoriazousae, it also remains clear that it was not added to
the play after its first production. This made Di Benedetto (2004: 40–41) think
that the comedy provided the model for Euripides,178 which does not seem
plausible, given that tragedies did not usually reuse material from comedies.
Instead, another scenario can be postulated: that both the Bacchae and the
Thesmophoriazousae were influenced by the same play or cycle of plays that
predated them. The Lycurgeia would be a good candidate for this, especially
given that Aristophanes in his comedy made an outward reference to it (134–
145).
175 See also: 228, 231–232, 302–304, 778–785, 796–799; 809.

176 E.g., Seaford 1996: 33; 2006: 53; Bremmer 1999: 193–195.
177 The time and place of the first performance of the Bacchae is a matter of scholarly dispute
(see, e.g., Revermann 1999–2000: 461–462; Scullion 2003), but no scholar postulates a date
earlier than that of the Thesmophoriazousae.
178 Thus, also Susanetti 2016: 296.
114 chapter 2
The other innovation that Euripides introduced to the Pentheus story (ac-
cording to March 1989: 50–52) is that the king was killed by his mother. This is
suggested by the iconography, in which the maenad killing Pentheus is once
inscribed as Galene179 and never as Agaue.180 This is certainly a weak argu-
ment, but its possible consequences are worth consideration. It seems that the
Lycurgeia featured two severed heads: that of Dryas, which was brought onto
the stage by his maddened father who, like Agaue in the Bacchae, only came to
his senses in front of the audience and realised what he had done. The other
head was that of Orpheus. It could have been brought by his mother, a Muse,
who carried it for the funeral. The Bacchae contains what can be thought of as a
combination of these two scenarios. Previous versions of Pentheus’ story could
feature his mother mourning over his head, which she could have brought in
front of the audience just as the Muse did for Orpheus.
Other motifs that the Bacchae shares with the Lycurgeia, which need not
be taken as a result of direct influence, given that they were not confined to
this trilogy, are: (i) the chorus of maenads (in the Bassarai); (ii) the captivity of
Dionysus’ followers; (iii) the epiphany of Dionysus at the end of the play.
As it has been said above (section 2.5.2.1), there is no reason to think that the
palace miracle in the Bacchae was inspired by a similar scene in the Edonoi.
2.8 Appendix ii: Between Lycurgus’ and Pentheus’ Iconography
In the light of what I have said about the content of the Lycurgeia, as well as
its relationship to Euripides, I can offer a new interpretation of the well-known
Attic hydria decorated by the Painter of Louvre, which is now in Villa Giulia in
Rome (Fig. 4; LIMC: Lykourgos i 12 = Pentheus 65; last quarter of the fifth cen-
tury bce). The central part of the decoration consists of two registers: the upper
one features a reclining couple assisted by an Eros who can be quite securely
identified as Dionysus and Ariadne, and the lower register has two statues, one
male and the other female, surrounded by ivy twigs that form a cave. Around
this centre, several maenads are shown moving in evident frenzy. There are also
five satyrs: one of them is pouring wine, while the others are seated in a relaxed
179 Attic red-figure psykter from 520–510 bce (Boston 10.221; LIMC Pentheus 39).
180 The other argument is that the chorus in Euripides’Medea 1228–1230 referred to Ino as the
only woman known to have killed her children. This is, however, far from convincing, if for
no other reason than because the chorus themselves make it clear that their knowledge is
limited (κλύω). See also Segal 1997: 386–387.
figure 4 Attic red-figure hydria, Rome, Villa Giulia 2268
posture. Among these figures some gruesome events are taking place. One of
the maenads, sword in hand, is holding a hare by its front paws. Another, also
armed, has a supine infant on her shoulders and holds it by one leg in such a
way as if it were a bag. There are no clear indications that the child is dead, but
the maenad’s attitude is clearly not mother-like. Not far from her, in front of
the “sanctuary”, a bearded man is holding a double-axe lifted above his head.
To the viewer’s left from him (in front of the man), the headless male body is
116 chapter 2
falling to the ground. Further to the left, a maenad, sword in hand, is moving
away from them. She holds a severed head of a young man or woman.
Since Cultrera’s publication in 1938 (with superb images) the identification
of the man with the double-axe as Lycurgus has not been questioned. The
headless body thus belongs to his son. The other details, however, seem more
problematic. Cultrera interpreted the woman with the head as Agaue and the
maenad with an infant as Ino/Leucothea with Melicertes/Palaemon. Her pres-
ence on the vase would result from her involvement in the killing of Pentheus
in the Euripidean version of the story. The inclusion of Lycurgus in this con-
text, according to Cultrera, resulted from the painter’s confusion. Griffith (1983:
220–221), while ignoring the presence of the maenad with the child, suggested
that the image combined the iconography of Pentheus with that of Lycurgus,
in representing the scene of the murder of Dryas. Kossatz-Deissmann in LIMC
(Pentheus 65) described the scene as a combination of three myths: those
of Pentheus, Lycurgus, and the daughters of Minyas, one of whom would be
shown as carrying her dead child. Kefalidou (2010: 96) and Topper (2015: 150)
combined these two approaches: according to them the man is Lycurgus, killing
his son, whose head in a way inspired by Pentheus’ iconography is shown being
carried by a maenad. The woman with a child can be a Minyad.
The most problematic part of the above interpretations is the identity of
the woman with the child. The inclusion of Ino with Melicertes, though not
completely impossible, seems out of place. The problem with the Minyads is
even more striking because this would be the only extant image of one of them
(apart from the even more problematic LIMC: Pentheus 68, on which below).
The Lycurgeia, as reconstructed above, seems to provide a more natural source
of inspiration for the totality of the image. There is Lycurgus, who decapitates
his son. His head was subsequently carried by someone, perhaps his father, to
the city. There was, however, one more severed head—that of Orpheus who was
beheaded by maenads. Whose head is the one in the picture? Perhaps there was
no simple answer to this, but there is no good reason to think that it must be
that of Pentheus. Also, the maenad with the dead child finds a good parallel in
the child-eater on the hydria from London. As such, it could have been inspired
by the motif of the cannibalistic frenzy in which the Thracians ate their own
offspring. Thus, the whole decorative programme of the vase could derive from
the scenes in the Lycurgeia.
This interpretation, however, must confront three further vases that intro-
duce a variation on related themes. To begin with, we have the red figure Attic
pyxis lid, now in London (the circle of Meidias Painter, around 410 bce, Fig. 5;
LIMC: Pentheus 68): it features Dionysus sitting on a rock next to a woman with
a lyre and another woman standing directly behind him. It seems that one of
figure 5 Attic red-figure pyxis lid, London, British Museum E775
the women is Ariadne.181 They are surrounded by a group of maenads, two of

whom are pulling a fawn by its front and rear paws in the opposite directions,
clearly about to tear it apart. Another maenad is carrying on her shoulder some-
thing that due to the clumsiness of the execution of the image looks like a giant
infant.182
Another vessel from roughly the same period, a red figure Attic pyxis, now in
a private collection in Heidelberg (Fig. 6; LIMC: Pentheus 1), features a seated
male (without attributes), a female with a lyre (Dionysus and Ariadne?), and a
man with two javelins and a net shown between two columns. The hunting gear
181 See Vatin 2004.

182 When taken on its own, the image is ambiguous, as either the dimensions or the child-like
appearance of the person carried by the maenad must be ignored. However, in the face
of the parallel representation of the maenad with an infant on the Villa Giulia hydria, it is
clear that it is a child, not an adult (not Pentheus, then, as Smith (1896: 368) thought).
118 chapter 2
figure 6 Attic red-figure pyxis, Heidelberg, private collection
allows for his identification as Pentheus. Behind him there are several maenads,
two of whom are pulling a fawn in a way very similar to that represented on the
pyxis lid from London.
Finally, the finest of all and probably the latest is the Derveni Crater (about
350bce; Fig. 7). This vessel features the divine couple of Dionysus and Ariadne,
two maenads pulling a fawn, a maenad with a child on her shoulder, and a man
(originally) with two javelins and a net who wears one sandal. The motif of so-
called monosandalism has suggested to Robertson (1972) that the man could be
Lycurgus, who was at least occasionally represented with one foot unshod (see
chapter 5). This seems to make sense as the man on the Villa Giulia hydria in a
similar scene is unlikely to be anyone other than Lycurgus. Yet as Barr-Sharrar
(2008: 149–153) convincingly argued, the hunter on the Derveni Crater has the
attributes typically associated with Pentheus and not with Lycurgus. The same
seems to hold true in the case of the Heidelberg pyxis and the London lid. Thus,
the three latter vases clearly feature Pentheus in a context in which the former
shows Lycurgus.
The comparison between the four images strongly suggests that all of them
were inspired by the same pictorial model or models (which must have been
no later than about 410 bce). Three of them include the maenads with a fawn,
three have the maenad with a child, and three have Pentheus as a hunter, which
is typical for his pre-Euripidean iconography. All of the above depictions have
the divinities in a resting pose in the centre of the composition. Two images
feature Dionysus and Ariadne: one has Dionysus, women with the lyre, and the
standing woman, the other a seated male divinity and a woman with the lyre.
One has, instead of Pentheus, Lycurgus and his son.
What makes the situation more complex is that the identity of the woman
with the lyre is quite problematic for two reasons. First, Ariadne is never oth-
erwise represented with a lyre. Secondly, the London lid has another possible
candidate for the role of Ariadne: the standing woman. If, however, we allow for
the prototype of these images to be inspired by the Lycurgeia, there would be a
place in it for a Muse, Orpheus’ mother. This, however, would make sense only
under the assumption that none of the images that are known to us represents
the original in its totality, but each of them picks some of its elements, juxtapos-
figure 7 Bronze volute crater from Derveni, Thessaloniki, Archaeo-

logical Museum
ing Pentheus with the Muse from the Lycurgeia. Alternatively, one may think
that each of these images combines some elements that originally derived from
two or more images. Such images could have been also initially juxtaposed. For
example, according to Pausanias (1.20.3), the so-called new temple of Dionysus
in Athens was decorated with pictures. Two of those mentioned by Pausanias
one after another represented the punishments of Lycurgus and of Pentheus.
As Robertson (1972: 47) observed, although it seems that the temple was not
built before the mid-fourth century bce, the images might have been older and
initially were perhaps exhibited in some other location. This Dionysiac cycle
could have been a source of inspiration for the vases under discussion.
The liberty with which artists seem to have combined the motifs of the
Lycurgus and Pentheus myths may suggest that the conceptual boundary be-
tween the two was not felt to be particularly strong. This was perhaps prompted
by their mutual influence in drama. Thus, such questions concerning whether
Ariadne or two maenads with a fawn originally belonged to one myth or the
other do not seem to find answers.
Even the maenad with the child could be related to both myths. As I have
already mentioned, it is probable that this motif was influenced by the Lycur-
geia and could have originally featured in depictions of Lycurgus. However, it is
likely that Euripides also referred to it in the Bacchae 754: ἥρπαζον μὲν ἐκ δόμων
τέκνα (they [maenads] stole children from their houses). As Seaford observed
120 chapter 2
(1996: ad loc., clearly polemizing with Dodds (1960: ad loc.)), there is no sugges-
tion in the text that maenads ate children.183 Certainly it cannot be excluded
that there had been a tradition in which maenads kidnapped children out of
an excessive motherly instinct (which may be hinted at in Nonn. D. 45.294–
297). Indeed, the statement that Euripides makes is so laconic that it might
seem absurd unless it is contextualised. This in turn suggests that the audience
could understand it only thanks to their previous familiarity with the motif.
In the light of the more or less contemporary vase paintings discussed here, it
seems that, according to a branch of the tradition known in the late fifth cen-
tury, maenads treated stolen children as they treated animal victims. This motif
might have been known to Euripides’ audience from the Lycurgeia and/or some
of the earlier versions of the Pentheus story.
183 See also Carpenter 1997: 115.
chapter 3
Naevius’ Lycurgus
The Lycurgus is the best-known tragedy of Naevius, as twenty-five of its frag-

ments (around thirty-three lines or parts thereof) have been preserved. Given
that almost all of them were transmitted in the work of the grammarian Nonius
Marcellus, De compendiosa doctrina, there are also some external data regard-
ing the meaning of some words, their grammatical gender, and prosody. There
are, however, no testimonies that speak explicitly about the plot of the play, the
circumstances of its original performance, or any of the sources used by Nae-
vius. It is thus impossible to date the play itself with any more precision than
to the period of Naevius’ theatrical activity (235–201 bce).1
All scholars2 assume that Naevius adapted a Greek play or a trilogy (in the
latter case he would have condensed it into a single drama).3 The author of
the putative source work is either Aeschylus or some other poet, who at least
to a certain degree followed Aeschylus (for further elaboration, see the next
chapter). On traditional readings of the fragments, the tragedy told the story
from the moment when Liber crossed the border of Lycurgus’ kingdom. This
seems to be corroborated by fragment 24, in which the guards of the boundaries
are mentioned (tuos qui celsos terminos tutant). It is thought that these same
soldiers captured and escorted onto the stage Liber and his—most likely—
female followers, who formed the chorus. Lycurgus then interrogated the god
and derided his effeminacy. Subsequently, the captives were sent to some kind
of prison, from which they were miraculously liberated. All editors seem to
agree that the tragedy would not be a tragedy unless Lycurgus were punished.
However, given that no fragments are ascribed to this part of the play, the exact
nature of his fate is unknown. Thus, what is usually taken as the least certain
part of the reconstruction is where the story ended: after the massacre of the
royal family or even later after the king’s death.
In what follows, I offer a radically new reconstruction of the play. A reassess-
ment is necessary for three reasons. First of all, a survey of the fragments,
1 On the dates of Naevius, see Manuwald 2011: 194.

2 Most important reconstructions of the Lycurgus: Spaltenstein 2014: 423–519 and Lattanzi
1994, as well as Klussmann 1843: 107–127; Ribbeck 1875: 55–61; Warmington 1937: 122–135;
Deichgräber 1939: 256–265; Marmorale 1953: 191–198; Pastorino 1957: 35–59; Mette 1964: 51–
54.
3 Trilogy/tetralogy condensed: Ribbeck 1875: 57.

122 chapter 3
especially in the monumental edition, with commentary, of Spaltensein (2014),

who discusses the meagre thirty-three lines of the play with almost 100 pages
of comment, leaves the impression that many fragments have been forced into
their supposed place within the reconstructed tragedy at the cost of ignoring
the meanings that often seem to arise from them. Secondly, an analysis of Plau-
tus’ Captivi 561–563, as well as a newly identified testimony provided by Plautus’
Menaechmi 835–871, may suggest that the play contained scenes that thus far
have not been taken into consideration. Thirdly, a close reading of other texts
and fragments related to the Lycurgus myth and the new reconstruction of
Aeschylus’Lycurgeia allows for an identification of some connections that have
been previously overlooked.
The discussion of the play and the scholarly tradition of its interpretation
will be introduced by a brief exposition of fragment 30–32, which, in my opin-
ion, can be taken as a summary of a large portion of the plot. It might also be
taken as emblematic of the way in which the collective effort of generations
of philologists contributed to the accumulation of conjectures that only blur
the picture, turning this admittedly difficult passage into something even more
obscure.
In sections 3.1.1–9, I discuss the fragments that are rightly or not attributed
to Naevius’ Lycurgus. It appears that almost every one, unless it can be easily
dismissed as spurious (e.g., fr. 52–53), fits neatly with my reconstruction of the
play. However, I will stress that some of the interpretations I offer are highly
speculative, and it is not my intention to build much upon them. Instead, I
introduce them to underline that there are no loose ends in the material.
Before turning to the fragments, it is worth emphasising that, in spite of my
critical attitude, I am profoundly indebted to the scholars who have edited and
commented on fragments of the Lycurgus, especially Spaltenstein (2014) and
Schauer (2012). One of the obvious benefits of writing a few years after them is
that there is no need to adduce all the copious material regarding the history
of research on the subject matter, which they have accomplished more than
adequately. Thus, my footnotes are reduced to the essential minimum.
naevius’ lycurgus 123
3.1 Fragments
3.1.1 Fragment 30–32: Two-legged Birds or Two-legged Worms4
alii
sublime in altos saltus inlicite …
ubi bipedes uolucres lino linquant lumina
On the assumption that in this fragment Lycurgus addresses his soldiers, Warm-
ington in Loeb Edition (1936) translated it as follows:
Go, others of you, lure them up on high

To lofty glades, … wherein these hopping birds
In flaxen toils may leave the light of day
The fragment has been transmitted by Nonius under the lemma inlicere,5 which
is explained as an equivalent of inlaquere (to take in a snare, enmesh, entan-
gle (OLD: s.v. illaqueo)). Although its complement is missing,6 virtually no
scholar doubts that the passage is about luring maenads into some kind of a
trap in order to capture them.7 On this assumption the commentators inter-
pret bipedes uolucres as a figure of speech, a supposed reference to maenads,
whose literary meaning would be two-legged birds.8 This may seem somewhat
surprising given that maenads probably did not die in nets in this or any other
version of the Lycurgus myth. Instead, it seems that close to the beginning
of the play, a group of Bassarids who had been taken prisoner was escorted
in front of Lycurgus’ palace, where they subsequently remained as a cho-
rus.9
4 This section summarises my article (Bednarek: forthcoming a).

5 Inlicire, according to Onions (1895). This does not affect the meaning of the verb, which is
given by Nonius in an explicit manner. For discussion, see Spaltenstein 2014 §1222.
6 According to Lattanzi (1994: ad loc.), the fragment contains one or two lacunae. Unlike Warm-
ington (1936) and Ribbeck (1968), he places the first lacuna after saltus. Another one may
follow the initial alii.
7 Thus Ribbeck 1875: ad loc.; Warmington 1936: ad loc.; Deichgräber 1939: 258; Marmorale
1953: ad loc.; Mette 1964: 54; Lattanzi 1994: ad loc.; Boyle 2006: 43; Spaltenstein 2014: ad loc.
Klussmann (1843: ad loc.) seems to have been the last scholar to think that the person spoken
of in the passage could have been Lycurgus assaulted by the Furies.
8 Düntzer (1837: 433–434) was the last scholar who thought that uolucres were real birds.
9 Ribbeck 1875: 59; Warmington 1936: 123; Boyle 2006: 42. See also commentary on fragment
37–38.
124 chapter 3
What is even more striking, is that such a metaphor as two-legged bird seems
very clumsy. By the definition provided by The Concise Oxford Dictionary of Lit-
erary Terms (2001: s.v.), a metaphor is a figure of speech, in which one thing,
idea, or action is referred to by a word or expression normally denoting another
thing, idea, or action, so as to suggest some common quality shared by the two.
As an example, the dictionary quotes an expression he is a pig. Thus, mae-
nads are birds could be a metaphor. If, however, an expression contains an
additional term or group of terms, their function is typically that of directing
attention towards a feature that is characteristic of the metaphor’s tenor and
unusual for its vehicle.10 Thus, an expression wingless birds can be a metaphor
referring to maenads or other human beings by virtue of the attribution to
birds of a feature of winglessness, which is as typical for human as unusual
for birds. On the other hand, a two-legged bird is simply pleonastic, as it seems
to attribute to a bird a feature that is typical for all birds. This does not trans-
form it into anything closer to a human being, not to mention specifically a
maenad.
This made Klussmann (1843: ad loc.) conjecture that the expression was
understood as referring to the maenads not because of its poetic quality but
due to a convention, according to which maenads were traditionally referred
to as birds. This interpretation, however, is entirely based on Euripides’ Bac-
chae 748 (χωροῦσι δ᾽ ὥστ᾽ ὄρνιθες ἀρθεῖσαι? δρόμωι; like birds upborne by their
own speed (transl. Dodds 1960: ad loc.)), where a sudden movement of a group
of maenads is compared to that of a flock of birds.11 Although this simile creates
a particularly vivid poetic image, it is not enough to prove that there has been
a tradition behind it or that it contributed to the creation of such a tradition.
Moreover, if the word uolucres on its own had been enough to evoke a thiasos of
maenads, the function of the adjective bipedes would be purely ornamental.12
This would be bizarre, given that traditional epithets underline some salient
features of the objects designated by nouns. Thus, a bird can be winged, swift,
or even feathered, but speaking of the number of its legs seems an awkward
choice, which can be defended only under several assumptions about the poet
who made it. On the one hand, it seems to betray his aspirations to the creation
10 For the terms vehicle and tenor, see Richards 1936: 89–138.
11 Interestingly, Dodds, in his commentary on the Bacchae (1960: ad loc.) refers to the frag-
ment of Naevius under discussion as a parallel.
12 Alternatively, as Wormington’s translation quoted above suggests (hopping birds), the
focus on the maenads’ legs can be taken as an allusion to the swiftness with which the
maenads moved. There are, however, better ways of expressing this idea than describing
someone as having two legs.
of a recherché and elevated poetry, but on the other hand it seems to result from
his incapacity to do so. Given that Naevius was one of the first Roman poets,
this does not seem impossible and this is what most scholars seem to overtly or
covertly assume about him. However, we know that his poetry appealed to his
contemporaries and that it was appreciated by wide circles of readers and spec-
tators several generations after his death (see section 3.4). This may be taken as
an indication that it was perhaps not as pretentious and obscure as postulated
by contemporary scholars.13
All the existing interpretations, contrived as they are, could be acceptable
if there had been no alternative explanation for the passage, which is not the
case. All commentators assume that the form uolucres represents either the
adjective uolucer, -cris, -cre (winged) or the noun uolucris, -is, which designates
a winged creature such as a bird. There is, however, a third option—uolucra, -ae.
This noun has an irregular form of a plural nominative attested in Columella
10.333: uolucres.14 As the same author describes it (de arb. 15), genus est ani-
malis, uolucra appellatur; id fere praerodit teneros adhuc pampinos et uuas (there
is a kind of animal, which is called uolucra. It usually gnaws tender vine-shoots
and grapes).15 This animal should be identified as a caterpillar of one or several
butterfly species.16
Now, caterpillars have many legs, which makes of the expression a two-
legged caterpillar a very good metaphor which, by attributing to the animal a
feature which it does not have, transforms it into something different: most
likely, into a human being, which shares some characteristics with this animal.
It is an obvious guess that this two-legged pest of the vine is Lycurgus himself,
or perhaps those who adhered to him.17
This suggestion allows for a completely new interpretation of the fragment.
First of all, given that the speaker displays a hostile attitude to Lycurgus, it is
clear that it must be attributed to some other speaker. Liber and the chorus
13 The alternative interpretation offered by Spaltenstein (2014: §1228), who attributed a

humorous intention to the poet, does not solve the problem. Accordingly, in the lines
under discussion Lycurgus mocked maenads as two-legged birds, which raises a question
as to why he would have chosen such a bizarre expression.
14 Despite the long ū in Columella, the word is scanned as uŏlŭcrēs, which makes it a likely
substitute for the form of the noun uolucris.
15 Text of Rodgers 2010 (Oxford ed.).
16 See Beavis 1988: 132–136.
17 Lycurgus cuts down vines in Apollod. 3.34–35; Plut. 15e; AP 16.127; 9.79; 9.561; Cornutus,
ND 62; Heraclit. All. 35. Latin sources: Propert. 3.17.23; Verg. Ge. 4.329–332; Hyg. Fab. 132;
Serv. ad Aen. 3.14; Sch. Lucan 1.574–576; Schol. Hor. C. 2.19.16.; Sch. Ov. Ibis 345–346; i Myth.
Vat. 2.18.9; ii Myth. Vat. 94.
126 chapter 3
are the most obvious candidates but not the only ones. We cannot, for exam-
ple, rule out that the passage contains Apollo’s oracle (uttered by the god or
reported by someone). Secondly, if the fate of the bipedes uolucres corresponds
to what eventually happened to Lycurgus, it can be read against other testi-
monies for this part of the story. As Apollodorus says, in accordance with the
oracle (ἔχρησεν ὁ θεὸς) the king was led by his subjects to the mountains and
bound (Ἠδωνοὶ δὲ ἀκούσαντες εἰς τὸ Παγγαῖον αὐτὸν ἀπαγαγόντες ὄρος ἔδησαν).
This seems to correspond very neatly to Naevius’ fragment. The place referred
to is characterised as an elevated spot in mountains (sublime in altos saltus),
and the text also seems to mention the bonds (lino). The motif of Lycurgus’
binding is attested to in several texts and images (see section 2.3.1.5).
The expression linquant lumina is usually taken as another figure of speech,
whose meaning would be that of leaving the light of the Sun; that is, dying.18 This
seems to correspond to the death of Lycurgus mentioned by Apollodorus. How-
ever, there is another explanation for it: according to Homer (Il. 6.135), Lycurgus
was blinded before he died. We do not know whether the dramatic version of
the story included this detail, but it is tempting to think that it did. If this were
the case, the word lumina could be used here with the meaning, common in
poetry, of eyes or eyesight (OLD s.v. lumen 9). Thus, linquere lumina can sim-
ply mean to lose one’s eyesight. This seems to correspond also to Menaechmi
840–842 (see section 3.2.2), where burning out someone’s eyes with a torch is
mentioned. Finally, although the text as it stands does not supply the informa-
tion as to who was supposed to be lured to the place where Lycurgus-like worms
meet their destiny (the compliment of the inlicite is wanting), there is no reason
to doubt that it referred to Lycurgus himself. This suggestion finds support in
Apollodorus (αὐτὸν ἀπαγαγόντες) and possibly in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon 1629–
1632 (ἄξηι). Most importantly, however, Nonius makes it clear that the person
in question was not simply led or guided to the mountains but actually lured
there (illaqueo). This suggests that this part of the story could find parallels in
Euripides’ Bacchae, where Pentheus went to the mountains of his own accord
through the artifice of Dionysius.
By combining these elements, whose new interpretation I would like to sug-
gest, the meaning of the fragment could be the following:
You others, lure [him] to the ravines elevated in height, where the worms
that destroy vines shall lose their eyesight (or die) in bonds.
18 See note 103.

If this is the god’s request (either Liber’s or Apollo’s), its fulfilment must have
been the most climactic moment of the play. It is thus probable that all events
were organised in such a way as to lead to it. In what follows, I discuss the other
fragments of the play, in accordance with this central principle deduced from
lines 30–32.
3.1.2 The Request

A demand to fetch Lycurgus is expressed, most notably in lines 55–56:
proinde huc Dryante regem prognatum patre

Lycurgum cette.
Bring ⟨me here⟩ the king Lycurgus, born from his father Dryas
We do not know who is speaking. Ribbeck (1875: 58) thought it was a suitable
way for a messenger who arrived at Lycurgus’ palace to ask someone whom he
met at the door to tell the king to step out of the building. However, the way in
which Lycurgus is described has an epic touch (Spaltenstein 2014: § 1412), which
suggests that these words were spoken with particular emphasis. Since Bothe
(1834: ad loc.) most scholars assume that the speaker is Liber, who demands
Lycurgus be brought to him for punishment. This is very likely the case, yet
there remain some other possibilities worth discussing.
In the form in which the fragment is usually printed, it contains the pro-
noun huc (here, to me), which indicates that the speaker demands Lycurgus be
brought to the place where the words are spoken. However, this unanimously
accepted version of the line is due to an ingenious conjecture of Ribbeck (1875),
who substituted the words proinde huc Druante for the nonsensical paradosis:
proindustriantte. Thus, the huc should not be taken for granted, and so we can-
not rule out that the fragment contained the words of Apollo’s oracle (given
in Delphi?), which instructed the Edonians to deliver their king to Mount Pan-
gaion. It was probably not spoken by Apollo himself, but rather reported by a
messenger.
Lines 27–29 seem to contain a similar request:
uos qui regalis corporis custodias

agitatis, ite actutum in frundiferos locos
ingenio arbusta ubi nata sunt, non obsitu
You, who keep the guard over the kingly person, go quickly to leaf-bearing
places, where plants are born of their own accord, not sown.
128 chapter 3
Although at first glance it may seem that the passage contains a reference
to any place where plants grow of their own accord,19 the way in which the
speaker insists on this suggests that this detail was meaningful. Spaltenstein
(2014 §1213–1216) discusses it extensively, yet he seems to miss the most impor-
tant point: the opposition seems lie not along the lines of being either merely
agricultural or produced by nature, but rather it concerns whether the plants
are agriculturally grown or associated with a divine force, given that the idea
of plants growing “spontaneously” due to Dionysus’ influence is a mytholog-
ical commonplace (e.g., HH 7.40–41) and is pervasive in various accounts of
the Lycurgus story. As has already been said, Statius (Th. 4.386) speaks of a
vine-grove that overpowered Lycurgus (pampineumque iubes nemus inreptare
Lycurgo: you order the vine-grove to creep over Lycurgus),20 and Nonnus (D. 21.
esp. 30–32) makes the Nymph Ambrosia, now turned into a vine, bind Lycur-
gus. He is also said to have been bound by vines in the Tbilisi hymn (49–51),
Lucian’s Dialogi Deorum (22.1), and in the scholia to Antigone 957–958, which
rightly or not claim that this is what Sophocles meant by πετρώδης δεσμός. Apart
from this, there are several representations of Lycurgus overpowered by vines
in visual arts.21 Given too that line 32 (discussed above) indicates that Lycur-
gus was supposed to be captured in bonds (lino), it is irresistible to think that
the passage contains a reference to the place where Lycurgus is due to meet his
end, entangled by plants growing out of divine inspiration.
From Ribbeck on (1875: 58) it has been usually assumed that the speaker of
27–29 is Lycurgus, who sends his soldiers to the forest where they would subse-
quently capture the followers of Liber. This is not impossible. If, however, the
passage is directly related to the fate of Lycurgus, it may contain instructions
given by Liber, someone who speaks in his name, or in the name of the oracle,
and that according to these instructions Lycurgus should be escorted to the
place where the god set the trap.
In accordance with a later usage (e.g., Liv. 24.7.4), uos qui regalis corporis
custodias / agitatis may refer to Lycurgus’ bodyguards, but this is not the only
possibility. As Marmorale observed (1953: ad loc.), a similar expression has been
subsequently used by Ennius in his Medea (fr. 96 Schauer: antiqua erilis fida
custos corporis …) but in reference to Medea’s nurse. Spaltenstein (2014 § 1208)
dismissed the possibility of Naevius’ influence on Ennius because the expres-
sion in Naevius is supposed to refer to soldiers rather than to domestic servants.
However, if we reject Spaltenstein’s circular argument, Ennius can be taken
19 Nonius 506L introduces the passage thus: Ingenio ueteres dixerunt … sua sponte uel natura.
20 Cf. Statius Th. 4.655, 7.180.
21 LIMC: Lykourgos i 35, 41–43, 51, 70–81.
as evidence (regardless of whether or not he was directly influenced by Nae-

vius) that Lycurgus 27–29 could be addressed not only to the king’s bodyguards.
As will become clear in the section on Plautus’ Menaechmi 835–871, it is not
impossible that Lycurgus was actually led away from his palace by his domes-
tic servants, possibly ones of both sexes (perhaps a nurse and a paidagogos?).
3.1.3 The Artifice

