Brill's Companion To Nonnus of Panopolis-Brill Academic Publishers (2016) PDF

Brill’s Companion to Nonnus of Panopolis
Brill’s Companions in
Classical Studies
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Brill’s Companion to Nonnus
of Panopolis
Edited by
Domenico Accorinti
LEIDEN | BOSTON
Cover illustration: Panel with the Triumph of Dionysus from Akhmim (Panopolis), 4th–6th century.
Tapestry weave in wool and linen, 22 cm high × 34 cm wide. New York, The Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Gift of George F. Baker, 1890, inv. no. 90.5.873. © The Metropolitan Museum of Art, The Collection Online
(url: http://www.metmuseum.org). Open Access for Scholarly Content (OASC).
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Accorinti, Domenico, editor.

Title: Brill’s companion to Nonnus of Panopolis / Edited by Domenico
Accorinti.
Description: Leiden ; Boston : Brill, 2016. | Series: Brill’s companions in
classical studies | Includes bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2015047330 (print) | LCCN 2015049109 (ebook) | ISBN
9789004310117 (hardback : alk. paper) | ISBN 9789004310698 (E-book)
Subjects: LCSH: Nonnus, of Panopolis—Criticism and interpretation.
Classification: LCC PA4252 .B75 2016 (print) | LCC PA4252 (ebook) | DDC
883/.01—dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015047330
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issn 1872-3357
isbn 978-9004-31011-7 (hardback)
isbn 978-9004-31069-8 (e-book)
Copyright 2016 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands.

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

In memory of Rudolf Keydell (1887–1982)
and Francis Vian (1917–2008)
⸪
Contents
Acknowledgements xi
List of Abbreviations xvi
List of Illustrations xix
List of Contributors xxiii
Introduction: Becoming A Classic 1

Domenico Accorinti
Part 1
Author, Context, and Religion
1 The Poet from Panopolis: An Obscure Biography and a Controversial

Figure 11
Domenico Accorinti
2 Nonnus’ Panopolis 54
Peter van Minnen
3 The Religious Background of Nonnus 75

Jitse H.F. Dijkstra
Part 2
The Dionysiaca
4 Nonnus and Dionysiac-Orphic Religion 91

Alberto Bernabé and Rosa García-Gasco
5 The Poet of Dionysus: Birth of the Last among the Gods 111

Pierre Chuvin
6 Major Themes and Motifs in the Dionysiaca 125

Fotini Hadjittofi
7 Minor Characters in the Dionysiaca 152

Berenice Verhelst
viii contents
8 Narrative and Digression in the Dionysiaca 173

Camille Geisz
9 The Psychology in the Dionysiaca 193

Ronald F. Newbold
Part 3
The Paraphrase of St John’s Gospel
10 Nonnus and Biblical Epic 215

Mary Whitby
11 Approaching the ‘Spiritual Gospel’: Nonnus as Interpreter of

John 240
Roberta Franchi
12 Nonnus’ Paraphrastic Technique: A Case Study of Self-Recognition in

John 9 267
Scott Fitzgerald Johnson
13 Nonnus and Christian Literature 289

Christos Simelidis
14 Nonnus’ Christology 308
Fabian Sieber
15 The Mystery Terminology in Nonnus’ Paraphrase 327

Filip Doroszewski
Part 4
Metre, Style, Poetry, and Visual Arts
16 The Nonnian Hexameter 353

Enrico Magnelli
17 Nonnus’ Conventional Formulaic Style 372

Gennaro D’Ippolito
Contents ix
18 Nonnus and the Play of Genres 402

Anna Maria Lasek
19 Nonnus’ Poetics 422
Daria Gigli Piccardi
20 Nonnus and the Poetry of Ekphrasis in the Dionysiaca 443

Riemer A. Faber
21 Nonnus and the Art of Late Antiquity 460

Troels Myrup Kristensen
Part 5
Nonnus and the Classical Tradition
22 Nonnus and the Homeric Poems 481

Herbert Bannert and Nicole Kröll
23 Composing the Masters: An Essay on Nonnus and Hellenistic

Poetry 507
Benjamin Acosta-Hughes
24 Nonnus and Imperial Greek Poetry 529

Calum Alasdair Maciver
25 Nonnus and the Novel 549

Laura Miguélez-Cavero
Part 6
An Interpretation of Nonnus’ Work
26 Christian Themes in the Dionysiaca 577

Robert Shorrock
27 Pagan Themes in the Paraphrase 601

Konstantinos Spanoudakis
x contents
28 Nonnus and Prophecy: Between ‘Pagan’ and ‘Christian’ Voices 625

Jane L. Lightfoot
29 Nonnus and Late Antique Society 644

Gianfranco Agosti
Part 7
The Transmission and Reception of Nonnus’ Poems
30 Brief Notes on the Manuscript Tradition of Nonnus’ Works 671

Claudio De Stefani
31 The Reception of Nonnus in Late Antiquity, Byzantine, and

Renaissance Literature 691
Francesco Tissoni
32 The Influence of Nonnus on Baroque and Modern Literature 714

David Hernández de la Fuente
Bibliography 755
General Index 832
Index of Principal Nonnian Passages 864
Acknowledgements
The project of publishing Brill’s Companion to Nonnus of Panopolis started with

an email I sent to Irene van Rossum, at that time the Brill Senior Acquisitions
Editor for Classical Studies and Ancient Philosophy (currently Senior
Acquisitions Editor for Language and Linguistics at Brill), on 31 January 2013
to propose a companion volume to the most representative poet of Greek
Late Antiquity. In her prompt reply, written just the day after my email, Dr van
Rossum suggested I should send her my proposal for further consideration. I
did not waste time and wrote to her on 4 February. Shortly after receiving my
proposal, Irene answered on the same day:
Dear Domenico (if I may),

Thank you for sending the proposal. It looks very comprehensive. Have
you approached prospective authors for the chapters? Do you think you
will be able to get people for all the chapters?
I am quite interested in pursuing this, but I do wonder whether there
is a market big enough to warrant a Companion, or whether we should
look at publication in a monograph series. I would like to investigate both
possibilities. I would also like to show the proposal to my colleague in
patristic studies to see what she thinks. There must be an overlap in mar-
kets here.
Then, for each of the thirty-two chapters, I recruited authors worldwide in only
three weeks and sent the full list to Irene. She replied to me with an encourag-
ing email on 4 March:
Dear Domenico,
Thank you for the proposal. It sounds indeed very promising. Due to
some recent changes at Brill I will be handing over the Classical Studies
list to my colleague Jennifer Pavelko who is based in our Boston office, as
I will move to the Language and Linguistics list. I will see Jennifer next
week and will discuss your proposal with her. She or I will then follow up
with you next week. I am very much encouraged by the table of contents,
though.
Thus my first thanks must go to Irene van Rossum, one of the ‘Faces of Brill’
(see url: http://www.brill.com/about/faces-brill/irene-van-rossum-faces-brill)
xii acknowledgements
and a keen editor of scholarly works, for putting her trust in my proposal and
for her enthusiasm for this new Companion.
Secondly, I am grateful to Jennifer Pavelko, who took the baton from Irene
in April 2013 and was willing to include this volume on Nonnus in the series
Brill’s Companions in Classical Studies. I also thank other people at Brill’s pub-
lishing house for their assistance in bringing the volume to print, and in par-
ticular Caroline van Erp, the then Assistant Editor for Classical Studies and
Ancient Philosophy (currently Marketing Manager at Brill), who drew up
the contract and started to work with interest on this book, Tessel Jonquière,
who efficiently replaced Caroline van Erp as Assistant Editor for Classical
Studies, Tessa Schild, and Saskia van der Knaap, Production Editor Books, who
has been of great help during the final publication process. I am grateful to
Elisabetta Lugato (Venice, Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana, Ufficio Manoscritti)
for kindly inspecting MS Marcianus gr. 448 (and for helping me to obtain pho-
tographs), and to Christian Förstel (Paris, Conservateur de la Section Grecque,
Département des Manuscrits, Bibliothèque nationale de France) for doing
the same for MS Parisinus gr. 1220. A sincere thanks also goes to Stefania De
Vido (Venice), my old fellow student at the Scuola Normale Superiore, Pisa,
and to Roberta Mirandola (Pisa), the mother of one of my students (Matilde
Collavini), for their assistance in finding a marvellous ‘photographer’ for folio
220v of MS Marcianus gr. 448, Aude Skalli (Paris), to whom I am indebted
for her kindness. I also acknowledge here with gratitude the material assis-
tance and permission given by the following libraries and institutions to
reproduce manuscripts, papyri, old editions, and photos: Abegg-Stiftung,
Riggisberg, Biblioteca comunale Dante Alighieri, Foligno, Biblioteca Medicea
Laurenziana, Florence, Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana, Venice, Department
of Antiquities, Cyprus, Dumbarton Oaks Collection, Washington, DC, Fine
Arts Museums of San Francisco, CA, Real Biblioteca de Madrid, Staatliche
Bibliothek, Regensburg, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin—Ägyptisches Museum
und Papyrussammlung, The State Hermitage Museum, St Petersburg. For
useful information and material provided, I wish to thank Gérald Andres
(Bibliothèque municipale de Lyon), Heinzgerd Brakmann (Franz Joseph
Dölger-Institut zur Erforschung der Spätantike, Bonn), Vlastimil Drbal
(Prague), Markman Ellis (Department of English, Queen Mary, University of
London), Susanne Knackmuß (Sammlungen des Berlinischen Gymnasiums
zum Grauen Kloster, Streitsche Stiftung), Lauren K. McMillan (Reference
& Instruction Librarian, Lane Library, Armstrong Atlantic State University,
Savannah, GA), Filippo Ronconi (EHESS, Paris), Kristan Shawgo (Research and
Instructional Services, University Libraries, The University of North Carolina
at Chapel Hill), and Marsha Taichman (Visual Resources Librarian, Fine Arts
Acknowledgements xiii
Library, Cornell University, Ithaca, NY). Furthermore, I would like to thank my

friends Robert Learmonth (Pisa) and Mary Whitby (Oxford) for their precious
linguistic advice, as well as my colleague Vincenzo Muggittu (Pisa) for useful
discussions.
Editing alone a collective volume of thirty-two chapters is a tremendous
task! But when an editor has a good team to work with and realizes that his
project finds enthusiastic supporters, gravia levia fiunt. For this, I would like to
thank all the contributors to this volume who welcomed the project, in particu-
lar my ‘Nonnian’ friends Gianfranco Agosti, Pierre Chuvin, Claudio De Stefani,
Daria Gigli Piccardi, Enrico Magnelli, Konstantinos Spanoudakis, Francesco
Tissoni, and other scholars like Herbert Bannert (‘Sehr gerne übernehme ich
den angesprochenen Beitrag für ein Handbuch! Es ist sehr gut, dass Sie so
etwas organisieren konnten, das wird der Nonnos-Verbreitung sicher guttun!’),
Alberto Bernabé (‘Será para mi un placer colaborar en el Companion’), Jitse
Dijkstra (‘It sounds really good and you have collected a very interesting group
of people!’), Scott Fitzgerald Johnson (‘I would be delighted to contribute to
your volume on the proposed subject!’), Troels Myrup Kristensen (‘This looks
like a very authoritative and useful volume!’), Jane Lightfoot (‘In principle I’d
be very glad indeed to contribute to your volume: it would be a pleasure’), and
Mary Whitby (‘What strikes me is that you have done a great job in bringing
together the traditional Nonnus stalwarts with the bright young things who are
at the beginning of their careers’).
As ever, I am grateful to my wonderful wife Nuccia, the mother of my chil-
dren Alessandro and Alessia, for her loving encouragement and the joy of her
presence in my life.
Lastly, the dedication of this Companion to the memory of Rudolf Keydell
and Francis Vian is probably self-explanatory, standing as a devoted tribute to
the greatest Nonnian scholars of the twentieth century.
Domenico Accorinti
Pisa/Tropea, Summer 2015
xiv acknowledgements
figure 0.1 Rudolf Keydell (1887–1982).

Acknowledgements xv
figure 0.2 Francis Vian (1917–2008).

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List Of Abbreviations xvii
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xviii list of abbreviations
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List of Illustrations
Panel with the Triumph of Dionysus from Akhmim (Panopolis), 4th–6th

century. Tapestry weave in wool and linen, 22 cm high × 34 cm wide. New York,
The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Gift of George F. Baker, 1890, inv. no. 90.5.873.
© The Metropolitan Museum of Art, The Collection Online (url: http://www
.metmuseum.org). Open Access for Scholarly Content (OASC).
0.1 Rudolf Keydell (1887–1982). After H.G. Beck/A. Kambylis/P. Moraux

(eds.), Kyklos: Griechisches und byzantinisches Rudolf Keydell zum
neunzigsten Geburtstag (Berlin/New York: Walter de Gruyter, 1978)
xiii xiv
0.2 Francis Vian (1917–2008). Private Archive of Domenico Accorinti
(cf. Accorinti/Chuvin 2003, iv) xv
1.1 Richard Garnett, The Twilight of the Gods and Other Tales, with an
introduction by T.E. Lawrence, illustrated by H. Keen (London: John
Lane the Bodley Head Limited; New York: Dodd, Mead and Company,
1924), frontispiece 48
1.2 Henry Keen, ‘A Motley Crowd of Goblins’. R. Garnett, The Twilight of the
Gods and Other Tales, with an introduction by T.E. Lawrence, illustrated
by H. Keen (London: John Lane the Bodley Head Limited; New York:
Dodd, Mead and Company, 1924), facing page 180 49
1.3 Suda. Venice, Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana, MS Marcianus gr. 448
(= 1047), fo. 220r. Photo: Aude Skalli. © Venice, Biblioteca Nazionale
Marciana. Courtesy of the Ministero per i Beni e le Attività Culturali.
Reproduction prohibited 50
1.4 Suda. Venice, Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana, MS Marcianus gr. 448
(= 1047), fo. 220r (detail). Photo: Aude Skalli. © Venice, Biblioteca
Nazionale Marciana. Courtesy of the Ministero per i Beni e le Attività
Culturali. Reproduction prohibited 51
1.5 Nonnus of Panopolis, Par. 1.1–58. Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de
France, MS Parisinus gr. 1220, fo. 224r. © Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de
France. Used by permission 52
1.6 Illumination by Jeanne and Richard de Montbaston, Pelagia and her
courtesans with the bishop Nonnus praying for her. Paris, Bibliothèque
nationale de France, MS fr. 185, fo. 264v (detail; after Grayson 2009, 145,
fig. 1) 53
4.1 Duccio di Buoninsegna, Maestà (front panel). Siena, Museo dell’Opera
del Duomo (after Christiansen 2008, 9, fig. 1) 371
xx list of illustrations
4.2 Duccio di Buoninsegna, Maestà (detail of the inscription on the

base of the Virgin’s throne). Siena, Museo dell’Opera del Duomo
(after Christiansen 2008, 16, fig. 11) 371
4.3 Feeding the snake (in a cista mystica): a central part of the Dionysus
festival, depicted on a sixth-century partially gilded silver bowl.
St Petersburg, The State Hermitage Museum. Photo: Leonard Kheiferts.
© The State Hermitage Museum 476
4.4 Dionysus wall hanging. Riggisberg, Abegg-Stiftung, inv. no. 3100 a. Image
© Abegg-Stiftung, CH-3132 Riggisberg, 1987. Photo: Hans Kobi 476
4.5 Drawing of the ‘Antinoë veil’. Paris, Louvre (after Törok 2005,
fig. 116) 477
4.6 Nereids tapestry. Washington, DC, Dumbarton Oaks Collection, inv. BZ.
1932.1. © Dumbarton Oaks, Byzantine Collection, Washington, DC 477
4.7 Dionysus panel from Noheda (Cuenca). Photo: J. Latova. Used by
permission 478
4.8 House of Aion, Nea Paphos: Hermes with the baby Dionysus. Used by
permission of the Department of Antiquities, Cyprus 478
5.1 Νόννου τοῦ Πανοπολίτου Διονυσιακῶν Βιβλία ΜΗ. Nonni Panopolitae
Dionysiacorum Libri XLVIII. Suis et aliorum coniecturis emendavit et
illustravit D. Fridericus Graefe, 2 vols. (Lipsiae: Sumtibus Frid. Christ.
Guil. Vogelii, 1819–1826) I, vignette. Private Library of Domenico
Accorinti 505
5.2 Νόννου τοῦ Πανοπολίτου Διονυσιακῶν Βιβλία ΜΗ. Nonni Panopolitae
Dionysiacorum Libri XLVIII. Suis et aliorum coniecturis emendavit et
illustravit D. Fridericus Graefe, 2 vols. (Lipsiae: Sumtibus Frid. Christ.
Guil. Vogelii, 1819–1826) II, vignette. Private Library of Domenico
Accorinti 506
7.1 Nonnus, Dionysiaca 14.386–419, 434–437; 15.1–415; 16.1–30. P.Berol. inv.
10567. Plate A, r. © Staatliche Museen zu Berlin—Ägyptisches Museum
und Papyrussammlung, P 10567 A. Used by permission 686
7.2 Nonnus, Dionysiaca 14.386–419, 434–437; 15.1–415; 16.1–30. P.Berol. inv.
10567. Plate A, v. © Staatliche Museen zu Berlin—Ägyptisches Museum
und Papyrussammlung, P 10567 A. Used by permission 686
7.3 Nonnus, Dionysiaca. P.Berol. inv. 10567 (detail; after Schubart 1911,
fig. 44b) 687
7.4 Nonnus, Dionysiaca 1.1–66. Florence, Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana,
MS Laurentianus plut. 32.16, fo. 9v. © Florence, Biblioteca Medicea
Laurenziana. Courtesy of the Ministero per i Beni e le Attività Culturali.
7.5 Nonnus, Dionysiaca 1.1–66. Heidelberg, Universitätsbibliothek, MS
Palatinus Heidelbergensis gr. 85, fo. 1v. © Universitätsbibliothek
List Of Illustrations xxi
Heidelberg (url: http://digi.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/diglit/cpgraec85/

0012) 688
7.6 Νόννου Πανοπολίτου Διονυσιακά. Nonni Panopolitae Dionysiaca, nunc
primum in lucem edita ex Bibliotheca Ioannis Sambuci Pannonij. Cum
lectionibus, et coniecturis Gerarti Falkenburgij Noviomagi, et Indice
copioso. Antverpiæ, Ex officina Christophori Plantini, 1569, frontispiece.
Regensburg, Staatliche Bibliothek, shelf mark 999/4Class.82. Used by
permission 688
7.7 Nonnus, Paraphrasis 1.1–49. Florence, Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana,
MS Laurentianus plut. 7.10, fo. 166r. © Florence, Biblioteca Medicea
Laurenziana. Courtesy of the Ministero per i Beni e le Attività Culturali.
7.8 Nonnus, Paraphrasis 1.1–29. Editio Aldina, Νόννου ποιητοῦ Πανοπολίτου
Μεταβολὴ τοῦ κατὰ Ἰωάννην ἁγίου εὐαγγελίου. [Venetiis] n.d., fo. 1 a (aaa).
Foligno (PG), Biblioteca comunale Dante Alighieri, inv. no. A 15850,
shelf mark G E 7. 2. 6 (b). Courtesy of the Biblioteca comunale Dante
Alighieri, Foligno (PG) 690
7.9 Danielis Heinsii Sacrarum Exercitationum ad Novum Testamentum
libri XX. In quibus Contextus Sacer illustratur, SS. Patrum aliorumque
sententiæ examinantur, Interpretationes denique antiquæ aliæque ad
eum expenduntur. Quibus Aristarchus Sacer, emendatior nec paulo
auctior, Indicesque aliquot uberrimi accedunt. Lugduni Batavorum,
Ex Officina Elseviriorum, 1639, frontispiece. Private Library of Domenico
Accorinti 712
7.10 Dan: Heinsii, Nederduytsche poemata; by een vergadert en
uytgegeven Door P. S. [Petrus Scriverius] Tot Amsterdam, Gedruct
By Willem Janssen a° 1616. Met Privilegie voor 5 Iaren, frontispiece.
Open Library (url: https://openlibrary.org/books/OL22878201M/
Dan._Heinsii_Nederduytsche_poemata) 713
7.11 Engraving by Crispijn van de Passe. Claude Boitet de Frauville,
Les Dionysiaques ou Les Voyages, les amours, et les conquestes de Bacchus
aux Indes. Traduites du grec de Nonnus Panopolitain. À Paris, chez
Robert Foüet, 1625, before the frontispiece. Real Biblioteca de Madrid
VIII/10936. © Patrimonio Nacional. Courtesy of the Real Biblioteca del
Palacio Real de Madrid 748
7.12 Engraving by Crispijn van de Passe. Claude Boitet de Frauville,
Les Dionysiaques ou Les Voyages, les amours, et les conquestes de Bacchus
aux Indes. Traduites du grec de Nonnus Panopolitain. À Paris, chez
Robert Foüet, 1625, last unnumbered page before page 1. Real Biblioteca
de Madrid VIII/10936. © Patrimonio Nacional. Courtesy of the Real
Biblioteca del Palacio Real de Madrid 749
xxii list of illustrations
7.13 Engraving by Pieter de Bailliu and Johannes Meyssens after Abraham