As I have said, Liber or Apollo’s oracle not only demanded that Lycurgus be
brought to the mountains, but it also gave instructions on how it should be
done, as the word inlicite in fr. 30–32 presupposes an artifice. This suggests that
Lycurgus could have been lured out of the city as Pentheus was; namely, he
was convinced that he was departing on a mission against his enemies, so he
could dress as a maenad. Although such a reading finds no straightforward sup-
port in the material, there are several clues that make it conceivable. First of
all, it seems that Pentheus’ myth before Euripides did not feature the motif
of transvestism. However, as we can gather from Aristophanes’ Thesmophori-
azousae, it was not unheard of before that. Thus, it is tempting to think that
it originally featured in the story of Lycurgus in its Aeschylean version (see
section 2.7). Moreover, what seems to be a parody of Naevius’ Lycurgus in Plau-
tus’ Menaechmi 835–871 probably involved a crossdressing man who mimicked
Lycurgus’ deranged behaviour (see section 3.2.2). Finally, it seems to find some
support in a series of the Lycurgus fragments, most notably (33–34):
pergite tursigerae bacchae modo

bacchico cum scemate
go/do it in a way of a Bacchant, who carries a thyrsus, in a Bacchic dress.
It was usually assumed that these words were addressed to Bacchants. Thus,
tursigerae bacchae was interpreted as a plural vocative, which left the word
modo outside the construction of the sentence. This led some editors, such as
Ribbeck (1875), to remove it. Others (e.g., Marmorale 1953: ad loc.) take it as an
adverb, which then modifies the imperative, adding a certain aspect of insis-
tence to the whole enunciation. In my interpretation, it should be taken as a
noun and construed with the genitive tursigerae bacchae (OLD s.v. modum 11a).
Accordingly, Lycurgus, and possibly also his followers, were supposed to dress
as maenads and depart for the mountains in search of Liber.
A further piece of information regarding the way in which Lycurgus and pos-
sibly those who accompanied him were supposed to dress may be found in
fragment 39:
130 chapter 3
pallis, patagiis, crocotis, malacis mortualibus22
with mantles, decorative borders, saffron coloured robes, and soft mourn-
ing garments
This line has caused some consternation among editors, who were convinced
that the fragment described real maenads. Surprisingly, the list of typically fem-
inine, shiny, or colourful garments ends with an odd element: mortualia, which
seems to refer to a type of clothing worn by mourners. To make things even
worse, they are described as soft or delicate (malaca). This makes more sense
if the fragment describes Lycurgus and his followers dressed as maenads. Iron-
ically, their drag will assume a funerary role.
Another passage traditionally attributed to this tragedy and thought of as
describing Liber (which is not impossible) might very well refer to Lycurgus
(43):
diabatra in pedibus habebat, erat amictus epicroco
he had (womanish) slippers and was dressed in a transparent garment
The past tense suggests that this passage comes from a narration of the events
that took place offstage. It is a natural guess that it was told by one of the sol-
diers who returned from the mountains and recounted the death of Lycurgus
in drag.
Whether or not Lycurgus left the city in a female garment, two further frag-
ments may refer to the artifice, including line 44:
dic, quo pacto eum potiti: pugna⟨n⟩ an dolis?
Tell us in which way [he should be] overpowered: in a fight or by artifice?
From Bothe onwards (1834: ad loc.), scholars tend to think that these words
were spoken by Lycurgus, who asked his soldiers how they had captured Liber.
If Liber was captured in this tragedy, this makes sense. However, the same ques-
tion could be asked by those who were instructed to capture Lycurgus. Thus,
22 Lennartz (1995–1996: 183–184) suggested that in the time of Naevius the word mortualia
could have a meaning unrelated to clothes and death. This, however, results from a tenden-
tial reading of Gell. 18.7.3 and Pl. As. 808, which ignores the fact that the noun in question
was used there figuratively.
exempli gratia (I do not claim that this has to be the original arrangement of
lines) one can think of the following dialogue composed of lines 55–56 and
44:
proinde huc Dryante regem prognatum patre

Lycurgum cette.
Bring ⟨me here⟩ the king Lycurgus, born from the father Dryas
dic, quo pacto eum potiti: pugna⟨n⟩ an dolis?
Tell us in which way [he should be] overpowered: in a fight or by artifice?
The way in which Lycurgus was supposed to go to his death could be described
in line 45:
sine ferro pecua manibus ut ad mortem meant
like domestic animals go to death [pushed] by a hand with no iron
Admittedly the traditional interpretation, according to which the followers of

Liber who were taken prisoner were compared to animals, cannot be ruled out
(although it is not as certain as Spaltenstein (2014 § 1337) claims).
3.1.4 The Chorus

It is usually assumed that the Lycurgus featured a chorus of maenads. Unfortu-
nately, the only two occurrences (36, 38) of feminine plural in reference to the
speakers themselves are based on editors’ conjectures regarding the identity of
the chorus.23 Thus, all arguments based on such premises would be circular.
Instead, a tentative solution may be suggested by means of a close reading of
lines 37–38:
ut in uenatu uitulantis ex suis

locis nos mittant poenis decoratas feris
Warmington (Loeb 1936) translates:
23 As I argue below, in fragment 36 the form ignoti rather than ignotae is preferable.
132 chapter 3
While they go gladly tripling in chase,

That they may drive us out from their demesnes
Smartened by savage punishments.
The passage has attracted much scholarly attention. Given that manuscripts
have the form decoratus, which has been unanimously rejected in favour of dec-
oratos and, in more recent editions (from Ribbeck 1875 on), decoratas, it is far
from obvious who is speaking the lines. What is certain is the meaning of the
word uitulantis, which, according to Nonius (21L), in this context means gau-
dentes. Most likely it is an accusative, which accords with nos (for discussion,
see Spaltenstein 2014 §1275). Apart from a first person plural pronoun, there
are also third person plural nouns in the passage, which suggests that it is about
maenads and soldiers (as there seem to be no other homogenous groups in the
Lycurgus). Both could hunt and both could send or chase away the others from
the place that belonged to them. Who is acting upon whom, then?
What seems decisive to me are the last three words which, thus far, have
not been interpreted in a convincing way. Apart from those few scholars who
thought that poenae ferae are [skins of ] purple beasts (for discussion, see Spal-
tenstein 2014 §1280–1281), most take poenae as something that afflicted mae-
nads; perhaps suffering or wounds (resulting from whipping). This, however,
fits awkwardly with decoratas (Warmington translates the phrase: smartened
by savage punishment), among other factors, because the word decorare seems
to have only positive connotations. Instead, I think that one may interpret the
word decoro as having the meaning given in OLD 2: to add honour to, glorify,
honour; and poena as in OLD 2: satisfaction for an injury, revenge. Thus, I trans-
late the fragment as follows:
so that they send us away from their quarters for a hunt, in which we
rejoice, honoured with cruel satisfaction [for previous sufferings]
This makes sense in the story in which the maenads, when taken prisoner, suf-
fered from an abuse inflicted by Lycurgus. When released, they will be sent back
from the place held by soldiers to the wilderness, where they will rejoice in
hunting (as in the Bacchae 135–141). Before that, however, Dionysus will take
cruel revenge on Lycurgus, which the maenads anticipate eagerly. Given the
modality indicated by ut with the subjunctive verb, the fragment may come
from any part of the play between the capture and release of the maenads, who
are being held prisoner at the moment of speaking.
Thus, the maenads were likely to have appeared on stage. Therefore, it
seems reasonable to subscribe to the communis opinio, according to which they
formed the chorus. This has further consequences for the reconstruction of
the plot and the identification of the Greek model adapted by Naevius. Given
that the play should have begun shortly before the maenads who were taken
prisoner were brought on stage and that it ended with Lycurgus’ death (which
meant their liberation), it seems that the Roman play covered the same part
of the story as Aeschylus’ Bassarai, which featured a similar chorus of female
followers of Dionysus.
3.1.5 A Good Advisor and Lycurgus’ Lesson

Ribbeck (1875), followed by many subsequent editors, arranged three separate
fragments into something that resembles a dialogue:
48:
[A]: caue sis tuam contendas iram contra cum ira Liberi
if you please, do mind not to strive against the wrath of Liber
49:
[B]: ne ille mei feri ingeni atque animi acrem acrimoniam
or he will [face?] relentless vigour of my spirit and my fierce disposition
50–51:
[A]: oderunt di homines iniuros.—[B]: egone an ille iniurie

facimus?
gods abominate unjust men.

Do I act in an unjust way or does he?
Ribbeck identified speaker A as Liber incognito (like in Euripides) when inter-

rogated by Lycurgus, speaker B. In the context of what is known about Lycurgus,
the idea that despite someone’s warnings he kept threatening Liber seems irre-
sistible. A little more problematic is the identity of his interlocutor (who does
not have to be one person, given that each of the passages can come from a
different part of the play). For example, Bothe (1834: ad loc.) attributed line 48
to a friend of Lycurgus (amicus aliquis). Such a person could be identical with
Lycurgus’ good advisor in Aeschylus’ version; that is, Orpheus, his father, or
134 chapter 3
even his grandfather. The existence of someone who tried to dissuade Lycurgus
from acting against Liber seems to find confirmation also in Plautus’ parody in
the Menaechmi 835–875, which features a woman (nurse? wife?) and an old
man (paidagogos?). Finally, a warning could have been uttered by virtually any
character, including the hostile chorus.
In Ribbeck’s version the dialogue above is immediately followed by line 58,
which may contain its conclusion:
sed quasi amnis † cis † rapit, sed tamen inflexu flectitur
but, like a † swift (?) † river it/he rushes, but then twists at a curve
The line is problematic because it is quoted by Nonius (282 L) to prove that

Naevius used amnis as a feminine noun. Such a claim would be normally sub-
stantiated by the quotation of a passage in which the noun is construed with
a feminine adjective, which is not attested in manuscripts. Most editors sus-
pect that such an adjective has initially followed the noun and put it in the
place of cis. Thus, for example, Bücheler has amnis cita, and Ribbeck suggests
amnis celeris. No scholar seems to doubt that the line contains a figure of
speech and most of them24 agree that it refers to Lycurgus, who, despite his
vehement nature, would eventually come to understand his error. This clearly
corresponds to the learning through ordeal motif, which is central to Antigone
955–965 and Agamemnon 1629–1632.
3.1.6 Rheseis Angelikai and the Locus Amoenus

Line 40 has been attributed by Ribbeck (1875) to a rhesis angelike, in which one
of Lycurgus’ soldiers refers to their emotions while spying upon the maenads:
iam ibi nos duplicat aduenientis timos, pauos
already there, as we approached, we bent double out of dread and fear
As is the case with many of Ribbeck’s (1875) ingenious conjectures, this one is
very tempting, but it should not be taken for granted. True, I find irresistible
the idea of interpreting the tense in the passage as praesens historicum, which
locates the line in a narration of some past events and highlights its emotional
import. As such, the line seems to have preceded the moment in which a ter-
24 With the exception of Deichgräber (1939: 257) and Mariotti (1974); see also Spaltenstein
2014 § 1430–1431.
rifying event occurred or, despite the speaker’s expectations, did not occur. Fol-
lowing Ribbeck, one may think that the soldiers who arrived in the place where
they expected to see the followers of Liber were either assaulted by them or
found them unexpectedly calm and composed. If the latter were the case, this
is where fragment 41–42 seems to fit:
nam ut ludere laetantis inter sese uidimus † praeter amnem

creterris aquam sumere ex fonte […]
for we saw them playing with each other on the other side of the stream,
as they drew water from a spring with rejoicing craters
The use of the verb uideo in the perfect tense indicates that the fragment comes
from a narration of a person who speaks in the name of a group (in a plural
form, similar to the one in line 40). How many narrations of this kind were
there in the play? At least two, and in one of them the death of Lycurgus
was recounted. Given its complexity (which will be addressed in the section
on Menaechmi 835–871), it is unlikely that there was enough space in it for a
description of maenads playing in an idyllic setting. Even though we know from
the Bacchae that their peacefulness was sometimes only apparent and that
when disturbed they could become dangerous, it seems that maenads played
no role in killing Lycurgus. A much more suitable place for it would be thus
in the other rhesis angelike. Such a narration could be put into the mouth of a
soldier who escorted the chorus of maenads to the space in front of the palace.
Line 40, on the other hand, could come from any of the messenger speeches.
The first messenger speech could possibly contain a reference to the soldiers
who captured maenads in line 24:
tuos qui celsos terminos tutant […]
Those who keep the guard of your lofty boundaries
This line must have been spoken to Lycurgus, as there seems to be no other
character who could be addressed as the possessor of boundaries. This mes-
senger speech could also contain a mention of the songs sung by the maenads
(35):
[…] suauisonum melos
sweet-sounding song
136 chapter 3
Admittedly, however, this fragment could fit many other parts of the play,
especially if Orpheus played a role in it. The same first rhesis angelike might
have contained line 25:
alte iubatos angues in sese gerunt
they are carrying on them high-crested serpents
As Lattanzi states (1994: ad loc.), no one doubts that the line describes maenads.
What is controversial is whether the paradosis iugatos should be substituted
with iubatos (high-crested), as suggested by de Jonghe in his 1565 edition of
Nonius. Those few editors who retain the manuscript reading are at pains to
explain its meaning. Thus, Klussmann (1843: ad loc.) interpreted the expression
as a reference to the way in which maenads wore the serpents attached high to
their bodies. Marmorale (1953: ad loc.) suggested that the serpents referred to as
iugati were entwined, perhaps forming crowns worn by the maenads. As Spal-
tenstein observes (2014: ad loc.), both interpretations seem forced. Perhaps a
good way out of the difficulty is to give up the idea that serpents had to be worn
by maenads. Instead, the word iugatos can be taken in its meaning related to
viticulture (OLD: s.v. 1.b). Thus, the meaning of the line would be this: they [e.g.,
trees] carry on them serpents supported on high [horizontal bars]. Even though
at first glance such an interpretation may seem absurd, it should be noted that
vine shoots are similar to snakes. This indicates that they may be spoken of
figuratively as snakes, or that they may be confused with them by a person mad-
dened by Dionysus. Interestingly, in the Tbilisi hymn (29) Lycurgus is actually
said to have thought himself assaulted by serpents that were a product of his
hallucinations.25
25 Already Bothe (1834: ad loc.) turned attention to the similarity between this passage and
Horace’s carmen 2.19.18–20: tu separatis uuidus in iugis/ nodo coerces uiperino/ Bistonidum
sine fraude crinis. Rudd in the Loeb edition (2004) translates it as follows: on lonely moun-
tain tops, soaked with wine, you [Bacchus] bind the Bistonian women’s hair with a harmless
knot of vipers. Given that these lines almost immediately follow a reference to Lycurgus,
that the Bistones in Roman poetry often stand for Thracians in general, and that some
authors (e.g., Serv. in Aen. 3.14) claimed that the events of the Lycurgus myth took place
among them, it is likely that the passage in Horace was influenced by a text about Lycurgus,
perhaps Naevius’ tragedy itself. Curiously enough, the passage is (intentionally?) ambigu-
ous, given that the noun iugum can assume the meaning OLD 6a: a horizontal bar for
training vines, and crinis might be OLD 3: a vine shoot (cf. Col. 10.182).
3.1.7 Quadrupeds: Another Hallucination?

Fragment 46–47 is quoted by Nonius (14 L) as an illustration of the use of the
adjective mutus: onomatopoeia est incertae uocis, quasi mugitus. nam mutus
sonus est proprie, qui intellectum non habet. Naeuius Lycurgo:
ducite eo tum argutis linguis mutas quadrupedis […]
mutus: a word that imitates sound of an unspecified voice, such as moo-

ing, as mutus is, properly speaking, a sound, which carries no meaning.
Naevius in Lycurgus:
then lead there quadrupeds that produce unarticulated voices with
their tongues that make sharp sounds.
Almost all scholars26 assume that the passage is about maenads, as the femi-
nine form of the adjective mutas suggests. Thus Ribbeck (1875: ad loc.) stated
that the word quadrupedis referred to the way in which they moved with hands
and legs bound together. Following him, Deichgräber (1939: 259) cited a passage
in Terence (Andria 865) in which a way of binding is referred to as quadru-
pedis constringito. This, however, prevents a person from standing, walking, and
dancing. It is thus unlikely that maenads, who formed the chorus, were sup-
posed to be led somewhere in such an awkward condition. Even less convincing
is the conjecture put forward by Marmorale (1953: ad loc.): evidentemente il
messo deve aver detto di aver veduto quegli esseri strani in atto di camminare a
volte su quattro zampe e a volte quasi volare come ucelli (a reference to fragment
30–32).
To make things worse, it is difficult to tell why maenads are supposed to
produce unarticulated voices. Klussmann (1843: ad loc.) connected this pas-
sage with fragment 57 of the Edonoi, in which some instruments that produce
animal-like sounds are mentioned (ταυρόφθογγοι μῖμοι). This association seems
worth considering. However, in the Aeschylean fragment these instruments
are used by male followers of Dionysus and not by women. Klussmann’s state-
ment that maenads would also moo adds some unnecessary confusion, as he
substantiates this claim with Bacchae 691, in which women hear the sound
of (real) oxen but do not produce it themselves. Although he recognised this
confusion, Spaltenstein (2014 §1351) added to it, by stating that the maenads
who produced Bacchic cries on stage could be taken as mutas but with argutis
26 As exceptions, Düntzer (1837: ad loc.) thought that quadrupedes were lions and panthers,
whereas Müller (1885: ad loc.) suggested sacrificial beasts.
138 chapter 3
linguis at the same time, puisque ces femmes sont bruyantes, mais incompre-
hensible. As an example of these incomprehensible cries, Spaltenstien gives a
reference to Bacchae 576 sqq., which, however, does not contain anything that
falls close to mutus as Nonius defines it (ἰώ/ κλύετ᾽ ἐμᾶς κλύετ᾽ αὐδᾶς/ ἰώ βάκ-
χαι, ἰώ βάκχαι). Contrary to this statement, unless they were not only bound
but also gagged (which is unlikely in case of the chorus), maenads could be
described as quadrupeds that produce unarticulated sounds only as a result
of some confusion. Paradoxically, such confusion is not impossible: there is
a parallel in Bacchae 920–922 where Pentheus states that Dionysus incognito
unexpectedly started resembling a bull. Similarly Lycurgus, just before he left
for the mountains, could address his guards asking them to fetch there in a due
course (tum)27 also a herd of beasts, perhaps intended for sacrifice.28 When
saying this, he could make gestures that indicated that by beasts he meant mae-
nads, who—possibly—played tympana or some other instruments that made
an animal-like sound. Importantly, however, their appearance should have had
nothing evocative of quadrupeds. Just like in the case of the Bacchae, where
Pentheus saw what could not be seen, such a confusion would provide the audi-
ence with a clear indication of the main hero’s deranged condition.
3.1.8 The Palace Miracle: Social Discord or What?

Line 54 has been transmitted in an erroneous form late longeque trans nostros
feruere, which, Ribbeck (1875) corrected into:
late longeque transtros nostros feruere
our beams are burning far and wide.
According to Ribbeck this is a reference to Lycurgus’ dwelling destroyed by a

fire caused by Liber. This is not impossible in itself, but, given that there is no
reason to postulate a palace miracle in the Aeschylean version of the play (see
27 Most editors (with the exception of Marmorale (1953)), following the Aldine edition from
1513, substitute cum for tum. This, as Lattanzi (1994: ad loc.) argued, is unnecessary, because
an ablative without cum defends itself. According to Spaltenstein (2014 §1354) tum could
have the meaning given by OLD 2 and refer to the future. Thus, it could be construed with
ducito which is transmitted in some manuscripts rather than ducite. This would slightly
change the interpretation of the fragment, as it would mean that Lycurgus (if he is the
speaker) addresses a single person, perhaps the captain of his guards rather than a group
of soldiers.
28 For the associations between Dionysus’ followers and a heard of oxen, see Bremmer 2021:
111.
section 2.5.2.1), there is also no need to think that it featured in Naevius’ tragedy.
For this reason two other interpretations seem more attractive. According to
Klussmann (1843: ad loc.), a word, perhaps fines or terminus, with which trans
was construed, dropped off the manuscripts. On the other hand, Bothe (1834:
ad loc.), subsequently followed by most editors, suggested that the line should
have contained Thraces nostros or traces nostros. Its meaning would be thus:
all across the country, our Thracians are in frenzy. Both versions are generally
thought to contain a reference to the proliferation of Liber’s cult among the
Thracians. This is temping, but another possibility is provided by the newly
identified motif of the cannibalism epidemics in Aeschylus’Lycurgeia (see sec-
tions 2.4.6–7). Although we do not know whether Naevius included a reference
to it in his tragedy, it is possible that the figurative way in which the word fer-
uere is used alludes to a more disturbing condition than religious zeal.
3.1.9 Further Fragments

The meaning of fragment 57 is difficult to grasp, due to the lack of context:
uos, qui astatis opstinati […]
you, who stand still obstinate
Thus far, virtually all possible interpretations have been proposed (see Spal-
tenstein 2014: ad loc.). Unfortunately, it is impossible to tell whether those
addressed in the line are surrounding someone, be it the speaker or someone
else, in a literary way, with friendly or hostile intentions, or if figuratively, they
adhere to someone? We do not know either whether the word opstinati has pos-
itive or negative connotations (the synonyms given by Nonius 208L, obfirmatus,
perseverans, are not much help). It would certainly be tempting to think that
Liber addresses those who had not joined him. Alternatively, Lycurgus could
be speaking to those who had not betrayed him or had not gone mad like the
rest of the Edonians (cf. fr. 54).
Line 36 is no less mysterious:
ignoti iteris sumus, tute scis
we don’t know the way, but you do
The line is traditionally printed with the feminine form (ignotae) under the
assumption that the speakers are maenads. However, the masculine form
140 chapter 3
(ignoti) is also attested in manuscripts. From Klussmann on (1843: ad loc.)

scholars assumed that the group who confesses to be lost must be followers
of Liber. It is possible that longing for the leader was thus expressed by the
chorus. On the other hand, the idea of the maenads asking Lycurgus or one of
his soldiers for directions seems at best grotesque, especially if they were kept
prisoner.
An interesting alternative was proposed by Bertini (1972),29 who conjectured
that the speakers (or those in whose name someone is speaking) could be
Lycurgus’ guards. Although it is a matter of sheer speculation, I find it tempt-
ing to think that this could be a part of the Edonians’ stratagem to lure the king
from the city. When they are sent by Lycurgus to the place in the mountains
where they were supposed to capture Liber, they could pretend that they did
not know the way and ask him to lead the expedition.
Fragment 59 is quoted by Nonius (526 L) as an illustration of the statement that

liquidum … significant molle et fluxum:
iam solis aestu candor quoi liquesceret
when the whiteness was already dissolving under the heat of the Sun
Düntzer (1837: ad loc.) thought that the line referred to the advent of spring,
when the masses of snow referred to as candor melt. According to Warming-
ton (1936: ad loc.), candor stood for frost, which suggests that the line described
the beginning of a day rather than the shift of seasons. Both these interpreta-
tions share the common weakness pointed out already by Klusmmann (1843:
ad loc.), who observed that the word candor is never attested as a synonym for
snow (or frost, for that matter). Yet, all other hypotheses (see Spaltenstein 2014:
ad loc.) seem far less convincing.
Fragment 26 is fascinating because of the way in which it has been transmitted

in Nonius’ manuscripts (283 L):
arua … feminine [scil. genere]. Naevius Lycurgo †lib. ii†30 quaque ince-
dunt, omnis aruas opterunt
29 Spaltenstein (2014 § 1263) unjustly, in my opinion, stated that such a conjecture is too
absurd to be discussed.
30 Alternatively, libro ii is also attested.
field … feminine. Naevius in Lycurgus †book 2† wherever they pass, they

tread all fields
Given that an indication of the book number is nonsensical in the context of a

tragedy, the conjecture formulated already by Mercier (1583) seems irresistible:
lib. ii should be taken as a part of the fragment, mistakenly interpreted by a
copyist as a piece of metatextual information. Thus, Mercier printed: Liberi,
quaqua incedunt … Another question is whether Liberi (or liberi) is to be taken
as the name of the divinity or an adjective, which refers to free people, perhaps
his followers. Finally, the fact that in the place of expected i the manuscripts
have ii leaves space for conjecture.31
Unfortunately, none of the reconstructions I am aware of seems fully con-
vincing. What seems important in the present context is that the passage con-
tains a reference to arable land that is devastated by someone (or, less likely, by
something, e.g., vines). Quite reasonably, it is usually assumed that those who
were said to tread fields were the followers of Liber. Although it does not really
look like the description of a pest that deprives the country of all its crops, it
seems telling that the fragment contains a reference to fields. It may thus have
something to do with the barrenness of the land mentioned by Apollodorus
(see especially section 2.4.6).
Fragment 52–53 probably does not belong to the Lycurgus:
ut uideam Volcani opera haec flammis fieri flora […]
so that I see these things becoming light in flames by work of Hephaestus
The context of the quotation in Nonius’ work makes this passage problem-
atic. The manuscripts quote it after the following heading: Fimbriae sunt omnis
extremitas. Naevius Lycurgo … Given that the fragment does not contain the
word fimbriae, whose use it was supposed to illustrate, there are two possibil-
ities. Iunius in his edition of Nonius (1565) suggested a restitution of this word
in the fragment: fimbriis fieri florida. Most editors (following Mercerus’ edition
31 On various conjectures, see especially Spaltenstein 2014: ad loc. and Lattanzi 1994: ad loc.
It is worth mentioning that Klussmann (1843: 109) suggested that Nonius might have writ-
ten Lycurgo lib. ii, thus referring to the fact that Naevius’ Lycurgus was an adaptation of
the second part of Aeschylus’ tetralogy. Such a reference, however, would be unparalleled
unless we accept Klussmann’s interpretation (ibid.) of Priscian’s GL ii 400: Naevius in iii
Hectore proficiscente etc. (Spaltenstein 18; Sch. 15).
142 chapter 3
from 1583), however, suspect that there is a lacuna between the heading and
the fragment. Thus, Lindsey in his edition (1903) suggested that after the words
Fimbriae … Lycurgo a portion of text which contained a citation from Naevius
was lost. This could happen if the copyist’s eye were attracted by similar words
in another entry beginning with flora, followed by the definition and informa-
tion about the source of the quotation: Naevius Lycurgo.
However logical it may seem, this conjecture presupposes that two quota-
tions from the Lycurgus were so close to one another in Nonius’ work that a
copyist’s eye could accidentally slip from one to the other. This is not impos-
sible but seems unlikely: almost all of the twenty-three quotations from the
Lycurgus in Nonius are separated from one another by several pages. The only
exceptions are 58 and 26, printed by Lindsey on two adjacent pages (282 and
283) and separated by four lemmas and thirteen quotations from other authors.
Therefore, if a lacuna occurred after Naevius Lycurgo, it is most probable that
the citation that follows it does not come from this tragedy.
If, despite all these problems, the attribution of the fragment to the Lycurgus
is to be maintained, its place within the tragedy is difficult to establish. Ribbeck
(1875) thought it came from a scene analogous to that of the palace miracle in
the Bacchae. Although not impossible, this is unlikely, as the Lycurgus probably
did not feature such a scene (see above). On the other hand, it remains possi-
ble that the line was spoken by Lycurgus, who intended to destroy the vine by
means of fire (thus already Klussmann 1843: ad loc.), which is hinted at in Non-
nus’ Dionysiaca 21.135–146.
3.2 Beyond Fragments
Many fragments discussed above, due to their lack of context and textual prob-
lems, remain virtually meaningless. Surprisingly, however, some passages con-
vey relatively clear meanings that strongly suggest the presence of some motifs
that, thus far, have not been thought of as belonging to the Lycurgus. This is the
case for fragment 30–32 and to a lesser extent for fragments 27–29, 33–34, and
37–38.
Before I attempt a reconstruction of the play, two external testimonies
should be considered. One of these has been long recognised but never fully
explored, whereas the other has been almost completely ignored by scholars.
3.2.1 Plautus’ Captivi 561–563: Lycurgus’ Mother

In this comedy, the slave Tyndarus, who impersonates his own master, is recog-
nised by a young citizen of Elis, Aristophontes, his real masters’ friend. Trying
to avoid being exposed in front of Hegio the slave makes a desperate attempt
to denigrate Aristophontes (547–550):
Tyndarus: Hegio, hic homo rabiosus habitus in Aelide,

ne tu quod istic fabuletur auris immittas tuas.
nam istic hastis insecutus est domi matrem et patrem,
et illic isti qui insputatur morbus interdum uenit …
Tyndarus: Hegio, this man was considered a lunatic in Elis, so don’t give
an ear to his fantasies. He assaulted his mother and father at
home with spears and sometimes he suffers from the illness
that is spat upon.
As the scene develops, Hegio, still convinced by Tyndarus’ deception, states that
Aristophontes claimed to be his (or rather Tyndarus’ master’s) friend (561–563):
Hegio: at etiam te suom sodalem esse aibat.

Tyndarus: hau uidi magis.
et quidem Alcumeus atque Orestes et Lycurgus postea
una opera mihi sunt sodales qua iste.
Hegio: He also said that he was your friend.

Tyndarus: Certainly! Also Alcumeus, Orestes, and then Lycurgus are my
friends in the same way as he is!
In his commentary on line 562, Smith (1985) writes: Alcumeus, Orestes, Lycur-
gus: three madmen of legend. Alcumeus and Orestes both killed their mothers;
Lycurgus was driven mad by Dionysus.32 This is certainly correct, but it shall be
observed that these three are by no means the only famous madmen of legend
(Heracles, Ajax, and Pentheus immediately come to mind as further examples),
nor is madness the only motif that made Orestes and Alcumeus/Alcmaeon
famous. This suggests that the links between these characters could have been
more complex. What makes the connections more plausible is that Tyndarus
implicitly likens with these figures the man who allegedly not only went mad,
but also assaulted his parents (hastis insecutus est domi matrem et patrem). This
32 Virtually the same statement is made by all commentators: Hallidie 1900: ad loc.; Lind-
say 1915: ad loc.; Brix, Niemeyer, Köhler 1930: ad loc.; de Melo in his Loeb ed. 2011: ad
loc.
144 chapter 3
is paralleled by the motive of matricide, which is common to the Orestes and

Alcumeus/Alcmaeon myths. Is then the Lycurgus story an odd element in this
sequence? Not necessarily.
There are several relevant passages:
1) Hyginus’ fabula 132
Lycurgus Dryantis filius Liberum de regno fugauit; quem cum negaret

deum esse uinumque bibisset et ebrius matrem suam uiolare uoluisset,
tunc uites excidere est conatus, quod diceret illud malum medicamen-
tum esse quod mentes immutaret. qui insania ab Libero obiecta uxorem
suam et filium interfecit …
Lycurgus, the son of Dryas, chased Liber away from his kingdom. As he
denied his divinity and drunk wine, he got drunk and intended to rape
his mother. Then, he tried to cut down the vines, as he claimed that it
[wine] was a poison, since it alters the mind. In a rage inflicted by Liber,
he killed his son and wife …
2) Scholia in Ovid’s Ibis 345–346 B, P and G (La Penna) of which the former
reads:
Lycurgus, Dryantis filius, qui sibi crura incidit, uel quia uites Bacchi extir-
pauit uel quia cum matre concubuit, uecors effectus uno semper nudo
pede ambulabat, quod tangit Horatius.
Lycurgus, the son of Dryas, who cut off his own legs, either because he
destroyed the vines of Bacchus, or because he slept with his mother, was
overcome by frenzy and was always walking with one bare foot, to which
Horace alludes.
3) Following the suggestion of the above scholia, one may think of Horace’s
Carmen 1.18.9–11 as a passage that most likely contains an allusion to the
motive under discussion:
[ne quis modici transiliat munera Liberi]

… monet Sithoniis non leuis Euhius,
cum fas atque nefas exiguo fine libidinum
discernunt auidi
[That no one should exceed the limits of the gifts of moderate Liber]
reminds Euhius, not that gentle to Sithonians, when in their immoder-
ate passion they draw too fine a line between legitimate and illegitimate
desires.33
In passages 1 and 2, Lycurgus is said to have fornicated (or attempted to) with
his mother. Passage 3 seems to contain an allusion to this (which shows that the
story was known as early as the time of Horace). Hyginus’ version insists not so
much on the erotic intent as on the violence involved (uiolare uoluisset). This is
natural given that whatever Lycurgus’ condition was, his mother was probably
sane and sober enough to try to fend off her son’s advances. This means that
Lycurgus belongs to the series of characters who assaulted their own mothers.
As transpires from the passage in Hyginus, just like the madness of Orestes and
Alcumeus/Alcmaeon, Lycurgus’ madness could be taken as the result of this
act.
Under the assumption that the allusion made by a Plautine character must
have been relatively easy for the audience to grasp, the passage may indicate
that the motif of the intended rape of Lycurgus’ mother by her son was already
present in Naevius, the only early Roman tragedy on this subject known to us.
3.2.2 Plautus’ Menaechmi 835–871

One of the main heroes of Plautus’ Menaechmi (835–871), while trying to scare
two strangers off, pretends to suffer from mental disturbances. The scene is
rather complex and difficult to analyse because, among other reasons, the text
consists of four distinct layers:
33 The Sithonians were one of the Thracian tribes; Strabo (7a.1.11) says that they belonged
to the Edonians. Thus, the story alluded to clearly took place in Thrace. The illegitimate
desires, as Nisbet and Hubbard (1970: ad loc.) observe, can be associated with Lycurgus’
intention to rape his own mother (thus already by Long and Macleane (1853: ad loc.)).
However, according to them, it is more probable that Horace had in mind the story of
Sithon, a mythical king of the Sithonians, who fell in love with his daughter. His story,
which is parallel to that of Oenomaus, is best known from Nonnus’ Dionysiaca (48.90–
237; see also: Parth. 6; Steph.Byz. s.v. Παλλήνη; Theagenes FGH 774 F 17; Hegesippus FGH
391 F 2; Tzetz. in Lycophr. 583, 1161, 1356; Conon FGH 26 F 1.10; Lightfoot 1999: 403–407).
Although this tale exemplifies the dangers of illegitimate desires, its attested versions do
not mention any kind of excess in enjoying the gifts of Dionysus. Therefore, the story of
Sithon can hardly be taken as an adequate illustration of the thesis advocated by Horace.
On the other hand, the Lycurgus myth, as transmitted by Hyginus ( fab. 132), points pre-
cisely in this direction, given that the Thracian king is said to have attempted the rape of
his mother under the influence of wine.
146 chapter 3
1) The words that belong to the “madman” whom Menaechmus pretends to

be,
2) The words of the metatextual commentary that the comic hero addresses
to the audience. These utterances are not supposed to contain symptoms
of madness (e.g., 846–847, possibly 853–854).
3) The words that seem to confuse to comic effect the pretended delusions
that derive from the mythical sphere with the contemporary reality of the
hero. I suspect that this is the case, for example, for line 839.
4) The words of other characters.
In the text quoted below, I underline what seems to belong to the first and third
categories (given that it seems impossible to draw a neat distinction between
them):34
835 Meneachmus: †euhoe Bacche,† Bromie, quo me in siluam uenatum uocas?

audio, sed non abire possum ab his regionibus,
ita illa me ab laeua rabiosa femina asseruat canes,
poste autem ille †Cercops alius† qui saepe aetate in sua
perdidit ciuem innocentem falso testimonio.
Senex: uae capiti tuo.
840 Menaechmus: ecce Apollo mihi ex oraculo imperat,
ut ego illi oculos exuram lampadibus ardentibus.
Matrona: perii, mi pater, minatur mihi oculos exurere.
Senex: filia, heus!
Matrona: quid est, quid agimus?
Senex: quid si ego huc seruos cito?
845 ibo, adducam qui hunc hinc tollant et domi deuinciant,
prius quam turbarum quid faciat amplius
Menaechmus: enim ⟨h⟩aereo:
ni occupo aliquid mihi consilium, hi domum me ad se auferent.
pugnis me uotas in huius ore quicquam … parcere,
ni a meis oculis abscedat in magnam malam crucem.
faciam quod iubes, Apollo.
850 Senex: fuge domum quantum potest,
ne hic te optundat.
Matrona: fugio. amabo, adserua istunc, mi pater,
ne quo hinc abeat. sumne ego mulier misera quae illaec audio?
Menaechmus: hau male illanc amoui; ⟨amoueam⟩ nunc hunc impurissumum,
34 Text and translation by De Melo, Loeb edition (2011) with modifications.

barbatum, tremulum †Titanum†, qui cluet †Cynos† pater.