Jansz van Diepenbeeck, Daphne (Nonnus, Dion. 42.388b, 390). Michel
de Marolles, Tableaux du temple des muses; tirez du Cabinet de feu Mr.
Favereau . . .; avec les descriptions, remarques & annotations composées
par Mre Michel de Marolles Abbé de Villeloin (Amsterdam: Abraham
Wolfgank, 1676). Figure XIII (opposite page 98). Courtesy of the
Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, CA 750
7.14 Nicolas Poussin, Landscape with a Man Pursued by a Snake.
The Montreal Museum of Fine Arts, inv. no. 1975.15 (after Thuillier 1994,
cat. no. 96; cf. Rosenberg/Christiansen 2008, cat. no. 27) 751
7.15 Nicolas Poussin, Landscape with a Snake. London, National Gallery
(after Thuillier 1994, cat. no. 178) 751
7.16 Nicolas Poussin, Bacchus-Apollo. Stockholm, Nationalmuseum
7.17 Nicolas Poussin, Birth of Bacchus. Cambridge, MA, Fogg Art Museum
7.18 Nicolas Poussin, Dance of the Human Life. London, Wallace Collection
7.19 Claude Lorrain, Landscape with Bacchus at the Palace of the Dead
Staphylus. Rome, Pallavicini Collection. © Pallavicini Collection
(after Röthlisberger 1961, II, cat. no. 178) 753
7.20 Noël-Nicolas Coypel, Enlèvement d’Europe. Philadelphia Museum of
Art, inv. no. 1978.160.1 (after Delaplanche 2004, cat. no. P. 35) 754
List of Contributors
Domenico Accorinti
Is an independent researcher and teaches Classics at the Gymnasium Galilei,
Pisa. His research interests include Greek poetry (especially Nonnus of
Panopolis), mythology, the history of religions, the reception of classical lit-
erature, and the history of classical scholarship. He has published an edition
of Nonnus’ Paraphrase, Book 20 (Pisa, 1996) and the fourth volume of the
Dionysiaca in the series BUR Classici Greci e Latini (Books 40–48, Milan, 2004).
He has edited L’épopée posthomérique by F. Vian (Alessandria, 2005) and co-
edited, in collaboration with Pierre Chuvin, Des Géants à Dionysos: Mélanges
de mythologie et de poésie grecques offerts à Francis Vian (Alessandria, 2003).
His edition of the correspondence between Raffaele Pettazzoni (1883–1959)
and Herbert Jennings Rose (1883–1961) has recently been published by Brill
(2014). He is also on the International Advisory Board of Wiener Studien. Email:
[email protected].
Is Professor of Greek and Latin at the Ohio State University. He is the author of
Polyeideia: The Iambi of Callimachus and the Archaic Iambic Tradition (Berkeley/
Los Angeles/London, 2002) and of Arion’s Lyre: Archaic Lyric into Hellenistic
Poetry (Princeton, NJ/Oxford, 2010). With Susan Stephens he is the co-author
of Callimachus in Context: From Plato to the Augustan Poets (Cambridge, 2012).
With Luigi Lehnus and Susan Stephens he is the co-editor of Brill’s Companion
to Callimachus (2011). With Christophe Cusset he is the co-editor of Euphorion.
Œuvre poétique et autres Fragments (Paris, 2012). He is currently at work on a
third monograph, The Fractured Mirror: Callimachus of Cyrene and Apollonius
of Rhodes for CUP. Email: [email protected].
Gianfranco Agosti
Teaches Classical Philology at the Sapienza University of Rome, and he is an
associate member of the Centre d’Histoire et Civilisation de Byzance (UMR 8167).
He has published an edition, with introduction and commentary, of Nonnus’
Paraphrase, Book 5 (Florence, 2003), and the third volume of the Dionysiaca in
the series BUR Classici Greci e Latini (Books 25–39, Milan, 2004; 2nd edn. with
addenda 2013). He is the author of many articles and books chapter on late
antique literature, art, epigraphy, religion, and civilisation. His recent works
include the chapter on Greek Poetry in the Oxford Handbook of Late Antiquity
xxiv list of contributors
(2012) and ‘Contextualizing Nonnus’ Visual World’, an article published in

the Proceedings of the First International Conference on Nonnus edited by
K. Spanoudakis (2014). He is currently finishing a monograph on late antique
Greek metrical inscriptions and working on a critical edition of Greek epigrams
on poets of the Imperial period and Late Antiquity (with Enrico Magnelli), as
well as on an edition of fragmentary Imperial and late antique poems transmit-
ted by papyri (with Jean-Luc Fournet). Email: [email protected].
Herbert Bannert
Teaches Greek and Latin Literature and Culture at the University of Vienna. His
research interest ranges over Greek epic from Homer to Nonnus of Panopolis,
Greek tragedy, ancient historiography, and ancient texts on medicine and ali-
mentation. Publications include introductions to Homeric poetry (Homer, 8th
edn., Hamburg, 2005; Homer lesen, Stuttgart-Bad Cannstatt, 2005), a new German
translation and interpretation of Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus (Sophokles,
König Ödipus: Vatermörder und Retter der Polis, Vienna, 2013), and two co-
edited volumes: Autorschaft: Konzeptionen, Transformationen, Diskussionen, in
collaboration with E. Klecker (Vienna, 2013); Demosthenica libris manu scriptis
tradita: Studien zur Textüberlieferung des Corpus Demosthenicum, in collabora-
tion with J. Grusková (Vienna, 2014). Email: [email protected].
Alberto Bernabé
Is Professor of Greek Philology at the Universidad Complutense de Madrid. His
research focuses on Greek religion, especially mystery religions and their rela-
tionship to the Presocratics and to Platonism. He has published an edition of
the Orphicorum Fragmenta in the Bibliotheca Teubneriana (3 vols., 2004–2007)
and, in collaboration with Ana I. Jiménez San Cristóbal, Instructions for the
Netherworld: The Orphic Gold Tablets (Leiden/Boston, 2008). Email: albernab@
filol.ucm.es.
Pierre Chuvin
Is a former Professor of Greek Literature at the Université Blaise Pascal–
Clermont 2, then at Paris Ouest Nanterre La Défense, emeritus from October
2011. Former Director of the French Institute for Central Asian Studies at
Tashkent (1993–1998), then of the French Institute for Anatolian Studies at
Istanbul (2003–2008), he published Chronique des derniers païens (Paris, 1990;
3rd edn. 2009), Mythologie et géographie dionysiaques: Recherches sur l’œuvre
de Nonnos de Panopolis (Clermont-Ferrand, 1991), and Mythologie grecque: Du
premier homme à l’apothéose d’Héraclès (Paris, 1992). He edited three volumes
List Of Contributors xxv
of Nonnus’ Dionysiaca in the Collection Budé: II, Books 3–5 (1976); III, Books
6–8 (1992); XV, Books 41–43 (with M.-C. Fayant, 2006). He has also published
Paul le Silentiaire. Description de Sainte-Sophie (with M.-C. Fayant, Die, 1997)
and is now preparing a new edition of Paul’s poem. Email: pierre.chuvin@
wanadoo.fr.
Claudio De Stefani
Teaches Greek Language and Literature at the Seconda Università di Napoli.
His publications include editions and commentaries on Nonnus’ Paraphrase,
Book 1 (Bologna, 2002), the Poems of Paul the Silentiary on the church of St
Sophia (Berlin/New York, 2011), and the Arabic Translation of Galen’s De dif-
ferentiis febrium (Pisa/Rome, 2011). His research focuses on Hellenistic and late
Greek poetry, Greek medicine and tragedy. He has edited papyri and fragmen-
tary poets (Phoenix of Colophon, Aglaias of Byzantium) and is now preparing
an edition of nine speeches of Aelius Aristeides. Email: claudiokochdestefani@
gmail.com.
Jitse H.F. Dijkstra

Is Associate Professor of Classics at the University of Ottawa. His research cen-
tres on the process of religious transformation in Late Antiquity, in particular
in its Egyptian context. He is the author of numerous studies on the subject,
including the monographs Philae and the End of Ancient Egyptian Religion:
A Regional Study of Religious Transformation (298–642 ce) (Leuven, 2008)
and Syene I: The Figural and Textual Graffiti from the Temple of Isis at Aswan
(Darmstadt/Mainz, 2012). Email: [email protected].
Is a former Professor of Greek Literature at the University of Palermo. In his
academic career of over fifty years, he dealt with Greek epic from Homer to
the poets of Late Antiquity—Panteleus, Triphiodorus, Nonnus (on the lat-
ter he is the author of several papers and of Studi Nonniani, a volume pub-
lished in Palermo in 1964, which places him among the initiators of a historical
and favourable evaluation of the Dionysiaca), and Musaeus—, Christian
poetry (Gregory of Nazianzus, Synesius), the ancient novel, and Plutarch.
Methodologically, he was one of the early advocates of the use of semiotics
and theory of intertextuality in the field of classical philology. He has also
dealt with modern Greek poetry (Cavafy, Kazantzakis, Seferis, Elytis). Email:
[email protected].
xxvi list of contributors
Filip Doroszewski
Is Assistant Professor of Classics in the Faculty of Humanities at Cardinal Stefan
Wyszynski University in Warsaw (Ph.D. 2010, Warsaw University). His research
interests are in ancient religions, particularly Dionysus, Early Christianity and
religious terminology. He has published extensively on Nonnus’ Paraphrase
of St John’s Gospel, including a book on the mystery terminology in the poem
(currently in print). Email: [email protected].
Riemer A. Faber
Is Associate Professor in the Department of Classical Studies at the University
of Waterloo (Ontario), and the Director of the Waterloo Institute for Hellenistic
Studies. His research interests include Hellenistic poetry and its influence on
Latin Augustan writers, Greek and Latin philology, and literary depictions of
works of art. He has published widely on ekphrasis in Greek and Latin poetry,
from Homer to Nonnus. Recent publications include articles on Naevius, the
Pseudo-Vergilian Ciris, and a co-edited volume (with S.L. Ager) of essays enti-
tled Belonging and Isolation in the Hellenistic World (Toronto/Buffalo/London,
2013). Email: [email protected].
Roberta Franchi
Is a Research Fellow at the Research Centre for the Humanities—Institute of
History (MTA BTK TTI) at the Hungarian Academy of Sciences in Budapest
and a Research Associate at the Department of Gender and Women’s Studies
at Saint’s Mary College of California. Her main areas of interest are classical
studies, Christian and Byzantine theology, and gender studies. She is also inter-
ested in the religious and literary aspects of Late Antiquity. She has published
a critical edition with introduction and commentary of the sixth chapter of
the Paraphrase of Nonnus of Panopolis (Bologna, 2013), and the first Italian
translation with a rich commentary of the dialogue On Free Will by Methodius
of Olympius (in press), as well as several articles on Christian poetry and on
women in ancient Christianity. She is a member of the European Society of
Women in Theological Research. Email: [email protected].
Rosa García-Gasco
Teaches Classics at IES Juan de Herrera, San Lorenzo de El Escorial (Madrid).
She earned her Ph.D. from the Universidad Complutense de Madrid in 2007
with the thesis Orpheus and Orphism in Nonnus’ Dionysiaca. In 2010, she
attended the MA program in Theatre and Performing Arts. During her doctoral
and posdoctoral research, she collaborated on many projects with Alberto
Bernabé. García-Gasco has published numerous chapters on Greek religion
List Of Contributors xxvii
and myth in collective books, as well as on Greek drama and rhetorics. She
has also co-edited, with S. González Sánchez and D. Hernández de la Fuente,
The Theodosian Age (AD 379–455): Power, place, belief and learning at the end
of the Western Empire (Oxford, 2013). She is currently working on epics,
Dionysus, dramatic literature, and performance. Email: [email protected].
Camille Geisz
Teaches Classics at the Haberdashers’ Monmouth School for Girls, Wales.
She holds a Ph.D. from the University of Oxford (2013) and an Ma from the
Université de Paris IV-Sorbonne. She is the author of several papers on
the Dionysiaca and is revising her doctoral thesis, entitled Storytelling in Late
Antiquity: A Narratological Study of Nonnus of Panopolis’ Dionysiaca, for publi-
cation. Email: [email protected].

Is Associate Professor of Greek Literature at the University of Florence. She has
published a monograph on Metafora e Poetica in Nonno di Panopoli (Florence,
1985), an edition with translation and commentary of the fragmentary epic
poem handed down in P.Arg. 480, La ‘Cosmogonia di Strasburgo’ (Florence,
1990), and the first volume of the Dionysiaca in the series BUR Classici Greci e
Latini (Books 1–12; Milan, 2003). Her other main interests include the rhetoric
of Imperial age, the interpretation of dreams in antiquity and the theological
oracular poetry of Late Antiquity. She is currently preparing an edition with
translation and commentary of John of Gaza’s Tabula mundi. Email: daria.
[email protected].
Fotini Hadjittofi
Is FCT Researcher (‘Investigadora FCT’—Starting Grant) and invited Assistant
Professor of Classics at the University of Lisbon. She holds a BA from the
University of Cyprus, and an M.Phil. and Ph.D. (2010) from the University of
Cambridge. Apart from four articles on Nonnus’ Dionysiaca, she has also pub-
lished on Hellenistic poetry and Greek declamation. She is currently working
on a translation of Nonnus’ Paraphrase, to be published in the University of
California Press series Collected Imperial Greek Epics. Email: f.hadjittofi@cam-
pus.ul.pt.

Is Assistant Professor at the Department of Ancient History at the Universidad
Nacional de Educación a Distancia (UNED, Madrid) and Lecturer at the
University of Potsdam. His research focuses on Greek religion and mythology,
xxviii list of contributors
literature and society in Late Antiquity, and the history of Platonism. He has
published a monograph on Nonnus’ Dionysiaca (Bakkhos Anax, Madrid, 2008)
and numerous articles on later Greek literature, especially Nonnus, his so-
called school, and his reception. Among his several books, he has lately edited
New Perspectives on Late Antiquity (Newcastle upon Tyne, 2011) and, in collab-
oration with A. de Francisco Heredero and S. Torres Prieto, New Perspectives
on Late Antiquity in the Eastern Roman Empire (ibid., 2014). He also authored
Vidas de Pitágoras (Vilaür, 2011), Breve Historia de Bizancio (Madrid, 2014),
and, in collaboration with P. Barceló, Historia del pensamiento político
griego: teoria y praxis (ibid., 2014). Email: [email protected]/fuente@
uni-potsdam.de.

Is Assistant Professor of Classics and Letters at the University of Oklahoma. He
has published books and articles on the literary and religious cultures of Late
Antiquity. Most recently (2016), his book Literary Territories: Cartographical
Thinking in Late Antiquity was published by Oxford University Press. Email:
[email protected].

Ph.D. (2009), University of Aarhus, is Associate Professor of Classical Art and
Archaeology in the School of Culture and Society at Aarhus University. His
research interests include visual culture, pilgrimage and iconoclasm. He is
currently directing a major research project, ‘The Emergence of Sacred Travel:
Experience, Economy and Connectivity in Ancient Mediterranean Pilgrimage’,
funded by the Danish Council for Independent Research, and working on a
book on the archaeology of sacred travel from Archaic Greece to Late Antiquity.
Email: [email protected].
Nicole Kröll
Is teacher for Greek and Latin at the Akademisches Gymnasium, Vienna,
and staff member of the research project ‘Religion and Poetry in the Epic of
Nonnos of Panopolis’, funded by the Austrian Science Fund (FWF). She is the
author of several papers on the Dionysiaca of Nonnus and has recently pub-
lished her doctoral thesis, Die Jugend des Dionysos: Die Ampelos-Episode in den
Dionysiaka des Nonnos von Panopolis, in the series Millennium Studies in the
Culture and History of the First Millenium CE through Walter de Gruyter editors
(Berlin/Boston, 2016). Email: [email protected].
List Of Contributors xxix
Anna Maria Lasek

Is Associate Professor of Classics at the Adam Mickiewicz University of Poznań
(Poland). Her research focuses on late Greek epic poetry, in particular Nonnus
of Panopolis, and the question of the crossing of genres in late Greek epic
poetry. Her second field of interest is early Christian poetry (in particular the
poems of Dorotheus). She has written several articles on Nonnus’ Dionysiaca,
and is the author of Nonnos’ Spiel mit den Gattungen in den Dionysiaka (Poznań,
Jane L. Lightfoot
Is Professor of Greek Literature and Charlton Fellow and Tutor in Classical
Languages and Literature in New College, Oxford. She has published editions
and commentaries on Parthenius of Nicaea (Oxford, 1999), Lucian’s On The
Syrian Goddess (Oxford, 2003), the Sibylline Oracles (Oxford, 2007), Dionysius
Periegetes (Oxford, 2014), as well as a Loeb Hellenistic Collection (2009). Her
articles, reviews, and chapters follow her wide interests across the prose and
poetry of the Hellenistic period and later antiquity. Email: jane.lightfoot@new.
ox.ac.uk.