855 ita mihi imperas ut ego huius membra atque ossa atque artua
comminuam illo scipione quem ipse habet.
Senex: dabitur malum,
me quidem si attigeris aut si propius ad me accesseris.
Menaechmus: faciam quod iubes: secure⟨m⟩ capiam ancipitem atque hunc senem
osse fini dedolabo assulatim uiscera.
860 Senex: enim uero illud praecauendum est atque accurandum est mihi;
sane ego illum metuo, ut minatur, ne quid male faxit mihi.
Menaechmus: multa mihi imperas, Apollo: nunc equos iunctos iubes
capere me indomitos, ferocis, atque in currum inscendere,
ut ego hunc proteram leonem uetulum, olentem, edentulum.
865 iam adstiti in currum, iam lora teneo, iam stimulum: in manum est.
agite equi, facitote sonitus ungularum appareat
cursu celeri; facite in flexu sit pedum pernicitas.
Senex: mihin equis iunctis minare?
Menaechmus: ecce, Apollo, denuo
me iubes facere impetum in eum qui ⟨hic⟩ stat atque occidere.
870 sed quis hic est qui me capillo hinc de curru deripit?
imperium tuom demutat atque edictum Apollinis.
Menaechmus: Woohoo, Bacchus, Bromius, where are you calling me to hunt in the
woods? I can
hear you, but I can’t leave these regions: that rabid bitch on my left
is keeping watch,
and behind me that other Cercops, who often ruined an innocent
citizen through false
evidence in his day.
Old Man: Curse you!
Menaechmus: Look, Apollo tells me through a divine utterance to burn out that
woman’s eyes with
flaming torches.
Wife: I’m dead! My dear father, he’s threatening to burn my eyes.
Old Man: Hey there, my daughter!
Wife: What is it? What are we doing?
Old Man: What if I summon slaves here? I’ll go and fetch people to lift him
up from here and tie
him up at home before he makes any more trouble.
Menaechmus: I’m stuck. Unless I get hold of some trick, they’ll carry me off to
their house. You tell
148 chapter 3
me to spare her face with my fists … in no way, unless she leaves my

sight and goes to
be hanged. I’ll do what you tell me, Apollo.
Old Man: Run off home as fast as possible so that he doesn’t beat you.
Wife: Yes. Please, watch over him, my dear father, so that he doesn’t go
away anywhere.
Aren’t I wretched woman to hear those things?
Menaechmus: I didn’t get rid of her badly; now I’ll get rid of that most filthy,
bearded, trembling
Titan, who is called the Bitch-Father. This is your command, that I
should smash his
limbs, bones, and joints to pieces with his own walking stick.
Old Man: You’ll get a beating if you touch me or come any closer to me.
Menaechmus: I’ll do what to tell me: I’ll take a double-edged ax and hew away this
old man’s flesh,
bit by bit, down to the bone.
Old Man: I really have to be on my guard against that and be careful. I’m
horribly afraid, given
the nature of his threats, that he could do me some harm.
Menaechmus: You give me many commands, Apollo: now you’re telling me to take
a span of horses,
untamed and wild, and to get onto a chariot in order to trample this
old, smelly,
toothless lion underfoot. Now I’m standing on my chariot, now I’m
holding the reins,
now the goad: it’s in my hand. Go on, my horses, let there be speed
in the bending of
your legs.
Old Man: Are you threatening me with a span of horses?
Menaechmus: Look, Apollo, again you tell me to assault the man standing here
and to kill him. But
who is that dragging me off the chariot by my hair? The power over
you and Apollo’s
behest is failing.
Even a superficial familiarity with Greek culture would be enough for a Roman
spectator to understand the basic mechanisms at work in this scene. The
madness was supposed to result from a divine intervention;35 hence the hero
35 See, e.g., Ustinova 2018.

pretends to hear Dionysus and, subsequently, Apollo. As for the mention of

Dionysus (nota bene, he is addressed as Bromius, which may presuppose more
than superficial familiarity with this divinity), it is possible that when the
Menaechmi was produced (the exact date is unknown), it was understandable
to many Romans thanks to their personal involvement in the orgiastic cult of
this divinity.36 By 186 bce the cult had become widespread among Romans
and, if we are to believe Livy (39.8–19), it was about to get out of control from
the point of view of the authorities. Yet there seems to have been a more
natural source of knowledge about the imagery of Dionysus available to the-
atregoers; namely, the tragedy. Given that, as was recognised long ago,37 the
scene contains many lines that derive from the tragedy, it seems a natural
guess that Plautus played with tragic models rather than with real-life religious
ideas.
Although there is no way of proving that the intertext Plautus alluded to was
Naevius’ Lycurgus, until Pacuvius’ Pentheus (probably staged after 186 bce),38
Naevius’ play remains the only Roman tragedy on a Dionysian theme that
we know of (which is admittedly not proof that there were no such plays).39
Moreover, Captivi 561–563 strongly suggest that Plautus and his audience were
familiar with it. Thus, when Menaechmus uttered the Bacchic cry in line 835
(†euhoe Bacche,† Bromie, quo me in siluam uenatum uocas?), the audience were
36 See especially Schiesaro 2016. On the Bacchanal affair, see, among others, Briscoe 2008:
230–290; Takács 2000; Bauman 1990; Pailler 1988; Freyburger-Galland, Freyburger, Tautil
1986: 171–206; Cazanove 1983; Turcan 1972; Gallini 1970; Festugière 1954. The relationship
between the affair and Naevius’ Lycurgus has been discussed extensively (see especially
Pastorino 1957). Unfortunately, all we know is that Naevius staged his tragedy some four-
teen to fifty-four years before 186. From Livy’s narration, biased as it is, we see clearly that
until that year the Roman authorities tolerated the cult of Bacchus, which was gradually
becoming more and more popular. We do not know, however, when this process started.
We do not know either whether Naevius offered an unequivocally positive image of Liber
and his followers. Among scholars he has the reputation of being a liberal and possibly
even a subversive poet. We do not know, however, what was subversive when he wrote the
Lycurgus (to make things more complicated, what was subversive, say, before the Second
Punic War, might not have been so after it). See also Flower 2000: 28; Suerbaum 2002: 109;
Boyle 2006: 47–49; Manuvald 2011: 200–201.
37 Brix 1880: ad 872; Moseley, Hammond 1933: ad 833; Webster 1953: 69 (he offers a list of
possible Greek sources, which, however, seems to contain no close matches. For exam-
ple, line 841 in which Menaechmus speaks of burning women’s eyes is supposed to derive
from E. IT 288, where Orestes speaks of fire-blowing Fury. The connection seems rather
contrived); Fantham 2007: 29.
38 Schierl 2006: 421.
39 See Fantham 2007: 29.
150 chapter 3
probably supposed to think of the Lycurgus. In fragment 37–38 maenads (as

I argued in section 3.1.4) speak of rejoicing in hunting (in uenatu uitulantis).
As noted previously, the chorus who uttered these lines were probably kept
prisoner in front of Lycurgus’ palace. This means that the situation of the
speaker whom Menaechmus impersonated (who was believed to be kept away
from the Bacchic hunt) could be parallel to that of the maenads in the Lycur-
gus.
Serious problems begin with line 840. From this point on, Menaechmus
speaks of Apollo as the power that drives him mad. As Stärk (1989: 107)
observed, in the scenes of divine possession known from ancient drama, a
mad person is always under influence of one deity, not two or more different
divinities. Moreover, unlike Dionysus, Apollo was not thought of as a source
of madness, with the sole exception of the oracular mania. This made Questa
(1995: 69, cf. 2004: 55–76) suggest that Menaechmus turned from simulating
maenadic possession to impersonating Cassandra. However, as Fantham (2007:
30) argued, this is unlikely given that Cassandra (or any other Apolline prophet)
did not commit any violent acts. Furthermore, in line 840 Menaechmus does
not pretend to be under the direct influence of Apollo in the same manner
in which Cassandra or Pythia might have been. Instead, he says that it is the
Apollo’s oracle that instructs him (Apollo mihi ex oraculo imperat).
This is where we return to the Lycurgus story only to discover that it fits
the pattern. From Captivi 561–563 it seems that Lycurgus was known to the
Roman audience as a madman and there is no reason to doubt that in Naevius’
play his madness was caused by Dionysus, as it was in Aeschylus. In Aeschylus’
Lycurgeia, as it might be deduced from Apollodorus (3.5 ἔχρησεν ὁ θεὸς), a part
of the action was triggered by Apollo’s oracle. This matches the reference to the
oracle in Menaechmi 840.
As the scene in the Menaechmi develops, we are given a catalogue of the
motifs that belonged to the Lycurgus story. Thus, in lines 841–842 Menaech-
mus speaks of burning another person’s eyes out with torches. This seems to
correspond to the motif of the blinding of Lycurgus in Homer and Eumelus.
Strikingly, the loss of eyesight seems to be mentioned in Naevius’ line 32
(bipedes uolucres lino linquant lumina). Torches are (probably) also mentioned
in Aeschylus’ Lycurgeia (fr. 23a), and there is a torch depicted on the Kraków
hydria. None of these pieces of evidence is meaningful on its own, but when
combined with the Plautian parody they seem to suggest that the tragic ver-
sion of the story contained the motif of blinding with torches.
In 857 (secure⟨m⟩ capiam ancipitem) Menaechmus threatens the old man
with an imaginary double-axe, a weapon traditionally associated with Lycur-
gus. In 864, he calls him a lion, which makes sense if in the prototype of the
scene in Plautus Lycurgus assaulted Dionysus, whose epiphanies in the form of

a lion were a commonplace (e.g., E. Ba. 1018–1019; h. Bacch. 44–48).
What is most striking is that lines 862–871 correspond neatly to the closure
of Apollodorus’ narration, in which it is said that Lycurgus was mutilated by
horses.40 This statement is otherwise unparalleled. The only text that falls rel-
atively close to it is Hyginus’ fabula 132, in which Lycurgus is said to have been
thrown to panthers. However, despite a certain similarity (death inflicted by
animals), this is not the same thing. Given that panthers are traditionally asso-
ciated with Dionysus and that they are large predators and dangerous to human
beings, the choice of Hyginus (or his source) to use them for this story seems
natural (for further discussion, see section 4.4.2). In this context, the version of
Apollodorus seems to be a lectio difficilior.
Although Thrace was the country of famous horses (e.g., those once owned
by Rhesus), they do not seem to play any role in the Lycurgus story, as we know
it.41 They are also virtually absent from Dionysian imagery because, among
other factors, Dionysus harnesses other animals to his chariot, most notably
panthers and tigers. This makes the finale of Apollodorus’ narration some-
what unexpected but difficult to explain away as the result of some simple
40 This fantasy of Menaechmus would be very bizarre unless informed by some intertext.
Thus, Leach (1969: 40, following Webster 1953:69) stated that like Heracles he pretends to
mount a chariot and gallop about the stage. Indeed, there is a certain similarity between
Menaechmus’ behaviour, especially line 865, and the description of Heracles’ madness in
Euripides’ tragedy (HF 947–949: ἐκ τοῦδε βαίνων ἅρματ᾽ οὐκ ἔχων ἔχειν/ ἔφασκε, δίφρου τ᾽
εἰσέβαινεν ἄντυγα/ κἄθεινε, κέντρωι δῆθεν ὡς θείνων, χερί (then he mounted a chariot, which he
said he had, though he had not, he stood by its rail and poked with his hand as if he was hold-
ing a goad in it)). Both heroes were also subsequently subdued by a divine power. There
are, however, some profound differences. Whereas Heracles was overcome by Athena,
who threw a rock against his chest (1001–1003), Menaechmus was pulled off his char-
iot by an invisible divinity, who grasped his hair (870). Heracles was about to attack his
father thinking that he had a human enemy in front of him (1000); Menaechmus assaulted
his father-in-law, calling him a lion (864). This suggests that he did not pretend to suffer
from the same delusions that overcame Heracles. Moreover, as Fantham (2007: 33–39)
observed, there is a neat difference between Heracles’ madness recounted by a witness
and that of Meanaechmus enacted on stage. This may suggest the existence of an inter-
mediary. However, as Fantham continues, there seems to have been no Roman play that
featured Heracles’ madness before Seneca. This makes her think that the drama paro-
died by Plautus was the tragedy Alcumeus of Ennius, which is certainly possible, but
we know nothing about a chariot scene in any of the Roman or Greek versions of this
story.
41 It shall be emphasised that hybrid creatures such as Centaurs or Silens that display some
features of horses might have been equated with them by some rationalizing authors, but
not Apollodorus (pace Welcker 1826: 120–121).
152 chapter 3
error. Given that it seems to find a parallel in the Menaechmi, it is possible that
in Naevius’ version and probably also in that of Aeschylus (which influenced
Apollodorus), Lycurgus tried to harness a team of wild horses or something he
believed to be horses, which made him fall and hurt himself.
As the material gathered above indicates, the scene of Menaechmus’ mad-
ness might have owed much more to Naevius’ Lycurgus than has been recog-
nised thus far. Unfortunately, it is impossible to rule out that Plautus combined
it with some material inspired by some other tragedies. It is also impossible
to determine to what degree the comic parody distorts the tragedy. Therefore,
all the conclusions drawn from the Menaechmi as a source for Naevius’ Lycur-
gus must be taken as highly hypothetical. Even the most fundamental question
as to whom Menaechmus imitated finds only tentative answers. It is possible
that the scene contained a mixture of memorable moments from Naevius’ play
and that it required shifting roles by the comic hero from one mad person to
another. Thus, in the beginning Menaechmus could imitate a maenad, then
one of Lycurgus’ subjects who were instructed by the oracle to punish the king,
and finally Lycurgus himself. There is also a possibility that the only charac-
ter parodied by Menaechmus was Lycurgus, which is possible under certain
assumptions to which I return below.
3.2.2.1 Role-Play and Characterisation in the Menaechmi

In the beginning of the scene under discussion, Menaechmus is carrying the
mantle (palla mentioned at 705, 709, 729–733, 739–741, 803–807) which his
brother stole from his wife in first act (esp. 195–202). Given that the enactment
of his madness involved much movement, it seems unlikely that the hero’s
hands were occupied with it. Thus, he might have simply dropped it, but it is
hard to believe that no use was made of it given the comic potential of cross-
dressing. Thus, most probably, he put it on, contributing to the overall picture
of his madness. If this were so, the mad person whom Menaechmus imper-
sonated was dressed in a manner suitable for a woman or, according to his
brother’s words (513), for a cinaedus. The same kind of garment was charac-
teristic for Dionysus according to Statius (Ach. 1.262: si decet aurata Bacchum
uestigia palla/ uerrere).
As previously noted, in fragment 60 of the Edonoi Dionysus is ridiculed for
wearing feminine garments. This seems to correspond to fragments 43 and 39 of
Naevius’ Lycurgus, in which women’s clothes are mentioned. The context does
not allow for any level of certainty as to who was said to wear them. However,
given that Lycurgus was supposed to have been lured out of the city (fr. 30–
32) it is likely that through a reversal like Pentheus’ he was wearing Dionysian,
unmanly clothes.
Thus, if line 835 (Bromie, quo me in siluam uenatum uocas?) was spoken
by a person wearing a palla, it could correspond to the words spoken in the
tragedy by a maenad, as well as by Lycurgus, who pretended to be a maenad. If
Menaechmus did not deposit the cloak soon afterwards, all other lines inspired
by Naevius were also spoken by a person dressed in feminine clothes. Thus, the
crazy charioteer and the person who was about to use a double axe were also
wearing a drag.
3.2.2.2 Who Is Who in the Menaechmi?

Apart from the tragic character or characters whose role Menaechmus is play-
ing, there are several other figures referred to in the passage. As I have already
mentioned, the lion in line 864 can correspond to Liber/Dionysus assaulted
by Lycurgus. Its characterisation as old, stinky and toothless (uetulum, olentem,
edentulum) probably does not derive from the tragic source as much as it adapts
the content of Lycurgus’ delusions to the comic “reality” in which he was facing
the old man. If Lycurgus assaulted what he believed to be a lion, and if the ani-
mal’s age was mentioned, it was probably very young like Dionysus or the “lion”
which Agaue killed in the Bacchae (1185–1187: νέος ὁ μόσχος ἄρ-/τι γένυν ὑπὸ
κόρυθ᾽ ἁπαλότριχα/ κατάκομον θάλλει; The bull is a young one—/ beneath the crest
of soft hair, his jaw / sprouts with fresh down).42 The substitution of an individual
described as hyperbolically old for a young one would have a humorous effect.
Lines 837–839 contain a reference to a rabiosa femina canes and her male
companion. The former clearly picks up an insult from lines 714–721 in which
Menaechmus compares the woman to Hecabe, who was allegedly called a bitch
by Greeks due to her habit of insulting random people she encountered. This
may suggest that the femina canes was a purely comic creation. If, however, she
had a counterpart in the tragic prototype of the scene, then she might be asso-
ciated with Lyssa, the goddess often accompanied by dogs. This (or a related)
divinity features in several depictions of Lycurgus, some of which were proba-
bly influenced by tragic performances in South Italy.43
The male character is even more mysterious due to the textual problems.
The suggestion of Cercops, a fantastic race of monkey-like creatures, is a prod-
42 Translation by Kirk 1979. According to Kirk (ad loc.) and LSJ (s.v. 2, 3) the word μόσχος
could refer not only to a bull, but also to a boy or a young animal of any species. Dodds
(1960: ad loc.), Seaford (1996: ad loc.), and di Benedetto (2004: ad loc.) reject this inter-
pretation in favour of a more literary reading. Accordingly, Agaue in her delusions is now
seeing Pentheus’ head as that of a bull, whereas a moment earlier she spoke of her victim
as of a lion.
43 LIMC Lycurgus i 3, 27–28, 30, 38, 44, 52. See also section 4.3.5.
154 chapter 3
uct of an interesting conjecture of Gratwick,44 which finds little support in the

manuscript tradition. The paradosis has illic ⟨h⟩ircosalus and seems to reflect
a distorted original reading, in which the noun hircus (he-goat) or its derivate
occurred. As Barr (1966) argued, this could be a suitable term of insult when
used to refer to an elderly man. Given that a he-goat was a typical sacrificial vic-
tim in the cult of Dionysus, it may fit the Dionysian context. In Euripides’ Bac-
chae (920–922), the maddened Pentheus takes Dionysus for a bull. Something
similar could have happened to Lycurgus in the tragedy, whereas in Plautus’
play a prestigious and expensive animal could be comically substituted with a
cheap and vile one. Admittedly, however, this interpretation is entirely based
on speculation.
Alternatively, as discussed above (section 3.1.2), both characters can be
related to Lycurgus’ servants who are possibly referred to by Naevius in lines 27–
28 (uos qui regalis corporis custodias/ agitates), perhaps representing a pair of
stock figures in tragedies, a nurse and a paidagogos. It is not impossible that
already in the Lycurgus the hero mistook his attendants for animals. It cannot
be ruled out, however, that the two figures did not have their prototypes in Nae-
vius.
Finally, in lines 853–854, Menaechmus states that he is about to get rid of the
old man. Most manuscripts have:
nunc hunc inpurissimum

barbatum tremulum Titanum qui lucet Cygno/Cycno patre
A similar version is attested also in the Priscian’s manuscripts (6.688) with

Cygno prognatum patre as a possible variant. Meursius proposed the correc-
tion of Titanum to Tithonum, which could allude to the old age of the person
spoken about. Scaliger corrected lucet to cluet. Gratwick proposes Cynospater
for Cygno/Cycno patre, because a reference to the father named Kyknos would
make little sense in the case of a Titan or of Tithonos.
The passage is certainly difficult to understand, and this may explain why
already in Priscian’s time the manuscripts could have contained some scribal
corrections. Without much hope of elucidating its whole meaning, I cannot
resist the temptation to observe that the text as it stands almost seems to make
sense provided that it alludes to an intertext in which Orpheus was punished
for his heresies. The epithets barbatus and tremulus clearly violate the fiction
of Menaechmus’ madness, as they refer to characteristics of the old man rather
44 Explained in Gratwick 1993: ad loc.

than to the character from the parodied tragedy.45 Impurissimus Titanus, on

the other hand, has much to do with some of the “Orphic” ideas concerning
the titans who killed Dionysus. The relationship between Orpheus and a swan
(κύκνος) cannot be excluded, given that this bird was sacred to Apollo and asso-
ciated with music and poetry.46 In Plato’s Republic 620a, Orpheus’ soul was
reborn as a swan. Even a statement that the Titan shines, if we accept the form
lucet, makes sense given that Helios was son of the titan Hyperion and heliola-
try was supposed to be the cause of Orpheus’ punishment in the Lycurgeia.
These seem to be some disiecta membra that the manuscripts of the
Menaechmi transmit and that can be related to Orpheus. Admittedly, the pas-
sage composed of them is quite nonsensical. Thus, something is missing from
the text or some of the emendations must be accepted. It is also perfectly con-
ceivable that the lines were not meant to be understood as an allusion to the
Lycurgus.
3.3 Summary of the Plot
Despite all the difficulties involved, several statements about Naevius’ Lycur-
gus can be made with a high level of confidence. The tragedy probably fea-
tured a chorus of maenads who were taken prisoner close to its beginning but
were released near the end, after Lycurgus died in the mountains. This latter
event was inspired by Apollo’s oracle. Obviously, the most gruesome part of
the story must have been narrated by an eyewitness. It is likely that this mes-
senger speech described Lycurgus’ attempt to mount an imaginary chariot and
to harness what he took to be a team of unbroken horses. Some role was proba-
bly also played by violent vines. It is clear that Lycurgus left the city of his own
accord; he was lured out of it rather than chased away. He followed his subjects
(plural in fragment 31) rather than the god himself, as occurred in Euripides’
Bacchae. It seems likely, although certainty is not possible, that he left dressed
as a maenad and displaying clear symptoms of madness.
Despite what virtually all scholars have thus far taken for granted, there is no
evidence of Liber’s captivity, interrogation, incarceration, or liberation. It is not
unlikely, however, that he appeared at some point, for example, ex machina. We
do not know who the main characters apart from Lycurgus were. The involve-
ment of Orpheus is only a possibility, nor can the presence of Lyssa be excluded.
45 Pace Fraenkel (1960: 93), who claims that tremulus makes the change from Titanum to
Tithonum indispensable.
46 See Thompson 1936: s.v. ΚΥΚΝΟΣ.
156 chapter 3
As for minor characters, there must have been at least one soldier and, possibly,
Lycurgus’ domestic servants (a nurse and a paidagogos).
What has been described thus far covers virtually the same part of the story
as Aeschylus’ Bassarai reconstructed above. Thus, it is tempting to think that
Naevius adapted this particular tragedy (I return to this issue in the next chap-
ter). If this were so, however, it is likely that Naevius’ play contained a prologue,
which gave a brief account of the previous events, such as Lycurgus’ violence
against Dionysus and his own family. The same part of the play could have men-
tioned the events alluded to in Plautus’ Captivi 561–563. Given that according to
Hyginus and the Ovidian scholiasts Lycurgus had attempted to rape his mother
before he went mad and massacred his family, this is probably where Naevius
put also this motif in the sequence of events. Hyginus (and, indirectly, Horace)
makes clear that this happened when Lycurgus was under the influence of alco-
hol. Therefore, it seems probable that this part of the story ultimately derived
from the satyr play rather than one of the tragedies (see section 2.6). Neverthe-
less, it could have been reported by one of the characters in Naevius’ prologue
without an outward humorous intention.
3.4 The Readership of Naevius
A large part of my reconstruction of the Lycurgus rests on the assumption that

this tragedy was well known to Plautus’ audience. As for later periods, direct evi-
dence is limited. Most notably, Horace in Epistula 2.1 (53–54) with irony states
that Naevius was in his (Horace’s) time widely read and appreciated as if he
were a contemporary poet. However, as the context shows, the passage contains
a reference to the epic poem Belli Punici Carmen rather than to the tragedies of
Naevius.47 All that is known about his plays is that, according to Cicero (Fam.
7.1.2), at the opening of Pompey’s theatre a certain Equus Troianus was staged.
Given that we know of two plays bearing that same title, one written by Livius
Andronicus and the other by Naevius, it is not entirely clear which one Cicero
meant,48 but most scholars agree that that latter playwright is the more likely
candidate.49 Cicero mentions this production while criticising the bad taste of
47 See Fedeli 1997: ad loc.; Rudd 1989: ad loc.