Is a Lecturer in Classics at the University of Edinburgh. His research interests
are centered on Greek Literature of the Roman Empire, especially epic poetry
and Lucian. Publications include a monograph on Quintus Smyrnaeus (pub-
lished in 2012 by Brill), two edited volumes, Greek Music, Drama, Sport, and
Fauna:  The Collected Classical Papers of E.K. Borthwick (Cambridge, 2015) and
(in collaboration with J. Marincola and L. Llewellyn-Jones) Greek Notions of the
Past in the Archaic and Classical Eras: History without Historians (Edinburgh,
2012), and a number of articles on both Lucian and Greek poetry. He is cur-
rently completing a new translation of Quintus Smyrnaeus’ Posthomerica for
the Collected Imperial Epics project run by Tim Whitmarsh et al. for California
University Press, Berkeley. Email: [email protected].
Enrico Magnelli
Is Associate Professor of Greek Literature at the University of Florence. He has
published widely on Greek poetry from the Hellenistic to Byzantine periods,
Attic comedy, and Greek metre, including Alexandri Aetoli testimonia et frag-
menta (Florence, 1999) and Studi su Euforione (Rome, 2002). He is currently
preparing a monograph on the use of Homer in Greek comedy and satyr-play,
xxx list of contributors
a critical edition of Greek epigrams on poets of the Imperial period and Late
Antiquity (with Gianfranco Agosti), and an edition with commentary of the
fragments of Euphorion. Email: [email protected].
Is Co-Investigator in the AHRC-funded project ‘Greek Epic of the Roman
Empire: A Cultural History’ (Faculty of Classics, University of Cambridge)
and Junior Research Fellow in Balliol College, Oxford. She started working on
Nonnus while doing her Ph.D.—now accessible as Poems in Context: Greek
Poetry in the Egyptian Thebaid 200–600 ad (Berlin/New York, 2008)—and is
particularly interested in how his poems relate to the society in which they
were produced (when art and literature, school and literature, institutions and
literature, mentalities and literature come together) and how Nonnus plays
with and against the literary tradition in them. Email: laura.miguelezcavero@
classics.ox.ac.uk.
Peter van Minnen

Ph.D. (1997), University of Leuven, is Associate Professor of Classics and
Ancient History at the University of Cincinnati, Ohio, and Editor-in-Chief of
the Bulletin of the American Society of Papyrologists. He has published widely in
papyrology, Greco-Roman Egypt, early Christianity, and Late Antiquity. Email:
[email protected].
Ronald F. Newbold
Was a member of the Classics Department at the University of Adelaide, South
Australia, from 1969 until his retirement on 2008. Since then he has been a
Visiting Research Fellow at the university. Apart from articles on Nonnus (url:
http://www.nonnus.adelaide.edu.au/), he has published on ancient histori-
ography, and nonverbal communication and emotions in Classical Antiquity.
In 2010 he was honoured with the publication of a volume of essays edited by
B. Sidwell and D. Dzin, Studies in Emotions and Power in the Late Roman World:
Papers in Honour of Ron Newbold (Piscataway, NJ). Email: ronald.newbold@
adelaide.edu.au.
Robert Shorrock
Teaches Latin and Greek at Eton College, Windsor, and is co-editor of the journal
Greece & Rome. He is the author of The Challenge of Epic: Allusive Engagement
in the Dionysiaca of Nonnus (Leiden, 2001) and The Myth of Paganism: Nonnus,
Dionysus and the World of Late Antiquity (London, 2011). Email: R.Shorrock@
etoncollege.org.uk.
List Of Contributors xxxi
Fabian Sieber
Is a PostDoc who holds a teaching assignment at the University of Erfurt,
Germany. He is the author of several papers on Nonnus’ Paraphrase and
has finished his doctoral thesis Von Gott dichten—Nonnos von Panopolis, die
Paraphrase des Johannes-Evangeliums und die Gattung der Bibelepik at KU
Leuven. Email: [email protected].
Christos Simelidis
Is Lecturer in late antique and Byzantine Literature at the Aristotle University
of Thessaloniki. His research interests include the literature of Late Antiquity
and Byzantium, the reception of classical literature in the early Christian and
Byzantine periods, and various aspects of Byzantine scholarship (what was
read, by whom and with what degree of understanding). He has published
Selected poems of Gregory of Nazianzus: I.2.17; II.1.10, 19, 32 (Göttingen, 2009).
His major research project is a critical edition of the Carmina of Gregory of
Nazianzus for the Corpus Christianorum series. Email: [email protected].
Is Associate Professor of Classics at the Department of Philology, University of
Crete. He published an edition of the poetical and grammatical fragments of
the Hellenistic poet and scholar Philitas of Cos (Leiden, 2002) and co-edited,
with F. Manakidou, Alexandrine Muse: Tradition and Innovation in Hellenistic
Poetry (Athens, 2008). He is also the editor of Nonnus of Panopolis in Context:
Poetry and Cultural Milieu in Late Antiquity with a Section on Nonnus and the
Modern World (Berlin/Boston, 2014) and procured an edition with introduc-
tion and commentary of Nonnus’ Paraphrase, Book 11 (Oxford, 2014). Email:
[email protected].
Francesco Tissoni
Is Assistant Professor in the Department of Beni Culturali e Ambientali at the
University of Milan. He has worked on late ancient Greek poetry, writing com-
ments on Nonnus’ Dionysiaca, Books 44–46 (Florence, 1998), and Christodorus’
ekphrasis on the Baths of Zeuxippus (Alessandria, 2000). He recently pub-
lished Le Olimpiche di Pindaro nella scuola di Gaza a Ferrara (Messina, 2009),
Mille anni di poesia greca: Antologia dai secoli V–XV (Alessandria, 2012), and the
entry ‘Pindarus’ for the Catalogus Translationum et Commentariorum (Toronto,
xxxii list of contributors
Berenice Verhelst
Studied classics and obtained her doctoral degree from the University of Ghent
in 2014 with a thesis on Nonnus’ Dionysiaca, focussing on the narrative function
of speech and the influence of the rhetorical tradition. Currently, she holds a
post-doctoral fellowship of the Research Foundation Flanders (FWO). The title
of her current research project ‘Reinventing epic poetry. Creativity and tradi-
tion in late antique epyllia’ reflects her main research interests, namely, late
antique poetry and the epic tradition at large. Her approach is informed by
narratological theory and genre studies. Email: [email protected].
Mary Whitby
Teaches Classics at the University of Oxford. Her research interests are in late
antique poetry, in particular George of Pisidia. She is one of the General Editors
(with Gillian Clark and  Mark Humphries) of Translated Texts for Historians
(Liverpool University Press) and of its complementary series Translated Texts
for Historians Contexts, for which she edited Chalcedon in Context: Church
Councils 400–700 (2011), in collaboration with Richard Price. Her recent articles
include ‘A Learned Spiritual Ladder: Towards an Interpretation of George of
Pisidia’s Hexameter Poem On Human Life’, published in K. Spanoudakis (ed.),
Nonnus of Panopolis in Context: Poetry and Cultural Milieu in Late Antiquity with
a Section on Nonnus and the Modern World (Berlin/Boston, 2014). Email: mary.
[email protected].
Introduction: Becoming A Classic
Domenico Accorinti
I read yesterday in Mr. Joseph Clarke’s Sacred Literature, that Nonnus

is an author whom few can read, & fewer admire. So that my opinion is
nothing outrageous. I do not feel well; & look like a ghost. Mrs. Martin
called, & thought so too!—
Elizabeth Berridge (ed.), The Barretts at Hope End: The Early Diary of Elizabeth
Barrett Browning
⸪
In 2002, when the publisher Mondadori undertook to bring out the complete
works of Andrea Camilleri in the prestigious series Meridiani (Italian counter-
part to the French Pléiade library),1 some critics had strong reservations. How
is it—they wondered—that the inventor of the Inspector Montalbano mys-
teries, who let his character speak the dialect of Vigàta (a fictional town near
Porto Empedocle, Camilleri’s birthplace),2 finds a place in a series devoted
to classic authors such as Petrarch, Manzoni, Proust, Thomas Mann, Calvino
and so on? The coryphaeus of these literary critics was Roberto Cotroneo,
for whom labelling Camilleri as a ‘classic writer’ was a rash choice, if not an
outrage.3 But Mondadori’s choice to give a popular author classic dignity was
defended against its critics by, among others, Diego Gabutti: even Goldoni and
Shakespeare—he rightly observed—were reputed in their times to be repre-
sentatives of low culture.4 And ten years later, after the first of two Meridiani
editions of Camilleri’s complete works was published, the Sicilian author has
been given the honour of seeing a Companion for his Montalbano novels, edited
1 Camilleri (2002) and (2004). On Camilleri see Past (2007); Pezzotti (2014) 136–151. The
following pages of this introduction stem from the lecture ‘Un nuovo classico? Il Brill’s
Companion to Nonnus’ I was invited to give at the Sapienza University of Rome by my friend
Professor Gianfranco Agosti, on the occasion of the Seminar Ecdotica e interpretazione di testi
poetici greci della Tarda Antichità. Nuove edizioni, commenti, progetti (27–28 October 2014).
2 On Montalbano’s language see Vignuzzi (2003).
3 Cotroneo (2002); cf. Rinaldi (2012) 162.
4 Gabutti (2002); cf. Rinaldi (2012) 165.
© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ��6 | doi ��.��63/9789004310698_002

2 Accorinti
by Lucia Rinaldi, Teaching Fellow at the Department of Italian at University

College London: Andrea Camilleri: A Companion to the Mystery Fiction.5
Evoking Camilleri’s case, therefore, it is very appropriate to present Brill’s
Companion to Nonnus of Panopolis, since someone might turn up his nose at
the inclusion of a late Greek poet in the series Brill’s Companions in Classical
Studies, in the illustrious company of Ovid, Herodotus, Cicero, Propertius,
Thucydides, Apollonius Rhodius, Hesiod, Silius Italicus, Callimachus,
Lucan, Sophocles, Horace, Seneca, Valerius Flaccus, Statius, and Euripides
(forthcoming).
Long gone, however, are the days when the Comte de Marcellus, editor and
inspired translator both of the Dionysiaca (1856) and the Paraphrase (1861),
spoke of Nonnus as ‘le mieux enfoui des poètes grecs’ and relegated his epic
poem to the ancillary role of ‘grand magasin mythologique’:
C’est sans doute une étrange entreprise que de déterrer, en plein dix-
neuvième siècle, le mieux enfoui des poètes grecs. Tenter d’intéresser un
public français à une mythologie surannée ou aux vers d’un Égyptien du
Bas-Empire, n’est-ce pas folie? C’est au moins s’éloigner résolument des
sujets qui out à peu près seuls l’habitude de nous toucher; c’est en quelque
sorte, j’en conviens, remonter le siècle au plus fort de son courant. . . . Je
suis assurément fort éloigné d’éprouver pour le Panopolitain une sympa-
thie aussi profonde. Je ne prends pas pour génie un amour de rimer; et ce
n’est pas mon penchant que je manifeste ici, c’est mon choix que je justi-
fie. Je ne relis pas, quant à moi, les expéditions de Bacchus de façon à
amincir sous mes doigts studieux les marges de leurs rares éditions, fort
peu portatives du reste. Je les quitte, au contraire, bien souvent pour
Pindare, Théocrite, surtout Homère, qu’elles ont tant cherché à imiter.
Mais je me persuade que la connaissance de ce poème (et tous ceux qui
l’ont lu, à sa renaissance ou depuis, l’ont déclaré comme moi) peut jeter
de véritables lumières sur certains points encore obscurs de l’antiquité.
Les Dionysiaques doivent être considérées comme un grand magasin
mythologique.6
Many years later, and in a similar disdainful tone, Herbert Jennings Rose, in
his ‘Mythological Introduction’ to the Loeb edition of the Dionysiaca (1940),
belittled Nonnus’ poem as witness to ‘Greek myths in their final stage of degen-
eracy’, a happy hunting ground for lovers of scholarly mythology:
5 Rinaldi (2012), published as vol. 5 in the series McFarland Companions to Mystery Fiction.
6 Marcellus (1856) i, iii.
The mythology of the Dionysiaca is interesting as being the longest and

most elaborate example we have of Greek myths in their final stage of
degeneracy. . . . To the student of religion or mythology, as opposed to
the degenerescence of literature, Nonnos has here nothing to offer
except the telling after his fashion of a few stories not to be found else-
where, as the fight between Dionysos and Perseus (bk. xlvii. 475 ff.), of
which traces can be seen in earlier art but not many in literature. . . . While
therefore anyone who uses Nonnos as a handbook to any sort of normal
and genuinely classical mythology will be grievously misled, the searcher
into sundry odd corners will be rewarded for his pains, and even those
who are studying the subject more generally cannot afford to neglect this
belated product of the learned fancy of Hellenized Egypt.7
Recently, too, Jasper Griffin, in his essay ‘Greek epic’ written for The Cambridge
Companion to the Epic (2010), has candidly confessed to not being an admirer
of Nonnus:
Florid and repetitive, it [Dionysiaca] has a certain verve and energy, but
there are many lost works of Greek literature for which we should be very
happy to exchange it. Nonnus also versified, in much the same manner,
the Gospel according to St John: that, too, is extant. The juxtaposition of
two works, from the same pen and in much the same style, one so pagan,
and the other so Christian, has set scholars an essentially insoluble
puzzle.8
And yet today Nonnus and his shape-shifter Dionysus continue to inspire
poets. It is sufficient to mention here Robin Robertson’s Hill of Doors (2013),
from which I quote in full ‘The God Who Disappears’, where the Scottish poet
finds his inspiration in the Orphic myth of the dismemberment of Zagreus by
the Titans narrated in the Dionysiaca (6.169–205):
Born to a life of dying, the boy-god’s first death came

when he could barely crawl, the budding horns just there,
nudged among curls, as he played on the floor
with his toys: a knuckle-bone, ball and spinning-top,
golden apples, a tuft of wool, and 5
on his other side, the thunderbolts of Zeus.
7 Rose in Rouse (1940) I, x, xv, xix. On H.J. Rose (1883–1961), Professor of Greek at St Andrews,
see recently Accorinti (2014a).
8 Griffin (2010) 29–30.
4 Accorinti
They entered the throne-room’s dark,

their round faces smeared with chalk into pale moons,
and they slid forward, drawing their hungry knives.
He saw them in the mirror, looming behind him 10
in a hundred reflections,
and he watched his body swim through other shapes:
a doubled-up ancient with a face of rain,
a blank-eyed baby, downy youth. Then he saw the mane
of a lion, jaws opening, the sinewed neck 15
of a bridling horse, the darting tongue
and poison fangs and coils stretching
for the throat of one of the murderers, then
twisting, to the leap of a tiger, the shouldering,
heavy-horned bull, and then suddenly the great bull 20
shuddered to a stop,
and they started slicing him
to piecemeal; so many blades
he could see in the mirror,
working on the bull-shaped Dionysus. 25
He followed his image into the glass, and was soon
split and scattered, divided up, diced
into the universe.
*
He spends his life dying. The god who comes,
the god who disappears. Dismembered, 30
he is resurrected. He is beside us; beside himself.
Ghost of abandon, and abandoning,
he shatters us to make us whole.9
Thus, the publication of the Companion to Nonnus of Panopolis comes at

the right moment. Nonnus of Panopolis (5th century), author of both the
‘pagan’ Dionysiaca, the longest known poem from Antiquity (21,286 lines in
48 books, the same number of books as the Iliad and Odyssey combined), and
a ‘Christian’ hexameter Paraphrase of St John’s Gospel (3,660 lines in 21 books),
is no doubt the most representative poet of Greek Late Antiquity. The fact that
he composed two works which seem to clash with one another, an epic poem
on Dionysus and a metrical rewriting of John’s text, was in the past considered
9 Robertson (2013) 68–69 (= Robertson 2014, 178–179).

as a sign of the probable conversion of a pagan author. According to this view,

Nonnus was thought to have written the Paraphrase after his conversion to
Christianity.
But recent scholarship has discarded the conversion theory definitively—
and at the same time the posteriority of the Paraphrase to the Dionysiaca—and
generally acknowledges that Nonnus was a Christian. From this perspective a
valuable approach to the poet from Panopolis should consist in a parallel read-
ing of both his works as evidence of a complex dialogue between the classical
and Christian tradition in Late Antiquity.
Thanks to (a) the admirable nineteen-volume Budé edition of the Dionysiaca
under the aegis of the late Francis Vian (1976–2006),10 (b) the eight volumes
so far published of the critical edition with commentary of individual books
of the Paraphrase, which Enrico Livrea embarked on in 1989,11 (c) the four-
volume BUR Classici Greci e Latini edition of the Dionysiaca (2003–2004),12
and (d) a large number of articles and monographs on Nonnus and his
poetry that have appeared in the last thirty years,13 students and scholars can
now rely on rich material. The entry ‘Nonnos von Panopolis’, which I wrote
for the Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum (2013), is an updated supple-
ment to the still fundamental article published by Rudolf Keydell in Pauly’s
Realencyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft (1936), and offers a crit-
ical and detailed survey of the Nonnosforschung. The recent ‘Bulletin critique:
La floraison des études nonniennes en Europe (1976–2014)’14 is also a welcome
and useful addition to Nonnian studies. However, and this may be surpris-
ing, scholars of Late Antiquity have not yet at their disposal a wide-ranging
work, a reference handbook that takes stock of the most recent scholarship on
Nonnus, exploring the historical background in which both the Dionysiaca and
the Paraphrase grew out of late antique Egypt, and providing a multi-faceted
approach to the ‘baroque’ poetry of the singer of Dionysus and Christ.
10 The nineteenth volume of this standard edition of the Dionysiaca is the Index général des
noms propres (Vian/Fayant 2006).
11 Livrea (1989) and (2000), Books 18 and 2, respectively; Accorinti (1996), Book 20; De
Stefani (2002), Book 1; Agosti (2003), Book 5; Greco (2004), Book 13; Caprara (2005), Book
4; Franchi (2013), Book 6; Spanoudakis (2014a), Book 11. These modern editions have been
used wherever possible in this volume, elsewhere the Teubner text of Scheindler (1881a).
12 Gigli Piccardi (2003), Books 1–12; Gonnelli (2003), Books 13–24; Agosti (2004c), Books
25–39; Accorinti (2004), Books 40–48.
13 Undoubtedly the most influential recent book is Shorrock (2011).
14 Lauritzen (2013–2014).
6 Accorinti
Now the time is ripe for Brill’s Companion to Nonnus of Panopolis, ‘surely an
indication of Nonnus’ integration within the classical canon at last’, as Calum
Alasdair Maciver notes at the beginning of his chapter in this volume. In
fact, the biennial International Conference ‘Nonnus of Panopolis in Context’,
inaugurated in Rethymno in 2011 by Konstantinos Spanoudakis to promote
Nonnian studies,15 and followed by a second symposium in Vienna in 2013,16
and a third, recently held in Warsaw (17–19 September 2015),17 shows, together
with the recent flourishing of doctoral dissertations on Nonnus, that there is
an increasing interest in this towering, but perhaps still underestimated, poet
of Late Antiquity.
In choosing the authors and co-authors of the thirty-two chapters collected
here, my aim has been twofold: to line up scholars who have associated their
names with Nonnian scholarship in the last fifty years and to involve young
people who have recently obtained a Ph.D. or undertaken a research project
on Nonnus. Among the former are Pierre Chuvin and Gennaro D’Ippolito. This
is not to be wondered at, for Chuvin published the second volume of the Budé
edition of the Dionysiaca in 1976, simultaneously with Vian’s first volume, and
D’Ippolito, on the strength of his book Studi Nonniani: L’epillio nelle Dionisiache
(1964), must certainly be considered the doyen of Nonnian studies. Among the
latter are Camille Geisz, Berenice Verhelst, and Fabian Sieber. In this case, too,
their recruitment is more than justified. Both Geisz and Verhelst obtained a
Ph.D. with a thesis on Nonnus, respectively Storytelling in Late Antique Epic: A
Study of the Narrator in Nonnus of Panopolis’ Dionysiaca (University of Oxford,
2013) and Ποικιλομύθῳ φωνῇ: A Literary and Rhetorical Analysis of Direct Speech
in Nonnus’ Dionysiaca (University of Ghent, 2014). Sieber, for his part, under-
took the research project ‘Das Maß der Schrift-Bibel-Paraphrasen und Nonnos-
Rezeption im Zeitalter der Reformation’ at the Gotha Research Centre of the
University of Erfurt (2013), and recently completed his Ph.D. with a thesis
entitled Von Gott dichten—Nonnos von Panopolis, die Paraphrase des Johannes-
Evangeliums und die Gattung der Bibelepik (University of Leuven, 2015).
Therefore, as a bridge between the old and the new generation of Nonnian
scholars, other leading figures, experts in the field of archaic, Hellenistic,
Imperial, and Christian poetry, as well as scholars of late antique Egypt and
Greek religion, have joined the Companion. Among the latter, I will mention the
Dutch overseas papyrologists Jitse Dijkstra and Peter van Minnen, the Danish
15 See now Spanoudakis (2014c).

16 The Proceedings are in preparation by Herbert Bannert and Nicole Kröll.
17 Organizing Committee: Joanna Komorowska, Katarzyna Jażdżewska, and Filip
Doroszewski.
archaeologist Troels Myrup Kristensen, author of the recent and stimulating

book Making and Breaking the Gods: Christian Responses to Pagan Sculpture
in Late Antiquity (2013), and the Spanish scholar Alberto Bernabé, the major
authority in the field of Orphic religion.
Thus, this volume provides a collection of essays on Nonnus by a large inter-
national group of scholars from Australia, Austria, Belgium, Canada, Cyprus,
Denmark, England, France, Germany, Greece, Italy, Netherlands, Poland,
Scotland, Spain, and the United States. Among my regrets—why should I not
confess it?—is that Adrian Hollis, whom I had invited to write a chapter on
‘Nonnus and Latin Poetry’, died on February 5th 2013, probably depriving the
Companion of one of its most important contributions.
Finally, here is Brill’s Companion to Nonnus of Panopolis: thirty-two chap-
ters (two of which were written by two authors) arranged in seven parts and
devoted to various aspects of Nonnus’ Dionysiaca (Dion.) and Paraphrase
(Par.).18 I have tried to model the individual essays on the interests of the dif-
ferent authors like a tailor who offers his customer a made-to-measure suit.
There is nothing left but to wait for their reception by the reader: habent sua
fata libelli.
18 Since some authors of this volume prefer the Latin word ‘paraphrasis’ to ‘paraphrase’, I
have kept both these terms through the book. In citing the full title of Nonnus’ work, I
have tried to maintain the authors’ original wording.
Part 1
Author, Context, and Religion
⸪
chapter 1
The Poet from Panopolis: An Obscure Biography

and a Controversial Figure
Domenico Accorinti
‘O Phoebus,’ said Nonnus, when they were alone, ‘impose upon me any
penance thou wilt, so I may but regain thy favour and that of the Muses.
But before all things let me destroy my paraphrase.’
‘Thou shalt not destroy it,’ said Phoebus. ‘Thou shalt publish it. That
shall be thy penance.’
And so it is that the epic on the exploits of Bacchus and the paraphrase
of St. John’s Gospel have alike come down to us as the work of Nonnus,
whose authorship of both learned men have never been able to deny,
having regard to the similarity of style, but never could explain until the
facts above narrated came to light in one of the Fayoum papyri recently
acquired by the Archduke Rainer.
Richard Garnett, ‘The Poet of Panopolis’
⸪
1 By Way of Preamble
In ‘Cadmus and Hercules’, the first (no. 26) of the three dialogues Elizabeth
Montagu (1718–1800) anonymously contributed to the Dialogues of the Dead by
George, Lord Lyttelton (1709–1773),1 we are treated to an amusing conversation
1 This is a collection of twenty-eight Lucian-inspired satires printed in 1760 for William Sandby
in Fleet Street, London. The other dialogues ‘written by a different Hand’ are ‘Mercury and a
modern fine Lady’ (no. 27) and ‘Plutarch, Charon, and a modern Bookseller’ (no. 28), see the
Preface by Lyttelton (1760) vii: ‘The three last Dialogues are written by a different Hand; as I
am afraid would have appeared but too plainly to the Reader without my having told it. If the
Friend who favoured me with them should write any more, I shall think the Public owes me
a great Obligation, for having excited a Genius so capable of uniting Delight with Instruction,
and giving to Knowledge and Virtue those Graces, which the Wit of the Age has too often

12 Accorinti
between the Greek hero par excellence and the founder of Thebes who intro-
duced the alphabet into Greece:
HERCULES.
Do you pretend to sit as high on Olympus as Hercules? Did you kill the
Nemean Lion, the Erymanthian Boar, the Lernean Serpent, and
Stymphalian Birds? Did you destroy Tyrants and Robbers? You value
yourself greatly on subduing one Serpent: I did as much as that while I lay
in my Cradle.
CADMUS.
It is not on account of the Serpent I boast myself a greater Benefactor to
Greece than you. Actions should be valued by their Utility rather than
their Eclat. I taught Greece the art of writing, to which Laws owe their
precision and permanency. You subdued monsters; I civilized men. . . .
HERCULES.
I do not expect to find an admirer of my strenuous Life in the man who
taught his Countrymen to sit still and read, and to lose the hours of Youth
and Action in idle speculation and the sport of words.
CADMUS.
An ambition to have a place in the registers of fame is the Eurystheus
which imposes heroic Labours on Mankind. The Muses incite to action as
well as entertain the hours of repose; and I think you should honour them
for presenting to Heroes such a noble recreation, as may prevent their
taking up the distaff, when they lay down the Club.2
Probably, the so-called Queen of the Bluestockings and author of An Essay

on the Writings and Genius of Shakespear (1769)3 had never heard of Nonnus.
employed all its skill to bestow upon Folly and Vice.’ On Montagu’s first publication see Ellis
(2012).
2 Lyttelton (1760) 291–292, 293.
3 Doran (1873); Climnenson (1906); Huchon (1907); Harcstark Myers (1990); Rogers (1996)
267–269 (‘Montagu, Elizabeth’); Clarke (2005) ch. 4 (‘Hester Thrale and Elizabeth Montagu’);
Sairio (2009); Eger (2010) and (2013); Mee (2011) 107–124; Ellis (2012); Major (2012) 72–75
(‘Elizabeth Montagu: Performing Madam Britannia’), 75–84 (‘Queen Elizabeth’s Walk’). On
her anti-Voltairean essay, printed in London for J. Dodsley, Pall Mall (Montagu 1769), see
Clarke (2005) 138–146; Ritchie (2005). In 1810 a sixth edition, corrected, was printed in London
by Harding and Wright, St John’s Square, including Three Dialogues of the Dead.
The Poet From Panopolis 13
Nonetheless, there is a certain resemblance between the theme of her dialogue

between Heracles and Cadmus, the supremacy of letters over heroic exploits,4
and the comparison of Danaus with Cadmus in Book 4 (ll. 252–263) of the
Dionysiaca:
Ἔνθα Πανελλήνεσσι νεώτερα δῶρα τιταίνων

ἀρχεκάκου Δαναοῖο φερέσβιον ἔκρυφε τέχνην,
ὑδροφόρου Δαναοῖο. Τί γὰρ πλέον εὗρεν Ἀχαιοῖς,
εἴ ποτε χαλκείῃσι πεδοσκαφέεσσι μακέλλαις 255
χάσματος οὐδαίοιο χυτὸν κενεῶνα κολάψας
δίψιον Ἄργος ἔπαυσε, κονιομένοις δὲ πολίταις
ὑγρὰ ποδῶν ἐπίβαθρα πόρεν, ξεινήιον ὕδωρ,
ἐκ βυθίων λαγόνων ὀλίγον ῥόον;—Αὐτὰρ ὁ πάσῃ
Ἑλλάδι φωνήεντα καὶ ἔμφρονα δῶρα κομίζων 260
γλώσσης ὄργανα τεῦξεν ὁμόθροα, συμφυέος δέ
ἁρμονίης στοιχηδὸν ἐς ἄζυγα σύζυγα μίξας
γραπτὸν ἀσιγήτοιο τύπον τορνώσατο σιγῆς
There he was to present newer gifts to All Hellenes, and to make them
forget the lifebringing art of Danaos the master-mischiefmaker, Danaos
the waterbringer: for what good did he do for the Achaians, if once he had
dug the ground with his brazen pickaxes, and pecking at the flooded hol-
low of the gaping earth quenched the thirst of Argos? if he made wet the
steppings of their feet for his dusty people, and brought up a streamlet
from the deep caves—the stranger’s gift of water? But Cadmos brought
4 Doran (1873) 74: ‘In “Cadmus and Mercury,” the lady shows that strength of mind, properly
applied, is better than strength of body. There is great display of learning; Hercules, however,
talks like gentle Gilbert West; and Cadmus, when he says, that “actions should be valued
by their utility rather than their éclat,” shows a knowledge of French which was hardly to
be expected in him’; Huchon (1907) 72–74: ‘One of them, the twenty-sixth of the whole
collection, consists of a conversation between “Cadmus and Hercules” on the comparative
value to mankind of heroic strength and of the civilising arts and sciences: it deserves to
the full the praise of seriousness, good sense and solidity, which a French contemporary
critic bestowed on a translation of the book’ (72); Ellis (2012) 427: ‘Her ﬁrst is arguably the
most orthodox imitation of Lyttelton: it is conducted between two classical heroes, Cadmus,
known for his prominence in the arts, and Hercules, the martial hero. Hercules complains
that while Cadmus has won no battles, and made no conquests, he has a high status in the
underworld. Hercules accuses Cadmus of having done nothing but teach “his Countrymen
to sit still and read” (293). The dialogue is a defence of wit, learning, and poetry, promoting
virtue and civilisation against the claims of military exploits and heroism.’
14 Accorinti
gifts of voice and thought for all Hellas; he fashioned tools to echo the
sounds of the tongue, he mingled sonant and consonant in one order of
connected harmony. So he rounded off a graven model of speaking
silence.5
Here the fame of Danaus, the ‘waterbringer’, is eclipsed by that of Cadmus,

the inventor of writing,6 or, to borrow and paraphrase Ulrich von Wilamowitz-
Moellendorff’s well-chosen term, ‘der (un)bekannte Wohltäter der Menschheit’.7
However, if the princeps philologorum shrouded this benefactor in an air of
mystery, Nonnus, following the tradition of Herodotus (5.58–59, saying that
the Phoenicians who came to Greece with Cadmus introduced the writing
of letters into Greece)8 ascribes the invention of the Greek alphabet to the
Phoenician immigrant Cadmus.9
5 The text of the Dionysiaca is quoted from Vian et al. (1976–2006). Translations are from Rouse
(1940), occasionally modified.
6 On the significance of this σύγκρισις, see Gigli Piccardi (2003) 265–266.
7 Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1928) 9: ‘Die epische Sprache, die wir erst in ihrer Vollendung
kennen lernen, hatte eine Geschichte von Jahrhunderten hinter sich, als Homer schreibt,
und er läßt seine Heroen nicht schreiben, weil ihre Standesgenossen, für die er dichtet, der
schweren Kunst nicht mächtig sind. Ihm ist die Schrift also nur ein φάρμακον λήθης, wie Platon
sie nennt. Aber lange vor ihm hat der unbekannte Wohltäter der Menschheit gelebt, der die
von den Semiten entlehnte Buchstabenschrift zur Wiedergabe der Laute erst fähig machte,
indem er entbehrliche Buchstaben für die fünf Vokale verwandte. Wo er lebte, ist noch
nicht ausgemacht, aber es kann nicht in einem Winkel, sondern nur an einem Zentrum des
Verkehrs geschehen sein.’ For a critical discussion of Wilamowitz-Moellendorff’s hypothesis
(the alphabet was the invention of a single individual), see Descœudres (2008) 342 n. 363. On
Theophrastus’ account of the invention of letters, see Fortenbaugh (2014) 179–186 (Text 735).
8 Nenci (2000) 240–244; on the meaning of the expression Καδμήια γράμματα (Hdt. 5.59), see
Kühr (2006) 103–104. For the widespread diffusion of the alphabet in the Mediterranean
world, see the collection of essays edited by Baurain/Bonnet/Krings (1991), together with the
review by Jourdain-Annequin (1995).
9 Beekes (2004) discusses the Phoenicia problem of the Cadmus story; cf. Beekes (2010), s.v.
‘Κάδμος’: ‘[T]he word is without a doubt Pre-Greek, and of unknown meaning’. For Cadmus
the ‘Phoenician’, see also Malkin (1994) 89–95; Kühr (2006) 91–106. The figure of Cadmus
in the Dionysiaca has been recently analysed by Aringer (2012). Powell (1991) 5 quotes
Nonnus, Dion. 4.259–264 as an epigraph to his opening chapter (‘Review of criticism: What
we know about the origin of the Greek alphabet’); Woodard (2014) 119 (cf. 175) quotes Dion.
41.381–382 . . . καὶ στοιχεῖον ὁμόζυγον ἄζυγι μίξας | Κάδμος ἐυγλώσσοιο διδάξεται ὄργια φωνῆς
at the beginning of his ch. 4 (‘The Syntagmatic Structure of the Copper Plaques’). On the
description of the invention of the alphabet by Cadmus, see also Bing (2009) 145–146. For the
reception of the Cadmus myth, see Wogenstein (2008).
Curiously enough, it is with the same opposition between Danaus’ palpable

gift (water) and Cadmus’ impalpable gift (the alphabet) that Roberto Calasso
ends The Marriage of Cadmus and Harmony:
He felt as he had when he climbed off his ship in Samothrace: a man

without gifts, because everything he had was on the cart. But Cadmus’s
gift was impalpable.
Another king from Egypt, Danaus with his fifty bloodthirsty daughters,
had brought Greece the gift of water. Cadmus had brought Greece ‘gifts of
the mind’: vowels and consonants yoked together in tiny signs, ‘etched
model of a silence that speaks’—the alphabet. With the alphabet, the
Greeks would teach themselves to experience the gods in the silence of
the mind, and no longer in the full and normal presence, as Cadmus him-
self had the day of his marriage. He thought of his routed kingdom: of
daughters and grandchildren torn to pieces, tearing others to pieces,
ulcerated in boiling water, run through with spits, drowned in the sea.
And Thebes was a heap of rubble. But no one could erase those small let-
ters, those fly’s feet that Cadmus the Phoenician had scattered across
Greece, where the winds had brought him in his quest for Europa carried
off by a bull that rose from the sea.10
Remarkably, as noted by John T. Kirby, Calasso adds a semiotic observation

on Nonnus’ ‘speaking silence’, that is, that the ‘advent of such letters signals
the end of the age of the gods, the end of myth (in one sense) and the begin-
ning of mythology.’11 And to my mind it is the author of this popular retelling
of classical myths who gives us a good lead-in to a ‘biographical’ chapter on
the Egyptian mythographer, the poet of the Dionysiaca and the Paraphrase of
St John’s Gospel:
One of the most charming enigmas of the ancient world is the life of
Nonnus. Almost nothing is known about him with any certainty, except
his place of birth: Panopolis, in Egypt.12
10 Calasso (1993) 390–391.

11 Kirby (2000) 124–125 (125), a passage from his chapter ‘The Revestiture of Myth: Roberto
Calasso’ (104–125). For the final paragraph of Calasso’s work, see Spitzer (2011) 165 n. 25:
‘As Calasso suggests, the invention of writing (which concerns Derrida in Plato’s Phaedrus)
also marks the withdrawal of the gods. Their disruptive trace (which is neither absent nor
present) is inscribed within the alphabet, within writing.’ On the Italian writer Roberto
Calasso, cf. also Hernández de la Fuente in this volume.
12 Calasso (1993) 330.
16 Accorinti
2 On the Trail of Nonnus: Photius, the Suda, and Eustathius
Since I cannot compete with the genius and the Schadenfreude of Constantine
Simonides, the forger of a false biography of Nonnus,13 nor would I like to make
a foray into historical fiction, by aping Richard Garnett’s ‘The Poet of Panopolis’
(1888), or Margarete Riemschneider’s Im Garten Claudias (1970),14 and, more
13 See Hernández de la Fuente (2014c). On the close relation between forgery and
Schadenfreude, see Grafton (2009) 56: ‘The strongest emotion scholars normally feel is
neither hate nor love, but what Germans call Schadenfreude—the pleasure we experience
watching someone else suffer. And no great Renaissance scholar evokes this feeling more
effectively than the Benedictine abbot and bibliophile Johannes Trithemius’; 75: ‘Forgery,
of course, is partly about Schadenfreude: perhaps, then, Trithemius deserves his place in
the gallery of once-great scholars whose worlds were turned upside down by their own
failings and the zeal of their enemies’; Accorinti (2011) 265–266; Ehrman (2013) 545: ‘A
second and better known account involves an autobiographical tale told by Chrysostom in
Book One of De sacerdotio, a passage that Paul Griffiths has aptly termed “a hymn of praise
to the lie.” According to Chrysostom’s account, as promising young men, both he and Basil
were being pursued in order forcibly to be ordained into the episcopacy. Chrysostom lied
to Basil, promising to accept the ordination, and on those grounds Basil relented and
did so himself. But Chrysostom did not; it was all a pretext. In its aftermath, Chrysostom
engaged in a bit of Schadenfreude, to Basil’s dismay: “But when he saw that I was delighted
and beaming with joy, and understood that he had been deceived by me, he was yet more
vexed and distressed” (1.6).’ For the notion of the German term Schadenfreude (literally
‘harm-joy’), made popular by a Simpsons episode called ‘When Flanders Failed’ (1991,
cf. Knapp 2005, 91–92, esp. 91), see also Leroux (1917) 206: ‘“Monsieur, vous connaissez
l’expression Schadenfreude? c’est un mot allemand qui n’a d’équivalent dans aucun autre
idiome. Il désigne, en effet, un trait de caractère qui est l’apanage exclusif des Boches! et
il signifie à peu près ceci: “Plaisir que procure la conscience d’avoir causé du mal à autrui”,
ou encore “Jouissance de voir souffrir autrui” ’.
14 It is the twelfth story in the first edition of The Twilight of the Gods and Other Tales
(Garnett 1888, 251–272) and the seventeenth in the new and augmented edition (London,
1903), which contains twenty-eight tales (there were sixteen in the first edition); an
illustrated edition (twenty-eight illustrations by Henry Keen) was published in 1924 with
an introduction by T.E. Lawrence (Garnett 1924; ‘The Poet of Panopolis’ at pp. 179–191,
with the illustration ‘A Motley Crowd of Goblins’, see Figs. 1.1 and 1.2). On Garnett (1888)
and Riemschneider (1970), see Hernández de la Fuente (2014c) 68–70, who ends (70)
disarmingly: ‘[B]ut fiction seems, still today, to be the only means to investigate the life of
this author’; cf. the same author in this volume. Nonnus also appears as a minor character
in Die Versuchung des Synesios (1971), the posthumous novel by Stefan Andres (1906–1970),
see Accorinti (forthcoming).
recently, Mark A. Prost’s ‘The Life and Times on Nonnos of Panopolis’ (2003),15
I must confine myself to the scanty evidence on hand.
Photius (c. 810–c. 893) does not mention Nonnus in his Bibliotheca,16 but
this should be no surprise nor is it a proof that he did not know Nonnus’ work,
since the Byzantine patriarch generally shows little interest in poetry, nor in
philosophy and science.17 Yet this silence is particularly surprising and raises
questions. For Photius does list and praise, Bibl. codd. 183–184 (II, 195–199
Henry), Eudocia’s lost verse paraphrases of the Octateuch and the prophets
Zachariah and Daniel, as well as her three-book epic on the conversion, confes-
sion, and martyrdom of St Cyprian of Antioch, a work which could be classi-
fied as ‘hagiography in verse’:
Read a Paraphrase of the Octateuch. It was converted into the metre of