48 Beacham 1999: 65; Erasmo 2004: 86–87.
49 Thus Ribbeck 1875: 49; Marmorale 1953: 147–148; Suerbaum 2000: 187; Spaltenstein 2014
§ 1001. The strongest argument seems to be that the poetry of Livius Andronicus has been
characterised by Cicero as not worth a second reading (Brut. 71: nam et Odyssia Latina est
sic tamquam opus aliquod Daedali et Liuianae fabulae non satis dignae quae iterum legan-
the festival, which, as he claims, was below the standards of his peers as it was
intended to tickle the crowd’s fancy. This testimony, if it is correctly interpreted
as referring to the play by Naevius, shows that as late as 55 bce his tragedies
were still considered a source of entertainment suitable for the masses rather
than a monument of the old days at best worthy of a classroom, if not of an
antiquarian. Indirectly it suggests also that the Lycurgus was perhaps widely
read, if not necessarily restaged.
As for the quotations of passages discussed, most of them come from Non-
ius, a grammarian from the fourth or fifth century ce. Unfortunately, they can
hardly be taken as proof of a wider readership, especially since Nonius almost
certainly used second-hand material quoted in other grammatical works.50
Thus, it is impossible to be sure that a single copy of the Lycurgus still existed
in late antiquity. What is certain, however, is that Lycurgus himself was a well-
known figure, as is indicated by the number of passages in which the poets of
the Augustan period and early imperial period mention him. What is striking
is that they never actually recount the story. This presupposes the existence
of at least one relatively well-known text that served as a point of reference.
Unlike in the case of Plautus, for the poets of the Augustan period onwards
it did not have to be a Roman text. Greek literature was widely read, at least
among the elites, and the poetry in which Lycurgus is mentioned may be gen-
erally thought of as elitist. Thus, the possibility of Naevius’ Lycurgus’ influence
must be granted, even though it is not the only candidate. In the chapter that
follows I discuss some other plays that probably contributed to the shape of the
poetic tradition and may have influenced Naevius and later authors.
tur). Erasmo (2004: 11) states that this implies that they were no longer to be seen onstage,
which seems to overvalue the meaning of the opposition between reading and watching
implicitly involved in Cicero’s words. At any rate, the passage strongly suggests that by
the time of the Late Republic the poems of Livius Andronicus were held in much lower
esteem than that of Naevius, who was praised by Cicero in the same dialogue (Brut. 76).
50 Thus especially Lindsay 1965.
chapter 4
Lost in Translation: Lycurgus between Aeschylus,

Naevius, Poetry, and Visual Arts
4.1 From Aeschylus to Naevius
Although very much is a matter of conjecture, it seems that Naevius in his

Lycurgus covered the same part of the story as Aeschylus in his Bassarai. The
two tragedies seem to have also featured a chorus of Thracian maenads. It
is, therefore, tempting to think that the Roman tragedy had the Bassarai as
a model. This obviously does not mean that Naevius offered a word-for-word
translation of the Greek play, however convenient such an assumption might
be from the point of view of a scholar who attempts a reconstruction of both
texts. In such a case, each play could be treated as a store of spare parts that are
missing from the other. Unfortunately, such a simplistic view is not tenable in
the face of our growing understanding of the ways in which Romans appropri-
ated Greek models.
Even if, for argument’s sake, we assume that Naevius adapted Aeschylus’Bas-
sarai and that his ambition was to follow this model relatively closely, he would
have been compelled to make some changes. This would result, among other
factors, from the difference in stage properties between Greek and Roman the-
atre. Also, as the Lycurgus was not part of a trilogy and as such was not preceded
by another play that dramatised some events prior to its plot, it must have
contained a prologue in which the initial situation was explained. This was
necessary especially since the Roman poet could expect his audience to be less
familiar with Greek myths than the Greeks themselves were. Perhaps for this
reason Naevius introduced some changes, to a certain degree Romanising the
story or updating it. Thus, as I explain below (section 4.5), he was perhaps one
of those poets who transferred the action from Pangaion to Rhodope in order to
match the changes on the political map of the Mediterranean. More meaning-
fully, he substituted Liber Pater for Dionysus. Later this became a widespread
practice in Roman poetry, but in the third century bce it was possibly quite
bold, given the differences between the two divinities.
These are some examples of sometimes superficial, sometimes profound
differences between Aeschylus’ and Naevius’ versions of the play. There were
certainly many more, but, given how difficult it is to trace them, one may only
wonder how many other elements have changed. The problem of the relation-

lost in translation 159
ship between the plays becomes all the more difficult given that we cannot
take it for granted that Naevius followed Aeschylus and not some other author,
whose version was almost certainly influenced by Aeschylus but differed from
his perhaps as much as Euripides’ Electra differs from the Choephoroi.
In this chapter I address briefly the problem of the transmission of Aeschy-
lus’ texts and their performative tradition. I then discuss the other dramatic
texts concerning Lycurgus that Naevius potentially used. The presentation of
the plays known from written testimonies will be very brief due to the scarcity
of the material. The theatre tradition, the existence of which can be inferred
from the iconography and mythography, requires more attention.
4.2 Aeschylus’ Afterlife
To open with the obvious: we know that Naevius never met Aeschylus in per-
son. Therefore, following Aeschylus means following something that had been
transmitted. Did Naevius, then, adapt a text of Aeschylus’ Lycurgeia? We do
not possess even a single line that may be taken as a direct translation made
by Naevius, which is not surprising, given the scant number of lines we have.
There is no good reason, then, to think that he wrote his tragedy with a scroll
of Aeschylus on his desk, so to speak. Perhaps there is no reason either to think
that the correspondence between the supposed original and its adaptation was
meant to be word-for-word or even line-for-line.1 Thus it is possible that Nae-
vius did not have a manuscript of the Greek play, and that he did not even
think it useful to have it, as his familiarity with the original could be based
on his memory of theatre performances.2 Neither can we rule out that, being
1 An interesting example of how Roman playwrights “translated” Greek models is provided by a

comparison between Livius Andronicus’ fragment 16–17 and S. Aj. 1266–1267 (see Manuwald
2011: 192 with further references). Of Naevius’ fragments line 51, trionum hic moderator rus-
ticus (incertarum fabularum Schauer) has been attributed to his Iphigenia by Ribbeck (1875)
due to its alleged similarity to line 237 of Euripides’Iphigenia Taurica: βουφορβὸς ἥκει σημανῶν
τί σοι νέον. Judging from the context of its quotation in Isid. Orig. 12.1.30, trionum moderator
is a ploughman. By contrast Euripides speaks of an oxherd who looked after animals kept
probably for sacrifices. If it is a translation of Euripides, it is far from the original. More likely
the two lines have nothing in common (pace Warmington 1936; Marmorale 1953; Spaltenstein
2014). On Naevius’ practice of contaminatio (merging various Greek texts in one work of his
own), see Boyle 2006: 11–12, 37. See also: Gentili 1979; Brooks 1981: 117–121; 167–177. For a stimu-
lating insight into the theoretical problems related to the “Romanisation” of the Greek drama,
see Cowan 2015 with further references.
2 It is likely that Naevius originated from Campania, where he could have familiarised himself
with Greek theatre. On his origins, see note 20.
160 chapter 4
familiar with Greek theatre, he used a memento in a form of a prosaic summary

(for example, by Asclepiades of Tragillus).3
Even on the assumption that Naevius had a manuscript of the Lycurgeia and
made use of it, the question is then what it contained and what its relation to
the text once written by Aeschylus was. It becomes more intriguing if we allow
for the possibility that Aeschylus himself managed to restage the Lycurgeia (or
part thereof) during his last stay in Sicily (where he died in 456 bce).4 This
would mean that as early as the mid-fifth century bce, two probably different
branches of textual/performative tradition, Athenian and Sicilian, were already
in existence and both had originated from authorial manuscripts.5
On the other hand, even if Aeschylus did not restage the Lycurgeia in Sicily,
the probability of its re-performance in Attica is already high in the fifth cen-
tury bce, as we can deduce from a combination of two sets of evidence. First
of all, as the biographical tradition has it, upon Aeschylus’ death a decree
was passed according to which his tragedies could be restaged by anyone who
wished to do so.6 Many scholars have taken this piece of information as cred-
ible, given that it seems to be corroborated by two passages in Aristophanes.7
More specifically, at Frogs 848, Aeschylus’ poetry is said to have outlived the
poet himself. In Acharnians 911, Dicaeopolis, while complaining about his
present life, refers to his disappointment upon hearing that a programme of
a theatre festival contains a certain Theognis instead of Aeschylus. These tes-
timonies have been quite compellingly dismissed by Biles (2006–2007), who
argued that the decree could be the product of a fantasy typical for biograph-
3 On Asclepiades’ version, see section 4.4.4.

4 On Aeschylus’ time and work in Sicily, see recently Vahtikari 2014: 79–86; Lamari 2017: 23–35;
Stewart 2017: 98–115 (with further references).
5 This is not attested by any ancient testimony. Nevertheless, it seems that the theatre of Syra-
cuse could attract the tragedian by offering him some stage properties that were not in use
in Athens. Among others, it probably (although not certainly; see Marconi 2012 with further
bibliography) featured so-called Charonian steps, a tunnel below the orchestra floor, which
allowed for an actor to emerge from below the ground like a ghost. As Bosher suggested (2012:
104–105), this device could have been used by Aeschylus in his Sicilian production of the Per-
sians in the scene of raising Darius from the dead. On the assumption that Aeschylus wrote
the Lycurgeia not long before his last visit in Sicily and that this tetralogy proved successful,
it is tempting to think that he wanted to stage it in a theatre which allowed for Orpheus to
descend to the netherworld and to return in the middle of the stage. The same device could
be also used after the singer’s death when his prophetic head was shown to the chorus and
the audience. This would result in some profound modifications in the script.
6 Vita Aeschyli 12; Philostr. VA 6.11; Schol. Ar. Ach. 10; Schol. Ar. Ra. 868; Quint. Inst. 10.1.66.
7 Thus, e.g., Wartelle 1977: 59–60; Revermann 2006: 72–73; Nervegna 2007: 15; Lamari 2017: 62–
68.
ical traditions.8 The passage in the Frogs may be irrelevant, as it perhaps con-
tains a figure of speech (non omnis moriar), whose meaning has little to do
with reperformances at the City Dionysia. Finally—and, for the current argu-
ment, crucially—the complaint of Dicaeopolis, when seen in its proper con-
text, should be interpreted as an expression of his longing for a village life. This
may suggest, according to Biles (2006–2007: 226–227), that the passage pre-
supposes a difference between the repertoire of demes’ theatres at the Rural
Dionysia and the taste for novelties that characterised Athens (at least as seen
by the comic hero). If this were so, it would be highly evocative of a partial or
complete absence of the Aeschylean drama from the theatre in Athens in the
second half of the fifth century bce, as well as for his strong presence on stages
in Attic peripheries of the same period.9
Against such a background two further pieces of evidence concerning the
Lycurgeia specifically can be seen in a new light. Namely, Aristophanes alludes
to it in two comedies staged at a short interval from one another, in 417 and
414bce (Thesmophoriazousae 134–145 and Birds 276). This suggests that some
event could have revived the interest and familiarity of a wider audience with
the Aeschylean tetralogy. It is natural to think that it was restaged shortly
before: if not in Athens, then perhaps in some particularly important deme the-
atre (Piraeus?)10 or in other such theatres.11
From 386bce onwards producers were allowed to restage plays of Aeschylus,
Sophocles, and Euripides in Athens.12 However, as can be determined from the
iconography, quotations in prose,13 and comic parodies, in addition to the scant
epigraphical material in this period, Aeschylus was to a substantial degree over-
shadowed by his younger colleagues, at least in Attica and continental Greece.
On the other hand, in the south of Italy and in Sicily his influence, though less
conspicuous than that of Euripides, was still noticeable.14
8 It needs some emphasis that Biles, while making a strong case for the possibility of the
invention of the decree, does not adduce compelling arguments against its existence. See
also Hutchinson 1985: xlii–iii.
9 Such a supposition is further corroborated by Clouds 1365–1367, which suggests that
Aeschylus was among the favourite poets of old-fashioned peasants (Strepsiades) and
despised by the generation of urban youngsters (Pheidippides).
10 On the Dionysia in Piraeus, see Jones 2004: 154; Wilson 2010: 59–62. On deme theatres as
important centres of theatre life see, e.g., Csapo 2010: 89–95; Taplin 2012: 237–238.
11 On the references and allusions in comedy as a possible trace of restaging tragedies, see
Vahtikari 2014: 58–60.
12 IG ii2 2318.1009–1011.
13 Admittedly, the lack of citations of Aeschylean drama in fourth-century speeches might
result from other factors than his absence from theatres. See Scodel 2007: 141.
14 See Green 1994: 50–51; Todisco 2002: 73; Nervegna 2014: 166–176.
162 chapter 4
Sometime in the second half of the fourth century (most likely, between 338
and 326bce), according to the Vita decem oratorum spuriously attributed to
Plutarch (841f), the orator Lycurgus commissioned an edition of the tragedies
by the three poets and forbade actors to depart from them while acting. As
Wartelle (1971: 101–115) observed, this statement should be taken with a pinch
of salt given that the number of tragedies by the classical triad that were extant
in that period must have been overwhelming. Therefore, it is unlikely that any-
thing approaching a critical edition (by any standard) was made.15 Instead, it
seems that in Athens under Lycurgus some of the Aeschylus’ manuscripts were
chosen from among what was available, and these became normative. These
scrolls or copies thereof must have been the manuscripts of Athenian tragedies
that, according to Galen (607), were subsequently brought by Ptolemy Euer-
getes to Alexandria. They would thus become the predecessors of the whole
subsequent “learned” textual tradition.16
As for the other traditions, the situation is less clear-cut. As has been recog-
nised, the passage in the Vita decem oratorum not only provides information
regarding the creation of the textual canon, but it also presupposes the need for
it.17 Apparently, there were many versions of fifth-century plays in circulation
and performers felt free to choose whichever text they preferred or managed
to obtain. What might also be read between the lines of the passage is that this
state of affairs resulted from the liberty that performers took in tailoring texts to
their own requirements.18 As for the law introduced by Lycurgus, leaving aside
all questions regarding its historicity and exact form, it certainly did not hold
sway anywhere outside Attica.19 It does not necessarily mean that Lycurgus’
theatrical policy failed to be noticed in other parts of the Mediterranean. The
material gathered by Hanink (2014: 60–74) suggests that it might have posi-
tioned Athens as a cultural centre, where foreigners such as the Macedonian
kings would turn in search for actors and texts. Yet the impact of Lycurgean
textual canon was probably limited to those parts of the world that already
had developed their own theatrical traditions or had more limited financial
resources. Thus, Sicily and the Italian peninsula could have remained to a large
degree untouched by the influence of the learned tradition of Aeschylean texts
15 See also Finglass 2015: 271–273.

16 See Wartelle 1971: 117–124; Falkner 2002: 352; Battezzato 2003; Scodel 2007; Hanink 2014:
60–74.
17 Page 1934: 18.
18 See Page 1934; Falkner 2002: 352–354; Revermann 2006: 77; Vahtikari 2014: 54–58; Finglass
2015 (who underlines directors’ role).
19 Scodel (2007: 149) and Hanink (2014: 67–68) suggest that its impact on deme theatre per-
formances even in Attica was limited.
until, say, the late Roman Republic. Thus, for example, when Strabo quotes
some passages from the Lycurgeia in the tenth book of his work (10.3.16), which
he probably wrote in Rome, one may assume that he owed his familiarity with
this text to the Athenian-Alexandrian manuscript tradition. When, on the other
hand, sometime in the second half of the third century Naevius, either a Roman
plebeian or a Campanian stranger of certainly limited resources, was in search
of a suitable model for his tragedy,20 he would probably turn to what was avail-
able without even thinking that one day it would be frowned upon as the adul-
terated text of a Greek poet.
The scale of the alterations introduced for the sake of performances in the
Classical and early Hellenistic period is obviously difficult to measure, but
they could have been substantial, as might be argued from the most flagrant
(if not necessarily unanimously accepted) instances of such changes. Namely,
it seems the whole finale of the Septem (1005–1078) as well as some shorter
passages (esp. 861–874) were inserted in the text in order to correspond with
Sophocles’ Antigone, and possibly Euripides’ Phoenissae.21 Apart from such
large portions of text, the manuscripts could contain a plethora of smaller
insertions and alterations scattered here and there. It is also possible (although
it does not find support in our text of the Septem) that some important passages
were missing from some theatrical manuscripts. This is most likely to have been
the fate of some of the lyric parts known to have attracted less attention from
the audiences of the fourth century bce onwards.22
At any rate, if Naevius followed a classical Greek model, then the relation-
ship between what was available to him and its original form is intricate. If he
adapted Aeschylus, it could have been a different version of Aeschylus than
that from the theatre of Dionysus in Athens in the second quarter of the fifth
century. Having said this, we may return to the central question of what other
models were available to Naevius. This will require a survey of the Lycurgus
myth in Greek drama from Aeschylus/Polyphrasmon onwards.
4.3 Plays with Lycurgus in the Title
We know of two trilogies and possibly two other plays with Lycurgus in their
title:
20 On the origins of Naevius, see Marmorale 1953: 15–26; Manuwald 2011: 194.
21 See Hutchinson 1985: xlii–v, and ad 1005–1078; Zimmermann 1993: 99–112. On this and
further instances of intervention in a tragic text see also Scodel 2007: 142–147.
22 See Taplin 2012: 241.
164 chapter 4
1) Polyphrasmon wrote a tetralogy Lycurgeia, which won the third prize at

the contest in 467bce.
2) Aeschylus wrote his Lycurgeia probably a little later.
3) In 340bce Timocles staged a Satyr-drama Lycurgus.
4) Anaxandrides wrote a comedy under the same title sometime in the mid-
dle of the fourth century bce.
Given that Polyphrasmon’s trilogy won only third prize, it seems reasonable to
assume that it was overshadowed by the much more successful Lycurgeia of
Aeschylus. This may account for the lack of a wider readership, the result of
which is the lack of preserved fragments. The Lycurgus of Timocles (or Philo-
cles) is equally shadowy. The only testimony (Snell 86 T 2) indicates that the
dilogy that contained this satyr play won second prize at the City Dionysia.
Given that it represented a genre that dramatised myths, it is very likely that
it told the story of our Lycurgus, the most famous of the mythical Lycurgi.
Of the comedy of Anaxandrides a single fragment (K.-A. 28) has survived as
quoted by Athenaeus (105f):
καὶ συμπαίζει καριδαρίοις

μετὰ περκιδίων καὶ θραιττιδίων,
†καὶ ψιτταδίοις μετὰ κωβιδαρίων
καὶ σκινδαρίοις μετὰ κωβιδίων†
and sports early and late

with young shrimps and whitebait,
with young gudgeon, young dabs,
young perch, and young crabs
transl. edmonds
This difficult but charming passage may refer to Dionysus’ underwater adven-
ture when he was rescued by Thetis.23 It is not impossible, however, that the
main hero was some other mythical or historical Lycurgus.
To sum up, Aeschylus’ Lycurgeia was not the only Greek play or tetralogy
about Lycurgus. It is clear, however, that no other plays attested in literary
sources enjoyed comparable success. This gives us good reason to think that
in the time of Naevius there was no other Greek drama about Lycurgus worth
reading apart from that of Aeschylus. However, this conclusion is to a cer-
tain degree contradicted by the mythographic tradition and the iconography.
23 Thus Meineke 1867: 48; Kock ad fr. 27; Breitenbach 1908: 97–98.
Both of these sources seem to indicate that more than one version of the story
existed and influenced the collective imagery in the period prior to Naevius’
poetic activity.
4.4 Iconography
4.4.1 Some Methodological Remarks

Before turning to the evidence itself, the methodology of the research on
theatre-related pottery requires at least a brief introduction to or a formal dec-
laration of one’s position.24 It must be emphasised that it would be a serious
mistake to think of representations on vases as snap-shots from the theatre.
Yet it is true that many of these pictures seem to be influenced by theatrical
space when, for example, they feature a building that may be evocative of a
skene. Nevertheless, the comparison between South Italian vases with repre-
sentations of comedy and those related to tragedy calls for circumspection, as
it shows that when an artist wanted to depict a performance, he knew how to do
it.25 Comic vases show actors in masks and costumes engaged in interactions,
which very often take place in spaces that evoke the stage in an undisputable
manner. Even though in such cases artists enjoyed some liberty in represent-
ing details without photographic precision, the point of reference is clearly
a theatrical performance. In some cases, such as the famous Würzburg vase
with a representation of a scene from Aristophanes’ Thesmophoriazousae,26
these images make little sense unless elucidated by the particular comedy from
which they drew inspiration. The pleasure of those who purchased such vessels
and those who looked at them could come either from remembering the scene
that the viewer had seen in a theatre or from learning about it from a seller,
a host at a symposium, or whoever was able to offer an explanation.27 Thus
24 The two extremities between which the scholars move are given by Séchan (1926), Tren-
dall and Webster (1971), and Kossatz-Deissmann (1978) on the one hand, and Moret (1975:
esp. 6) on the other. The golden middle, which happens to be particularly helpful in
research on both theatre and painting, was advocated by Taplin (1993: 21–29; 2007: 22–43).
See also Giuliani 1996 (with an assessment of the controversy between what the author
calls philodramatic and iconocentric position); 2001; Roscino 2003: 223–227; Nervegna
2014: 158–159; Vahtikari 2014: 20–22; Lamari 2017: 131–136.
25 Taplin 1993: 26; 2007: 26–28; Green 1994: 51–52; Giuliani 1996: 73–74; Small 2003: 37–78. On
comic vases, see Trendall 1967; Green 2012.
26 Apulian bell-krater by the Schiller Painter, Würzburg, Martin von Wagner Museum H 5697.
See Taplin 1993: 36–40; 2007: 14; Small 2003: 63–68.
27 On a possible oral exegesis of mythological representations on South Italian vases, see Giu-
166 chapter 4
even if the comic vases do not necessarily prove that the plays from which their
depictions are derived were commonly known in the place where the vessels
were produced or used, they do provide clear testimony of an interest in com-
edy.
On the other hand—and with a very few notorious exceptions28—vases
related to tragedy do not represent the theatrical space, masks, or costumes
in an outward manner. What is more, they often depict some of the events that
could not have been represented on the tragic stage. For example, several vases
with Lycurgus feature him killing his son. The choice of the artists to depict
such scenes seems understandable, given their emotional import. Yet it is clear
that in the theatre the audience could learn about these events only from a
messenger speech, or perhaps via offstage voices. For these reasons it is reason-
able to agree with Small (2003: esp. 70–71) that the point of reference in these
cases is not the tragedy conceived of as a text or performance, but the story
behind the play.29 Thus, the man depicted on the vases under discussion here
is Lycurgus rather than an actor who plays Lycurgus. What he is shown as doing
is not what the hero did in a specific tragic version, but what he was thought
to have done. Briefly speaking, what the vase paintings reflect is the imagery of
Lycurgus. Yet this imagery could be, and certainly was, to a substantial degree
influenced by theatre.
According to LIMC (Lykourgos i) there are no fewer than nine or ten South
Italian vase paintings of Lycurgus, all from the fourth century bce. This is not
a small number when compared to the meagre three extant specimens from
Attica (all from the fifth century bce). LIMC has three entries with South Ital-
ian vase paintings that feature Lycurgus killing a woman, who is traditionally
identified as his wife (LIMC 18, 19, 20, add. 3). A further two or three combine
liani 1995: 16; 1996: 86 as well as a polemical article by Todisco (2012). Although the ritual
setting of this habit and its highly standardised form as postulated by Giuliani seem prob-
lematic, the idea that many images were incomprehensible unless explained by someone
seems reasonable.
28 A classical example of such an exception is provided by the Sicilian calyx crater by the
Capodarso Painter (Syracusae, Museo Archeologico Nazionale “Paolo Orsi” 66557) with a
representation of a tragic performance, probably of the Oedipus Rex. See Taplin 2012: 229–
230 (with a reproduction) and Finglass 2018: 83–85 for the controversy that surrounds the
identification of the play.
29 Giuliani (2001: 33–38) stated that a close correspondence between details known from
some tragedies and fourth-century Apulian painting indicates that these plays were more
widely read than represented on stage (hence a lack of references to the performative
aspect), but he does not offer much evidence to substantiate this claim. For the polemics,
see Taplin 2007: 9–15.
her death with that of Lycurgus’ son (LIMC 27, 28, and possibly 21). There are
also two images that feature Lycurgus killing only the youth (27, 28). Finally
there is one Apulian vase whose state of preservation makes it impossible to
tell who the victim is (LIMC: Lykourgos i 30).30 Some of these images feature
elements that may be evocative of the theatrical space (especially LIMC: Lyk-
ourgos i 14, which I discuss below in section 4.3.5). Most importantly, however,
most of these images are so different from one another that they clearly did not
have a common pictorial model. This indicates that the Lycurgus myth was rel-
atively well-known in Magna Graecia. It is possible that this was not exclusively
due to theatre performances, but the influence of this medium should be taken
seriously into account.
The sections that follow discuss three motifs that are to a certain extent
typical for the South Italian vases which depict Lycurgus: a woman killed by
Lycurgus, a panther, and Fury/Lyssa. Some scholars have taken them as testi-
mony concerning the content of Aeschylus’ Lycurgeia, while some others have
contended that they indicate the existence of a separate dramatic tradition. I
am sceptical about both approaches, which does not mean that the material
in question does not reveal much about the imagery of Lycurgus and the plays
that contributed to shaping it.
4.4.2 Panthers: Did They Kill Lycurgus?

Rapp in the Rosher Lexicon (2193–2195)31 suggested that the narratives about
Lycurgus transmitted in two mythographic sources followed two different trag-
ic traditions. Apollodorus’ version (3.5) would be older, though not necessarily
Aeschylean, whereas Hyginus in his fabula 132 was supposed to summarise a
later tragedy reflected also in South Italian iconography. The two motifs that
appear in Hyginus and South Italian vase paintings and that are conspicuously
absent from Apollodorus are both mentioned in the second line of the fab-
ula:
qui insania ab Libero obiecta uxorem suam et filium interfecit, ipsumque

Lycurgum Liber pantheris obiecit in Rhodope, qui mons est Thraciae,
cuius imperium habuit.
30 Apart from these there is one more Lucanian vase (Fig. 8; LIMC: Lykourgos i add. 4),
described by Taplin (2007: 70) as showing Lycurgus killing his daughter. The identifica-
tion of this hero, however, is uncertain. See note 33.
31 See also Marbach (RE s.n. Lykurgos (1): 2434–2435); Rose 1933: 97; Ricci 1977: 171.
168 chapter 4
figure 8 Lucanian red-figure oinochoe, Hornbostel, Martini

1995 no. 14
In a rage inflicted by Liber, he [Lycurgus] killed his son and wife. Lycur-
gus himself was thrown to panthers in Rhodope, which is a mountain in
Thrace, of which he was the ruler.
Unlike Apollodorus, Hyginus states that Lycurgus killed his wife (see next sec-
tion). Moreover, instead of saying that he died of wounds inflicted by horses
figure 9 Apulian red-figure lutrophoros, Munich, Antikensammlung 3300 (J 853)
(ὑπὸ ἵππων διαφθαρεὶς ἀπέθανε), the author claims that Lycurgus was thrown to
panthers. As I mentioned above (section 3.2.2), the former seems unexpected. It
is not impossible, then, that the statement in Hyginus’ fabula 132, the only text
that mentions throwing Lycurgus to panthers, results from some compiler’s or
even scribe’s attempt to correct an apparent error.
There is, however, an alternative interpretation provided by an Apulian
loutrophoros by the Underworld Painter (Fig. 9; second half of the fourth cen-
tury bce, LIMC: Lykourgos i 19), on which a panther is shown accompanying a
winged female figure, who extends her hand with a serpent towards Lycurgus.
This female is traditionally identified as Lyssa;32 however, Aellen (1994: 83 et
passim) has recently argued that she should be called a Fury (I will employ a
double denomination). The hero is holding a sword in one hand, and with the
other he is supporting the supine body of a female with a bleeding wound on
her chest. This figure is traditionally identified as his wife. The panther is not
shown at the point of rending Lycurgus, but it is depicted as if it were about to
leap on him.
32 Deichgräber 1939: 298; Novellone 1971: 216–218; Trendall and Cambitoglou 1978–1982: 535;
Moret 1975: 244. See also Shapiro 1993: 168–170.
170 chapter 4
figure 10 Apulian red-figure amphora, Naples, Museo Nazionale SA 697
It seems natural to think that the image juxtaposes two separate moments
of the story: the one in which Lycurgus kills his wife and his subsequent pun-
ishment of death inflicted by panthers. Its meaning, however, is probably dif-
ferent, as can be deduced from a parallel provided by an Apulian amphora
from about 330 bce that is attributed to the circle of the Darius and Perrone
Painters (Fig. 10; LIMC: Lyssa 22 = Eirynys 108 = Hippodameia i 21 = Myr-
tilos 15). As such, it is more or less contemporary with the loutrophoros by
the Underworld Painter described above and was produced in the same artis-
tic milieu. It features a Fury/Lyssa in front of a team of horses and a chariot
with Oenomaus and Myrtilus on it. Next to the Fury/Lyssa, there is a panther
in a similar position to that in the Lycurgus image. The animal seems to be
about to leap at the horses. However, none of the versions of the Oenomaus
myth known to us features a fight between his horses and a panther, and it
seems hardly conceivable that such a version ever existed. This means that
the animal in the picture should not be taken as a reference to the involve-
ment of a real panther in the story in question but rather as an attribute of the
Fury/Lyssa.
Given the similarities between these two images (of Lycurgus and Oeno-
maus) the meaning of the panther in Lycurgus’ iconography is probably iden-
tical. Despite what it may look like, it is not a reference to death inflicted by
animals. It rather reinforces the meaning of the Fury/Lyssa responsible for the
deranged state of Lycurgus’ mind.
Apart from the loutrophoros by the Underworld Painter and (possibly) a mys-
terious column crater in Ruvo (LIMC: Lykourgos i 14, see section 4.4.5), there
are five extant representations of Lycurgus that feature a panther:
1. A mosaic from Herculaneum from the first century bce (Fig. 11; LIMC:
Lykourgos i 34 = Dionysos/Bacchus 230). Lycurgus on the left, wielding
a double-axe, is about to strike the nymph Ambrosia who is prone on
the ground. There are vine twigs in the background. To the viewer’s right,
behind Ambrosia, there is a standing figure variously identified by schol-
ars as the Earth, Dionysus, or a Maenad, who bears a pointed shaft in
his or her hand. A panther is seen between Lycurgus’ legs. Unlike in any
other image discussed here, it seems to be just about to bite into Lycurgus’
flesh.
2. A sarcophagus from Frascati from 145–165 ce, called the Borghese Sar-
cophagus (LIMC 44 = Dionysos/Bacchus 231 = Lyssa 14; now lost). Lycur-
gus holds his double-axe and is about to strike Ambrosia in front of his left
leg. To the viewer’s right, Lyssa/Fury with two torches is making a gesture
with one of them towards Lycurgus. There is a roaring (?) panther behind
her. The central group is surrounded by other Dionysian figures.
3. A relief on the funerary monument in El Amrouni (Tunisia) probably
from the first half of the second century ce (LIMC: Lykourgos i add. 6;
see Ferchiou 1989: 72, fig. 12). Lycurgus with his double-axe is about to
strike a vine. A panther is leaping on him from the viewer’s left. There
are no human figures apart from Lycurgus. The space is filled with vine
branches and clusters of grapes.
4. The Lycurgus Cup, a glass vessel from the late third or early fourth century
ce (LIMC: Lykourgos 51= Dionysos/Bacchus 232). Lycurgus is entangled in
vines. Next to his right foot Ambrosia is lying on the ground. On his other
side, a panther is approaching and Dionysus with a thyrsus is making a
gesture in Lycurgus’ direction. The composition includes two other male
figures from Dionysus’ thiasos.
5. A mosaic from Piazza Armerina from 300–330 ce (LIMC: Lykourgos i 42).
Lycurgus is about to strike Ambrosia, who is prone in front of his left leg.
They are surrounded by members of a Dionysian thiasos. To the left, there
is a leaping panther partially embraced by a young satyr. Behind him a
female is pointing a shaft at Lycurgus.
172 chapter 4
figure 11 Mosaic from Herculaneum, Naples, Museo Nazionale 9988
Each of these images, including the Underworld Painter’s loutrophoros, is differ-

ent in terms of medium and/or the details of its composition. Yet each of them
has a panther, which seems to attack Lycurgus or is just about to do so. Each of
them—with the exception of the relief from El Amourni (3), whose composi-
tion is particularly simple in comparison with the other monuments discussed
here—also features a figure in command of the panther. On two occasions,
it is Lyssa/Fury; in the case of the Lycurgus Cup, it is Dionysus; in the Piazza
Armerina mosaic it is the “maenad”, who may represent Lyssa/Fury; in the Her-
culaneum mosaic it is a person whose gender is difficult to determine and who
could very well be Dionysus or Lyssa/Fury. It seems reasonable to conclude that
in each case the panther symbolised the divine force that overpowered Lycur-
gus. At the same time, however, these images invite a somewhat trivialising
reading. The Herculaneum mosaic in particular seems to suggest that Lycur-

gus was killed by a panther. Such a misinterpretation of the pictorial language
could have suggested to Hyginus—or, more probably, to an author whom he
followed—a version of the events that differed from the earlier tradition. Thus,
it seems that before Hyginus or his source there were no panthers in literary
versions of Lycurgus story.
4.4.3 The Difficult Life and Death of Lycurgus’ Wife

As already mentioned, Hyginus in fabula 132 says that Lycurgus killed his son
and wife. Apollodorus offers a different version, in which no reference to Lycur-
gus’ wife is made:
ὁ δὲ μεμηνὼς Δρύαντα τὸν παῖδα, ἀμπέλου νομίζων κλῆμα κόπτειν, πελέκει

πλήξας ἀπέκτεινε, καὶ ἀκρωτηριάσας αὐτὸν ἐσωφρόνησε.
In his frenzy he killed Dryas, his son, striking him with an axe, convinced
that he was cutting a vine-twig. Having mutilated him, he came to his
senses.
This is hardly a minor omission. Even if we consider the difference between

ancient and modern models of family and the emphasis put by the Greeks
on the survival of their male offspring, it still remains natural to expect that
a summary of a tragedy which featured a hero killing his son and wife would
mention both deaths. Admittedly, this is an argument from silence and as such
it is far from conclusive on its own. Apollodorus’ silence, however, becomes
more remarkable given that no other author than Hyginus mentions the death
of Lycurgus’ wife, while only two other writers refer to her at all.
As Valerius Flaccus has it (1.728–729):
… talem incita longis

porticibus coniunxque fugit natique Lycurgum
such was Lycurgus from whom his quick wife and children run through
long porticos.
This brief reference to Lycurgus’ family is strange on its own, as it contains a

reference to his children in a plural form.33 As such, it is paralleled only by the
33 According to Ricci (1977: 175), this plural form could be taken as a means of poetic inten-
174 chapter 4
Tbilisi hymn, which is also one of the only three texts in which Lycurgus’ wife is
mentioned. Curiously enough, in the hymn, Lycurgus tried to kill his wife, but it
is explicitly stated that he failed to do so due to Dionysus’ intervention (41–44):
φ̣ῆ δ᾽ ὄφ[ια]ς θείνειν, τεκέω̣ ν δ᾽ ἐξε̣ ίλατο θυμόν.

κ]αί νύ κ̣ [εν] ἀμφ᾽ αὐτοῖσι Κύτις πέσεν, ἀλλ᾽ ἐλε[α]ίρων
ἥ]ρπαξε[ν] Διόνυσος, ἔθηκε δὲ νόσφιν ὀλ̣ [έ]θρ[ου,
οὕ]ν̣εκα̣ [μ]αργαίνοντι παραίφασι ̣ς ἐμμ̣ ενὲς ἦ̣ [ε]ν̣.
Thinking that he was slaying serpents, he took his children’s lives. Kytis
[L.’s wife] would have fallen with them, but merciful Dionysus snatched
her and set her away from doom, because she had tried hard to dissuade
Lycurgus from his fury.
The Tbilisi Hymn is a text with clear polemic ambitions.34 Thus, the action
takes place in Hypoplakian Thebes, and Lycurgus is said to have had two sons
instead of one. The name of one of his sons, Ardys, is an anagram of the tradi-
tional Dryas. All of this suggests that the motif of the miraculous salvation of
Lycurgus’ wife might result from another of its author’s innovations. Thus, this
testimony, though fascinating, is not a reliable witness to the earlier poetic tra-
dition. Yet it remains one of only three texts that mention Lycurgus’ wife. The
sification (thus also Zissos 2008: ad loc.). Alternatively, as a less plausible explanation,
the same scholar suggested that Valerius Flaccus could have used the plural in a referen-
tial function, amplifying the dramatic effect of the murder by making its victims more
numerous. This might have been reflected on a vase (LIMC: Lykourgos i add. 4) described
by Taplin (2007: 70; attributed by Schauenburg to the circle of the White Sakkos Painter,
320–310 bce; reproductions and brief description in Hornbostel, Martini 1995: 44–45) in
the following way: an Apulian tall jug of a late date, circa the 310s. On it the central figure
with the double ax is framed by a severely damaged palace; a woman and a boy to the left
plead with him; an old paidagogos runs up from the right. All this would fit well with the
other Lycurgos pictures, except that the child he is about to kill seems to be a girl and not
Dryas. Perhaps by this late date the sheer pathos and melodrama are more important than
the precise narrative? What makes this interpretation problematic is that nothing apart
from his double-axe identifies the man with Lycurgus. Neither he nor any other person
represented on the vase wears a Thracian outfit, and there are no indicators Dionysian
context. The fact that the palace is shown as falling apart does not seem to point towards
Lycurgus either (see section 2.5.2.1). If not for the lack of attributes, it would be tempting
to think of the scene as inspired by Euripides’ Heracles. If, however, one insists that the
man is Lycurgus, it is possible to identify the girl he has killed as Ambrosia rather than
his daughter (see the next section). In that case, the ruin of the palace indeed could have
been inspired by the madness of Heracles in Euripides’ version (see section 4.4.5).
34 For the bibliography, see note 31.
image that they offer is inconsistent. In Hyginus, she was killed. In the Tbilisi
hymn, she was saved. In Valerius Flaccus she fled, but we are not told if she
made it.
What adds to this confusion is the iconography. According to the descrip-
tion of the Kraków hydria in LIMC (Lykourgos i 26), it shows Lycurgus killing
both his son and his wife. This is, however, not the only way in which it is usu-
ally interpreted. As Beazley has it (1924: 44–45), a woman, probably the queen,
sinks to the ground: her peplos has fallen off one shoulder, or has been torn off
it, and her hands grasp her head in despair. Topper (2015: 140) interprets this
image as a mourning woman, most likely the boy’s mother.35 Whereas none of
these scholars expresses any doubts that Lycurgus is about to strike his son,
they do not claim that the violence against the woman is directly evoked by the
picture. Indeed, its interpretation depends entirely on the viewer’s preconcep-
tions. If the story evoked by the picture in a version known to the ancient viewer
included the death of the woman, an allusion to it could be clearly seen in it. If,
on the other hand, the story featured a mourning mother whom Lycurgus did
not kill, this would be exactly what the picture offered to a viewer familiar with
such a version. The output in this sense is the same as the input. Given that no
other Attic vase from the fifth century shows Lycurgus killing his wife, there is
no clear evidence regarding this part of the story that could reasonably be said
to have been directly influenced by Aeschylus.
On the other hand, as it has been said, South Italian vase paintings from the
fourth century bce offer at least six unquestionable images of Lycurgus pursu-
ing and/or killing a woman, who is almost unanimously identified as his wife.
4.4.4 The Woman Killed by Lycurgus

What the pictures featuring panthers discussed above have in common is the
presence of a woman assaulted by Lycurgus. The only possible exception is the
relief from El Amourni (3), whose composition is reduced to Lycurgus, vines,
and the panther.36 One of these images (the Underworld Painter’s loutrophoros)
shows a woman traditionally identified as Lycurgus’ wife. On four other occa-
sions, it is the nymph Ambrosia.37 This may suggest that Ambrosia has been
introduced into Lycurgus’ iconography as a substitute for his wife. This impres-
35 See also Moret 1975: 244.

36 Given that the nymph Ambrosia turned into vine when assaulted by Lycurgus (see below),
the vine branches represented in the relief could evoke her presence after the metamor-
phosis.
37 On the iconography of Ambrosia, see Michaelis 1872; Leschi 1935–1936; Picard 1951; Coche
de la Ferté 1956; Bruneau, Vatin 1966; Levi 1971; Bertacchi 1974–1975; Grassigli 1995.
176 chapter 4
sion is strengthened by the position of the woman on the loutrophoros, whose

supine body is situated behind Lycurgus’ left leg in the place that, with few
modifications, would be later occupied by Ambrosia. There is, however, another
possibility which is worth discussion, given that nothing compels us to think
that such a substitution took place.
Unlike Lycurgus’ wife, Ambrosia is relatively well-attested in our sources.
The canonical version of the story is Nonnus’ narration in Dionysiaca 21.3–
63, which features the brave nymph who fights against Lycurgus and, when
defeated, prays to Gaia, who turns her into a vine. After this metamorphosis
Ambrosia continues fighting. This version of the story is not attested in other
literary sources, but it seems to have been known to artists before Nonnus.38
More importantly, however, the involvement of a nymph named Ambrosia
in the Lycurgus story is attested as early as Pherecydes of Athens (Jacoby 3
F 90). Among other sources (listed by Jacoby), this is known from Hyginus’ de
Astronomia 2.21:
cuius [scil. Tauri] oris effigiem quae continent stellae Hyades appellan-
tur. Has autem Pherecydes Atheniensis Liberi nutrices esse demonstrat,
numero septem; quas etiam antea nymphas Dodonidas appellatas.
Harum nomina sunt haec: Ambrosia, Eudora, Pedile, Coronis, Polyxo,
Phyto, Thyone; hae dicuntur a Lycurgo fugatae et praeter Ambrosiam
omnes ad Thetin profugisse, ut ait Asclepiades; sed ut Pherecydes dicit,
ad Thebas Liberum perlatum Inoni tradiderunt.
The stars which contain the image of its [Bull’s] face are called the Hyades.
Pherecydes of Athens explains that they were Liber’s nurses, seven in
number, who earlier were also called Dodonian Nymphs. Their names are
the following: Ambrosia, Eudora, Pedile, Coronis, Polyxo, Phyto, and Thy-
one. It is said that they were chased away by Lycurgus and that all of them,
38 Ambrosia is usually associated with vines, but the exact character of this connection is
often unclear. Thus, in her earliest unquestionable representation on a mosaic in Delos
(LIMC: Lykourgos i 33, dated between the late second and early first century bce) there
are vine twigs behind her, but there is no direct connection between her and the plant. On
the other hand, on a mosaic from Trikala (LIMC: Lykourgos i 38 = Lyssa 16; late second to
early third century ce), Ambrosia’s legs have started transforming into the vine. Accord-
ing to Leschi (1935–1936: 161–162) the metamorphosis is also hinted at on the mosaic from
Djemila-Cuicul (LIMC: Lykourgos i 36 = Dionysos/Bacchus 136, late second century ce)
and the painting form Herculaneum (LIMC: Lykourgos i 34 = Dionysos/Bacchus 230, first
century bce).
apart from Ambrosia, fled to Thetis, as Asclepiades claims. However, as

Pherecydes says, having brought Liber to Thebes, they entrusted him to
Ino.
We are not told why Ambrosia in Asclepiades’ version (Jacoby 12 F 18) did not
make it to Thetis. Although the theme of a metamorphosis suits the Alexan-
drian taste perfectly,39 it does not prove that the version of the story known
to us from Nonnus was the invention of a post-classical author. However, the
fact that it does not feature in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, may be taken as a hint
that it did not exist before the imperial period. At any rate, it can be stated with
confidence that in Asclepiades, Ambrosia was the only one of Dionysus’ nurses
who did not manage to run from Lycurgus. Perhaps she did not even attempt
to flee because she preferred to face him. Given that her miraculous salvation
may be the product of a later invention, it is possible that in earlier versions
of the story Lycurgus killed Ambrosia. If such was the version transmitted by
Asclepiades, presumably in his Tragodoumena, it must have been known as a
tragic plot already in the fourth century bce.
This means that the woman whom Lycurgus kills on the Underworld
Painter’s loutrophoros from the second half of the fourth century bce and
whose position is very similar to that of Ambrosia in later images, may be
very well Ambrosia herself rather than Lycurgus’ wife. The same may hold true
for the other images traditionally interpreted as those of Lycurgus killing his
wife:
1. A Lucanian volute crater by the Brooklyn-Budapest Painter (LIMC: Lyk-
ourgos i 27 = Lyssa 7; first half of the fourth century bce). Lycurgus is
about to strike a woman who is prone in front of his left foot. Lyssa/Fury,
hovering above, points a goad at Lycurgus. To the viewer’s left a dead
youth (Dryas) is supported by a woman. If the other is Ambrosia, this
woman may be the boy’s mother. The central group is surrounded by a
maenad and a satyr.
2. An Apulian bell crater by the Lycurgus Painter (LIMC: Lykourgos i 28 =
Lyssa 8; 360–350 bce). In the lower register, Lycurgus is about to strike
a woman who is prone in front of his left foot. To the viewer’s right two
persons, one of whom is male (the other seems to be female, Lycurgus’
wife?), carry away a dead youth. To the viewer’s left, a youth (Orpheus?)
39 Michaelis (1872: 253–256) suggested the possibility that Ambrosia’s metamorphosis was an
Alexandrian invention. Rapp (in Roscher Lexicon: s.v. Lykurgos, 2195), making Michaelis
responsible for such a claim, made a firm statement that it was so. See also Leschi 1935–
1936: 164.
178 chapter 4
is making a speaker’s gesture. Behind him stands an old man (paidago-

gos). In the upper register is a group of gods, among whom Lyssa/Fury is
pointing a goad at Lycurgus.
3. An Apulian situla by the Lycurgus Painter (LIMC: Lykourgos i add. 3; 360–
350bce). Lycurgus is standing with his double axe, just about to strike
with it. The woman is prone in front of his left leg. To the viewer’s left,
there is an edifice. To the right, Lyssa/Fury is pointing a torch at Lycurgus.
Further to the right, Dionysus is sitting next to Papposilenus.
4. An Apulian amphora by the Darius Painter (LIMC: Lykourgos i 20 =
Dionysos 798 = Lyssa 11; mid-fourth century bce). Lycurgus is about to
strike a woman who clings to the statue of a female divinity. This may
correspond to Ambrosia’s prayer to Gaia in Nonnus. To the viewer’s left,
a young man (Dryas? Orpheus? An ignotus?) tries to drag Lycurgus away
from his victim. To the viewer’s right, Lyssa/Fury stretches one hand in the
direction of the other figures. The central group is surrounded by other
members of a Dionysian thiasos.
5. A Lucanian calyx crater by the Painter of Locri (LIMC: Lykourgos 18 =
Dionysos 797; 380–360bce). Lycurgus is chasing a woman, double-axe in
hand. Behind him, Dionysus stands with thyrsus and a bell.
Of these images, the last-mentioned calyx crater clearly stands out as the only
picture that features a woman who is standing on her feet and running away
from Lycurgus, rather than falling or lying next to him. Given that there is noth-
ing in this particular image to suggest the woman’s identity, it is not impossible
that she is his wife. It cannot be excluded, however, that she is a nymph; either
Ambrosia or another of Dionysus’ nurses, who managed to escape.
Undeniably, Hyginus’ fabula 132, the only testimony due to which the pres-
ence of Lycurgus’ wife in iconography has been postulated, cannot be dis-
missed as completely untrustworthy. Apart from some spurious or dubious
pieces of information, it contains some material that could not have been
invented by its author.40 Yet fabula 132 does not contain any mention of Am-
brosia or other nymphs assaulted by Lycurgus, which may suggest that the
author did not know this part of the story.41 As I argued above, part of the sec-
40 It contains the name of Lycurgus’ father (known from, e.g., Il. 6.130), reference to chasing
Dionysus away and to the filicide. The mention of Lycurgus’ attempted rape of his mother
is strange, but it finds support in Plautus’ Captivi 561–563, Horace’s Carmen 1.18.9–11, and
the scholia in Ovid’s Ibis 345–346 B,P,G. Lycurgus’ drunkenness is attested in fragment 124
of Aeschylus’ Lycurgus.
41 De Astronomia 2.21 contains a narration about the Hyades but we do not know whether
this work has been correctly attributed to the author of the Fabulae. Even if it was, the
ond sentence of fabula 132 is based on the misinterpretation of an image which

probably belonged to the series discussed above. It featured Lycurgus killing a
woman and a panther leaping against the king. Based on his knowledge, the
viewer could have made a wrong guess regarding not only the meaning of the
panther, but also the identity of the woman.
There are no clear traces of Ambrosia’s presence in Aeschylus’ or Naevius’
fragments. She is not mentioned by Apollodorus either. If the traditional inter-
pretation of the Kraków hydria is correct—that is, if it features the mourning
mother rather than a nymph waiting for her turn to be killed by Lycurgus
(which is not impossible)—then Ambrosia does not appear on Attic vases.
However, the fact that Asclepiades wrote about her in his Tragodoumena sug-
gests that she had been mentioned in a tragedy by Aeschylus or some other
tragedian of the classical period. This does not necessarily mean that she played
an important role in it. It is possible that her death (or salvation) was referred
to, for example, in the prologue of one play or another as one of the past events
that might have taken place when Dionysus first arrived in Thrace. Such a
marginalisation of the episode could account for Apollodorus’ silence. On the
other hand, the presence of the woman killed by Lycurgus on South Italian
vases indicates that the producers and consumers of that pottery took it as a
particularly memorable event. This suggests a shift in the collective imagery,
which might have been triggered or reflected by a play (or plays), whose com-
position was different from those of Aeschylus’ Lycurgeia.
Another shift of the focus or possibly a dramatic innovation comes in the
presence of Fury/Lyssa in the majority of the South Italian vase paintings along-
side Lycurgus, some of which I have already discussed. The section that follows
presents the most intriguing specimen, a bell crater decorated by the Painter of
Boston. The composition suggests a theatrical source of inspiration. As such, it
gives an interesting insight into the performative tradition.
4.4.5 The Painter of Boston and the Fury/Lyssa

As discussed above, according to LIMC (Lykourgos i), there are nine or ten
South Italian vase paintings that feature Lycurgus killing his victim(s). What
can be taken almost as a rule is the presence of Lyssa/Fury in these images.
She is excluded only from the two simplest ones in terms of the composition
and number of figures (LIMC: Lykourgos i 13, 18). Despite the manifold theo-
retical difficulties, it seems reasonable to think that Lyssa’s/Fury’s involvement
number of contradictions between these works suggests that the author followed his
sources more closely in each case than his knowledge.
180 chapter 4
figure 12 Apoulian red-figure column crater, Ruvo di Puglia, Museo Jatta 32
in the scene derives from the theatrical tradition, as might be argued from the
decoration of an Apulian column-crater from Ruvo, attributed to the Painter of
Boston (Fig. 12; LIMC: Lykourgos i 14).
This image features Lycurgus in an edifice constituted of two columns and
a tympanum. The hero is holding his double-axe, ready to strike a youth who
clings to his knees in a gesture of supplication. To our right, a terrified woman
drops a tray with offerings. To our left, a bearded man with a dog and two
javelins raises his hand to his face in an expression of despair. There are strange
and quite problematic elements in the upper part of the image: to our right,
there is a bust of a female figure, who seems to be emerging from behind the
right corner of the roof. Jatta (1874) identified her as Lyssa.42 On top of the roof,
there is an animal shape. This to me resembles a lurking ferret, though such an
interpretation would be obviously absurd. Roscino (who seems to be the only
scholar who has noticed the presence of this animal) describes it in CVA as an
42 Thus also LIMC: Lykourgos i 14.

acroterion in the form of a horse.43 With short legs and a curled tail, it would
be a strange horse; however, given the overall clumsiness of the execution of
the picture this does not seem impossible.44 Alternatively, the animal can be
interpreted as a panther, which it resembles more than it does a horse. At any
rate, both interpretations make sense in context. A panther may be taken as
a typical attribute of Fury/Lyssa, whereas an acroterion in the form of a horse
could contribute to the characterisation of the building as Thracian45 and, at
the same time, perhaps allude to the role that horses played in Lycurgus’ death.
The scholars of philodramatic orientation (as Giuliani (1996) calls it) would
take this image as a typical example of a representation influenced by tragedy.
Within such an interpretation, the naiskos reflects the skene. What is shown
inside it (the killing) took place inside the building and was narrated by some-
one, most likely one of the two witnesses shown on either side of it. The
appearance of Fury/Lyssa above the roof may correspond to her emergence
ex machina.46 This feature, as Séchan (1926: 75) observed, finds a parallel in
the scene of Heracles’ madness in Euripides’ play (843–1015).47 This is not
where the similarities end. Both the vase with Lycurgus and the Heracles main-
omenos feature a hero who kills a member (or members) of his family in a
building while preparing for a sacrifice. In the image under discussion, the sac-
rificial context is supposed to be evoked by the double-axe as well as the tray
dropped by the woman. If the former is not particularly meaningful, since the
axe is a conventional attribute of Lycurgus, the latter is probably quite signifi-
cant.
According to Séchan (1926: 76), who contended that the image on the crater
was directly inspired by a scene from Aeschylus’ Edonoi,48 this play must have
also influenced the description of Heracles’ madness in Euripides’ tragedy (HF
822–1015). This interpretation was partially based on Wilamowitz’s (1909: 413–
43 CVA Italia fasc. 80, Ruvo, Museo Nazionale Jatta ii (2015): 19–21, tav. i.
44 The identification of the animal depicted on the roof as a horse triggered a long discus-
sion at the “Mythography not Mythology” panel during the CCC conference in St. Andrews
in 2018. I would like to thank Scott Smith, Charles Delattre and Arnaud Zucker for their
comments and jokes about the alleged horse as well as Oliver Taplin for an email exchange
regarding the problematic animal.
45 On the connection between Thracians and horses, see Boteva 2011 with further references.
46 Of the eight signals of the theatrical inspiration behind vase paintings listed by Taplin
(2007: 37–43), the image under discussion has four: the building, anonymous witness fig-
ures, the Fury figure, and the supplication. See also Roscino 2003 and Vahtikari 2014: 20–51.
47 See also Taplin 2007: 70.
48 Taplin (2007: 70) identifies the tragedy that inspired the image as a Lykourgos play, whether
that of Aeschylus or by another playwright. This seems to be the best way of putting it.
182 chapter 4
414) judgement of the scene in Euripides as particularly clumsy. However, it

seems that few, if any, contemporary scholars would agree with Wilamowitz,
and to a certain degree this results from our better understanding of the ancient
imagery of madness.49 This does not necessarily mean that Euripides did not
draw inspiration from an earlier play; the Edonoi is a good candidate, but some
other scenarios are equally plausible.
Moret (1975: 244) made the following observations about the appearance of
Lyssa:
1) It could have originally been featured in Aeschylus and could have influ-
enced Euripides (Séchan’s version).
2) It could have been absent from Aeschylus and included in a later tragedy
about Lycurgus under the influence of Euripides’ Heracles.
3) The contamination could have also resulted from the painters’ initiative.
Thus, the motifs deriving from two different tragedies could be combined
independently from the theatre.
According to all these possible scenarios, the iconographic motif of Lyssa’s/
Fury’s emergence ultimately derives from the theatre. However, the claim that
it featured already in Aeschylus’ Lycurgeia, though tempting, especially given
the parallel in the Xantriai (fr. 169 Radt), is only a possibility. It is worth remark-
ing too that Aeschylus’ tragedies could have changed over time. This brings us
to another possible scenario.
As discussed in the beginning of this chapter, we have limited insight into
South Italian theatrical practice. We know, however, that it was quite different
from fifth-century bce Athens. Among other changes, didaskaliai and tetralo-
gies seem to have given way to single plays. In a later period, staging separate
scenes from classical drama is well attested,50 but it is impossible to tell when
this practice begun. Theatrical troupes were certainly free to tailor existing
plays in accordance with their own needs, as well as to suit their audiences’
tastes. It is not impossible, then, that a play based on Aeschylus’ Lycurgeia
was offered to spectators condensed into a single tragedy composed of various
memorable scenes from the tetralogy. Such a play could contain other compo-
nents, deriving from Aeschylean and other drama. It is not impossible that such
a highly eclectic play inspired the Painter of Boston. Among ancient audiences,
it could have even been thought of as Aeschylus’ Lycurgeia, provided that our
49 Wilamowitz’s judgement seems poorly grounded. One of his principal concerns is that the
text does not explain how Heracles got hold of the weapons he used against his family. See
Bond 1981: ad 941–946. On the scene in general, see Papadopoulou 2005: 58–85.
50 See especially Nervegna 2007.
standards of authenticity were not applied to it. In such a case, some statements
made about Aeschylus’ Lycurgeia could be true, unless retrojected into fifth-
century bce Athens. In other words, it is possible that “Aeschylus’ Lycurgeia” in
South Italy featured Lyssa/Fury ex machina, and that the play of the same title
and author did not include such a motif in its Attic version.
4.5 Instead of Conclusions
The previous chapters introduced Aeschylus’ Lycurgeia and Naevius’ Lycurgus,

two texts of which we have a relatively good knowledge. In contrast, this chap-
ter discusses material that is much less clear and, instead of offering reconstruc-
tions, focuses on indicating how little we do know. At times this undermines
some confident statements made by scholars in the past. What can be stated
beyond reasonable doubt, however, is the following:
1) Aeschylus’ Lycurgeia was well received by the Attic audience. Ancient
sources do not mention any other Greek play or group of plays about
Lycurgus that were equally successful. This makes it reasonable to suspect
Aeschylus’ influence whenever a textual or visual reference to Lycurgus is
made. Such influence, however, and, a fortiori, copying from Aeschylus by
later authors and artists, can never be taken for granted.
2) Aeschylus’ Lycurgeia was probably restaged in Attica in the fifth century
bce, but not necessarily in Athens. This probably refreshed the audience’s
memory and allowed for conscious intertextual games already in the clas-
sical period.
3) What was conceived of as “Aeschylus’ Lycurgeia” may have evolved over
time.
4) The Lycurgus story was relatively well-known in fourth-century bce
South Italy at least partially thanks to the theatre. No titles or names of
the playwrights are attested, but Aeschylus could be one of them.
5) Naevius’ Lycurgus probably covered the material from one of Aeschylus’
tragedies (the Bassarai) with the addition of some further motifs in the
prologue.
6) There is no reason to think that Naevius in his Lycurgus used sources other
than “Aeschylus’ Lycurgeia”, but such a scenario cannot be excluded.
This chapter ends where it began. There is a vast field of uncertainty. What is
certain is that the Lycurgus myth had an eventful life between Aeschylus and
Naevius, and that a large part of this life took place in Attica and South Italy. The
myth certainly conveyed some important meanings, but these are far beyond
our reach, given how little we know of the texts and performances.
184 chapter 4
The chapter that follows discusses one of most intriguing features of the
Lycurgus myth as it is known from ancient texts and iconography. According
to many scholars, the fact that Lycurgus was said to have hurt one of his legs or
to wear a single sandal was quite meaningful. Some of them related this motif to
the vast number of similar stories known from classical antiquity and beyond.
I, however, am very sceptical about this.
4.6 Appendix: The Location of Lycurgus’ Kingdom and the Chronology

of His Myth
At first glance, there is no simple answer to the question of where the story
of Lycurgus took place. In Homer (Il. 6.133), Lycurgus chased Dionysus and his
nurses on godly Nyseion. According to the scholia (T ad loc.), this place was
identified in various ways, but it was most likely located in Thrace. It may be
only a matter of conjecture as to what the poet intended. However, according
to the Iliadic scholia (D ad 131), the author of the Europeia (fr. 27 West) also
placed the episode somewhere in Thrace.
Some late authors offer radically different versions: for example, according
to Malalas (pp. 44–45) and Firmicus Maternus (Err. 6.6–9), the story took place
in Boeotian Thebes. This clearly results from a conflation of the Lycurgus and
Pentheus myths. The Tbilisi Hymn mentions a city of Thebes, but most likely it is
a city called Thebes located in Cilicia. Nonnus (e.g., 21.187) and Damascius (Vita
Isidori EPh. 200 (Phot. Bibl. 348a Bekker)) place it in Arabia which, according to
Diodorus of Sicily (3.65.7), had been the choice also of some poets before him.
Of these he mentions Antimachus (of Colophon, fr. 162). It seems that there has
also been a version that put the events on Naxos (Hyg. fab.192) and possibly in
Thessaly (DS 5.50).
Notwithstanding this diversity—which at least in some cases is an obvi-
ous result of some authors’ agenda (for example, it seems a natural guess that
Damascius, who was born in Damascus, chose the location for the story in
order to support an aetiology of his native city’s name)—the version indi-
cated by the Homeric scholiast as the most likely can be called the main-
stream one. It is attested in a number of texts, as well as in vase-paintings,
which are quite consistent in depicting Lycurgus as Thracian. Thus, Aeschy-
lus makes Lycurgus the king of the Edonians (as is indirectly clear from the
title of the first play of the tetralogy) and mentions Mount Pangaion in frag-
ment 23a. Sophocles (Ant. 956) speaks of Lycurgus as the king of the Edo-
nians (Ἠδωνῶν βασιλεύς). Euripides in a fragment of his Hypsipyle (fr. 64 col. i
Italie), possibly in some connection with Lycurgus, mentioned Edonian wo-
men and Pangaion.51 Apollodorus, while summarising a tragic version of the

story, accumulates all these geographical details. First, he states that the story
took place in Thrace. Next, he describes Lycurgus as the king of the Edonians,
who live around the river Strymon. Finally, he adds that Lycurgus died in Pan-
gaion.
In this context, it may seem surprising that the scholia on Sophocles’ Anti-
gone (955 Dindorf) make Lycurgus a king of the Macedonians rather than the
Thracians (Λυκοῦργος ὁ Δρύαντος παῖς, βασιλεὺς Μακεδόνων, etc.). This clearly
results from some past decision (whether on the part of the scholiast or his
source) to emphasise the topography rather than the ethnic identity of Lycur-
gus.52 From the time of its conquest by Philip in 357bce onwards the Pangaion
region was incorporated into the kingdom of Macedon and subsequently into
the Roman province of Macedonia. Thus, the events that took place there could
be thought of as a part of Macedonian history. Given that the resistance of
Lycurgus to Dionysus was supposed to have taken place in the remote past,
some time before the Trojan war, at first glance there seems to be no rea-
son to think that military exploits of the fourth century could interfere with
this.
Interestingly, some Roman authors seem to apply the opposite strategy
to that of the Sophoclean scholiast. By doing so, they go against the well-
established (in Greek tragedy at least) tradition of placing the Lycurgus myth in
Pangaion. Instead, they transfer it to places that in their times were thought of
as Thracian in an unambiguous manner. Thus, Ovid in the Heroides (2.111–114)
makes Phyllis characterise her kingdom in the following way:
quae tibi subieci latissima regna Lycurgi,

nomine femineo uix satis apta regi,
qua patet umbrosum Rhodope glacialis ad Haemum,
et sacer admissas exigit Hebrus aquas
Me, who submitted to you the broadest kingdom of Lycurgus, which can
be hardly ruled in the name of a woman, where icy Rhodope stretches
towards shady Haemus and holy Hebrus rushes his headlong waters
51 What has been preserved on papyrus is a fragment of a scholion: Ἠ]δωνίσι Θραικίαις /

Πά]γγαιον ὄρος τῆς Θράικης. On possible connection with Dionysus, Lycurgus, and
Orpheus, see Italie 1923: ad loc.; Bond 1963: ad loc.; Cockle 1987: ad loc.
52 Cf. Scholia tricliniana in Aesch. Pers. 495a: Ἠδωνίδ᾽] Μακεδονικήν.
186 chapter 4
The country that stretches from Rhodope to Haemus, two mountain chains
on opposite sides of the Hebrus, is Thrace, but a different one from that of
Aeschylean Lycurgus. In Ibis 345, Ovid uses the following periphrasis for Lycur-
gus:
utque Dryantidae Rhodopeia regna tenenti
and like that of the son of Dryas, who ruled over the land of Rhodope
Again, Ovid retains the Thracian identity of Lycurgus but at the cost of transfer-
ring his kingdom from Pangaion to Rhodope. A similar strategy is clearly behind
the words of Valerius Flaccus (1.726–729):
Bistonas ad meritos cum cornua saeua Thyoneus

Torsit et infelix iam mille furoribus Haemus,
Iam Rhodopes nemora alta gemunt, talem incita longis
Porticibus coniunxque fugit natique Lycurgum
When Thyoneus turned his violent horns against Bistonian perpetrators

and now Haemus suffers from thousand-fold fury, now the high forests of
Rhodope groan, such was Lycurgus from whom his quick wife and chil-
dren run through long porticos.
Finally, Hyginus in fabula 132 makes Lycurgus the king of Rhodope region:
ipsumque Lycurgum Liber pantheris obiecit in Rhodope, qui mons est

Thraciae, cuius imperium habuit.
Liber threw Lycurgus himself to panthers in Rhodope, which is a moun-

tain in Thrace, of which he was the ruler.
On the other hand, a near-contemporary of Valerius Flaccus, Silius Italicus,

preserves traces of the Aeschylean tradition, which apparently had not been
forgotten by this period (Pun. 776–777):
Edonis ut Pangaea super trieteride mota

it iuga et inclusum suspirat pectore Bacchum.
Like an Edonian woman on Pangaion agitated once every two years, goes
on the ridge and breathes the Bacchus, who dwells in her chest.
It is clear from these passages that two alternative traditions were known
to Roman poets. One of them, which connects Lycurgus to Pangaion, is well-
anchored in classical Greek drama. The origins of the other are less conspicu-
ous, but it must have been relatively well known given that Ovid and Valerius
Flaccus allude to it rather than tell the whole story. This suggests that none of
these poets can be credited with its invention.
It is reasonable to infer that this branch of the tradition was born some-
time after 357bce, probably to avoid the confusion of speaking of Lycurgus as
a Thracian king of Pangaion. Thus, given that Lycurgus was supposed to die in
mountains, the decision was made to transfer the whole episode to the region
of Rhodope, whose Thracian identity could raise no doubts.
Who could be responsible for such a change? There is no simple answer
to this question. Given its approximate date and possible influence on later
Roman tradition, Naevius’ Lycurgus is an obvious candidate. However, there is
nothing in the fragments to confirm that it was so.
chapter 5
Lycurgus monocrepis
5.1 Introduction
According to some written sources, Lycurgus cut his leg off when he was trying
to cut down the vines. This seems to be related to some of his representations
in visual art that depict him as wearing one sandal. These two motifs (or two
variants of the same motif) have attracted a lot of scholarly attention, as they
seem to evoke some concealed layers of meaning regarding Lycurgus, Dionysus,
Greek religion, and Greek myths. Some scholars have gone so far as to attempt
to offer a universal history of monosandalism or monocrepidism, as wearing
footwear on one foot came to be called.
The following chapter offers a twofold approach to this material. In its first
part, I discuss the cultural texts that are (or seem to be) directly related to Lycur-
gus’ legs and footwear. The second part of the chapter offers a survey of the
meanings attributed to this motif in the context of Lycurgus’ myth and beyond.
5.2 Lycurgus’ Self-Mutilation in Greek Literature
Only one Greek text may be thought of as containing a reference to Lycurgus’

self-mutilation. The editio princeps of Apollodorus’ Library (3.5) contains the
following passage:
ὁ δὲ μεμηνὼς Δρύαντα τὸν παῖδα, ἀμπέλου νομίζων κλῆμα κόπτειν, πελέκει

πλήξας ἀπέκτεινε, καὶ ἀκρωτηριάσας ἑαυτὸν ἐσωφρόνησε.
In his frenzy he [Lycurgus] killed Dryas, his son, striking him with an axe,
thinking that he was cutting a vine-twig. Having mutilated himself, he
came to his senses.
The crucial part of this passage results from an arbitrary emendation intro-
duced by Aegius Spoletinus who substituted the paradosis αὐτόν with ἑαυ-
τόν in order to match the meaning resulting from Hyginus’ fabula 132 (dis-
cussed below). The text in fact makes perfect sense if the manuscript version
is retained, which results in the meaning “having mutilated him [sc. Dryas],
he [sc. Lycurgus] came to his senses”. It finds parallels in Euripides’ Bacchae,

lycurgus monocrepis 189
where Pentheus’ dismembered body plays a crucial role in Agaue’s recovery.