epic, in eight books numbered and divided in the same way as the origi-
nal text. The manuscript in its title named Eudocia the empress as the
author. That it should be the work of a woman who enjoyed the luxury of
being empress, and that it should be so good, is remarkable.
15 Prost (2003) 1–40; on the introduction by Prost to his translation of Nonnus’ Paraphrase,
see Garstad (2006): ‘One virtue of P.’s work is apparent from the outset: it does not try
to be the scholarly monograph it is not. The introduction is quite obviously the work of
a playful enthusiast. It is a compilation, completely devoid of references and footnotes,
of generalities on Egypt and Antiquity which become vaguer and more speculative the
closer the author comes to Nonnus’ own time and place until he turns entirely to historical
fiction. Nonnus is presented as an energetic student in a monastic academy and a junior
participant in the Council of Ephesus. Some readers might prefer the terse and honest
“caveat lector” preceding the introduction: “Of the writer, nothing is known.” Such readers
are advised to skip the introduction. . . . And the fiction of the introduction and the final
appendix [‘The Poet of Panopolis’ by Richard Garnett] may be enjoyed by those who enjoy
that sort of thing.’
16 For the date of Photius’ work, see recently Ronconi (2013), who places the composition of
the letter to Tarasius, which opens the Bibliotheca, ‘shortly after February 870: in my view,
this was the period when Photios’ Library (or at least a first version of it) was concluded’
(392).
17 Baldwin (1978); Wilson (1994) 7, 10–11; Dickey (2007) 104. For the ‘problematic’ exclusion
of lyric poets from the Bibliotheca, see Acosta-Hughes (2010) 99. On Photius’ notes see
Schamp (1987), whose criticism of Photius’ bibliographical information does not convince
Hägg (1999) 44: ‘Photius sometimes states that he has not been able to find a certain book
and has to rely on secondary sources, or that he has read only part of a book; that he would
positively mislead his readers in other cases does not make sense.’ On the Bibliotheca see
also, more recently, Treadgold (2013) 106–109.
18 Accorinti
The text is as clear as any other in the metre of epic and shows deep
mastery of the rules of the art, with only one exception, which is a very
great merit in writers aiming at a close paraphrase: there is no attempt to
deform the truth with fables and use poetic licence to charm the ears of
young readers, nor is the listener distracted from the main theme by
digressions; instead the metrical adaptation of the ancient text is so accu-
rate that the reader of it has no need of the originals, because the mean-
ing is always preserved precisely without expansion or abridgement, and
the wording too, wherever possible, preserves a close similarity. . . .
Read a paraphrase, in the same metre and by the same empress, of the
books of two prophets, the saintly Zachariah and the celebrated Daniel.
Here too the skill of an artist was visible in the same way.
The volume contained three books about the martyr Cyprian, in the
same metre. These works showed, as children resemble their mother,
that they too are a product of the empress’s labours.18
The Empress and poet Aelia Eudocia Augusta (c. 400–460), Theodosius II’s
wife, thus stands, according to Claudio Bevegni, as a double exception in
Photius’ Bibliotheca, as an exponent of poetry and as a woman.19 Why does
Photius, who expatiates upon Eudocia’s hexameter paraphrases (μετάφρασις
is the Greek term he uses) and admires their closeness to the original, pass
over Nonnus’ name in silence? For Nonnus, a contemporary of Eudocia, is the
poet who wrote the Paraphrase of St John’s Gospel. This work, unlike Eudocia’s
poetic renderings, expands its Vorlage and turns into a genuine exegesis of the
Fourth Gospel. It is easy to conjecture that if Photius had read Nonnus’ verses,
he would have been likely to compare them with Eudocia’s paraphrases in
18 Trans. Wilson (1994). See Rey (1998) 40–56; Usher (1998) 81; Bevegni (2006) esp. 11–12, 22,
28; Sowers (2008) 5, 143–144, 265–267 and (2010) 22; ); Irwin (2012); Agosti (2013c); Whitby
(2013) 207–210; Efthymiadis (2014) 165–166; Gärtner (2014) 990. Baldwin (1978) 12 (cf. 14)
rightly contextualizes Photius’ judgement on Eudocia: ‘Eudocia’s verse paraphrase of the
Octateuch was “as clear as the genre of epic allows”. The quality of σαφήνεια, a cliché from
Lucian and Galen down to the polemics surrounding Arethas’ obscurity, is constantly
extolled in the Bibliotheca. Eudocia is also commended for keeping to her subject, in spite
of writing in verse. This is a high compliment from Photius, who abhorred digressions
in the prose writers reviewed by him. Most to the point is the Patriarch’s assertion that
Eudocia “did not succumb to the usual poetic abuse of distorting the truth in order to
please young ears”. This last judgment is clearly redolent of Plato’s censure of poets in the
Republic.’
19 Bevegni (2006) 11–12.
his Bibliotheca.20 The Byzantine bibliophile, therefore, had probably not read
Nonnus.
We are no luckier with the Suda, for the tenth-century Byzantine Greek
historical encyclopedia does not have an entry for Nonnus, nor indeed for
Quintus of Smyrna, although it devotes two entries to Triphiodorus (τ 1111
and 1112 Adler).21 But a marginal gloss in one MS of the Suda, Marcianus gr.
448 (coll. 1047), fo. 220r, s.v. ‘Νόνναι’ (ν 489 Adler; see Figs. 1.3 and 1.4), provides
a rough biographical sketch of our Egyptian poet as (1) a native of Panopolis,
(2) ‘a very learned man’ (λογιώτατος), and (3) the author of an hexameter para-
phrase of St John’s Gospel:
Νόνναι: τοῦ μηνός. αἱ εὐθὺς μετὰ τὰς καλάνδας, ἤγουν μετὰ τὴν πρώτην τῆς
νουμηνίας, δευτέρα δηλαδὴ τοῦ μηνός. μεθ’ ἃς νόννας αἱ εἰδοί. δοκοῦσι δὲ παρ’
αὐτὰς γενέσθαι αἱ ἀνόνναι, ὡς οἷον αἱ ἀνὰ τὰς νόννας διδόμεναι. ἰστέον δὲ ὡς
ἔστι καὶ Νόννος κύριον, Πανοπολίτης, ἐξ Αἰγύπτου, λογιώτατος· ὁ καὶ τὸν
παρθένον Θεολόγον παραφράσας δι’ ἐπῶν.
[Meaning certain days] of the month. They [come] right after the kalends,
or rather after the first of the new month; that is, the second of the month.
After the nones [are] the ides. It seems that the annonae [‘grain doles’]
are named after them, since they are distributed on the nones. One
should note that there is also a proper name ‘Nonnos’; [that of] a man of
Panopolis, in Egypt, a very learned man; he is the one who paraphrased
the chaste Theologian in epic verse.22
20 Commenting on Photius’ note about Eudocia’s poem on St Cyprian (‘The volume
contained three books about the martyr Cyprian, in the same metre. These works showed,
as children resemble their mother, that they too are a product of the empress’s labours’),
Wilson (1994) 176 n. 4 adds: ‘This assertion is very curious: as the work is a cento made up
of lines or parts of lines from Homer, the compiler had no chance of imposing a personal
imprint on the style. Perhaps Photius assumes that Eudocia was the only exponent of the
genre’ (italic is mine). As Whitby (2013, 208 n. 65) observes, Wilson (1994) ‘incorrectly
describes this work as a cento.’ On the parallels between Eudocia and Nonnus, see also
Whitby in this volume.
21 Gerlaud (1982) 6; Tomasso (2012) 404–408; Miguélez Cavero (2013c) 3. On Suda’s doublets,
see Keyser (2013) 792, 794, 799, 801, 809.
22 S OL, s.v. ‘Νόνναι’, trans. W. Hutton, 21 March 2001; see below, n. 35.
20 Accorinti
The meagre notice relating to Nonnus turns up again almost verbatim in

Pseudo-Eudocia, Violarium 311 (514.1–2 Flach): Νόννος Πανοπολίτης ἐξ Αἰγύπτου,
λογιώτατος, ὁ καὶ τὸν παρθένον Ἰωάννην παραφράσας δι’ ἐπῶν.23 The sixteenth-
century Greek scholar Konstantinos Palaiokappa (fl. 1539–1551), who forged the
Violarium (Ἰωνιά) and attributed it to the Empress Eudocia Macrembolitissa
(c. 1021–c. 1090), wife of Constantine X,24 merely substituted Ἰωάννην for
Θεολόγον.25 What is very striking in this passage, is that neither the Suda nor
the forger, who depends on its account, seem to be aware of Nonnus’ major
work, the Dionysiaca, as Arthur Ludwich remarked in the preface to his edition
of Nonnus’ poem:
Ne is quidem, qui Eudociae Augustae nomine abusus Violarium conflavit,

maioris operis a Nonno conscripti notitiam videtur habuisse; nam nihil
de poeta prodidit memoriae nisi haec: Νόννος Πανοπολίτης ἐξ Αἰγύπτου,
λογιώτατος, ὁ καὶ τὸν παρθένον Ἰωάννην παραφράσας δι’ ἐπῶν.26
23 Flach (1880) 514 (in app. crit.): ‘Nonni vitam nescio qua de causa Suidas pratermisit’; see
also Flach (1879) 49 n. 1: ‘Wenn wir übrigens hier ein Excerpt über den Dichter Nonnos
durch Zufall erhalten haben, so ist einleuchtend, dass nur durch einen ähnlichen Zufall
die Vitae von Musaios, Quintos u. a. aus derselben Zeit uns verloren sind.’
24 Pulch (1880) and (1882); Cohn (1888); Jugie (1946) esp. 352–353; Leroy (1968); Kindstrand
(2000); Dorandi (2009) 194; Costa (2010) esp. 50–52; García Bueno (2013) esp. 214–215;
Brakmann (forthcoming).
25 See Golega (1930) 7–8, who also deals with the relationship between the marginal
annotation in the Suda, considered to be an interpolation, and the addition in the
upper margin of fo. 224r in Parisinus gr. 1220 (14th century; see Fig. 1.5), one of the MSS
of Nonnus’ Paraphrase (see Franchi 2013, 227–228): Ἰστέον ὅτι ὁ νόννος οὗτος αἰγύπτιος ὢν
λογιώτατος· ὃς καὶ τὸν παρθένον θεολόγον παραφράσας δι’ ἐπῶν ἡροϊκῶν; I would like to thank
Christian Förstel, Conservateur de la Section Grecque in the manuscript department of
the Bibliothèque Nationale, for confirming the reading of the Parisinus (email, 23 October
2014). Cf. also González i Senmartí (1977–1980) 35–36.
26 Ludwich (1909–1911) I, vii. In his valuable article on ‘Aspects of the Suda’, B. Baldwin
does not deal with the Suda’s marginal gloss on Nonnus, but refers to the entry Αὐσόνιος
(α 4460 Adler): Αὐσόνιος, σοφιστὴς, γεγραφὼς ἐπιστολὰς καὶ ἄλλα τινὰ πρὸς Νόννον (‘Sophist.
He wrote letters and certain other works addressed to Nonnus’, SOL, s.v. ‘Αὐσόνιος’, trans.
M. Heath, 30 October 2000, url: http: //www.stoa.org/sol-bin/search.pl?search_method=
QUERY&login=guest&enlogin=guest&page_num=1&user_list=LIST&searchstr=4460&
field=adlerhw_gr&num_per_page=25&db=REAL); see Baldwin (2006) 29: ‘[I]f, as is
sometimes thought, this is the early Byzantine poet, it helps resolve the long-standing
dispute over his date.’
In her edition of the Suda, Ada Adler, following Johan L. Heiberg, dated the
MS to the thirteenth century,27 but authoritative scholars, such as Paul Maas
and Nigel Wilson, considered Marcianus gr. 448 (coll. 1047) to be an autograph
of Eustathius, archbishop of Thessalonica (c. 1115–1195), and consequently
dated it to the twelfth century.28 That this MS, as well as Marcianus gr. 460
(coll. 330), Parisinus gr. 2702, and Laurentianus plut. 59.2 and 3, was produced
by Eustathius himself, has been irrefutably established on palaeographical
grounds by Mariarosa Formentin and fully accepted by Elpidio Mioni in the
catalogue of Greek manuscripts in the Marciana Library at Venice.29 Glosses
and especially scholia were also added into the MS by the same hand that
wrote the text.30 This suggests that the marginal gloss on Nonnus was added
by Eustathius himself.
This conclusion, which seems to have been unnoticed by scholars, is not
unimportant and deserves further attention. Again it was Ludwich who noted:
Eustathius in Iliadis commentario quinquiens ex solo ampli operis initio

versus aliquot laudavit semperque ea ratione, ut poetam sibi plane incog-
nitum fuisse aperte proderet.31
To the passages quoted by Ludwich, Rudolf Keydell added another two from
Eustathius’ commentaries on the Odyssey and Dionysius’ Periegesis, both refer-
ring to Dion. 1.260 but without any indication of author.32 Thus Eustathius, in
his commentaries on Homer and Dionysius Periegetes, quotes anonymously
and inaccurately a few lines from Book 1 alone of the Dionysiaca,33 Nonnus’
27 Adler (1928–1938) I, x–xi and V, 255–256.

28 Maas (1935a) 305–307, (1936) 29 n. 33, and (1952) 2 n. 9; Wilson (1973) 226–227.
29 Formentin (1983) 25, 28, 32, 42–43; Mioni (1985) 222–223. For a good discussion of the
two autograph MSS containing Eustathius’ commentary on the Odyssey, Marcianus gr. 460
(coll. 330) and Parisinus gr. 2702, see Cullhed (2012), who criticizes (448–449) an article by
Makrinos (2007).
30 Formentin (1983) 28.
31 Ludwich (1909–1911) I, vi–vii, who cites Eustath. ad Hom. Il. 3.231 (409.44, Dion. 1.8), 4.492
(499.22, Dion. 1.10), 6.429 (653.31, Dion. 1.7), 8.84 (700.59, Dion. 1.8), ibid. (701.3, Dion. 1.9).
32 Keydell (1959) I, 10*–11*, quoting Eustath. ad Hom. Od. 8.166 (1590.55, Dion. 1.260) and ad
Dion. Per. 1 (GGM II, 213.23–25, Dion. 1.260).
33 See Keydell (1959) I, 10* (on Eustath. ad Hom. Od. 8.166; see above, n. 32): ‘memoria
Eustathium fefellit’; van der Valk (1971–1987) II, 537–538, in app. crit. (on Eustath. ad
Hom. Il. 8.84; see above, n. 31): ‘Moneo codd. Nonni scribere τόκον (Eust. πόνον) ἄλλον
ἐπεὶ (Eust. ἐπὶ) γονόεντι (Eust. στονόεντι) καρήνῳ (Eust. κάρητι). Opinor Eustathium Nonni
locum e memoria (parum accurate) attulisse et eius lectiones nulla fide dignas esse. Hac
22 Accorinti
major work, and passes over the Paraphrase in silence. And yet it is Eustathius
himself who adds the marginal gloss on Nonnus in the Marcianus manu-
script containing the Suda, where the poet is identified as the author of the
Paraphrase, apparently without mentioning the Dionysiaca. However, in the
clause ὁ καὶ τὸν παρθένον Θεολόγον παραφράσας δι’ ἐπῶν, the conjunction καί
clearly acts as an ‘additive marker’,34 that is, ‘he is the one who also paraphrased
the chaste Theologian in epic verse’.35 But if καί does mean ‘also’, it must hint
at other works of Nonnus of which Eustathius was aware and to which the first
part of the Suda’s marginal gloss may allude.
Does the epithet λογιώτατος, which Eustathius applies to Homer in a note
on Book 5 of the Iliad, καὶ δεικνύει οὕτως ὁ λογιώτατος Ὅμηρος, οἷα ὁ λόγος
δύναται (511.18–19), refer, by any chance, to the huge and learned poem on
Dionysus written by Nonnus? In fact, on palaeographical evidence, it seems
that Eustathius copied the Suda during the composition of the Homeric
de causa vocabulum πόνον voci τόκον substituit et praeterea vocem στονόεντι (Nonnus
scribit γονόεντι) praebuit, quia huius vocis significatio accommodata est voci πόνος,
quippe quod laborem, aerumnam, molestiam, denotet. Verba πόνος et στονόεις Eust. menti
obversabantur, quia partus Iovis qui in initio Dionysiacorum enarratur, gravissimus erat, cf.
etiam Nonn. 1, 9 ὄγκον ἔχων ἐγκύμονι κόρσῃ, quod brevi post ab Eust. laudatur (701, 2). Quod
ad figuram κάρητι (codd. Nonn. καρήνῳ) attinet, Eust., ut videtur, meminit peculiarem
vocis formam apud Nonnum legisse et hac de causa ei figuram κάρητι imputavit’.
34 For the ‘thematic addition’, see Rounge (2010) 337–348.
35 I should thank Enrico Maltese (Turin) and Renzo Tosi (Bologna) for their insightful
comments on my interpretation of the Suda’s marginal gloss. Both scholars agree with
me in accepting that καί here means ‘also’, see LSJ, s.v., B.2. In particular, Maltese gives
two interpretations of the conjunction καί: ‘(a) la prima possibilità in questo senso è,
evidentemente e banalmente, “anche”, ossia, “he is the one who also paraphrased the
chaste Theologian in epic verse” (si presuppone come dato risaputo che Nonno abbia
composto alcune opere, alla quali va aggiunta anche questa [the Paraphrase]; (b) la
seconda possibilità sempre nello stesso senso è lievemente diversa: Nonno, dice il redattore
di Suda, è anche colui che ha parafrasato etc. Qui il καί diviene quasi un nostro “tra l’altro”,
sim.: “il quale Nonno, tra l’altro, è autore di una parafrasi etc.” Con la possibilità (a) si fa
riferimento piuttosto a un sottaciuto “catalogo” delle opere di Nonno; con la possibilità
(b) si batte sull’individualità erudita e letteraria, dunque più sulla personalità che sui testi;
un simile uso risulta anche da altri lemmi’. . . . Se καί è additivo, può esserlo perché dà per
scontato che “il resto delle opere di N.” lo si conosca già. È la via più semplice e plausibile’
(emails, 13 and 14 April 2015). See now my revised translation (27 September 2015) of
the Suda passage in SOL, s.v. ‘Νόνναι’ (url: http://www.stoa.org/sol-bin/search.pl?search_
method=QUERY&login=guest&enlogin=guest&page_num=1&user_list=LIST&searchstr=
Nonae&field=any&num_per_page=25&db=REAL).
commentaries (post 1160–ante 1175/1177, while the commentary on Dionysius

Periegetes dates back to c. 1160), or probably after the commentary on the Iliad
and during the draft of that on the Odyssey.36 Most probably Eustathius knew
Nonnus as the author of the Dionysiaca only in the final period of his exegeti-
cal work on Homer. He could, therefore, have referred fleetingly to him as
λογιώτατος in the addition in the Suda.
Admittedly, this is only a hypothesis, but it would resolve the embarrassing
problem of the Suda’s, that is Eustathius’, apparent silence on Nonnus’ major
poem.37
3 A Travelling Poet?
If almost nothing is known about the author of the Dionysiaca and the
Paraphrase, one cannot, however, doubt that Nonnus was an Egyptian, prob-
ably from Panopolis (now Akhmim) in the Thebaid (Upper Egypt), and that
it was in Alexandria that he is likely to have written the forty-eight-book
Dionysiaca (combining the Iliad and the Odyssey), the longest surviving
epic poem in Greek from Antiquity (21,286 lines, excluding the headings of the
individual books, the so-called Περιοχὴ τῶν Διονυσιακῶν ποιημάτων). These con-
clusions are based (a) on the proem of the Dionysiaca, where Nonnus intro-
duces the Pharian Proteus, the god of multiple changes and slippery forms
(Dion. 1.11–15),38 (b) on an affectionate mention of the river Nile (Dion. 26.238),
and, in particular, (c) on an anonymous epigram, AP 9.198 (lemma c: εἰς Νόννον
τὸν ποιητήν), probably from the pen of the poet himself:39
36 Formentin (1983) 43.