Thus, it seems reasonable to reject the correction offered by Aegius Spoleti-
nus.1
This means that the motif of Lycurgus’ self-mutilation is not attested in
Greek sources. On the other hand, its presence in some Latin texts is unques-
tionable.
5.3 Lycurgus’ Self-Mutilation in Latin Literature
Having said that Lycurgus was thrown to panthers, Hyginus in fabula 132 adds
something that looks like an alternative end of the story:
hic traditur unum pedem sibi pro uitibus excidisse.
He is also said to have cut one of his feet instead of the vine.2
Schmidt in his edition of 1872 bracketed this last sentence, suspecting that it
had not belonged to Hyginus’ original text. Other editors, however, retain the
paradosis on the assumption that there is no reason to expect Hyginus to be
perfectly coherent. Grant (1960: 110) goes so far as to take this inconsistency
as symptomatic of the author’s way of thinking. Even if it is not compatible
with other variants offered by Hyginus, is it difficult to dismiss the passage as
the result of a trivial mistake, given that it is confirmed by several authors who
mention Lycurgus’ self-injury.
Most straightforward is Servius (Aen. 3.14 Servius Danielinus):
dum contemnens Liberum eius uites manu sua semper abscinderet,

inmisso a Libero furore ipse sibi crura succidit […]3 ut alii dicunt […]
Lycurgus uites eius amputare coepit; quapropter per furorem a diis inmis-
sum ipse sibi crura succidit.
1 See section 2.7, as well as Scarpi, Ciani 1996: ad loc.

2 In fabula 242, Hyginus refers to Lycurgus as one of those mythical heroes who killed them-
selves: Lycurgus Dryantis filius obiecta insania a Libero se interfecit (Lycurgus, son of Dryas,
killed himself in a madness sent upon him by Dionysus). It may be a reference to a death result-
ing from self-mutilation.
3 Vulgata has a slightly different text: dum contemnens Liberum eius amputat uites, crura sua
incidit.
190 chapter 5
Despising Liber, he kept cutting down his vines with his own hand, and in
a madness inflicted by Liber he cut his own legs off […] as others say […],
Lycurgus started cutting his vines, in which he cut his legs off because of
a frenzy inflicted by the gods.
These statements have been repeated almost without changes in a number of

scholia and mythographic texts.4 However, this does not seem to be the case of
the scholia to Lucan’s Bellum Civile, which contain a similar piece of informa-
tion, although with a disturbing twist.5 As Lucan says (1.574–576):
[Erinys] … qualis Agauen

inpulit aut saeui contorsit tela Lycurgi
Eumenis
Such was the Fury that maddened Agaue […] and launched the bolts of
fierce Lycurgus.6
The scholia (Endt, ad loc.) explain:
Dryantis filium dicit, qui dum uites amputare uult ad iniuriam Liberi, sibi
crura succidit; ideo dictum ‘contorsit tela’
He speaks of the son of Dryas, who cut off his legs when he wanted to
cut down the vines to offend Dionysus. This is why it is said she turned his
arms into another direction.
The identification of the Lycurgus mentioned in the passage with our Lycur-
gus is clearly correct, given that he is coupled with Pentheus (see note 1), but is
the explanation adequate? Modern translators tend to interpret the word tela
in the plural form as a reference to multiple missiles that Lycurgus launched
(the bolts). The verb contorqueo is supposed to assume the meaning given by
OLD (s.v.) 3a–c: a to make to rotate or move in an arc, whirl. b to discharge (mis-
siles) with a rotary movement. c to impart a whirling motion, to send whitling.
Thus, Eumenis is supposed to have helped Lycurgus to cast some objects. This
may find a parallel in Nonnus’ Dionysiaca 21.3–9, where Ambrosia hurls a rock
4 The statement is repeated in a very similar form by the Mythographus Vaticanus i (121 Kulc-
sár), ii (94 Kulcsár), iii (p. 245 Bode), and scholia in Hor. C. 2.19.16.
5 On the relationship between Lucan’s scholia and Servius, see Esposito 2004.
6 Duff’s translation in the Loeb edition of 1962.
at Lycurgus, who returns the blow by throwing an even a larger rock at her.7
Perhaps even more pertinent is an epigram by Leonidas of Alexandria (AP
9.79), in which a person who throws stones at a fruit tree is likened to Lycur-
gus.
The scholiast clearly understood it in a different way. Accordingly, the tela
was the weapon with which Lycurgus cut the vines. It is natural to associate
this with his double-axe, and there is a reason to think that the commenta-
tor knew about it (as seems clear from the comment on 3.431). Within such an
interpretation the word can hardly refer to a throwing weapon and the plural
form must have been used figuratively for the singular (as in 3.722; 9.829). The
verb contorqueo is supposed to be used with the meaning given by OLD (s.v.) 5:
to turn into another direction, turn about. Its collocation with tela, though not
impossible, does not appear to be a common usage (it contrasts with 2.502,
3.671, 9.472).8 This may suggest that the scholiast (or his source) was so focused
on Lycurgus that he misunderstood Lucan’s text. However, it does not seem to
be simply a matter of his thoughtlessness, as is clear from a baffling comment
that the same set of scholia contains about the passage in which Caesar’s sol-
diers hesitate whether they should cut down a sacred grove at Massilia (3.429–
434):
sed fortes tremuere manus, motique uerenda

maiestate loci, si robora ferirent,
in sua credebant redituras membra secures.
implicitas magno Caesar torpore cohortes
ut uidit, primus raptam librare bipennem
ausus et aeriam ferro proscindere quercum.
and the men, awed by the solemnity and terror of the place, believed
that, if they aimed a blow at the sacred trunks, their axes would rebound
against their own limbs. When Caesar saw that his soldiers were sore hin-
dered and paralysed, he was the first to snatch an axe and swing it, and he
dared to cleave a towering oak with the steel.9
Quite unexpectedly, the scholiast (Endt, ad 431) comments:
7 It might also be meaningful that the Lycurgus cup (LIMC: Lykourgos i 51, from the fourth
century ce) features Pan casting a stone at Lycurgus.
8 See Roche 2009: ad loc.
9 Transl. Duff (Loeb 1962).
192 chapter 5
in sua: ut Lycurgus est passus a Libero.10
against their own: as what Lycurgus suffered from Liber.
There is no way of telling whether Lucan really had in mind what the scholiast
claims he did. The text makes perfect sense when taken at face value and, even
though an allusion to the mythical precedent adds an interesting dimension
to it, there are no clear indications that it was what the author meant. Yet the
comment seems surprisingly pertinent and the three details that make it so
are not attested in Servius. As noted above (sections 2.3.1.5 and 3.1.2), accord-
ing to the version probably known to Naevius, Lycurgus was assaulted by the
vines of a divine grove. He was also typically represented as wielding a double-
axe, similar to Caesar’s bipennis. Finally, it looks like the effect of an intentional
wordplay that Caesar first strikes an oak (quercus), which seems to correspond
to the name of the son Lycurgus killed, Dryas, which seems to be related to δρῦς,
the Greek word for an oak. This may suggest that the scholiast did not simply
copy Servius. Instead, he seems to have had access to some other exegetical or
narrative text.
A trace of a learned tradition related to the one attested in Hyginus’ fab-
ula 132 is also clearly present in some of the scholia on Ovid’s Ibis 345–34611
and 607–608. Whether or not Ovid himself was familiar with Lycurgus’ self-
mutilation is another problem.12 Particularly ambiguous is Ibis 345–346 (I
quote it along with 343–344):13
10 Cf. Scholia Usener ad loc.: Licurgi uidelicet exemplum timentes, quae passus est a Libero.
11 Especially La Penna P, B, G, which contain a reference to the incest with Lycurgus’ mother,
on which see 3.2.1.
12 Some manuscripts of the Fasti (3.721–722) seem to contain an allusion to Lycurgus’ leg
(Schilling BL 1992): tu quoque Thebanae mala praeda tacebere matris/ inque tuum furiis
acte, Lycurge, genus. [genus AU¹G¹M¹F : nu U²G²M²] (I will pass in silence also over you,
hapless victim of a Theban mother and you, Lycurgus, who assaulted your own lineage/knee
in a fury). Frazer in his edition and commentary (1929: ad loc.) chose the reading with
genu, which raises some further (although not insurmountable) problems, given that
no other text specifies the knee as the part of the leg Lycurgus injured. More impor-
tantly, genu, where it appears in the manuscripts, is always a matter of scribal corrections.
Thus, it seems almost certain that the Fasti did not contain a reference to Lycurgus’ self-
mutilation.
13 Lines 607–608 of Ibis are even more mysterious: Qua sua Pentheliden proles est ulta Lycur-
gum,/ Haec maneat teli te quoque plaga noui. (May await you the blow of the new weapon
with which Penthelid Lycurgus’ offspring took vengeance on him). The word Pentheliden
(transmitted in variety of forms) does not seem to correspond to anything that is known
about any Lycurgus we know of, and various scholiasts’ attempts to explain it (in most
cases by linking it to Pentheus) make a rather desperate impression. It is therefore proba-
ble that the couplet contains a reference to a different person than our Lycurgus.
mens quoque sic furiis uecors agitetur, ut illi,

unum qui toto corpore uulnus habet;
utque Dryantidae Rhodopeia regna tenenti,
in gemino dispar cui pede cultus erat.
and let your deranged mind be agitated by fury, like the mind of the one
whose body was but a single wound; and like the mind of the son of Dryas,
who ruled over the land of Rhodope and whose legs received unequal
treatment.
The meaning of the noun cultus is (intentionally?) vague, as it can refer to care
(OLD: s.v. 4) and the cultivation of plants (OLD: s.v. 2). This is not completely
absurd in this context, given that Lycurgus was supposed to mistake his leg for
a vine branch. More importantly, however, it can refer to footwear (OLD: s.v. 6).
Thus, Mozley (Loeb 1962) translated: who wore unlike gear on his two feet. The
ambiguity of Ovid’s text brings us to another point of our inquiry, the iconog-
raphy.
5.4 The Iconography of Lycurgus monocrepis
In the footnote on Ovid’s Ibis 345–346, Mozley (Loeb 1962) added: Lycurgus,
king of Thrace who had lost one foot (μονοκρηπῖδα Λυκοῦργον). This comment in a
laconic form reports a statement made several centuries earlier by Urceus Cor-
dus (Sermo 1.220): habebat enim solam crepidam Lycurgus, utpote altero pede
laeso uel caeso unde “μονοκρηπῖδα Λυκοῦργον” appellat quoddam graecum epi-
gramma quod extat in illius statuam ( for Lycurgus had only one sandal, because
he had hurt or cut off the other foot. Thus, certain Greek epigram, which exists
about his statue, calls him μονοκρηπῖδα Λυκοῦργον). This is the epigram in ques-
tion (AP 16.127; unknown author):
τίς τὸν Θρήκα τόνδε μονοκρήπιδα Λυκοῦργον

χάλκεον, Ἠδωνῶν ταγόν, ἀνεπλάσατο;
Βακχιακὸν παρὰ πρέμον ἴδ᾽ ὡς ἀγέρωχα μεμηνὼς
βριθὺν ὑπὲρ κεφαλᾶς ἀντέτακεν χάλυβα.
μανύει μορφὰ τὸ πάλαι θράσος· ἁ δ᾽ ἀγέρωχος
λύσσα καὶ ἐν χαλκῶι κεῖνο τὸ πικρὸν ἔχει.
Who fashioned this Thracian bronze Lycurgus in one sandal, the chief of
Edonians? Look, in his frenzy and arrogance he is standing next to a Bac-
194 chapter 5
chic stem with heavy steel lifted above his head. The form discloses his
past insolence, and even in bronze the mighty rage bitterly overcomes
him.
The statue (LIMC: Lykourgos i 69), of which nothing certain is known, has not
been preserved. It is nevertheless clear that it had much in common with sev-
eral extant representations of Lycurgus, of which the earliest is a terracotta
thymiaterion base from Vulci (LIMC: Lykourgos i 58; first half of the second
century bce). It features the hero with the axe above his head and a vine branch
between his feet, one of which is wearing a boot, the other being bare, but not
injured. Similarly, in a clay seal from Delos (LIMC: Lykourgos i 61; first cen-
tury bce) and a carnelian gem from Saturnia in Tuscany (LIMC: Lykourgos i 66;
imperial period), Lycurgus in one sandal raises his axe to smite the vine. There
is nothing to suggest that his bare foot is injured. Slightly different but also
much later is a mosaic from Ostia (LIMC: Lykourgos i 39; third century ce) in
which Lycurgus holds his axe with two hands. Apart from the vine, the Nymph
Ambrosia is next to him. It is possible that one of his feet is bare. No injury is
visible. Finally, a fine mosaic from the Villa Selene near Lepcis Magna in Libya
(LIMC: Lykourgos i 76; third-fourth century ce (?)) features Lycurgus bound by
the vine with his axe already dropped on the ground. One of his legs has a boot
on. The other is bare, but not injured.14
To sum up, there are five or six representations of Lycurgus (including the
unpreserved sculpture and the problematic mosaic from Ostia) with one san-
dal on. All but one show him at the same moment, when he is about to smite the
vine and may be taken as variants of the same iconographic type, or its inter-
action with another type (the addition of Ambrosia).15 Its prototype, clearly
different from the earliest extant specimen, whose size and quality suggest that
it could not have been particularly influential, should be dated no later than the
first half of the second century bce. Only one depiction of a single-sandaled
Lycurgus shows a slightly later moment of the story (his entanglement). All
specimens (apart from the sculpture described in the epigram, of which noth-
14 There are two more depictions that have been associated with the monocrepid Lycurgus;
the Derveni Crater (LIMC: Lykourgos i 4; around 350 bce), which almost certainly features
Pentheus (see Barr-Sharrar 2008: 149–153). Grassigli (1995: 238) states that LIMC Lykour-
gos i 78 has the king in one sandal and with one foot bare, which is not impossible but
dubious.
15 On the interaction between these two types, see Grassigli 1995: 235–237 and Cazanove
1986: 13–15.
ing is known) come from the Roman part of the Mediterranean (Delos is
only an apparent exception, given the Roman influence in the first century
bce).
There are no images that show or evoke Lycurgus’ self-mutilation in an out-
ward manner. On the other hand, the written sources tend to refer to Lycurgus
cutting his leg(s) off rather than to his single sandal. The only exception to this
rule—apart from the epigram from the Palatine Anthology, which describes a
work of art—is the ambiguous passage in Ovid’s Ibis and the scholia to it, which
may reflect its ambiguity. It is tempting to think that this is only an apparent
exception, which could be the case if we allow for Ovid to have been influenced
by an artistic representation of Lycurgus. This would mean that Lycurgus with
unlike gear on his two feet belonged entirely to the world of the visual arts and
penetrated into the literature only when a reference (such as the ecphrasis in
the epigram) or an allusion (in the Ibis) to the visual arts was made. On the
other hand, the motif of self-mutilation would be limited only to the textual
evidence, which is represented by a few relatively late Latin commentaries and
mythographic texts.
Although nothing is completely impossible, it is hard to believe that Lycur-
gus’ monocrepidism and self-injury are unrelated to one another. It rather
seems that these are two ways of referring to the same phenomenon that were
(exclusively or perhaps predominantly) characteristic for two different media,
images and texts. The relationship between the two is a notoriously thorny
issue, which I have already briefly addressed above (section 4.3.1). There seem
to be three possible scenarios:
1) The primacy of a text over images. It has been observed by several scholars
that the monocrepidism might have been a pictorial allusion to the motif
of self-mutilation known from the narrative sources.16 The question arises
as to why artists preferred to allude to the motif rather than represent it in
an explicit manner. The iconography of some other heroes indicates that
it is not a matter of technical difficulties or decorum.17
2) The primacy of an image over texts. It would be tempting to think that
the idea of Lycurgus’ self-injury resulted from some misunderstanding of
the pictorial language. A possible parallel could be provided by Hyginus’
16 Leschi (1935–1936: 164, n. 1) suggested that this may extend also on the images with Lycur-
gus where one leg is hidden behind Ambrosia. Some other representations, in the absence
of Ambrosia, as Levi observes (1971: 181), introduce a rock on which Lycurgus supports his
bent knee. See also Robertson 1972: 41; Grassigli 1995: 237–239.
17 For example, some Attic red figure vases (LIMC: Achilleus 565, 6) feature Hector with sev-
eral injuries, including a cut on his leg.
196 chapter 5
fabula 132 (discussed in 4.3.2). However, unlike the representation of a

leaping panther, which may seem quite ambiguous, the bare foot of a hero
does not so easily evoke his self-mutilation. Thus, this notion cannot be
dismissed as a trivial mistake.
3) The parity between the two media. This would mean that one idea hap-
pened to be expressed in two different media in two different, though
not unrelated ways. In both cases, the meaning is expressed by the sig-
nifier “something wrong about Lycurgus’ legs”. However, the exact nature
of “the thing about his legs” (missing sandal/wound) was an irrelevant
corollary.
Given that the two former options seem problematic, the third should be seri-
ously considered. A possible meaning of this motif can be provided by some
related textual sources. There are three epigrams in the Palatine Anthology
(16.306–308; two of which have been transmitted under the name of Leonidas
of Tarentum and one under Eugenes) that describe a statue of a drunk
Anacreon. Each of them refers to the disparity of his footwear. Epigrams 306
and 308 refer to this motif as an index of Anacreon’s drunkenness (307 hints at
it, without, however, stating it explicitly):
16.306.5–6:
δισσῶν δ᾽ ἀρβυλίδων τὰν μὲν μίαν οἷα μεθυπλὴξ

ὤλεσεν, ἐν δ᾽ ἑτέραι ῥικνὸν ἄραρε πόδα.
Of the two boots, one he has lost in drunkenness, the other is still attached
to his wrinkled foot.
16.308.5–6:
… μονοζυγὲς
μέθην ἐλέγχει σάνδαλον …
his single sandal betrays drunkenness
The description of the statue of Lycurgus monocrepis quoted above is a little

less straightforward in explaining the meaning of the motif in question. Never-
theless, it seems reasonable to suppose that the form of the statue as described
in the poem was meant to harmonise with its meaning. And what it evoked,
according to the poet, was insolence (τὸ πάλαι θράσος) and frenzy (ἀγέρωχος
λύσσα). Although from the point of view of a modern viewer the association
between Lycurgus’ mental condition and his monocrepidism is not obvious,

such a connection seems conceivable.18
Even more straightforward seems to be the reconstruction of the mean-
ing attributed to Lycurgus’ self-mutilation which is offered by Servius (quoted
above). According to the two versions of the story this author refers to, it was
an effect of Lycurgus’ madness (inmisso a Libero furore/per furorem a diis inmis-
sum ipse sibi crura succidit). Similarly, Ovid in his Ibis (343–346) refers to the
condition of Lycurgus’ legs (with all the ambiguity involved) while speaking of
madness (mens quoque sic furiis uecors agitetur).
Thus, when ancient authors mention “the thing about Lycurgus’ legs”, they
connect it with his madness. It might be objected that these authors are “late”
and therefore not particularly credible, however, the motif is attested only in
the works of such “late authors”. Nevertheless, their interpretation is usually
dismissed by scholars without even a word of explanation. In what follows, I
turn to the history of the research on the motif of Lycurgus monocrepis, which
will involve a discussion of a large portion of the material that several genera-
tions of scholars thought to be relevant.
5.5 The History of Research
In a lecture given in 1905 and subsequently printed in 1907, Amelung addressed

the iconographic motif of a single sandal worn by a statue, which he identified
as that of παῖς μυηθεὶς ἀφ᾽ ἑστίας, a boy of a particular status initiated into the
Eleusinian Mysteries. A Roman copy from the Antonine period of such presum-
ably Attic sculpture, now in the Palazzo dei Conservatori in Rome (number 1 on
my list of the sources),19 has one foot bare, whereas the other wears a sandal. In
order to reconstruct the meaning of this motif, Amelung adduced a long series
of its occurrences:
2) The so-called Barberini Suppliant. A Roman copy of the fifth-century bce
statue of a woman sitting on an altar in a position that evokes supplica-
tion. She wears only one sandal. (reproduction in Amelung 1907 fig. 1)
18 According to Robertson (1972: 44), a similar trope was used in an image of Salmoneus’
madness on an Attic red figure crater in Boston (LIMC: Salmoneus 6), which features the
king wearing wreaths and fillets on various parts of his body, along with one greave on his
shin and another on his forearm. As Robertson writes, this misplacement of garments or
gear as a sign of madness is an obvious visual image, which could well have its origin rather
in sculpture or painting than in poetry.
19 For the reproduction, see Amelung 1907, tav. iii.
198 chapter 5
3) Two funerary reliefs from Sens in France (Roman period) with represen-
tations of the deceased men wearing one sandal (Musée de St. Germain-
en-Leye 23933 and 23938).
4) A bronze Gallo-Roman statuette of Mercury found in Saint-Révérien
(Reinach 1921: 168 no. 29467). The god is holding a purse in his right hand
and seems to be offering it to someone. His right foot is bare; the left is
shod with a sandal.
5) In the Aeneid (4.518), Dido approaches the bonfire on which she will even-
tually die with one sandal removed (unum exuta pedem uinclis). She pre-
tends to be about to perform some magical rites supposed to bring Aeneas
back to her.
6) In Ovid’s Metamorphoses (7.182–183), Medea leaves her house barefoot at
night in order to perform some magic rites: egreditur tectis uestes induta
recinctas,/ nuda pedem, nudos umeris infusa capillos (Medea went forth
from her house clad in flowing robes, barefoot, her hair unadorned and
streaming down her shoulders. Transl. Miller, Loeb 1960).
7) In the story first attested in Pindar (Pyth. 4.75; 95–98), Jason arrived at
Iolcos in a single sandal.
8) According to Macrobius (Saturn. 5.18.16), Aetolians used to go to battle
with one foot bare. As his source, he quotes Euripides’ Meleager (fr. 530
Radt): … οἱ δὲ Θεστίου/ παῖδες τὸ λαιὸν ἴχνος ἀνάρβυλοι ποδός,/ τὸ δ᾽ ἐν
πεδίλοις, ὡς ἐλαφρίζον γόνυ/ ἔχοιεν, ὃς δὴ πᾶσιν Αἰτωλοῖς νόμος (The sons of
Thestius with sole of the left foot bare, the other in sandal, so that their knee
be light, as it is customary among all the Aetolians). Macrobius adds that
Aristotle (fr. 74 Rose) disagreed with Euripides, observing that Aetolians
actually used to leave their right leg unshod (… ὡς δὴ πᾶν τοὐναντίον ἔθος
τοῖς Αἰτωλοῖς. τὸν μὲν γὰρ ἀριστερὸν ὑποδέδενται, τὸν δὲ δεξιὸν ἀνυποδετοῦσιν·
δεῖ γὰρ οἶμαι τὸν ἡγούμενον ἔχειν ἐλαφρόν, ἀλλ᾽ οὐ τὸν ἐμμένοντα. The habit of
the Aetolians is completely the opposite, because they put a sandal on their
left foot and the right they leave unshod. This is because, I think, the leading
leg must remain unfettered, not the one that is fixed).
9) Thucydides (3.22) tells a story of Plataean troops, who broke out of the
siege during a stormy night each wearing only one sandal.
10) Virgil (Aen. 7.689–690) describes Hernian warriors as having raw animal
skins on their right feet, while the other was bare (uestigia nuda sinistri/
instituere pedis, crudus tegit alter pero. They impressed marks of left foot
unshod, the other was covered in a boot of rawhide).
11) Artemidorus (4.63) says that Hermes gave one of his sandals to Perseus,
which allowed him to fight the Gorgon. Frazer (1914: iii 312) adds that
Herodotus (2.91) mentioned that Perseus’ sandal could be seen in a
temple at Chemnis in Egypt. This motif (11a) would subsequently begin

its independent life as an instance of Perseus’ monosandalism.
Frazer (1914: iii: 310–313) added to this:
12) A picture on an Attic red figure hydria, now in Warsaw (BAPD 206567). It
allegedly features a purification ritual. According to Frazer’s description
(1914: iii: 312): a man, naked except for a fillet round his head, is seen crouch-
ing on the skin of a sacrificial victim, his bare right foot resting on the skin,
while his left foot, shod in a rough boot, is planted on the ground in front of
him.
Deonna (1935) added the following:
13) Samnite warriors and gladiators wore shin guards only on their left leg
(Iuv. 6.256; Liv. 9.40).
14) According to Vegetius (1.20), Roman foot-soldiers in olden days were
forced to wear iron greaves on their right shins ( ferreas ocreas in dextris
cruribus).
15) According to Anecdota Graeca (Bekker p. 273), there was a habit called
κροκοῦν, according to which Eleusinian mystai would put a saffron ribbon
around their right hand and left leg.20
16) A relief found in Athenian Asklepieion (LIMC: Asklepios 60; about
400bce) probably features Asclepius with one sandal on.21
17) In the well-known fresco from the Villa dei Misteri in Pompei, the figure
usually identified as Dionysus is shown wearing only one sandal.
18) Lycurgus is known to have worn a single sandal (as discussed above).
19) Anacreon’s statue as described in the three epigrams mentioned above
(AP 16.306–308) had only one sandal on.
Brelich (1955–1957) added:
20) An otherwise unknown Athenian hero mentioned by Pollux (7.87): ἡ δὲ
βλαύτη σανδαλίου τι εἶδος, καὶ ἥρως Ἀθήνησιν ὁ ἐπὶ βλαύτη· ἀνέθηκε γάρ τις
σκυτοτόμος βλαύτης λίθινον τύπον. (Slipper is a kind of a sandal and also a
hero in Athens [is called] upon Slipper, because a certain cobbler dedicated
a stone sculpture of a slipper).
Edmunds (1984) added the following:
20 Photius (s.v. κροκοῦν) transmits the same piece of information in almost exactly same
words. The only difference is that he speaks of the right hand and right leg (perhaps a
trivial copyist mistake). Cf. Deonna 1929: 169–175; Foucart 1914: 337.
21 Hauser (1913: 64) observed that Asclepius seems to be wearing a sandal only on his left
foot. This is probably correct, although it is impossible to be certain due to the position of
his legs. See also Svoronos 1911: 333–334, pl. 53.
200 chapter 5
21) The figure of the hunter on the Derveni Crater, convincingly identified by
Barr-Sharrar (2008: 149–153) as Pentheus (see section 2.8).
22) Another Roman copy of the παῖς μυηθεὶς ἀφ᾽ ἑστίας statue. Unlike the copy
from the Palazzo dei Conservatori (number 1), with the right foot shod
and the left unshod, this sculpture has lost its left leg. The remaining one
is unshod. This may suggest that the statue had both feet unshod, but
Esdaile (1909: 2) argued that the copyist might have transferred the single
sandal from one leg onto another, which is now lost. Due to the lack of
material evidence, this cannot be verified.
23) A bronze statuette of an emaciated man at Dumbarton Oaks (Richter
1956: 32–35 no. 17, pl. 14, a Roman copy of a Hellenistic work). The man
is seated on a stool with one sandal on. The other leg seems to be mal-
formed. The statuette is inscribed Περδικ, which may suggest that it rep-
resents Perdik[k]as, the hero of the late ancient poem Aegritudo Perdicae,
who was wasted away due to his incestuous love of his mother. The other
possibility is that the man simply suffered from a leg disease. See also
Robertson 1972: 42–43.
Loos-Dietz (1994) added:
24) A phiale with Auge and Heracles (slightly before the mid-fourth century
bce; reproduction in Loos-Dietz 1994 fig. 1; see also Shefton 1989). The
hero is outwardly drunk and the woman is almost completely naked. She
has one sandal on. It is clear that the scene represents the aftermath of a
seduction or rape.
25) A late ancient textile from Egypt with a depiction of a Dionysian thiasos.
A young female, probably the initiand, is shown wearing a single sandal
(reproductions in Loos-Dietz 1994 fig. 6–13).
To these, Firpo (2002) added:
26) Two boxers on an Etruscan olpe from Cerveteri (seventh century bce).
Both men wear a sandal on one foot only. Given that the decoration of
the vessel includes a female figure inscribed as metaia (Medea), Rizzo
and Martelli (1993) interpreted the scene as that of the funeral games for
Pelias. According to them, the monosandalism of the boxers was meant
to evoke their connection with Jason.
Chrétien (2019) added:
27) A series of images of Achilles in Skyros, in which he has clearly lost one
of his feminine slippers when he rushed to arms (e.g., LIMC: Achilleus 93,
117, 172).
It is possible that the above list of occurrences of the single shoe or sandal
motif cited by scholars is not really exhaustive, especially because it is often
juxtaposed with data from other cultures (e.g., Cinderella), which, according
to some scholars, can be relevant.22 However, instead of extending the possi-

ble field of research, it seems worthwhile to ask whether the Greek and Roman
material presented above is really pertinent.
The scholars mentioned above assume that instances of wearing a single
sandal they adduce reflect an old religious tradition, which has been inter-
preted several ways. Amelung (1907) thought that in all the cases he cited the
person with one sandal intended to initiate contact with the soil, and hence
with chthonic powers. Writing, as it seems, independently from Amelung,
Frazer (1914: iii: 313) in his discussion of the taboo on knots in magical prac-
tices stated that Dido’s behaviour in the Aeneid (4.518; number 5 on the list
above) finds an explanation in the comment offered by acute and learned
Servius … He says that she went with one shoe on and one shoe off in order
that Aeneas might be entangled and herself released.23 An analogous explana-
tion would obviously apply to all the other cases we have considered, for in all of
them the man who wears this peculiar costume is confronted with hostile pow-
ers, whether human or supernatural, which it must be his object to lay under a
ban.
Subsequently, however, Deonna (1935) rejected Frazer’s interpretation in
favour of the one offered by Amelung. On this argument all the material was
supposed to reflect a “primitive” belief, according to which contact with the
soil was necessary in some ritual contexts. This approach has been partially
adapted by Brelich (1955–1957), who underlined that, apart from its chthonic
aspect, monosandalism was associated with the ideas of chaos, primitivism,
and imperfection. He considered these as characteristic for the initial phase of
the rites of passage. This interpretation has become canonical.24
In order to approach it in a critical manner, it is important to ask to what
degree the pieces of evidence really belong together. At first glance, they may
seem to have little in common apart from the single trait of monosandalism and
only on the assumption that this trait is particularly meaningful can all these
bits and pieces be taken as related to each other. This common trait becomes
their salient feature on another assumption: namely, there is supposed to be
a layer of hidden truths that are more relevant than what is evident. Yet if
one suspends the century-old belief in the existence of a kind of primordial
22 Thus, especially Ginzburg 1989: 206–275; Lebeuf 2003. For the older bibliography, see also
Brelich 1955–1957: 469, n. 1.
23 Serv. Aen. 4.518: quia id agitur ut ista soluatur et inplicetur Aeneas.
24 See Edmunds 1984; Vidal-Naquet and Lévêque in Vidal-Naquet 1986: 101–102, 116–117;
Ginzburg 1989: 206–275; Loos-Dietz 1994; Moreau 1994: 133–136; Grassigli 1995; Firpo 2002;
Carboni 2013; Blundell 2019 (a moderately sceptical approach).
202 chapter 5
monosandalism, the pieces of evidence fall into several distinct categories that
do not necessarily have much in common with one another, and do not seem
to explain one another.
5.5.1 Spurious and Dubious