37 According to an ingenious suggestion by Agosti (1999) 107–108, Politian may have echoed
Suda’s marginal gloss on Nonnus in a passage of the second Centuria of his Miscellanea
(46.21), where he ascribes Dion. 33.278–279 to the ‘poeta ingeniosissimus, et ipse tamen
christianus’; cf. Gonnelli (2003) 23. On Angelo Ambrogini (1454–1494), commonly known
as Poliziano, see also Tissoni in this volume.
38 For Proteus cf. Dion. 43.76–79.
39 Wifstrand (1933) 166–168 (doubtful); Livrea (1987) 110–113 and (1989) 32–35, contra Vian
(1994b) 228–229 n. 169; Gigli Piccardi (2003) 46–50. According to Vian (1976) lvi–lvii, the
author of the epigram, a plausible book inscription, may have been the first editor of the
Dionysiaca, who most likely added the Περιοχὴ τῶν Διονυσιακῶν ποιημάτων too. But Collart
(1930) 3 and Wifstrand (1933) 168 favoured attribution to a pupil of Nonnus.
24 Accorinti
Ἄξατέ μοι νάρθηκα, τινάξατε κύμβαλα, Μοῦσαι,

καὶ παλάμῃ δότε θύρσον ἀειδομένου Διονύσου.
Ἀλλὰ χοροῦ ψαύοντι Φάρῳ παρὰ γείτονι νήσῳ
στήσατέ μοι Πρωτῆα πολύτροπον, ὄφρα φανείη
ποικίλον εἶδος ἔχων, ὅτι ποικίλον ὕμνον ἀράσσω. (Dion. 1.11–15)
Bring me the fennel, rattle the cymbals, ye Muses! put in my hand the
wand of Dionysos whom I sing: but bring me, as I am a partner for your
dance in the neighbouring island of Pharos, Proteus of many turns, that
he may appear in all his diversity of shapes, since I twang my harp to a
diversity of songs.40
Κεῖθι μελαμψήφιδα διαξύων ῥόον ὁπλῇ

νήχεται ὑδατόεις ποταμήιος ἵππος ἀλήτης,
οἷος ἐμοῦ Νείλοιο θερειγενὲς οἶδμα χαράσσων
ναιετάει, βυθίοιο δι’ ὕδατος ὑγρὸς ὁδίτης
μηκεδαναῖς γενύεσσιν· (Dion. 26.236–240)
There [in India] swims the travelling riverhorse through the waters,
cleaving with his hoof the blackpebble stream, just like the dweller in my
own Nile, who cuts the summerbegotten flood and travels through the
watery deeps with his long jaws.
Νόννος ἐγώ· Πανὸς μὲν ἐμὴ πόλις, ἐν Φαρίῃ δέ

ἔγχεϊ φωνήεντι γονὰς ἤμησα Γιγάντων. (AP 9.198)
Nonnus am I, and the city of Pan is mine; but in the Pharian land
I mowed down the offspring of Giants with the spear of my voice.
Thus, Nonnus appears to have been a native of Panopolis, just like Triphiodorus
(3rd/4th century), Cyrus (c. 400–470), Pamprepius (440–484), and other poets
of the so-called Nonnian school,41 but he lived (and died?) in Alexandria.
It is also likely that he belonged to a Christian family from Asia Minor. For the
40 At line 13, Gigli Piccardi (2003) 35, 120–121 prefers the reading of L (Laurentianus plut.
32.16) ψαύοντα rather than Koechly’s ψαύοντι, accepted by Keydell (1959) and Vian (1976).
On the island of Pharos, see el-Abbadi (2004). For Nonnus’ proem (Dion. 1.1–33), see
recently Scuderi (2012) 93–98.
41 Al. Cameron (2007); Miguélez Cavero (2008) 3–105. For Cyrus see now van der Horst
(2012b). On the disappearance of the Nonnian school, see De Stefani (2014b).
name Νόννος (‘pure’, ‘holy’), probably a nickname for ‘uncle’ or ‘grandfather’,

was not only widespread in late antique Egypt, but also in Asia Minor and
in Greece (Boeotia).42 Furthermore, Egypt plays a secondary role in Nonnus’
epic,43 while myths and Realien of Asia Minor and Syria prevail.44 It has
also been supposed that the poet visited Tyre and Berytus (Beirut) because
some geographical descriptions and details—Dion. 40.311–326 (Tyre) and
41.14–49, 43.129–132 (Berytus)—seem to indicate, for Berytus at least, a
personal knowledge.45 That Nonnus was a real traveller, one of the Egyptian
‘wandering poets’ according to Cameron’s well-known term,46 has been
strongly claimed by the great epigraphist Louis Robert, who has swept aside
the idea of a poet who was shut up in the library at Alexandria:
Il a fait des lectures de ses poèmes dans des villes de Syrie, dont Berytus
et Tyr, et sans doute Bostra (Lycurgue et Arès), à Tarse, à Sardes, à Nicée;
il y séjournait en étudiant une littérature locale aujourd’hui disparue et
en s’entretenant avec les érudits du lieu. Les poèmes composés à ces
occasions et lus sur place lui ont fourni des morceaux qui furent plus tard
insérés tant bien que mal dans le grand dessein de son épopée diony-
siaque. Il ne s’était pas renfermé dans la seule bibliothèque d’Alexandrie,
ἐν Φαρίῃ, pour écrire au hasard et sans but des tas de papyrus avant qu’ils
soient maladroitement intégrés dans le plan de la nouvelle épopée diony-
siaque (ainsi P. Collart). Il fut un voyageur donnant des ‘récitals’ de ses
œuvres, comme faisaient les rhéteurs et tant d’autres homines docti,
comme ces poètes voyageurs du IIe et du IIIe siècle, par exemple Nestor
de Laranda sous les Sévères et Paiòn de Sidè sous Hadrien . . ., comme les
encomiographes en prose ou en vers; Nonnos d’ailleurs n’est-il pas un
encomiographe, par tant de parties de son épopée, célébrant la gloire de
villes et de dieux?47
42 See more recently Masson (1995) 85–86 and 87 (‘Remarque additionelle’), who upholds
the Greek origin of the name Νόννος; Meimaris/Kritikakou-Nikolaropoulou (2005) 330 (on
inscription no. 241, l. 5).
43 Chuvin (1991) 11 (‘L’Égypte, patrie de l’auteur, est étrangement absente de son poème’),
280–281; contra Gigli Piccardi (2003) 43–44; Agosti in this volume.
44 Chuvin (1994).
45 Keydell (1936) 905; Chuvin (1991) 196–254; Accorinti (2004) 20–25; Drbal (2012) 238–239;
Lauritzen (2012) esp. 89–199 (Tyre) and 199–208 (Berytus).
46 Al. Cameron (1965). An updated version of this famous paper is to be found in Al. Cameron
(2016) 1–35.
47 Robert (1977) 113 n. 29. For an appreciation of Robert’s view, see Lane Fox (2009) 287, 405
n. 18.
26 Accorinti
However, Cameron’s label is unsuited to a poet like Nonnus, whose biographi-

cal data remain largely obscure.48
The vividness of Nonnus’ descriptions, such as that of Tyre in Dion. 40.319–
326, might also provoke a comparison with the Lebanese poet Nadia Tuéni
(1935–1983) and her ‘géographie poétique’:
νηχομένῃ δ’ ἀτίνακτος ὁμοίιος ἔπλετο κούρῃ,

καὶ κεφαλὴν καὶ στέρνα καὶ αὐχένα δῶκε θαλάσσῃ, 320
χεῖρας ἐφαπλώσασα μέση διδυμάονι πόντῳ,
γείτονι λευκαίνουσα θαλασσαίῳ δέμας ἀφρῷ,
καὶ πόδας ἀμφοτέρους ἐπερείσατο μητέρι γαίῃ.
Kαὶ πτόλιν Ἐννοσίγαιος ἔχων ἀστεμφέι δεσμῷ
νυμφίος ὑδατόεις περινήχεται, οἷα συνάπτων 325
πήχεϊ παφλάζοντι περίπλοκον αὐχένα νύμφης.
Unshakable, it is like a swimming girl, who gives to the sea head and
breast and neek, stretching her arms between under the two waters, and
her body whitened with foam from the sea beside her, while she rests
both feet on mother earth. And Earthshaker holding the city in a firm
bond floats all about like a watery bridegroom, as if embracing the neek
of his bride in a splashing arm.
Tyr
Moi Tyr aux mains liquides,

qui se pose un instant dans la paix de l’oubli.
Moi cette reine de Phénicie que le temps a déshabillée,
et qui marche pieds nus dans l’eau jusqu’aux genoux.
Ainsi glisse en phrases de pourpre,
une histoire bruyante, de mort, de temps, d’amour;
un livre de soleil,
têtu comme l’odeur d’un matin à Carthage.
Une histoire de vaisseaux qui émigrent encore,
et déchirent au passage un morceau de nuit ronde.
48 Miguélez Cavero (2008) 102 is critical of Cameron’s categorization: ‘[S]ome of these poets
migrated, but we cannot call them “wandering poets”, as there is not enough information
about many of them and those whose places of residence are known did not wander
from one place to another but settled down in, or travelled to, a place for work, social or
personal reasons. Social circles are therefore not restricted to their places of origin.’
Moi Tyr aux mille grains de mer,

que la lumière debout reçoit sur sa terrasse,
lorsque trébuche l’univers.
Moi Tyr où souffle encore un orage de pierres.49
The reference to Berytus as a Roman colony founded by Augustus (15/14 bc),

and especially the praise of its contemporary role as the repository of Roman
law (Dion. 41.389–398),50 may even suggest that Nonnus attended the law
school there in the fifth century ad:
Σκῆπτρον ὅλης Αὔγουστος ὅτε χθονὸς ἡνιοχεύσει,

Ῥώμῃ μὲν ζαθέῃ δωρήσεται Αὐσόνιος Ζεύς 390
κοιρανίην, Βερόῃ δὲ χαρίζεται ἡνία θεσμῶν,
ὁππότε θωρηχθεῖσα φερεσσακέων ἐπὶ νηῶν
φύλοπιν ὑγρομόθοιο κατευνήσει Κλεοπάτρης·
πρὶν γὰρ ἀτασθαλίη πτολιπόρθιος οὔ ποτε λήξει
εἰρήνην κλονέουσα σαόπτολιν, ἄχρι δικάζει 395
Βηρυτὸς βιότοιο γαληναίοιο τιθήνη
γαῖαν ὁμοῦ καὶ πόντον, ἀκαμπέι τείχεϊ θεσμῶν
ἄστεα πυργώσασα, μία πτόλις ἄστεα κόσμου.
When Augustus shall hold the sceptre of the world, Ausonian Zeus will
give to divine Rome the lordship, and to Beroë he will grant the reins of
law, when armed in her fleet of shielded ships she shall pacify the strife of
battlestirring Cleopatra. For before that, citysacking violence will never
cease to shake citysaving peace, until Berytos the nurse of quiet life does
justice on land and sea, fortifying the cities with the unshakable wall of
law, one city for all cities of the world.51
49 Text according to the edition by Tuéni (1986). See Accorinti (2004) 23–25.
50 Cf. Dion. 41.364–367. Contra Drbal (2012) 231–232: ‘Plusieurs commentateurs des
Dionysiaques pensent qu’il s’agit alors de la cité contemporaine de Nonnos, à savoir celle
de la moitié du Ve s. Je crois en revanche que pour Nonnos, l’époque “contemporaine” est
plutôt la période impériale romaine, constituant à ses yeux l’“époque idéale”: c’est ce que
semble prouver le passage dans lequel il mentionne, contre la réalité de son temps, Rome
comme capitale de l’Empire [Dion. 41.389–398]’.
51 See Livrea (1989) 28–29; Gigli Piccardi (2003) 35–38; Jones Hall (2004) 51–52; Hadjittofi
(2007) 374–378; Mazza (2010) esp. 153–154, 157–159. Cf. also Chuvin in this volume.
28 Accorinti
But it is hardly credible that Nonnus resided in Athens,52 the mother of civi-
lization, which remains ‘abstraite’ in the Dionysiaca.53 For the city that cele-
brates Dionysus’ coming in Book 47 (ll. 1–33) is purely a literary reminiscence
of the first stasimon of Sophocles’ Oedipus at Colonus.54
To sum up, the scanty information we possess concerning the life of Nonnus
derives essentially from the explicit and implicit autobiographical data con-
tained in his epic poem as well as in the anonymous epigram AP 9.198, ascribed
to the poet himself.
4 The Date of Nonnus
The date of Nonnus, like that of other Greek Imperial poets,55 has been much
debated among scholars and is still controversial.56 A possible terminus
post quem for dating the Dionysiaca, and as a result Nonnus’ floruit, is pro-
vided by the work of the Egyptian poet Claudian Claudianus (c. 370–c. 404),
because Nonnus probably knew his Greek Gigantomachy (before 394) and
De raptu Proserpinae (396–402?).57 Incidentally, little is known about the life
of Claudian, Nonnus’ countryman.58 And like the poet from Panopolis, the fact
that Claudian was an Egyptian, more precisely an Alexandrian, is evident from
his own poetry, namely two epigrams, carm. min. 19 and 22, in the latter of
which Claudian names Alexander the Great as the founder of his country, that
is, according to Cameron’s interpretation,59 Alexandria:
52 Shorrock (2005) 374.

53 Chuvin (1991) 315, who also notes that Nonnus’ poem ends with the Eleusinian mysteries
at Athens.
54 Accorinti (2004) 25–36.
55 Needless to say the change of perspective for Triphiodorus, for a long time considered as
an imitator of Nonnus, see Miguélez Cavero (2008) 14–15 and (2013c) 4–6, who, following
Vian (1986) 334, is now inclined to date Triphiodorus to the third century (5).
56 Friedländer (1912a); Lind (1934); Vian (1976) ix–xviii; González i Senmartí (1977–1980);
Baldwin (1986); Livrea (1989) 19–35; Villarrubia Medina (2006) 458–459; Miguélez Cavero
(2008) 17–18; Accorinti (2013c) 1108–1110.
57 Al. Cameron (1970) 11, 15–16; Whitby (1994) 126; contra Schmitz (2005) 198. On the date
of the Greek Gigantomachy and of De raptu Proserpinae, see also Livrea (1998a) 197–199
(400–402) and Onorato (2008) 11–28 (395–396), respectively.
58 Al. Cameron (1970) 1–29. For a résumé of Claudian’s life, see Ware (2012) 5–6.
59 Al. Cameron (1970) 2–3.
Graiorum populis et nostro cognite Nilo (carm. min. 19.3)
conditor hic patriae; sic hostibus ille pepercit (carm. min. 22.20)
audiat haec commune solum longeque carinis

nota Pharos, flentemque attollens gurgite uultum
nostra gemat Nilus numerosis funera ripis. (carm. min. 22.56–58)
Furthermore, Nonnus seems to imitate the incipit Αἴθε πατήρ μ’ ἐδίδαξε of

an epigram by Cyrus of Panopolis datable to 441–442 (AP 9.136), avoiding
the elision (Αἴθε πατήρ με δίδαξε, Dion. 16.321 and 20.372). This gives us a more
plausible terminus post quem.60
On the other hand, Agathias (c. 532–580) mentions Nonnus among the νέοι
ποιηταί in Histories 4.23.5–6 and quotes, without references, Dion. 1.42–43:
ταῦτα γὰρ οἵ τε πρότερον ποιηταὶ ᾄδουσι καὶ οἱ νέοι παραλαβόντες συνᾴδουσιν.

ὧν δὴ καὶ Νόννος, ὁ ἐκ τῆς Πανὸς τῆς Αἰγυπτίας γεγενημένος, ἔν τινι τῶν
οἰκείων ποιημάτων, ἅπερ αὐτῷ Διονυσιακὰ ἐπωνόμασται, οὐκ οἶδα ἐφ’ ὅτῳ
ὀλίγα ἄττα τοῦ Ἀπόλλωνος πέρι ἀφηγησάμενος (οὐ γὰρ δὴ τῶν προηγουμένων
ἐπῶν ἐπιμέμνημαι) εἶτα ἐπάγει·
Ἐξότε Μαρσύαο θεημάχον αὐλὸν ἐλέγξας

Δέρμα παρῃώρησε φυτῷ κολπούμενον αὔραις.
ὡς μὲν οὖν ἐξ ἐκείνου τὸ μίασμα τοῦτο οὔπω τῷ ἀνθρωπείῳ γένει διέγνωστο,

σαφῆ τὰ τεκμήρια καὶ ἀποχρῶντα παρὰ τοῖς ὀρθῶς ἀναθεωρεῖν καὶ
τεκμαίρεσθαι τὰ παλαίτατα πεφυκόσιν, ἀλλὰ μὴ ποιητικῇ θεολογίᾳ
παρακρουομένοις.
At all events this theme, which is handled by the poets of old, has been
taken over and exploited also by modern poets, one of whom Nonnus of
Panopolis in Egypt, after having made some mention of Apollo (I cannot
say in what precise connection because I do not recall the preceding
verses) in a poem of his called the Dionysiaca, goes on to say:
60 Lindsay (1965) 361; Miguélez Cavero (2008) 18; Tissoni (2008) 77 (cf. the same author in
this volume). On AP 9.136 see recently van der Horst (2012b) 199.
30 Accorinti
‘Ever since he humbled Marsyas and his flute

that in contention strove and emulous dispute
against a god. Whereat his skin upon the tallest of the trees
he hung to belly like a sail and flutter in the breeze’.
That this abomination was at the time still unknown to man should be
sufficiently obvious to anyone who is capable of viewing the distant past
with the right degree of critical detachment and who does not allow him-
self to be misled by the tales the poets tell about the gods.61
This important quotation from the author of the Histories clearly offers, along
with P.Berol. inv. 10567 (6th/7th century), the oldest witness for the text of
the Dionysiaca,62 a secure terminus ante quem for dating Nonnus’ epic poem.
Moreover, the first poems that metrically and stylistically appear to be influ-
enced by Nonnus’ poetry are the Encomium on the Patrician Theagenes, attrib-
uted to Pamprepius (P.Vindob. gr. 29788 A–C, c. 473), and the anonymous
Encomium on Heraclius of Edessa (P.S.I. III 253, c. 471).63 Thus, the composition
of the Dionysiaca may be dated as late as 470, and one can assume that its
author lived approximately between 400 and 470.64
5 Absolute and Relative Chronology of Nonnus’ Works
In addition to what we have said above, in Book 41 of the Dionysiaca we find