To begin with the most flagrant misunderstandings: there are some pieces of
evidence that have been set in the orbit of the research on monosandalism, and
since then they have circled there without being seriously questioned, although
they have arguably little to do with the subject matter.
Particularly bizarre is the case of the hydria in Warsaw (BAPD 206567; num-
ber 12). According to Frazer (1914: iii: 312), it features a man with one foot on the
skin of a sacrificial animal and the other in a rough boot. This is incorrect. Only
one of the man’s feet seems anomalous in a way that—judging from a drawing
that was available to Frazer (De Vitte 1884 pl. 44–46; cf. Lenormant 1880: 137)—
could be interpreted as being shod in animal skin or a kind of a boot. The other
leg is normal. Moreover, the statement that his foot rests on the skin of a sac-
rificial animal is a matter of pure guesswork. Most probably, according to its
description in CVA,25 the anomalous look of this leg is due to a defect in the
image rather than an intentional addition of a prop. Thus, the painter probably
did not intend to transmit any hidden message by making the man’s legs look
different from one another.
The Roman copy of the παῖς μυηθεὶς ἀφ᾽ ἑστίας (number 22) has only one leg
preserved. Unlike its other version (number 1), this leg has no sandal, and thus
it cannot be taken as a piece of evidence.
Similarly, it is unclear whether Medea in Ovid’s Metamorphoses (7.182–183;
number 6) wore one sandal or no sandals at all. Nuda pedem can mean with one
foot unshod, but it can also mean barefoot (as in Ars Amatoria 1.530). Thus, this
passage can be taken as a piece of evidence only upon a tendentious interpre-
tation of its basic meaning.26
The Athenian hero upon slipper (number 20), according to Pollux, was so
called because of the notorious dedication in his shrine (or other sacred place)
and not in connection to his footwear. The reason why this kind of dedication
25 The vase features in CVA: Pologne, Gołuchów, Musée Czartoryski: Pl. 32 3a–b. As Bulas
(ibidem) writes: la prétendu peau du mouton sous genou droit du Thésée [as the man on the
vessel was identified on very slippery grounds] n’ est que son pied gauche mal designé.
26 Brelich (1955–1957: 476) was aware of this problem, but he dismissed it with a statement
that the meaning of the passage could have been less ambiguous to the ancient readers
familiar with the topos of ritual monosandalism. This is a circular argument. See also Kroll
1936: 156; Edmunds 1984: 72 n. 7.
was made is explained by Pollux, who relates it to the profession of the dedi-
cator (a cobbler). Whether or not it was suitable for the hero because of some
feature of his own is not stated and is a matter of speculation.
The passage in Artemidorus (number 11) when read in its context suggests
that Hermes was not usually associated with monosandalism, as it is supposed
to illustrate the paradoxical nature of prophetic dreams. Immediately before
it, Artemidorus tells an anecdote about a man who was told to look for his
lost slave among the people who had not served in the army (ἐν ἀστρατεύτοις).
The slave was found in Thebes because, as Artemidorus explains, Thebans had
not participated in the Trojan expedition. If not for this sophisticated exegesis,
calling Thebans ἀστράτευτοι would hardly seem adequate. Similarly, as Artemi-
dorus continues, a man who was suffering from an illness was instructed to
sacrifice to the god in one sandal. The god turned out to be Hermes, due to the
strange reasoning that he had given one of his sandals to Perseus. This indicates
that, outside of this narration, Hermes was not a single-sandaled divinity just
as Thebans were not unwarlike people. It finds some further support in the fact
that among 999 LIMC entries for Hermes and 546 for Mercurius, there is no sin-
gle instance of a single-sandaled representation. The only exception (number 4
on my list, not in LIMC) is a Gallic version of a Greek iconographic type (if not
for a single sandal, especially close are four statuettes LIMC: Hermes 974 a–d).
Curiously enough two funerary reliefs (number 3) with single-sandaled figures
come from the same area. This may suggest that the monocrepidism of Hermes
as well as of the men on the grave monuments reflects a particularity of Gal-
lic iconography rather than anything typically Greek or Roman (it seems that
among the countless funerary monuments from Greece and Rome, there is no
single occurrence of a person in one sandal).
As for Perseus, whom Hermes was supposed to have given one of his sandals:
this comes only from one passage in Herodotus (2.91; number 11a), in which it is
stated that Egyptians of the city Chemmis (ḫnty Mnw) took it to be a good omen
when they saw his two-cubit long sandal (σανδάλιόν τε αὐτοῦ πεφορημένον εὑρί-
σκεσθαι, ἐὸν τὸ μέγεθος δίπηχυ, τὸ ἐπεὰν φανῆι, εὐθενέειν ἅπασαν Αἴγυπτον). Given
that the passage provides an interpretatio Graeca of a rather obscure Egyptian
belief probably related to the cult of Horus or Min-Hor (Asheri, Lloyd, Corcella
2007: ad loc.), it does not seem to be relevant for the discussion of the mythol-
ogy of Perseus. What Herodotus does not say is that Hermes gave one sandal
to Perseus or that the hero lost one of his sandals in Egypt, nor is it mentioned
anywhere in the Greek sources (apart from the odd in itself Artemidorus 4.63
discussed above) or present in the iconography. Thus, unlike Jason and Lycur-
gus, Perseus is not a monocrepis hero.
204 chapter 5
figure 13
Funerary stele of the gladiator Chrysampelos, Ankara, Museum
of Anatolian Civilizations
5.5.2 The Practical Use of a Single Sandal

As Firpo (2002) observed, the military use of a single sandal may be taken as
a distinct category (number 8, 9, 10, 13, 14). An assumption that scholars typi-
cally make is that it was so impractical that it must have been dictated by some
obscure belief rather than by its functionality. However, to begin with the Sam-
nite warriors and gladiators who wore only the left greave (number 13, see also
Fig. 13), a glimpse over their representations in art (e.g., Wiedemann 1992, fig. 12)
is enough to suggest that protecting the one leg that was exposed to the enemy
under the shield makes practical sense. In certain tactical contexts, the other
leg (which was usually planted behind the warrior) did not need protection
and, given how cumbersome some of these shin-guards appear, leaving it unar-
moured possibly conveyed an advantage in mobility.
Vegetius states that Roman infantry at some point in history would use the
shin-guards only on the right leg (number 14). This may also have had a practi-
cal consideration in the context of some particular configuration of the armour.
For example, if the shield was long enough to cover the left shin, only the right
one would require additional protection when a soldier was making a step for-
ward in order to stab his opponent.
Having said this, it should be emphasised that the decision made by Deonna
(which influenced the subsequent scholarly tradition) to introduce the mate-
rial regarding single shin-guards as a subcategory of monosandalism appears
arbitrary, given the obvious difference between footwear and the items put on
other parts of the legs. For this reason Horsfall has dismissed it as irrelevant
to the discussion of the Aeneid 7.690 (2000: ad loc.; number 10 above. See note
29). Similarly, wearing a ribbon on one leg, as was supposed to be the habit dur-
ing the Eleusinian Mysteries (number 15), does not really seem to be pertinent
as far as monocrepidism is concerned.
Returning to wearing a single sandal in military contexts, it can be no less
practical than wearing a single greave. However, while commenting on the
notorious passage in Thucydides (3.22; number 9), in which soldiers withdrew
from Plataea each wearing one sandal, Frazer (1914: iii: 311) wrote: the historian
who records the fact assumes that the intention was to prevent their feet from slip-
ping in the mud. But if so, why were not both feet unshod or shod? What is good for
the one foot is surely good for the other. The peculiar attire of the Plataeans on this
occasion had probably nothing to do with the particular state of the ground and
the weather at the time when they made their desperate sally, but it was an old
custom, a form of consecration or devotion, observed by men in any great hazard
or grave emergency.
Thucydides’ practical explanation has been dismissed by scholars from
Frazer (1914: iii: 311) to Hornblower (1991: ad loc.) and beyond, as a naïve attempt
at rationalisation which, allegedly, was typical for this author. This scholarly
approach, however, seems contradictory in itself, as it is based on the implicit
assumption that, at least for Thucydides, the explanation did not sound as
absurd as it does for moderns (what kind of rationalisation would it be oth-
erwise?). It is true that, unlike Herodotus, Thucydides does not speak of the
gods’ interventions in human affairs. He does not, however, refrain from speak-
ing of religion as such. Yet Thucydides does not say anything like according to
an old-fashioned superstition, they took one sandal off. In order to explain this,
Edmunds (1984: 74)27 argued that what Thucydides does in 3.22 is similar to
his statement in 5.70, where he says that the Lacedaemonian troops at Man-
tineia marched to the music of the many flute-players placed among them not
for religious reasons, but in order to make them approach the enemy with even
step (οὐ τοῦ θείου χάριν, ἀλλ᾽ ἵνα ὁμαλῶς μετὰ ῥυθμοῦ προσέλθοιεν). According
to Edmunds, this passage shows that offering a non-religious explanation for
what was thought to be a religious matter was typical for Thucydides. This state-
ment, however, is quite problematic, because in 5.70 Thucydides is outwardly
polemicizing against a view expressed by another author or commonly held
27 See also Vidal-Naquet and Lévêque in Vidal-Naquet 1986: 101.

206 chapter 5
among non-Spartans.28 In 3.22, there is no trace of such a polemic. Instead,

he mentions the instance of monosandalism with its simple explanation in a
laconic and matter-of-fact way. This suggests that there was nothing controver-
sial about it.29
In order to find a practical rather than a religious meaning for the Plataeans’
behaviour, Blundell performed a little experiment, as she writes (2019: 219), while
climbing a muddy hill in Devon, in south-west England. I took off one of my walk-
ing sandals, and for a few metres carried on without it. Of course the results are
far from conclusive […]. However, I did feel that going monosandalled made a
difference—the bare foot seemed to slip less than the one with the sandal on it.
In that case, as the critics suggest, why not go entirely barefoot? Perhaps because
walking on stony ground is quite painful, and the single sandal does provide a bit
of relief.
Even though I welcome this (I suppose, consciously half-serious) experi-
ment, it actually shows how little we understand of the practicalities of ancient
life. Blundell included a picture in which she walks on a muddy tract with one
hiking sandal on, which may misleading, given that Greeks used a different
footwear with leather soles, which must have provided no traction at all on wet
surfaces. Walking in them in pitch-darkness on mountain paths after a rain, as
the Plataean soldiers did, could be next to impossible. Why not both feet bare
then? Because Cithaeron is not a hill in Devon. It is not only a matter of sharp
stones but, much more importantly, of thorny thickets and brush. Anyone who
has tried to walk in such terrain without shoes knows that it is not only a matter
of potential discomfort and scratches. After several steps one may be unable to
walk due to serious injury that the plants can inflict, especially when a person
cannot see what he or she is about to tread upon.
I imagine that the Plataean troops retreated walking very slowly, especially
on steep parts of the path, with the bare foot always behind in order to pro-
vide stability and the shod foot in front, feeling the ground. As Euripides and
Aristotle (quoted by Macrobius, number 8) claim, this practice was not uncom-
mon, especially among the Aetolians, who would wear a single sandal not only
under particularly harsh weather conditions. This may explain why Thucydides
28 See Hornblower 2008: ad loc.

29 See also Horsfall’s commentary on the Aenaeid 7.690 (2000: ad loc.; number 10): the appar-
ently rationalizing explanation is not only old […] but peculiarly appropriate here (cf. Warde
Fowler 60 f. (1918: 60–61)): slingers (like javelin throwers and bowlers in cricket) need a partic-
ularly firm grip with the (left) foot, while the other (right) arm is used for throwing, shooting
or bowling. Contact with the earth or even with the underworld is here hardly a relevant asso-
ciation.
offered only a laconic explanation of the Plataean episode. Apparently, it was

sufficient for his readers who were familiar with this technique of the body.
5.5.3 True Instances of Wearing a Single Sandal in Myth and Fiction

This leaves us with some fourteen instances of clear and intentional references
to (or depictions of) a person wearing a single sandal for reasons other than
practical. There is, however, no need to postulate a connection between each
of these occurrences, although some of them seem interconnected.
5.5.3.1 Drunkenness and Agitation

What unites Lycurgus (18), drunk Anacreon (19), the hunter on Derveni Crater
(21), Dionysus in the Villa dei Misteri (17), and the female initiand on the piece
of textile from Egypt (25) is that all of them can be labelled as “Dionysian”.
However, in spite of Detienne’s arguments, there is no need to postulate their
common ritual origin as related to a particular way of movement on one leg.30
It rather seems that the explanation offered by the poets cited above (section
5.4) may be satisfactory: an iconographic motif of wearing one sandal can evoke
drunkenness, as in Anacreon’s case, or a state of agitation in which a person has
lost the other sandal. The latter exegesis is probably correct in the case of Lycur-
gus and the hunter on the Derveni Crater. Not much different is the initiated
Dionysus and the female initiand in the Villa dei Misteri and on the Egyptian
textile respectively. However, the reason for their agitation is probably precisely
opposite to that of Lycurgus. They have just undergone the exhausting ritual
which Lycurgus has struggled to avoid. The initiation could involve physical or
symbolic violence (whipping) and was probably designed to trigger extreme
emotions. The loss of a sandal, if I correctly interpret its function as a signal of
a person’s agitation, appears natural in this context.
The same may be true in case of the Barberini Suppliant (number 2). This
sculpture, whose meaning is not obvious to us, shows a woman who has clearly
escaped from imminent danger and found protection on an altar. The loss of a
sandal could evoke the dramatic events that lead to her supplication. Similarly,
the phiale with Auge (number 24) shows a woman who has been just raped.
30 Based on Latte’s (1957) analysis, Detienne (1986: 67–88) stated that the word ἀσκωλιάζω
initially referred not to jumping on wineskins during Dionysian merrymaking (as stated
in the scholia to Ar. Pl. 1129), but to hopping on one leg in a Dionysian context. However, it
seems that Detienne misunderstood Latte, who argued that initially the word ἀσκωλιάζω
was unrelated to Dionysus. The rest of Detienne’s reconstruction consists of the accumu-
lation of passages in which a movement on a Bacchic leg/foot is supposed to be referred
to. I hope to provide a detailed discussion of these passages in another publication.
208 chapter 5
The lack of a sandal might be taken as an index of her emotional condition or

perhaps of the fight that preceded the rape.
No less evident is the case of the mosaics depicting Achilles who, thinking
that he was about to fight an enemy, partially undressed and lost one of his slip-
pers (number 27). It is true that the moment in which he dropped his feminine
clothes in order to assume his masculine identity was a moment of passage,
and it can be analysed in terms related to those of puberty rites. This does not
mean, however, that the motif of monosandalism should be interpreted as the
survival of a tribal initiation allegedly once practiced in Greece. It finds a good
enough explanation as a component of a meaningful syntagma when analysed
from the synchronistic point of view.
Finally, the sculpture of the emaciated man in Dumbarton Oaks (number 23)
represents a person who has either suffered from mental disturbances (an
incestuous love for his mother) or simply from a leg disease.
5.5.3.2 Other
The other five occurrences of the motif probably cannot be dismissed as an
allusion to a state of agitation. Most notably, the passage in the Aeneid (4.518,
number 5) is the only text in which a person is said to have worn a single san-
dal in a ritual context and in which it seems to result from a conscious decision.
Yet this text is unusual as it describes a fake ritual performed in the heroic past
by Dido, a barbarian woman, who is said to have learnt it from the guardian
of the garden of the Hesperides at the western extremity of the world (4.480–
486). Are we to believe that its details reflected real Roman or Greek practices?
Perhaps it was simply meant to be strange and exotic. If, however, Virgil drew
inspiration from some real rituals he knew of, there is an explanation provided
by Servius (quoted above) at hand. According to him, Dido’s (apparent) inten-
tion was to bind her lover and release herself. There is nothing in the passage
to suggest that contact with the soil played any role in Dido’s ritual behaviour.
Even less clear is its connection to an initiation of any kind.
When it comes to Jason, already in the fifth century bce Pherecydes (Jacoby
3 F 105 in scholia ad Pind. Pyth. 2. 133) explained that he had taken off his san-
dals when crossing the river Anauros, but subsequently he forgot to put his
left sandal back on. Admittedly, it does not sound like a good story and it is
not surprising that Apollonius Rhodius (1.8–11) preferred to say that Jason had
lost one of his sandals in the process of crossing the river. Thus, Jason’s story
is the only case of monosandalism which ancient authors struggled in vain to
explain. This invites a typically Frazerian approach based on the assumption
that a modern scholar is supposed to understand Greek culture better than the
Greeks themselves did. There might be something behind Jason’s monosandal-
ism that Pindar did not know or did not want to tell.31 However, sometimes a
cigar is just a cigar. One may imagine that there was an oral or written tradition
according to which Jason really forgot to put his sandal back on. Even ancient
Greeks sometimes invented bad stories. If this were the case here, it would not
be surprising that Pindar passed over this detail because it was undignified and
hardly relevant for his purposes. If, on the other hand, the motif had a hidden
meaning, it still does not follow that there is a link between this story, and, say,
drunk Archilochus or Lycurgus monocrepis.
What remain are three images. As it has been said, the monosandalism of
the boxers on the Etruscan olpe (number 26) can be interpreted as an allusion
to the Jason myth. It is not impossible, however, that the detail results from
the fact that in some local (Etruscan) variant of fist-fighting the athletes actu-
ally wore one sandal. Again, there is no reason to postulate a ritual background
behind this habit.
Finally, the reliefs with Asclepius (number 16), and with the young initiand
into the Eleusinian mysteries (number 1) find no explanation. It is not unlikely,
however, that these two images contain allusions to some narrations, perhaps
even to the stories of particular individuals. At any rate, we know nothing of a
general rule according to which those initiated in the Mysteries were supposed
to wear a single sandal. As for Asclepius, the same method can be used as in
Hermes’ case discussed above. LIMC has 396 entries for “Asklepios” and thirty-
four for “Asklepios (in Thracia)”, of which only the one under discussion here
(Asklepios 60) is (probably) monocrepis. Moreover, Artemidorus in the passage
discussed above (4.63) speaks of the ill man who was instructed to sacrifice to
the monocrepis god. The man chose Hermes rather than Asclepius. Given that
the latter is the god of medicine by default, it seems that monosandalism is a
feature that, at least for Artemidorus, pointed away from Asclepius. This sug-
gests that the person who sculpted or commissioned the only known extant
image of Asclepius in a single sandal must have had their own agenda, which
had nothing to do with more widespread ideas about this divinity.
5.6 Conclusions
As Geertz (1973: 6) paraphrasing Gilbert Ryle puts it: consider […] two boys
rapidly contracting the eyelids of their right eyes. In one, this is an involuntary
twitch; in the other, a conspiratorial signal to a friend. The two movements are, as
31 See especially Moreau 1994: 132–136.

210 chapter 5
movements, identical; from an I-am-a-camera, “phenomenalistic” observation of

them alone, one could not tell which was a twitch and which was wink, or indeed
whether both or neither was twitch or wink. Yet the difference, however unpho-
tographable, between a twitch and a wink is vast; as anyone unfortunate enough
to have had the first taken for the second knows […] That, however, is just the
beginning. Suppose […] there is a third boy, who “to give malicious amusement
to his cronies,” parodies the first boy’s wink, as amateurish, clumsy, obvious, and
so on. He, of course, does this in the same way the second boy winked and the first
twitched: by contracting his eyelids. Only this boy is neither winking nor twitch-
ing ….
By the same token, the material briefly discussed above—when each piece
of evidence is considered on its own rather than forced into its supposed place
in a complex pattern—suggests that there was no such religious phenomenon
as Greek or Roman monosandalism/monocrepidism. Instead, a technique of
wearing one sandal was used when both feet in sandals provided too little trac-
tion on a slippery surface. There are also some disconnected references to and
depictions of wearing a sandal on one foot only. On some occasions this motif
was meant to evoke a particular idea (drunkenness or agitation) and could
have become a conventional attribute of some mythical figures (Lycurgus and
Achilles in Skyros). Yet there is no reason to believe that there was a layer of
hidden meanings related to this iconographical/literary motif.
This means that both Lycurgus monocrepis and Lycurgus with his leg injured
should probably be taken at face value. We do not know when and how this
motif originated. It is absent from cultural texts earlier than the thymiaterion
of Vulci from the first half of the second century bce. This obviously does not
provide a conclusive argument against its presence in earlier works. Most likely
its diffusion in the iconography is due to the influence of an unpreserved but
once well-known work of art. Similarly, the motif of Lycurgus’ self-mutilation
in the literature probably originally featured in one or more influential texts.
Naevius’ Lycurgus and Aeschylus’ Lycurgeia are among the obvious candidates.
Yet nothing certain can be established. Wherever it appeared for the first time,
it was probably meant to emphasise his madness, in which he mistook his son
for a vine, hurt his leg, or lost his sandal.
General Conclusions
As I have mentioned on several occasion, Lycurgus was an important mytho-

logical figure as far as being recognisable and much talked about is an index
of importance. He was known to ancient poets, artists, and theatrical troops,
as well as to their audiences all across the Mediterranean from no later than
the early Archaic period and up until the end of antiquity. He has also inspired
modern scholars. Particular motifs of his mythical biography have become the
object of lively debate not only among classicists and historians of theatre
and art, but also among anthropologists, psychologists, and historians of reli-
gion.
As I have argued, in some cases, of which two are particularly flagrant,
this scholarly interest results from misunderstandings. The monocrepidism of
Lycurgus is probably only a survival of the Frazerian paradigm in anthropology.
As such, it can be taken as a curiosity that originates in the early twentieth cen-
tury rather than as a part of ancient history, or as an index of a universal pattern
of human thought. No less profound are the consequences of the misunder-
standing that surrounds Lycurgus’ deification. This notion, when extrapolated
from the first century ce Syrian context to classical tragedy and earlier religious
thought, may seem to provide important data regarding the development of
Greek, Thracian and Phrygian polytheisms and related religious/cultural sys-
tems. Therefore, it is important to emphasise that no big theory should be built
on such premises, given that, despite what it might have seemed to some schol-
ars, it finds no support in the Rhesus, Sophocles, or Aeschylus, not to mention
earlier poetry.
Much more difficult to reject is the connection between the Lycurgus myth
and some mystery cults. In the Iliad 6, Lycurgus unwittingly helps Dionysus
to discover his own immortality. This story seems to have been interpreted by
representatives of some alternative religious movements in relationship to the
possibility of obtaining the immortality by humans. It might have left traces in
the form of the “Orphic” tablets. Relatively clearer is the connection between
Lycurgus and the mythical Orpheus as two heroes of the Dionysian saga. It is
impossible to tell to what degree Aeschylus was responsible for this associa-
tion; however, it is reasonable enough to state that his Lycurgeia is among the
most important cultural texts that imprinted a certain image of Orpheus and
“Orphism” among the wider circles. Thus, although we do not know how closely
Aeschylus engaged with texts that he might have considered to be authored
by the mythical singer, it remains clear that his tetralogy offered an impor-
tant point of reference to his contemporaries and subsequent generations. It is,

212 general conclusions
therefore, possible that many authors while making a reference to “Orphism”,

“Orphics”, or Orpheus owed their familiarity with them mostly if not entirely
to the Lycurgeia. This should be seriously taken into account by students of
ancient “Orphism”.
Far better recognised is the impact of Aeschylus’ Lycurgeia on the imagery
of the cult of Dionysus in its ecstatic form as well as of the dire consequences
brought by its negligence or outright rejection. To us, this material is known
chiefly from Euripides’Bacchae. This tragedy, however, would have hardly been
the same, had its author and audience not known the Lycurgeia.
Unlike in Attica, where the familiarity with the Lycurgeia is well docu-
mented, albeit difficult to measure, there are no unquestionable proofs of its
direct influence in Magna Graecia. It remains clear, however, that the Lycur-
gus myth was relatively well-known there and that theatre played an important
role in its diffusion. It is reasonable to think that the play or plays in question
represented either some form of Aeschylus’ Lycurgeia or at least were strongly
influenced by it. The same may be said about Naevius’ Lycurgus. Its fragments
show that the main hero of this tragedy was lured by his subject to the moun-
tains, where he was brutally killed for his resistance to Dionysus. Thus, this
tragedy clearly covered the same part of the story as Aeschylus’Bassarae, whose
direct influence, however, remains only a possibility.
Again, the impact of Naevius’ Lycurgus is impossible to measure due to the
lack of direct evidence, perhaps apart from Plautus. However, the number of
brief mentions and allusions to his myth in Roman poetry suggests that at
least one particularly memorable text that transmitted his story was known to
Romans. Naevius’ tragedy is, therefore, a very likely guess. Its influence must
have been particularly strong in the period when the orgiastic cult of Dionysus
became controversial in Rome, that is, in the period of the Bacchanal affair. It
is a matter of conjecture whether worshippers made much use of the Lycurgus
myth. Undoubtedly, however, Naevius’ Lycurgus was among the most impor-
tant texts that contributed to shaping the image of this cult among the unini-
tiated ones.
In this paradoxical way, the bizarre story of a man, of whom Homer said little
more than that he had not lived for long, has become widely known and highly
influential. The myth of Lycurgus, in the fragmented fashion it has come down
to us, gives us insight into the most secret layers of ancient Greek religious life
that made their way into the theatre and were actually exposed to audiences in
broad daylight. Aeschylus’Lycurgeia and Naevius’Lycurgus can be thought of as
priceless testimonies of these intriguing phenomena provided by their contem-
porary witnesses, if not necessarily by people directly involved in these secret
cults. Yet much of what is most fascinating remains obscured by the current
general conclusions 213
state of the evidence. Therefore, more often than providing reconstructions it is

useful to answer questions regarding the limits of our knowledge. This remains
the most important contribution that this book can make.
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General Index
Achaia Phthiotis 3 Cannibal, cannibalism 5, 77–84, 88, 90–91,
Achilles 20–22, 24, 200, 208, 210 104, 116, 120, 139
Aclepius 199, 209 Cassandra 150
Actaeon 19, 39 Cave 36, 49, 50–51
Aegisthus 59–62 Cerberus 75
Aeneas 198, 201 Cercops 153–154
Aetolia 198, 206 Cerveteri 200
Agamemnon 61, 86 Charon 75
Agaue 71, 90, 114, 116, 153, 189, 190 Charops 64–66
Alcohol, drunkenness 5, 22, 25, 103–109, 110, Child 13, 24, 77–81, 115–120
144, 156, 196, 207–208 Cithaeron 206
Alcumaeus/Alcmaeon 143–145 Cleopatra 46
Alexandria 162 Clytemnestra 60
Altar 31, 45n38, 56, 57, 100, 207 Creon 44–51
Ambrosia (the Nymph) 26n45, 53, 56, 171, Cyrus the Great 72
175–179, 189–191, 194–195
Amphidromos 98 Damascus 3, 58, 184
Anacreon 196–197, 207 Danae 46, 47n44, 48, 51
Anauros 208 Delos 194
Antigone 44–51 Delphi 3, 35n17, 72, 85, 86–89, 91n136, 94,
Aphrodite 10, 85 127
Apollo 36–37, 42, 65–77, 81, 84–88, 94, 126, Dido 198, 201, 208
127, 128, 149–150 Diomedes 7–11, 16–17
Arabia 56–58, 79, 184 Divine status 7–11, 14, 15–19, 42, 52, 53–58,
Ares 10, 22, 57, 65, 101, 103 69, 112
Argolid 3 Dodona 176
Ariadne 16n26, 114, 117–119 Drunkenness see alcohol
Aristarchus 111 Dryas (Lycurgus’ son)/ Lycurgus’ children
Artemis/Diana 68, 85 30, 31, 78, 91, 94, 114, 116, 166–167, 173,
Askos (the Giant) 58 174, 177, 186, 188
Asopus 12n16 Dushara 57
Auge 200, 207–208
Egypt 104, 105, 198–199, 200, 203, 207
Bacchants, Maenads 30, 31, 48, 52, 64–65, Eleusis 74, 86, 89, 197, 199, 205, 209
94, 97, 102–103, 111–120, 123–124, 129– Eros 114
133, 135–138, 140, 150, 152, 153, 155, 158, Eumenis 190
171, 177, 186 Europa 13
Bacchiad family 13 Eurydice 37, 75, 87
Bassareus (Dionysus) 84, 94 Eurynome 12, 21–27
Bassarids 37–41, 62, 68, 68–77, 83, 84, 90– Eyes, eyesight, blindness 7–14, 18–19, 56,
92, 94, 123 64–65, 126, 150
Bassaroi 82, 84
Bellerophon 10, 11 Fear 7–11, 12, 13, 15, 17, 60–61, 64–64, 207–
Blindness see eyes 208
Boutes 3, 26 Frenzy, mania, madness 5, 6, 13, 17, 30, 35,
41, 46, 62, 79, 81–84, 88, 91, 92, 93, 99,
236 general index
Frenzy, mania, madness (cont.) 101, 107– Lepcis Magna 194

109, 112–114, 139, 142–145, 145–155, 171, Lesbos 72
196–197, 207, 208 Linus 73
Lycurgus (another mythical figure) 43n34
Galateia 18n29 Lycurgus (the orator) 162–163
Galene 114 Lydia 94
Gaul 198, 203 Lyssa/Fury 153, 155, 167, 169–173, 177–178,
Ge 87, 170, 178 179–184, 190
Gift 7, 11, 20, 23–25
Glaucus 4, 7–11, 16–17 Macedon 52, 70, 162, 185
Maenads see Bacchants
Hades, Netherworld 37, 68–69, 75–77, 86–88 Mania see frenzy
Haemus 186 Manliness 10, 35, 60–61, 95, 104–106, 121,
Hallucination, distorted vision 31, 89, 136 152–153, 208
Hebran 57 Massilia 191–192
Hebrus 186 Medea 198, 200, 202
Hecabe 153 Minyads 116
Hector 11n14 Mother (of Lycurgus) 6, 106, 109, 142–145,
Hellespont 3, 64 156
Hephaestus 20–27, 141 Mountains 5, 62, 75, 90, 92, 93, 95, 113, 126,
Hera 12, 22–27, 56 129, 130, 138, 140, 155
Heracles 23–24, 181–182, 200 Musaeus 73–74
Hermes/ Mercury 76, 198, 203, 209 Muses 36–37, 46, 65, 71, 74, 94, 95–96, 114,
Herna 198, 205 118–119
Hippolytus 70–71, 77 Myrtilus 170
Horse 30, 36, 43, 49, 151–153, 155, 168–169, Mystery cult 15–19, 73–74, 80, 86, 101, 110,
170, 177 197, 205, 212
Horus 203
Hyades 25 Naxos 3, 20–27, 184
Night 86–88
Immortality 4, 15–19, 27, 43, 50, 53–59 Nymphs 176–177
Imprisonment, captivity 35–36, 46, 48, 49, Nysa, Nyseion, Nysion 56, 64–65, 184
50–54, 56, 60–61, 62, 89, 90, 100, 102–
103, 121, 123, 133, 140, 155 Odysseus 72
India 96–97 Oeagrus 64–65
Initiation/Rite of passage 3, 15–19, 42, 56, Oeneus 68
64–65, 80, 201–209 Oenomaus 170
Ino 116 Oktopan (river) 101
Italian Peninsula 161–163, 165–167, 175, 179– Olbia 19–20n32
183 Oracle 30, 35, 50–51, 54, 81, 87–88, 91, 95,
126, 127, 129, 150, 155
Jason 198, 200, 208–209 Orestes 143–145
Orpheus 5, 28, 29, 36–41, 59–96, 114, 118,
Kedalion 24 133–134, 136, 154–155, 177–178, 211–
Kotys 33, 53 212
Kybeloi (in Phrygia) 12 Ostia 194
Lebethrai 37, 71, 74, 89, 94 Palace 35, 71–73, 90, 92–93, 114, 123, 127, 135,
Lemnos 23 138–139, 150
general index 237
Palmyra 57 Sicily 160, 161–162

Pan 79 Sileni 103, 178
Pangaion 30, 36–37, 41, 50, 73, 74, 93, 99, Sithonians 145
127, 158, 184–185 Skyros 200
Patroclus 20 Sparagmos 41, 68, 83, 97, 112, 114–120
Pelasgos 105 Strymon 30, 185
Pelias 200 Sun 37, 40, 42, 66–69, 74–75, 84, 86–88
Pentheus 1, 19, 31, 35, 39, 94, 99, 111–114, 129, Syria 2, 5, 42, 55–58, 78, 211
138, 152, 189, 190, 200, 207
Perdic[c]as 200, 208 Taurians 82–83
Persephone 67, 75 Teiresias 39, 45n38, 89, 91
Perseus 3, 15n26, 198–199, 203 Telephus 52
Philip of Macedon 185 Terpander 73
Pholos 23–24 Thamyris 45n39
Phrygia 2, 54–55, 58, 211 Thebes (in Boeotia) 3, 41, 46, 177, 184, 203
Phyllis 185–186 Thebes (in Cilicia) 3, 174, 184
Pieria 70 Theophrastus 82–84
Pieros 65 Theseus 15n25, 70–71
Plataea 198, 205–207 Thespesius 86–88
Polyphemus 18n29 Thessaly 3, 26
Pompei 199, 207 Thetis 7–11, 12, 13, 20–27, 30, 164, 177
Poseidon 56 Thoes 82
Prodicus 80 Thrace 2, 3, 12, 26, 39, 53–55, 58, 62, 64–
Ptolemy Euergetes 162 66, 67, 72n96, 77–78, 82, 85, 88, 93,
Punishment 7–11, 27, 40, 41, 47–48, 49, 66, 103–109, 139, 145n33, 151, 168, 179, 181,
68–69, 73, 89, 99, 127, 132, 153, 170, 212 184–185–187, 211
Time 56
Resistence 1, 39, 56, 66, 90, 139, 212 Titan 78, 154
Rheia 12, 56
Rhesus 50–51, 53 Vine 30, 31, 52, 53, 56, 89, 91, 106, 125–129,
Rhodope 3, 158, 168, 186, 193 136, 141, 142, 144, 155, 171, 175, 188, 193–
Rite of passage see initiation 194
Rock 31, 46, 50–53, 76
Wife (of Lycurgus) 31, 106, 166–170, 173–179,
Salmoneus 197n18 186
Samnium 199, 204
Saturnia 194 Zagreus 78
Satyrs 30, 31, 102–103, 110, 171, 177 Zalmoxis 51
Sea 8, 12, 15–18, 20, 24, 30, 64–66, 83, 97, 164 Zeus 1, 8, 10, 11, 13, 22, 42, 56, 58, 65
Shai al-quam 5, 57, 59
Index of Modern Authors
Aceti 7n1 Brix 149n37
Aellen 169 Brix, Niemeyer, Köhler 143n32
Alexiou 46n39 Broccia 7n1
Amelung 6, 197–198, 201 Brommer 78n109
Andersen 7n1 Brooks 159n1
Arrigoni 16n26 Brown 45n39, 46n40, 49n50, 53n56
Asheri, Lloyd, Corcella 203 Bruneau, Vatin 175n37
Athanassiadi 57n66, 58 Burges Watson 29n5, 66, 68n87, 71–74, 84–
Austin 34n14 86, 94n142
Austin, Olson 29n5, 33n12, 34n13, 34n14 Burkert 19n32
Burton 46n42
Barr 154
Barr-Sharrar 118, 194n14, 200 Cairns 44n37, 47n45, 47n46, 48n47, 49n51,
Barrett 14n22, 70 53
Battezzato 162n16 Calder 11n13
Bauman 149n36 Carboni 201n24
Beacham 156n48 Carpanelli 39n25
Beaulieu 15n25 Carpenter 22n36, 31n7, 120n183
Beavis 125n16 Carter 70n88
Bednarek 19n31, 23n39, 77n104, 78, 90n134, Càssola 12n16
123n4 Castellani 35n16
Bergk 22n36 Cazanove 3, 45n38, 149n36, 194n15
Bernabé 12n16, 13, 13n17, 13n19, 14n22, 18, Chrétien 200
86n129 Clark 82n120
Bernabé, Jiménez San Cristóbal 73n100 Clayman 108n165
Bernays 82n119 Clermont-Ganneau 57n68
Bertacchi 175n37 Coche de la Ferté 175n37
Bertini 140 Cockle 185n51
Biles 160–161 Comotti 46n39
Bloch 78n107 Cowan 159n1
Blumenthal 104n156 Csapo 161n10
Blundell 201n24, 206 Cultrera 116
Bond 182n49, 185n51 Curnow 72n96
Bosher 160n5
Boteva 181n45 Daraki 15n26
Bothe 127, 130, 133, 136n25, 139 Davies 10n12
Bouché-Leclercq 85n126 Davies, Finglass 13n17, 20n33, 43n34
Bowersock 57n66, 57n67 Dawe 59–60
Bowra 46n40, 49n50 de Ridder 23n39
Boyle 123n7, 123n9, 149n36, 159n1 de Vitte 202
Braswell 25n43 Debiasi 12n16, 13n17, 13n19, 13n20
Breitenbach 164n23 Deichgräber 29n4, 39n26, 40n28, 92n138,
Brelich 199, 201, 201n22, 202n26 100n148, 102, 104, 110, 110n169, 111n171,
Bremmer 19n32, 113n176, 138n28 121n2, 123n7, 134n24, 137, 169n32
Brink 80n116, 81n118 Deonna 199, 199n20, 201, 204
Briscoe 149n36 Detienne 15n24, 41n29, 82, 207, 207n30
index of modern authors 239
Di Benedetto 37n21, 37n22, 48n48, 80n88, Gantz 10n12, 16n27, 39n25, 53n56, 62n74, 63,
92, 112n173, 113, 153n42 63n76
di Marco 29n5, 39–40, 85–87, 104n156, Gärtner 67n85
108 Garzya 29, 37n21
Diggle 51, 51n52, 51n54 Geertz 209
Dodd, Faraone 42n33 Gentili 159n1
Dodds 2, 3, 35n16, 92n139, 111n171, 120, 124, Ginzburg 201n22, 201n24
124n11, 153n42 Giuliani 165n24, 165n25, 166n27, 166n29, 181
Donlan 11n13 Goldhill 60
Dostálová 57n65 Gonnelli 57n65
Douglas 17n28 Gorzelany 31n7
Dover 79n111 Graf 15n25, 18n29, 70n90, 74n101, 79–80
Dunbar 95n144 Graham 80n115
Düntzer 8n3, 123n8, 137n26, 140 Grant 189
Durvye 26n45, 64n78 Grassigli 175n37, 194n14, 194n15, 195n16,
Dussaud 57n65 201n24
Gratwick 154, 154n44
Edmonds 18n29, 73n99 Graziosi, Haubold 7n1, 10n9
Edmunds 201n24, 202n26, 205 Green 77n105, 77n106, 78n109, 161n14,
Edwards 25n43 165n25
Erasmo 156n48, 157n49 Griffith, J.G. 116
Errandonea 46n40 Griffith, M. 46n40
Esdaile 200 Guthrie 14n21, 78n107, 78n108, 79n112
Esposito 190n5
Hallidie 143n32
Falkner 162n16, 162n18 Hanink 162, 162n16, 162n19
Fantham 149n37, 149n39, 150, 151n40 Harries 7n1, 10n11, 11n14
Faraone 3, 10n12, 15–18, 42n33, 84n124 Harrison 2, 104n153, 105n158
Fedeli 156n47 Haslam 20–21
Feickert 51n53 Haupt 29, 29n4, 110n168
Festugière 149n36 Hauser 199n21
Finglass 162n15, 162n18, 166n28 Hedreen 22n36, 41n29
Firpo 200, 201n24, 204 Heitsch 19n31
Flower 149n36 Hellmann 10n8
Foley 47n46, 49n51 Henrichs 33n10, 41n30
Fornaro 7n1 Hermann 29, 40n27, 76, 92n138, 102,
Fortenbaugh 82n119 110n168
Foucart 199n20 Herwerden 104
Fraenkel 34n14, 60, 155n45 Heurgon 75
Frazer 6, 192n12, 188–189, 201–202, 205, 208, Hiller von Gaertringen 23n38
211 Hornblower 205, 206n28
Freyburger-Galland, Freyburger, Tautil Hornbostel, Martini 174n33
149n36 Horsfall 205, 206n29
Fries 51n53 Hunter 34n13
Frontisi-Ducroux 77n106 Hutchinson 161n8, 163n21
Furley 3, 19n31 Huxley 12n16, 13n17, 13n18
Gaisser 7n1 Isler-Kerényi 22n36

Gallini 149n36
240 index of modern authors
Jameson 14n22 Lobeck 82

Jatta 180, 181n43 Long, Macleane 145n33
Jeanmaire 13n17, 15n25, 20n32, 77n105, Loos-Dietz 200, 201n24
78n107, 78n108, 85n126
Jebb 44n37, 45n39, 46n40 Maas 76
Jones 161n10 MacLeod 112n173
Jouan 29n5, 102 Maftei 7n1, 9n7
Manuvald 149n36
Kamerbeek 46n40 March 112–114
Käppel 85n128 Marconi 160n5
Kassel 96 Marinatos 75n103
Kefalidou 78n107, 78n109, 116 Markopolis 23n39
Kerényi 15n26, 90n134 Marmorale 121n2, 123n7, 128, 129, 136, 137,
Kirk 35n16, 153n42 138n27, 156n49, 159n1, 163n20
Kitzinger 46n41, 46n43 Martin 7n2, 9n5, 10n9, 11n13, 15n26
Klussmann 121n2, 123n7, 124, 136, 137, 139– Marzullo 14n21
142 Matthews 56n64
Knox 47n46 Matthiae 50, 51
Korshak 77n106 Mayhew 80n113, 80n115
Kossatz-Deissmann 116, 165n24 Medda 59n70
Kroll 202n26 Meineke 164n23
Krumeich, Prechstein, Seidensticker Mercier 141
102n150, 102n151 Merkelbach 22n36
Mette 121n2, 123n7
Lamari 31n7, 70n89, 160n4, 160n7, 165n24 Metzger 78n109
Lambrinoudakis 23n39 Meuli 3
Larson 23n38 Michaelis 175n37, 177n39
Lattanzi 121n2, 123n6, 123n7, 136, 138n27, Minchin 17n28
141n31 Minervini 72n94
Latte 207n30 Molina 81n117
Leach 151n40 Moloney 70n89
Leaf 8n3 Moreau 62n75, 201n24, 209n31
Lebeuf 201n22 Moret 165n24, 169n32, 175n35, 182
Lennartz 130n22 Moseley 149n37
Lenormant 202 Motte 33n10
Leschi 175n37, 176n38, 177n39, 195n16 Müller, D. 72n96
Lesky 29n5 Müller, G. 45n38, 46n40
Létoublon 75n103 Müller, L. 137n26
Levi, D. 195n16, 175n37 Muntz 26n45, 64n78
Levi, L. 29, 42, 102–103, 110n168 Mureddu 97
Lewis 44n37 Murray 41–42, 92n139
Liapis 51n53, 72n96 Musgrave 50
Lightfoot 145n33
Lincoln 15n25 Naiden 31n9
Lindsay 143n32, 157n50 Nauck 33n10, 84, 94
Linforth 29, 39, 46n40, 72, 72n94, 73n97, Nelson 104n153, 105n157, 105n160, 105n162
79n112 Nervegna 160n6, 161n14, 165n24, 182n50
Lissarague 22n36 Nilsson 14n21, 15n24
Littmann 2, 57 Nisbet 145n33
index of modern authors 241
Norwood 35n16 Rohde 2

Novellone 169n32 Roisman 14n22
Roscino 165n24, 180, 181n46
Obbink 82n119 Rose 25n44, 167n31
Onions 123n5 Rosenmeyer 62n74
Otto 14n22, 15n24, 108n166 Rudd 81n118, 136n25, 156n47
Rumpf 20n33
Page 162n17, 162n18
Pailler 149n36 Santoni 37n22
Palumbo 99n145 Scarpi, Ciani 189n1
Papadopoulou 99n146, 182n49 Schauer 122
Parker, R. 2, 57n66 Schefold 77n105, 78n108
Parks 7n2 Schierl 149n38
Pastorino 121n2, 149n36 Schiesaro 149n36
Pedrina 31n9 Schlesier 15n24, 41n29, 43n122
Perdrizet 72n96 Schmidt 73, 189
Picard 175n36 Schuddeboom 33n10
Piotrowicz 31n7 Scodel 11n13, 161n13, 162n16, 162n19, 163n21
Pirenne-Delforge 33n10, 87n130 Scullion 44n37, 113n177
Plichon 51n53 Seaford 11n13, 14n21, 19n32, 29n5, 41n30,
Podlecki 102n151, 104n154 85, 85n126, 100n147, 113n176, 119,
Porres Caballero 41n29 153n42
Pötscher 82n119 Séchan 39n25, 102, 105n157, 165n24, 181, 182
Prato 34n13, 34n14 Segal 35n16, 92n139, 114n180
Preller 14n22 Shapiro 169n32
Privitera 10n11, 13n19, 19n32, 21 Shefton 200
Simantoni-Bournia 23n39
Questa 150 Simon 102n149, 102n151, 105n157
Singor 10n8
Radt 54–55, 94n143, 102n151, 104n153, Small 165n25, 165n26, 166
105n157 Smith, C.H. 77n105, 78n107, 78n108, 117n182
Raeck 78n109 Smith, G. 143
Rapp 167, 177n39 Smith, T.J. 22n36
Rau 33n12, 34n13 Snell 22n36
Reinach 198 Sommerstein 29, 34n14, 60n72, 62n74,
Reitze 46n40 62n75, 70n90, 79n111, 95n144, 102,
Revermann 113n177, 160n7, 162n18 104n154, 104n155, 105, 106, 106n163
Ribbeck 111n171, 121n2, 121n3, 123n6, 123n7, Sommerstein, Fitzpatrick, Talboy 40n28
123n9, 127–129, 132–135, 137, 138, 142, Sourdel 57, 57n67, 57n69
156n49, 159n1 Sourvinou-Inwood 2, 43n34, 45n39, 47n44,
Ricci 167n31, 173n33 47n46, 48n47, 48n49, 49, 49n51
Richardson 21n34 Spaltenstein 121n2, 122–141, 156, 159n1
Richter 67n82, 200 Stärk 150
Ring 26n45, 64n78 Stewart, A. 20n33
Rives 83n123 Stewart, E. 62n75, 70n89, 160n4
Rizzo, Martelli 200 Strauss Clay 85n128
Robert 37n20, 120n150 Suerbaum 149n36, 156n49
Robertson 118, 119, 195n16, 197n18, 200 Sulimani 26n45, 64n78
Roche 191n8 Susanetti 45n39, 46n40, 49n50, 113n178
242 index of modern authors
Sutton 19n31 Vatin 117n181

Svoronos 199n21 Verrall 35n16
Vidal-Naquet 201n24, 205n27
Tagliabue 13n19 Villanueva Puig 41n29
Takács 149n36 von der Mühll 8n3
Taplin 62n74, 90n135, 91n137, 112n174, Vysoký 102, 105, 105n159, 110n168
161n10, 163n22, 165n24, 165n25, 165n26,
166n28, 166n29, 167n30, 174n33, 181n44, Warde Fowler 206n29
181n46, 181n47, 181n48 Warmington 121n2, 123, 123n6, 123n7, 123n9,
Tatti-Gartziou 18n30 131–132, 140, 159n1
Thompson 155n46 Wartelle 160n7, 162, 162n16
Todisco 161n14, 166n27 Webster 149n37, 151n40
Topper 31n7, 77n105, 78n109, 90n134, 116, Weinreich 92
175 Welcker 29, 62, 92, 102, 151n41
Tortorelli Ghidini 73n100 West, M.L. 2, 9n4, 13n17, 13n18, 13n20, 14n22,
Trendall 165n25 19n32, 22n36, 28n2, 29–42, 43, 49,
Trendall, Webster 165n24 49n50, 66, 68, 71, 76, 85, 86, 86n129,
Trendall, Cambitoglou 169n32 92n139, 102, 105n157, 110n68
Trzcionkowski 29n5 Wiedemann 204
Tsiafakis 77n105, 78n108 Wilamowitz-Moellendorf 22n36, 85n127,
Tsirimpas 19n31 90n135, 99, 181–182
Turcan 149n36 Winkler, Zeitlin 70n88
Tyrell, Benett 47n44 Winnington-Ingram 46n40, 46n43, 48, 49
Wright 29n5
Untersteiner 13n18
Ustinova 73n96, 148n35 Zanetto, del Corno 95n144
Zereteli, Krüger 19n31
Vahtikari 31n9, 160n4, 161n11, 162n18, Zieliński 111n171
165n24, 181n46 Zimmermann 163n21
Van Gennep 15n25 Zissos 174n33
Van Nes Ditmars 46n40 Zumbo 19n31
Van Straten 89n132
Index of Ancient Authors
Accius Supplices 952–953 105
Stasiastae 2 Xantriai
fr. 168 182
Aeschylus
Agamemnon Anaxandrides
1629–1632 2, 43, 59–62, 70, 126, 134 Lycurgus 2, 164
Bassarae
fr. 58 92–93 Anecdota Graeca
23 98 273 199
23a 39, 99, 150
24 100 Antimachus of Colophon
25 100 fr. 162 56, 184
Edonoi
fr. 57 46n39, 89, 137 Anthologia Palatina
59 39, 94, 113 9.79 125n17
60 95–96, 152 9.368 105n158
61 96, 106, 113 9.561 125n17
61a 96, 113 16.127 125n17, 193–195,
62 96–97 199
63 97 16.306–308 196–197
64 97
65 98 Apollodorus
66 98 Bibliotheca 6
67 98 3.5 30–36, 43, 49, 53, 60,
68 28, 33–36 61, 72, 81, 84, 88, 89–
Eumenides 91, 100, 102, 125n17,
25–26 40 126, 141, 150, 151, 167,
Incertarum Fabularum 173, 179, 185, 188–
fr. 341 84, 94 189
Lycurgus
fr. 124 103–109 Apollonius Rhodius
125 110 1.8–11 208
126 110
Neaniskoi Aratus
fr. 146a 100–101 Scholia
146b 101 p. 108 15n26
147 101
148 101 Aratus Latinus
Pentheus 112 p. 231.14 68–69
Persae
Scholia Archilochus
495a 185n52 fr. 42 105
Semele
fr. 222 98 Aristias
Septem Orpheus 28n1, 71n93
1005–1078 163
244 index of ancient authors
Aristophanes Cornutus
Acharnians De natura deorum
911 160–161 62 125n17
Birds
276 28, 95, 161 Damascius
693–702 71, 93 Vita Isidori
Clouds fr. 136a 57–58, 184
1365–1367 161n9
Frogs Demosthenes
848 160 19.247 47n46
1032 79–81, 84
Thesmophoriazousae 113, 129, 165 Diodorus of Sicily
134–145 28, 33–35, 63, 113, 5.50–52 3, 23n38, 26, 64–67,
161 77, 93, 184
Scholia 3.65.5–7 5, 43, 56, 184
135 28, 63, 102 4.2.5 105n158
Aristophanes of Byzantium Ennius

111–112 Medea
fr. 96 128
Aristotle
fr. 74 198, 206 Eratosthenes
Catasterism
Artemidorus 24 5, 24, 36–41, 66, 68–
4.63 198, 203, 209 69, 71, 74–77, 84, 87,
90–91
Asclepiades of Tragillus
160, 177, 179 Eubulus
fr. 25a 34n13
Certamen Homeri et Hesiodi
4 65 Eumelus
Europeia 4, 12–14, 19, 22, 24–23,
Cassius Dio 27, 30–31, 44, 150, 184
51.25.4–5 72n96
Euripides
Charax Alcestis
fr. 62 65 357–362 75
Bacchae 1, 5, 31, 33, 35, 40–41,
Cicero 89–91, 111–114, 126,
Epistulae ad familiares 129, 135, 142, 155, 188–
7.2.1 156 189, 212
50–52 112
Clement of Rome (pseudo-) 135–141 132
Homilies 307 45n38
5.15.2 67n85 337–340 39
560–566 70
Connon 691 137
fr. 1.45.4 67n83 726 92
748 124
index of ancient authors 245
754 119–120 4.103 83

920–922 99, 138, 154 7.111 72n96
1185–1187 153
Hecuba Hesychius
1267 (with Scholia) 72n96 β 305 39
Heracles 6, 151n40
843–1015 181–183 Horace
Hippolytus Ars Poetica
952–955 70–71 391–393 80–81, 84, 88
1416–1422 85 Carmina
Hypsipyle 1.18.9–11 109, 144–145, 156
fr. 64col. 1 184 2.19.14–16 1n1, 93n141
Ion 2.19.18–20 136n25
550–554 85n126 Scholia
Iphigenia in Tauris 83 2.19.16 125n17, 190n4
237 159n1 Epistulae
Meleager 2.1.53–54 156
fr. 530 198, 206
Rhesus Homeric Hymn
970–973 4, 36, 43, 49, 50–51, 53, i 22, 23n38, 56
54, 59, 72, 211
Hyginus
Eusebius Astonomica
Chronicle 2.7 68–69
a. 785 15n26 2.21 176–177
Fabula
Eustathius 132 6, 106, 109, 125n17,
Iliad 144–145, 151, 156, 167–
14.319–320 15n26 175, 178–179, 186, 188,
189, 192, 196–196
Firmicus Maternus 192 25, 184
De errore 242 189n2
6.6–9 3, 184
Iliad
Galen 6.130–140 2, 4, 7–27, 33, 42, 43,
607 162 44, 56, 58, 65, 83, 126,
150, 184, 211
Germanicus 6.119–231 7–11
Scholia 6.389 19n32
p. 84.6 68–69 14.325 8
5.330–340 10
Heraclitus 5.846–863 10
Allegories 18.393–408 22, 24
35 16n27, 125n17 22.460 19n32
23.91–92 20
Herodotus Scholia
2.81 71n92 6.131 1–14, 184
2.91 198–199, 203 6.132 16n27
4.78–80 19n32 6.139 18–19
Scholia (cont.) Mythographus Vaticanus

14.296 24–25 i
14.319 15n26 2.18.9 125n17, 190n4
23.92 20–23 ii
94 125n17, 190n4
Juvenal iii
6.256 199 p. 245 190n4
Leonidas of Alexandria Naevius

AP Belli Punici Carmen 156
9.79 191 Equos Troianus 156
Incertarum fabularum
Libanius fr. 51 159n1
Fabula Lycurgus
3.1 22 fr. 24 135
25 136
Livius Andronicus 26 140–141
fr. 16–17 159n1 27–29 1n2, 53, 65n80, 127–
129, 154
Livy 30–32 53, 122, 123–127,
9.40 199 128, 129, 137, 150,
39.8–19 45n38, 149 152
33–34 129
Longinus 35 135–136
15.6 92 36 131, 139–140
37–38 131–133, 150
Longus 39 129–130, 152
4.3.2 1n1 40 134–135
41–42 135
Lucan 43 130, 152
Bellum Civile 44 130–131
1.574–576 191–192 45 131
3.429–434 191–192 46–47 137–138
Scholia 48 133–134
1.575 125n17, 190–192 49 133–134
3.431 191–192 50–51 133–134
52–53 141–142
Lucian 54 138–139
Dialogi deorum 55–56 127, 131
22.1 1, 128 57 139
58 62, 134
Macrobius 59 140
Saturnalia
1.18.6 85 Nonius
5.18.16 198, 206 De compendiosa doctrina
121, 126, 132, 134, 137,
Malalas 140–142, 157
Chron. ii.
P. 44 3, 184
Nonnus Phanocles
Dionysiaca 14, 30, 184 fr. 1 67–68, 72
13.428–431 65
20.149–181 104 Pherecydes
20.151–153 83 fr. 90 176
20.226–227 103 105 208
20.248–250 103 178 26n45
21.3–63 176, 177, 190
21.26–92 65n80 Philodamus
21.30–32 1n1, 53, 128 Paean 85
21.118–123 78–81, 83, 88
21.134–146 142 Philostratus
21.155–169 4, 42, 55–59 Heroicus
22.168–190 65 28.8–14 72–73
45.294–297 120 Vita Apollonii
4.14 72
Odyssey
11.321–325 14n22 Photius
12.377–388 75n103 384a 57–58
18.394–405 21
24.73–75 21–22, 25 Pindar
Pythica
Ovid 4.75.96–98 198, 208–209
Fasti hypothesis
3.721–722 1n1, 192n12 a22 87–88
Heroides Scholia
2.111–114 185–186 2.133 208
Ibis
345–346 109, 186, 192–193, 195, Plato
197 Laws
607–608 192n13 620a–c 86
Scholia Republic
345–346 125n17, 144, 156, 192– 620a 155
193, 195
607–608 192–193, 195 Plautus
Metamorphoses 177 Captivi
4.22 1n1 561–563 6, 109, 122, 142–145,
7.182–183 198, 202 149, 150, 156
10.83–85 67n83, 67n86 Menaechmi
11.50–60 72 835–871 2, 6, 99, 122, 126, 129,
Tristia 134, 135, 145–155, 212
5.3.39–40 1n1
Plutarch
Pacuvius Moralia
Pentheus 149 15d–e 106–107, 125n17
566b–c 86–88
Pausanias Vita decem oratorum
1.20.3 1n1 841f 162
9.30.5 67n83
Pollux Stesichorus
7.87 199, 202–203 Eriphyle
fr. 92 43n34
Polyphrasmon Incertarum
Lycurgeia 1, 28, 44, 63, 164 fr. 276 20–27
Porphyry Suetonius
De Abstinentia Augustus
2.8.3 5, 81–84, 88 94.5 72n96
Propertius Tbilisi Hymn 3, 19

3.17.23–24 1n1, 125n17 16–17 57n69
29 136
Servius 41–44 174–175
Aeneid 49–51 1n1, 53, 65n80, 128
3.14 107, 125n17, 189, 192, 197 52–57 43
4.518 201, 208
Themistius
Silius Italicus Oratio
Punica 30.349a 80, 84, 88
776–777 186–177
Theocritus
Sophocles Idyll
Ajax 26 113
1266–1267 159n1 Scholia
Antigone 7.149 23–27
955–965 2, 4, 29, 43–54, 58, 60, 10.18 110–111
90, 99, 100, 128, 134,
184, 65n80, 211 Thucydides
770–771 47n46 3.22 198, 205–207
1005–1011 45n38 5.70 205
Scholia
957–958 1n1, 52–53, 65n80, 185 Timo
Tereus fr. 4 107–109
fr. 582 40n28
Incertarum fabularum Timocles
fr. 752 40n28 Lycurgus 1, 164
Statius Urceus Cordus

Achilleid Sermo
1.262 152 1.220 193
Thebaid
4.386 1n1, 53, 65n80, 128 Valerius Flaccus
4.655 53n58, 128n20 1.728–729 173–175, 186–187
7.180 53n58, 65n80, 128n20
Vegetius 199
Strabo
10.3.16 2, 4, 32, 42, 53–55, 58,
59, 84, 163
Virgil Zopyrus
Aeneid Crater 86–87
4.480–486 208
4.518 198, 201, 208
7.689–690 198, 205
Georgics
4.329–332 125n17
4.520–527 71–72

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Mnemosyne

C. Pieper (Leiden University)

A. Chaniotis (Institute for Advanced Study, Princeton)

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/mns

This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

1 Lycurgus before Theatre 7

2.4.3 Towards a Resolution of the Conflict 69

3 Naevius’ Lycurgus 121

3.2.2.2 Who Is Who in the Menaechmi? 153

4 Lost in Translation: Lycurgus between Aeschylus, Naevius, Poetry, and

5 Lycurgus monocrepis 188

General Conclusions 211

Drawings by Adam Chmielewski

1 Attic red-figure hydria, Kraków, National Museum 1225 32

In Lucian’s Dialogi deorum (22.1) Zeus praises Dionysus:

εἰ δέ τις ἐπεχείρησε λοιδορήσασθαι αὐτωῖ ὑβρίσας ἐς τὴν τελετήν, καὶ τοῦ-

Whenever someone attempted to abuse him by committing an outrage

© Bartłomiej Bednarek, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004463035_002

believed that Lycurgus became a prophet of Dionysus and came to be wor-

The Structure of This Book

no reason to believe that any Attic tragedian mentioned Lycurgus’ immortal-

are parallel to those of Aeschylus’Bassarai. Further material regarding the con-

Lycurgus before Theatre

1.1 Iliad 6.130–140: Who Are You, My Dear?

τίς δὲ σύ ἐσσι, φέριστε, καταθνητῶν ἀνθρῶπων;

© Bartłomiej Bednarek, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004463035_003

To explain how bad an idea it is to assault immortals, Diomedes tells a story

οὐδὲ γὰρ οὐδὲ Δρύαντος υἱός, κρατερὸς Λυκόοργος,

assaulted. This apparent inconsistency was treated by whole generations of

8 On the promachoi, see Singor 1995; Hellmann 2000: 157–164.

1.2 Eumelus and the Early Dionysian Saga

15 Text of Bernabé (PEG).

1.3 The Presuppositions of the Homeric Passage: All that We Will

εἰ δέ τις ἀθανάτων γε κατ᾽ οὐρανοῦ εἰλήλουθας,

οὐδ᾽ ἂν ἐγὼ μακάρεσσι θεοῖς ἐθέλοιμι μάχεσθαι

As discussed above, in these lines Diomedes ironically allows for Glaucus to

Made him blind: because he saw the mysteries, he is properly punished

1.4 Stesichorus fr. 276 (Finglass): The Gift of Dionysus

Διόνυσος Ἥφαιστον γενόμενον ἐν Νάξωι μιᾶι τῶν Κυκλάδων ξενίσας ἔλαβεν

Dionysus, having received Hephaestus, when he stayed in Naxos, one of

It is usually assumed that the whole story, as summarised in the scholion,

34 Haslam 1991: 36–37, n. 4; Richardson 1993: ad loc.

1.4.1 Hephaestus Meets Dionysus in Naxos

that it happened in Lemnos or some other place traditionally connected to

That wine was given by Dionysus as a thank-gift, because Pholos allotted

43 See Braswell 1971: 19–21; Edwards 1991: ad 394–409.

To a certain degree it seems to find support in a bizarre story related by

© Bartłomiej Bednarek, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004463035_004

The content of Aeschylus’Lycurgeia was widely disputed until quite recently.

three tragedies. A presentation of fragments attributed to respective plays fol-

2.2 Tragic Trilogy

2.2.1 Apollodorus and the Edonoi

Λυκοῦργος δὲ παῖς Δρύαντος, Ἠδωνῶν βασιλεύων, οἳ Στρυμόνα ποταμὸν παροι-

What Apollodorus offers is a continuous narration concerning the early life of

section 1.2). Nevertheless, it is unlikely to be derived directly from the latter

figure 1 Attic red-figure hydria, Kraków, National Museum 1225

Of Kotys and her implements Aeschylus makes a mention in Edonoi, say-

καὶ σ᾽ ὦ νεανίσχ᾽ ἥτις εἶ, κατ᾽ Αἰσχύλον

2.2.2 Eratosthenes and the Bassarai

μετέλαβε δὲ αὐτὴν Ἀπόλλων καὶ συναρμοσάμενος ὠιδὴν Ὀρφεῖ παρέδωκεν·

Apollo received it [the lyre] and, having composed a song, gave it to

18 For further discussion, see section 2.3.1.4.

27 Thus already Hermann 1834: 16.

2.2.3 The Neaniskoi