three passages, ll. 143–145 (῾Ρίζα βίου, Βερόη, πτολίων τροφός, εὖχος ἀνάκτων, |
πρωτοφανής, Αἰῶνος ὁμόσπορε, σύγχρονε κόσμου, | ἔδρανον Ἑρμείαο, Δίκης πέδον,
ἄστυ θεμίστων), 174 (ἐκ Βερόης ἵνα γαῖαν ὅλην πλήσωσι θεμίστων), and 395–398
(quoted in § 3), that may refer both to the status of metropolis given to Berytus
in 448–450 by Theodosius II and Valentinian III (Cod. Just. 11.22.1),65 and to
the contemporary title of τῆς οἰκουμένης διδάσκαλοι (‘ecumenical teachers’) for
61 Greek text according to Keydell (1967); English translation by Frendo (1975). See González
i Senmartí (1977–1980) 31–32; Gonnelli (2003) 9–10; Agosti (2004c) 74; Miguélez Cavero
(2008) 88–90 and (2013b) 192–193. See also De Stefani and Tissoni in this volume.
62 Vian (1976) lxi; González i Senmartí (1977–1980) 33–34; Miguélez Cavero (2008) 25. See
also De Stefani in this volume.
63 Miguélez Cavero (2008) 72–74 (no. 54) and 68–69 (no. 46), respectively. On Nonnian
metrics, see Magnelli in this volume.
64 Keydell (1936) 904; Vian (1976) xvi.
65 Jones Hall (2004) 105–106.
the professors of its law school.66 The mention of Blemmyes in Dion. 17.385–
397, however, should not be seen as an historical echo of the peace treaty that
Maximinus, governor of the Thebaid in Upper Egypt, negotiated with both
the Blemmyes and the Nobades in 452–453, described by Priscus (Hist. fr. 27.1
Blockley).67 For, as Gianfranco Agosti has suggested in this volume (656), the
scene of the submission of Blemys to Dionysus in the above-mentioned pas-
sage probably parallels similar narratives in Coptic hagiographic texts. Though
the chronological evidence is necessarily sparse, the Dionysiaca can be dated
between 450 and 470.68
For the date of composition of the twenty-one-book Paraphrase of St John’s
Gospel (3,660 lines), the Commentary on John written by Cyril of Alexandria
(c. 378–444) between 425 and 42869 supplies a probable terminus post quem,
since it has been persuasively argued that Nonnus made use of this work.70 On
the other hand, the Council of Ephesus (431), where the Virgin Mary was offi-
cially recognized as θεοτόκος (‘birth-giver of God’),71 a term Nonnus employs
three times in the Paraphrase (2.9, 66 and 19.135, always θεητόκος, metri causa),
is not a convincing criterion because the title was already in use in the Church
of Alexandria in the third and fourth centuries.72
On the other hand, a terminus ante quem is more difficult to establish.
Livrea supposes that Nonnus must have written the Paraphrase between 428
and 451, that is before the Council of Chalcedon (451), which condemned the
Monophysite heresy.73 However, from a theological and historical perspec-
tive, this chronological limit has been regarded as unsatisfactory because
Nonnus’ Paraphrase does not echo either Cyril’s anti-Nestorian polemics or
the Eutychian heresy.74
66 Lemerle (1971) 85–87. On the famous professors of law who taught at Berytus in the fifth
and sixth centuries, see Jones Hall (2004) 207–209.
67 Vian (1976) xvii; Chuvin (1991) 277–278; Livrea (2000) 49–50; Gigli Piccardi (2003) 38–41;
contra Frendo (2006) 285 n. 14. See also Lee (2000) 139–140; Grossmann (2008) 42–43,
48–51. On the Blemmyes in Late Antiquity, see Obłuski 2013.
68 Vian (1976) xvii.
69 For the date of Cyril’s Commentary on John, see Maxwell in Maxwell/Elowsky (2013)
xvi–xvii.
70 Livrea (1989) 25; Spanoudakis (2014a) 18–19.
71 Klauser (1981); Awad (2007) 126–129.
72 Keydell (1936) 904–905, 918; Vian (1976) xvi–xvii; Livrea (1989) 24–25 and (2000) 167–168
(on Par. 2.9); Schmitz (2005) 197–198.
73 Livrea (1989) 25; De Stefani (2002) 9, 14.
74 Grillmeier/Hainthaler (1996) 92–99, esp. 96–99 (‘The christological statement of Nonnus’s
paraphrase of John’): ‘[O]ne can certify for Nonnus a good theological understanding of
32 Accorinti
If the chronological priority of the Dionysiaca and the Paraphrase occasion-

ally seems uncertain—and there are some who think that Nonnus wrote the
two works at the same time, probably in the period 430–45075—, Vian seems to
have proved definitively, in an ingenious essay on the Nonnian use of the term
μάρτυς, that the poet composed the Paraphrase before the Dionysiaca.76
6 Nonnus Triunus
Enrico Livrea, in a fascinating essay from 1987 entitled ‘Il poeta e il vescovo. La
questione nonniana e la storia’, suggested the identification of our poet with
Nonnus, the bishop of Edessa († 470–471) in the province of Osrhoene (now
Urfa in Turkey).77 Nonnus of Edessa played an active part in the defence of
Cyrillian orthodoxy against Nestorius and Monophysites, and, according to the
Chronicle of Theophanes the Confessor (am 5925 = ad 432–433; I, 91.26–92.5
de Boor), converted and baptized as Pelagia an actress from Antioch named
Margarito:
κατὰ τοῦτον δὲ τὸν χρόνον Νόννος ὁ θεοφόρος ἐποίμαινε τὴν τῶν Ἐδεσηνῶν
ἐκκλησίαν, ὁ τὴν πρώτην τῶν μιμάδων Ἀντιοχείας τῷ θεῷ ἀφιερώσας καὶ ἀντὶ
Μαργαριτοῦς πόρνης ἁγίαν αὐτὴν Πελαγίαν παραστήσας τῷ Χριστῷ. οὗτος
οὖν ὁ ἐν ἁγίοις ἀγαλλιώμενος ἐπὶ τῇ τῶν ἁγίων ὁμονοίᾳ γράφει τῷ ἀρχιεπισκόπῳ
Ἰωάννῃ νουθεσίας καὶ διδασκαλίας ῥήματα, ἐν οἷς καὶ τοῦτο· ‘κάθαρον τὴν
ἐκκλησίαν, ὦ ἄνθρωπε τοῦ θεοῦ, ἀπὸ τῶν Νεστοριανῶν ζιζανίων καὶ τῆς αὐτῶν
δεινότητος.’ τὸν δὲ ἀσεβῆ καὶ βλάσφημον Νεστόριον ἐν τῇ ἐξορίᾳ ἡ θεία δίκη
μετῆλθεν· σηπεδόνι τῶν μελῶν πάντων, μάλιστα δὲ τῆς μιαρᾶς γλώσσης
περιπεσὼν διεφθάρη τῷ θανάτῳ, προλαβὼν τὴν ἀπὸ Ὀάσεως ἀνάκλησιν εἰς
ἕτερον τόπον.
At this time the God-bearing Nonnos acted as shepherd for the church of
the Edessenes. He consecrated to God the foremost mime of Antioch and
offered her to Christ as the holy Pelagia instead of her being Margarito
the prostitute. This holy man, rejoicing at the harmony of the saints,
Christology around 430’ (99); contra Agosti (2003) 95 n. 196. On the question of Nonnus’
Christology in the Paraphrase, see Sieber in this volume.
75 Livrea (2000) 56; Whitby (2007) 201; Tissoni (2008) 78–79; Shorrock (2011) 51; Agosti (2012)
367.
76 Vian (1997b); Al. Cameron (2000) 179–180; contra Simelidis in this volume.
77 Livrea (1987) 113–123; see also Livrea (2000) 55–70 and previously (1989) 19 n. 1 (doubtful).
On Nonnus, bishop of Edessa, see Enßlin (1936a); Rammelt (2008) 237–239.
wrote to the archbishop John words of advice and teaching, among which
was this statement, ‘Cleanse the church, O man of God, from the Nestorian
tares and their terrible [effects].’ Divine justice followed the impious and
blasphemous Nestorios in exile. After suffering from putrefaction in all
his limbs, and above all in his abominable tongue, he was destroyed by
death, thus anticipating his recall from the Oasis [by being summoned]
to another place.78
It is Jacob, the deacon of the bishop Nonnus, who describes in the Life of
St Pelagia79 the beauty of this prostitute and the effects her appearance pro-
duced on Nonnus and the other holy bishops:
As this prostitute passed in front of us, the scent of perfumes and the reek
of her cosmetics hit everyone in the vicinity. The bishops as they sat there
were amazed at her and her clothes, as well as the splendor of her cor-
tege, and the fact that she went by with her head uncovered, with a scarf
thrown round her shoulders in a shameless fashion, as though she were a
man; indeed in her haughty impudence her garb was not very different
from a man’s, apart from her makeup, and the fact that her skin was as
dazzling as snow. To put it briefly, her appearance incited everyone who
set eyes on her to fall in love with her.
When the holy bishops saw her, they averted their eyes from her, as
though she was some sinful object. The holy bishop Nonnos, however,
observed her carefully in his mind, filled with wonder. Once she had
passed in front of them, he turned away his face, placed his head between
his knees, and wept with great feeling, so much so that his lap was filled
with tears.
Lamenting greatly for her, the holy bishop Nonnos sighed and said to
his fellow bishops, ‘To be honest, fathers, did not the beauty of this pros-
titute who passed in front of us astonish you?’ They kept silent and did
not answer a word. But the holy Nonnos went on sighing bitterly, striking
his chest, deeply moved and weeping so much that even his clothes—a
hair shirt—got soaked with his tears.80
78 English translation by Mango/Scott (1997) 141–142.

79 For the Greek text (BHG 1478), see B. Flusin in Petitmengin et al. (1981–1984) I, 77–93. An
English translation from the Syriac text (BHO 919) in Brock/Ashbrook Harvey (1998) 40–62.
See also Burrus (2004) 137–146; Lowerre (2004) 77–83 and (2006) 1–10 (text) and 64–75
(commentary); Beresford (2007) 15–31; Grayson (2009) 145–147; Efthymiadis/Déroche
(2011) 46–47.
80 Brock/Ashbrook Harvey (1998) 43 (§§ 5–8).
34 Accorinti
Livrea, following Theophanes, has identified the bishop who converts the pros-
titute in the Life of St Pelagia (see Fig. 1.6) as Nonnus the bishop of Edessa, i.e.
Nonnus of Panopolis. But in spite of its historical likelihood, this proposal of
identifying Nonnus of Panopolis with the bishop of Edessa, which also aims at
re-thinking the so-called Nonnian question,81 did not convince scholars like
Alan Cameron.82 Thus Livrea’s thesis must so far remain a tempting hypothesis.
Similarly disputed, though for different reasons, has been the identifica-
tion of the poet Nonnus with the abbot Nonnus, generally dated to the sixth
century, an anonymous commentator on Gregory of Nazianzus’ Sermons 4, 5,
39, and 43, the so-called Pseudo-Nonnus.83 It was Richard Bentley (1662–1742),
in his Dissertation upon the Epistles of Phalaris (1697, 2nd edn. 1699), where
he proved the spuriousness of ancient Greek letters attributed to the tyrant
Phalaris (c. 570–554 bc),84 who rejected this identification:
That poor Writer is not Nonnus the Poet, the Author of the Dionysiacs and
the Paraphrase of St. John’s Gospel; as Learned Men, and if I may presume
to guess, Mr. B. himself have believed. ’Tis true, I am no Admirer of that
Poet; I have the same opinion of his Judgment and Style, that Scaliger,
81 Livrea (2000) 58: ‘Sarà ora lecito domandarsi se appare possibile che siano esistiti due
Nonni assolutamente contemporanei, dei quali l’uno avrebbe composto la Par. in senso
cirilliano, e l’altro avrebbe rappresentato con successo da vescovo la politica teologica
e la teologia politica di Cirillo di Alessandria in Siria, ad Edessa. Di fronte all’assoluta
inverisimiglianza di tale ipotesi, ci sembra evidente che si tratti del medesimo personaggio,
e che sia esistito un solo Nonno, vescovo ed autore della Par.’ Cf. Vian (1994b) 213, 223;
Habermehl (2009) 50.
82 Al. Cameron (2000) 188: ‘Whether or not a real person called Nonnus played any part in
the story of the repentance of Pelagia (if that was really the name of the actress from
Antioch), not even pseudo-Jacob thought this Nonnus was either the poet from Panopolis
or the bishop of Edessa’; contra Livrea (2003) 455: ‘[T]he key offered by my interpretation,
with admittedly all the problems implicit in a theory based on factual evidence, is likely,
pace Cameron, to remain the least problematic approach to the Nonnus question, and
certainly the one most conducive to future progress’; finally, Al. Cameron (2016) 90: ‘Are
Nonnus the poet and Nonnus of Edessa exact contemporaries? The exactness presupposes
the identification. There is now general agreement that the poet wrote between about
430 and 460. Without offering any justification for such precision, Livrea favors the much
narrower window 445–50. But if he wrote nearer 460, that would rule out the bishop (449–
51 and 457–71). Who can believe that a serving bishop devoted his spare time to writing
the Dionysiaca?’ See also Schmitz (2005) 198; Villarrubia Medina (2006) 454–455; Whitby
(2007) 200.
83 Enßlin (1936b); Nimmo Smith (1992) 3–5.
84 Haugen (2011) 110–123.
and Cunaeus, and Heinsius had. But he had great variety of Learning, and
may pass for an able Grammarian, though a very ordinary Poet. And I can
never think so very mean of him, as to make him Writer of that
Commentary, so full of shamefull mistakes.85
After enumerating some of the commentator’s mistakes, Bentley claimed that

there are two significant errors in the commentary which the poet himself
testifies that he could not have made:
But there are two Errors of this Commentator, that we have the Poet’s
own assurance, he could not have committed. Gregory says, ἡ Κασταλία
σεσίγηται [5.31], the Castalian Fountain is put to silence. This the
Commentator says, is Castalia at Antioch [5.16]. But the Poet would have
known it to be Castalia of Parnassus; as these Verses of his will witness.
Καὶ ῥία Παρνήσσοιο φοιβάδος ἠχοῦς

Γείτονος εἰσαΐοντα, καὶ ὀμφήεντι ῥεέθρῳ
Κασταλίης πάφλαζε νοήμονος ἔνθεον ὕδωρ. [Dion. 4.308–310]
The Commentator calls Bacchus Ζαγραῖος [5.30],86 which is barbarous,

instead of Ζαγρεύς. But the Poet writes it true, in a hundred places of his
Book;
Ἀρχεγόνῳ Ζαγρῆϊ καὶ ὀψιγόνῳ Διονύσῳ. [Dion. 47.29]
If the Commentary then carry the name of Nonnus; it must needs be

some other Nonnus, and not the Author of the Dionysiacs.87
Twenty-five years ago, in an article that appeared a short time before the criti-
cal edition of the Greek text of the Pseudo-Nonnus’ Commentaries,88 I myself
set out to re-examine the hypothesis that the author of the Commentaries on
Gregory of Nazianzus’ Sermons 4, 5, 39, and 43 was the same person as Nonnus
85 Bentley (1699) 24.

86 See Nimmo Smith (1992) 208 (in app. crit., l. 2.).
87 Bentley (1699) 25–26.
88 Nimmo Smith (1992). See also the English translation by Nimmo Smith (2001). The
Georgian version of the Commentaries has been edited by Otkhmezuri (2002); cf. Accorinti
(2006).
36 Accorinti
of Panopolis.89 On the one hand I argued that Bentley’s main arguments, that
is the two errors mentioned above, were too weak to accept a priori that the
author of the Commentaries could not be the same as the Egyptian poet.90 On
the other hand I attempted to show that there are too many parallels between
the mythological material in the Dionysiaca and the Commentaries, as well as a
certain similarity in personality and interests of their authors (both Christian
and interested in classical culture), to reject this identification as being
impossible.91 Let me quote, for example, the discovery of Tyrian purple (cf.
Achilles Tatius 2.11.4–8)92 as narrated by both the author of the Commentaries
(4.66, 133 Nimmo Smith) and the poet of the Dionysiaca (40.304–310):
Ἐν Τύρῳ παρὰ τὸν αἰγιαλὸν κύων ποιμενικὴ πορευομένη εὑροῦσα κογχύλιον

ἔφαγεν. εἶτα τὸ αἷμα τοῦ κογχυλίου ἔβαψε τῆς κυνὸς τὸ στόμα. ὁ δὲ ποιμὴν
νομίζων πεπλῆχθαι τὴν κύνα, λαβὼν ἔριον, ἀπέμαξε τὸ αἷμα τοῦ στόματος. καὶ
εὕρηται ἡ μὲν κύων μηδὲν ἔχουσα, τὸ δὲ ἔριον τὴν τῆς πορφύρας ἀναδεδεγμένον
βαφήν. εἶτα ἐγνωκὼς ὅτι τὸ κογχύλιον τοιαύτην ἔχει φύσιν βαπτικήν,
ἐδημοσίευσεν αὐτὸ τοῦτο. καὶ οὕτω συνέλεγον ἐν τῇ θαλάττῃ τὰ κογχύλια, καὶ
κατεσκεύασαν τὰς πορφύρας.
In Tyre a shepherd’s dog which was once walking along the shore found a
shell-fish and ate it. Then the blood of the shell-fish dyed the dog’s jaws.
The shepherd, thinking that the dog had been hit, took some wool and
wiped the blood from her jaws. While the dog was found to be unharmed,
the wool retained the purple dye. Then he realised that the shell-fish
secreted that sort of natural dye, and publicised that very matter. So they
harvested the shell-fish from the sea, and developed purple dyes.93
καὶ Τυρίῃ σκοπίαζε δεδευμένα φάρεα κόχλῳ,

πορφυρέους σπινθῆρας ἀκοντίζοντα θαλάσσης, 305
ἧχι κύων ἁλιεργὸς ἐπ’ αἰγιαλοῖσιν ἐρέπτων
ἐνδόμυχον χαροπῇσι γενειάσι θέσκελον ἰχθύν
χιονέας πόρφυρε παρηίδας αἵματι κόχλου,
χείλεα φοινίξας διερῷ πυρί, τῷ ποτε μούνῳ
φαιδρὸν ἁλιχλαίνων ἐρυθαίνετο φᾶρος ἀνάκτων. 310
89 Accorinti (1990).

90 Accorinti (1990) 8, 15–16.
91 Accorinti (1990) 9–24.
92 See Accorinti (1990) 9–11.
93 Trans. Nimmo Smith (2001).
He examined cloth dyed with the Tyrian shell, shooting out sea-
sparklings of purple: on that shore once a dog busy by the sea, gobbling
the wonderful lurking fish with joyous jaws, stained his white jowl
with the blood of the shell, and reddened his lips with running fire, which
once alone made scarlet the sea-dyed robes of kings.
However, although some scholars have favoured the hypothesis of a single

authorship,94 it seems more prudent to follow the conclusion of a thorough
study by Jennifer Nimmo Smith:
The poet’s mode of allusion is dictated by the demands of his muse,

but is by no means obscure. Erotic themes are frequent and fully exploited
in his work. The commentator, too, gives full explanations of the sexual
episodes to which Gregory refers. It is on this account that the term
Pseudo-Nonnos is appropriate for him, as an identification both of the
nature and extent of his work, and of the fact that his knowledge of
mythology is not as complete and correct as that of his homonym. This
name, granted him by Thaddeus Sinko in a Festschrift of 1922, should
surely be maintained.95
7 A Janus Bifrons
Whether Nonnus was a pagan or a Christian has for long been a controversial
matter, although it now appears more likely that he was a Christian. The ques-
tion stemmed from the coexistence of two seemingly incompatible works, the
one, the Dionysiaca, a mythological epic, the other, the Paraphrase of St John’s
Gospel, a Christian poem. It is Margarete Riemschneider, an important scholar
for Nonnian studies,96 who magnificently exploits this motif at the end of her
historical novel Im Garten Claudias (1970). Here we find the manuscript of the
Paraphrase becoming, after the death of Nonnus, a real enigma for generations
of scholars:
94 Livrea (2000) 58; Beatrice (2007) 3532.

95 Nimmo Smith (1996) 299. See also Villarrubia Medina (2006) 455.
96 Riemschneider (1957) and (1968).
38 Accorinti
Die Paraphrasen des Johannesevangeliums verstaubten in seiner

Bibliothek.
Die Gelehrten vieler Jahrhunderte haben sich seither den Kopf darüber
zerbrochen, wer sie geschrieben haben könnte. Dem Stil nach Nonnos.
Aber der Dichter der Dionysiaka?
Ein Heide?97
More than forty years have passed since the book by Riemschneider was
published, and now it would be hard to agree with her Nachwort, where she
embraced Nonnus’ conversion thesis and observed that no Christian could
have written the Dionysiaca:
Daß dieser Übertritt im späten Mannesalter erfolgte, ergibt sich aus

seinem großen Epos ‘Dionysiaka’, das den Siegeszug des Gottes der
Ausschweifung und Trunkenheit auf rein heidnische Weise verherrlicht.
Niemals hätte ein Christ die ‘Dionysiaka’ schreiben können. Da es aber
von seiner Hand noch eine Paraphrase des Johannesevangeliums gibt—
das heißt eine Nachdichtung in Hexametern—, die aber in den ersten
Anfängen steckengeblieben ist, müssen wir annehmen, daß sie nicht
lange vor seinem Tode verfaßt wurde.98
In fact, two main explanations for the apparent incompatibility of the

Dionysiaca and the Paraphrase were previously proposed by scholars.
First, Nonnus was, like Synesius, Claudian, Dracontius, Ausonius, Sidonius
Apollinaris, Palladas, Agathias, and the members of the school of Gaza
(Procopius, Choricius, Aeneas), a representative of pagan-Christian syncre-
tism of Late Antiquity (Joseph Golega).99
Second, after the composition of the Dionysiaca, Nonnus became a Christian
and wrote the Paraphrase (Hans Bogner, Rudolf Keydell).100 As a clue to the
Janus character of Nonnus’ work, such a conversion had seemed the most logi-
cal solution from the beginning. It suffices to quote from a letter which Henri
Estienne (1528–1598) wrote in 1556 to Georges Buchanan (1506–1582):
97 Riemschneider (1970) 207.

98 Riemschneider (1970) 210; see Hernández de la Fuente (2007b) 173 n. 22.
99 Golega (1930) 80–81.
100 Bogner (1934) 320–333; Keydell (1936) 905, 910–911, 915–916.
Nonnus poeta non ignobilis quum ante a Dionysiaca, materiam idola-

triae suae convenientem, delegisset, simulatque abiecto idolorum cultu,
Euangelio nomen dedit, nulli alii quam vero Deo cui seruire cœperat,
venam etiam suam seruire voluit.101
Three centuries later the conversion was still considered as a ‘probable solu-
tion’ to the Nonnian question, as we read in a note published anonymously in
The Gentleman’s Magazine (December 1833), the periodical founded in January
1731 by Edward Cave (1691–1754), who edited it under the pen name of Sylvanus
Urban:
The learned have been greatly puzzled, to account for the circumstance
of the Dionysiaca, and the Paraphrase of St. John, being both ascribed to
Monnus [sic], a writer of the fifth century. It appears strange, that in the
freshest times of Christianity, a person could be found to celebrate the
worn-out mythology of heathenism. M. Charles Nodier, in his Bibliothèque
Sacrée [Nodier (1826) 230], has offered a simple and probable solution of
the difficulty. He supposes that the two works were composed at different
periods of life, and that a change had taken place in his belief between
those periods. This hypothesis saves us from having recourse to the not
uncommon one, of the two poems having been composed by different
persons of the same time.102
Even the entry ‘Nonnus’, in the contemporary A Classical Dictionary (1841) by

the American classical scholar Charles Anthon (1797–1867), did not diverge
from what was commonly accepted at the time and during the century that
followed:
Was he born a Christian, or did he embrace Christianity after he had

reached a certain age? We have here a question about which the ancients
have left us in complete uncertainty. The author of the Dionysiaca must
have been a pagan; for it is difficult to believe that any Christian, even
101 Kecskeméti/Boudou/Cazes (2003) 15 (no. 5).

102 The article ‘Adversaria.—No. III’, published anonymously in The Gentleman’s Magazine
(December 1833), must be attributed to the Reverend James Temple Mansel (1803–
1880), B.A. Christ Church, Clerk Curate of Dunkeswell in the county of Devon, see E.L.
de Montluzin, ‘Attributions of Authorship in the Gentleman’s Magazine,  1731–1868: An
Electronic Union List’ (url: http://bsuva.org/bsuva/gm2/browse/GM1833.html). On the
attributions of authorship in the Gentleman’s Magazine, see Keeran/Bowers (2013) 238.
40 Accorinti
supposing that he had made the Greek mythology a subject of deep study,
would have felt inclined to turn his attention to a theme, in treating
of which he must inevitably shock the feelings and incur the censure of
his fellow-Christians. And yet Nonnus composed also a Christian
poem.—It is probable, then, that he was at first a pagan, and embraced
the new religion at a subsequent period of his life.103
Currently, however, the conversion hypothesis has been put aside, because
it is generally now admitted that Nonnus was a Christian,104 and it seems
quite likely that the two works are the outcome of the syncretistic milieu of
Panopolis, a town not far from the White Monastery of Shenoute at Atripe
(Sohag), a statement which is also supported by archaeological evidence.105
In particular, there were two works which provoked an immediate response
from scholars: ‘Dionysos der Erlöser’ by Wictor A. Daszewski (1985), a book sug-
gesting a monotheistic interpretation of the late Roman mosaic in the House
of Aion at Nea Paphos, Cyprus (4th century), and ‘Dionysus und Christus’ by
Dietrich Willers (1992), an article on the religious belief of Nonnus.106 These
contributions argued that the hero of Nonnus’ epic should be regarded as a
redeeming god.107 However, a Dionysus-Christ parallel in Nonnian studies
103 Anthon (1841) 902.

104 Al. Cameron (2007) 36–38, 43–44. Strangely enough, Ruffini (2004) 254 (fig. 1, no. 66)
inserts Nonnus among ‘Alexandria’s Late Antique Pagans’. Incidentally, but significantly,
Christopher P. Jones does not mention Nonnus in his recent book Between Pagan and
Christian (2014).
105 Miguélez Cavero (2008) 191–263. On Panopolis and Shenoute of Atripe (c. 347–465), see
Westerhoff (2007) 87–89; Cristea (2011) 111–122; Lopez (2013) 19–26; van Minnen in this
volume. For the monumental Dionysus wall hanging conserved in the Abegg-Stiftung at
Riggisberg in Switzerland, which was probably produced in a workshop at Panopolis, see
the chapter by Kristensen in this volume.
106 Daszewski (1985); Willers (1992).
107 Bowersock (1990) 44: ‘If there is any trace in this work [Dionysiaca] of the Christian
empire in which it took shape, it is in the redemptive role of Dionysus’; 49–50: ‘Publishing
the mosaic at New Paphos for the first time, the Polish archaeologist Wiktor Daszewski
entitled his work, Dionysos der Erlöser, “Dionysus the Redeemer.” He could not have
chosen a better title to suggest the soteriological aspects of the god’; McNally (2002)
147: ‘One scholar [D. Willers] has argued that Nonnos’ writings show at the same time
a genuine reverence for both Christ and Dionysos.’ See also Talloen (2011) 578: ‘[O]ne
deity in particular appears to have been the focus of much attention in Sagalassos and
throughout the eastern Mediterranean during the 4th c. A.D., namely Dionysus. His
popularity is attested both in literary sources (most notably the Dionysiaca of Nonnus
of Panopolis) and material culture, and perhaps reﬂects his rising position in the pagan
was not completely new. Almost four centuries before, Daniel Heinsius (1580–
1655), who in 1610 published his Dissertatio de Nonni Dionysiacis & ejusdem
Paraphrasi,108 also wrote two pieces comparing Dionysus and Christ, Lof-sank
van Bacchus (1614) and Lof-sank van Jesus Christus (1617).109
But a year after the publication of Daszewski’s book, John Deckers, in an arti-
cle published under the eloquent title ‘Dionysos der Erlöser?’ (1986), rejected
that interpretation: ‘Das Mosaikbild im “Haus des Aion” ist keine heidnische
Ikone!’110 In 2008, Elizabeth Kessler-Dimin again defended Daszewski’s view,111
but more recently (2013) Marek T. Olszewski proposed a new interpretation
of the iconographic programme of the Cyprus mosaic as an anti-Christian
polemic, which totally rejects both the redemptive role of Dionysus and the
presumed monotheistic significance of the Paphos mosaic:
The Dionysus depicted in the House of Aion mosaic is certainly not a god
who has come to save the world and create a new order, as Daszewski
would have us believe. In this mosaic Dionysus is portrayed as a god who
replicates old pagan traditions. He appears in the rhetoric of the allegori-
cal narrative as a more perfect and better god than the Christian God—
Jesus Christ. . . . The appealing and captivating hypothesis about pagan
monotheism in the mosaic from the House of Aion, propounded by
Daszewski and adopted by Kessler-Dimin, is difficult to accept. Without
going into a discussion of the philosophical concepts of the period, which
are widely known and have been excellently evaluated by experts, there
is no doubt that the mosaic from Nea Paphos does not only depict
one god of monotheistic nature, apparently Dionysus. On the contrary,
the five panels depict many pagan gods of the polytheistic world: Zeus
pantheon at that time. Indeed, Dionysus may have been promoted as an alternative to
Christ, facilitated by their shared characteristics of miraculous birth, mystery cult and
divine resurrection.’
108 Heinsius (1610).
109 See Somos (2011) 170–199; cf. Tissoni in this volume.
110 Deckers (1986) 161, see also 167: ‘Wie falsch es ist, von der Darstellung “heidnischer” Götter
und Heroen auf Objekten dieses Bereichs auf die Religion ihrer Benutzer zu schließen,
zeigen am besten die Reliefs der kostbaren Silbergeräte der Christin Proiecta, auf denen
sich um die Venus marina Nereiden, Seekentauren und Amorini fröhlich tummeln.’
111 Kessler-Dimin (2008) 281: ‘The House of Aion mosaic dates to an earlier period, but it
presents a powerful visual message of a monotheizing Dionysian religion although on the
surface it may seem to feature merely a conglomeration of common mythological themes.’
For a similar debated question concerning the interpretation of a mosaic, see Talgam/
Weiss (2004) 127–131.
42 Accorinti
(twice), Helios, Athene, Selene, Aion, Dionysus (twice), Hermes, Apollo,

Thetis, Doris and Galatea.112
In contrast to Bogner and Keydell, Francis Vian has given an interpretation

of the Dionysiaca as a poem devoid of religious meaning, because (a) the
interest of Nonnus in the Orphic, Eleusinian, and Dionysiac mysteries is only
superficial, (b) the Dionysiaca does not contain a salvation theology, nor does
Dionysus act as a Christian redeemer, and (c) Nonnus’ epic poem has to be
read as a chapter of universal history, like the Ἡρωϊκαὶ Θεογαμίαι, the lost sixty-
book poem by Peisander of Laranda (3rd century ad).113 Here it is also worth
quoting from Vian’s Notice to his edition of Book 48 of the Dionysiaca, a pas-
sage that sounds like a Cave lector:
Le philologue moderne doit se garder de suivre l’exemple des savants

exégètes antiques qui ont voulu donner après coup à l’Iliade et à l’Odyssée
un sens secret qu’elles n’avaient pas. L’épopée de Nonnos est narrative
comme celle de ses prédécesseurs. Le poète n’entend pas établir une
confrontation entre Dionysos et le Christ, soit pour présenter le premier
comme le rival du second, soit au contraire pour en faire l’image ou la
préfiguration, bien que l’auteur de la Paraphrase de l’Évangile selon saint
Jean ne dédaigne pas de jouer à l’occasion dans ses deux œuvres sur des
thèmes similaires. Mais ce n’est que par jeu de mots qu’on peut utiliser
la terminologie chrétienne en parlant de l’‘ascension’ de Dionysos, de
l’‘assomption’ d’Ariadne ou de la ‘trinité’ bacchique. La figure d’Aura n’est
pas la caricature de la Vierge Marie, mais son exacte antithèse: vierge vio-
lée et infanticide, elle est tout le contraire de la mère aimante de Jésus qui
l’a enfanté par immaculée conception.
L’antiquité tardive s’est plu à idéaliser et à christianiser Dionysos
comme Héraclès ou Orphée; mais cette tendance demeure secondaire
chez Nonnos, ne serait-ce qu’en raison de l’importance qu’il accorde aux
cinq aventures érotiques du dieu qui font suite à ses amours garçonnières
pour Ampélos. Son Dionysos demeure protéiforme jusqu’à la fin: le héros
civilisateur et justicier est en même temps un coureur de femmes avant
de devenir, par le truchement d’Iacchos, l’initiateur d’un culte mystique.
112 Olszewski (2013) 231–232. See also the chapter by Kristensen in this volume.
113 Vian (1994b) 224.
Il se présent avant tout comme une création littéraire au même titre que
l’Ulysse d’Homère ou le Jason d’Apollonios.114
On the contrary, Daria Gigli Piccardi thinks that Nonnus may be Christianizing
the myth of Dionysus,115 whereas Enrico Livrea favours a typological interpreta-
tion of the Dionysiaca, according to which Nonnus might be making Dionysus
a foreshadowing of a Saviour God.116 For Wolfgang Liebeschuetz, who consid-
ers the Dionysiaca, ‘a kind of encyclopedia’, comparable with works of authors
like Macrobius, Martianus Capella, John Lydus, and Malalas, Nonnus may also
reveal an apologetic attitude towards pagan mythology.117
However, classical literature between the fourth and sixth/seventh centuries
does not generally involve any religious belief. This has been often remarked
upon, with reference to Nonnus’ epic poem, by scholars, such as Anthony
Kaldellis, Pierre Chuvin, and Alan Cameron,118 and recently also by Pieter W.
van der Horst in an essay in which he compares the letter of Mara bar Sarapion
to Boethius’ Consolatio philosophiae.119 Nonetheless, even if the Dionysiaca is
114 Vian (2003) 94–95. On Nonnus’ religious beliefs see also the chapters by Agosti, Bernabé/
García Gasco, Chuvin, and Dijkstra in this volume.
115 Gigli Piccardi (2003) 82.
116 Livrea (2000) 72–76; contra Beatrice (2007) 3531. See also Jourdan (2006) 274: ‘Clément
d’Alexandrie ne propose pas de voir en Dionysos une préfiguration du Dieu chrétien. . . . Le
païens cultivés en effet établissaient d’eux-mêmes ce parallèle, et ce parfois pour denoncer
la vanité de la figure christique’; Massa (2014) 167–182.
117 Liebeschuetz (1996) esp. 82–88.
118 Kaldellis (2007b) 174–178; Chuvin (2009) 367–370 and (2014) 12–18; Al. Cameron (2011)
698–706. See also Graf (2011) 328–329.
119 Van der Horst (2012a) 201: ‘As is to be expected from a Menippean satire, the Consolatio
reveals the limits of philosophy and for that very reason in the end recommends prayer.
And there is no doubt that Boethius wants us to understand this as Christian prayer.
At the end of his life (and of his final book), the philosopher Boethius sends us a non-
philosophical Christian message, even though the Consolatio is nowhere overtly Christian.
That seemingly non-Christian character of the Consolatio should not surprise us. We
know several other instances of “non-Christian” writings by Christian authors, that is to
say, writings which do not show any trace of Christian ideas but nevertheless were written
by authors who were definitely Christian. Names such as Synesius of Cyrene, Nonnus of
Panopolis, and Cyrus of the same city immediately spring to mind. When one reads some
of the treatises and letters of Synesius, one certainly does not get the impression one is
reading writings by a Christian bishop, and that applies a fortiori to Nonnus’ Dionysiaca
or the “non-Christian” poems by Cyrus. But one could also point to works such the De
monarchia of Pseudo-Justin, the anonymous Martyrium Maccabaeorum, or even some
sermons by John Chrysostom and Augustine on Old Testament texts in which one does
44 Accorinti
purely literary, which I find hard to believe,120 it is quite possible that ancient
readers attached a symbolic and allegorical meaning to the poem. In this way
learned Christians and pagans, who must have constituted a mixed audience
for both the works of Nonnus,121 could find in the Paraphrase some examples
of Kontrastimitation.122
From this perspective, The Myth of Paganism (2011), the influential book
by Robert Shorrock, is an original contribution to a better understanding of
Nonnus and the Janus character of his work, and represents an attempt to con-
textualize his poetry within the late antique world.123 Nonnus, as Shorrock has
persuasively argued, presents himself both as the poet of Christ and the poet
of the Muses, fluctuating continuously between Christianity and the classical
tradition, the Logos of John and the Word of Homer:
Nonnus’ transformation of the story of Christ into Classical epic is no

mere literary exercise. The juxtaposition of the Paraphrase with the world
of Dionysus and the Dionysiaca has elucidated a complex web of corre-
spondences and points of intersection. The text of the Paraphrase, draw-
ing on the rich seam of Dionysiac imagery already present in John’s
Gospel, encourages us to reflect on the intersection between Christ and
the figure of Dionysus and his world. The Paraphrase does not present a
simple mapping of Dionysiac imagery onto Christian; nor does it provide
us with any neat conclusions about the relationship between Classical
tradition and the Christian world. At the heart of the relationship
between these two spheres lies an essential, one might say Dionysiac,
instability—a disturbing (yet exhilarating) refusal to dictate and deter-
mine meaning.124
not find any specifically Christian elements. In the fourth through sixth centuries ce
there were several Christian humanists who did not regard their deep involvement with
Graeco-Roman culture as being at odds with their Christian beliefs. Quite often one has
the impression that the words of Plato carried more weight with these authors than the
words of Jesus Christ.’ See also König (2012) 178–179 and recently Agosti (2015b) esp. 223–
224, 234–236 (on the relationship between paideia and religious beliefs in Late Antiquity).
120 See Keydell (1955). On Nonnus’ ‘contemporary discourse’, see Agosti in this volume.
121 Schmitz (2005) 215–216; Matzner (2008) 142–143; Agosti (2012) 379 and the same author in
this volume.
122 Accorinti (2013c) 1125–1126. Cf. also the chapter by Lightfoot in this volume.
123 Shorrock (2011); see Bär (2012).
124 Shorrock (2011) 78. On the reception of the Homeric language in the Paraphrase, see
Spanoudakis (2014a) 5–9.
It is the myth itself that makes the intersection between Christianity and
the classical tradition possible. For Nonnus, as for Dracontius (c. 455–c. 505),
another key figure of Late Antiquity, myths are a cultural inheritance which
can be integrated into a Christian world view.125 Sometimes the reader has a
feeling that the Christian poet challenges him to discover the complex and
provocative relationship between the two spheres. This is the case, for exam-
ple, in two striking episodes of the Dionysiaca that show the appropriation of
language which belongs to the Gospel.
The first is the scene of forgiveness in Dion. 5.442–444, in which the ghost of
Actaeon, who appears in a dream to his father Aristaeus and begs him not to
punish the dogs, is given Christ’s words on the Cross (Luke 23:34a πάτερ, ἄφες
αὐτοῖς, οὐ γὰρ οἴδασιν τί ποιοῦσιν):
Ἀλλὰ, πάτερ, πυμάτην πόρε μοι χάριν, ἀφραδέας δέ

πένθος ἔχων φιλότεκνον ἐμοὺς μὴ κτεῖνε φονῆας,
παιδοφόνους οἴκτειρον ἀμεμφέας·
I do beg, my father, for one last grace: they knew not what they did, so do
not kill my slayers, in your love and sorrow for your child; pity those who
slew your son, for they are not to blame.126
The second is a more intriguing passage. I refer to the quasi-necrophiliac epi-

sode of Dion. 35.21–78, which was inspired by Achilles’ love for Penthesileia,
and in which one can see a pagan counterpart to the history of Drusiana and
Callimachus in the apocryphal Acts of John (63–86).127 The Bacchante, who has
been speared by the Indian soldier, addresses her slayer with the words the
risen Christ says to Mary Magdalene in Par. 20.72–75, where Nonnus renders
the Noli me tangere of John 20:17 (λέγει αὐτῇ Ἰησοῦς· μή μου ἄπτου, οὔπω γὰρ
ἀναβέβηκα πρὸς τὸν πατέρα):
125 Simons (2005) 368: ‘Die Verarbeitung und Darstellung von Mythen ist für Dracontius
wie auch für andere Autoren der ausgehenden Spätantike nicht mehr problematisch, sie
muß nicht gerechtfertigt werden. Die Mythen sind ein Kulturgut wie anderes paganes
philosophisches Gedankengut auch, das integriert ist in ein christlich bestimmtes
Weltbild.’
126 On the episode of Actaeon (Dion. 5.287–551), see Accorinti (forthcoming).
127 See Accorinti (2015).
46 Accorinti
ἣν σέο χαλκὸς ἔταμνεν, ἐμοῦ μὴ ψαῦε χιτῶνος· (Dion. 35.51)
Touch not my tunic, when your steel has cut me!
θεὸς δ’ ἀνέκοψε γυναῖκα

δεξιτερὴν μέλλουσαν ἐς ἄμβροτον εἷμα πελάσσαι.
καί οἱ μῦθον ἔλεξεν· ἐμῶν μὴ ψαῦε χιτώνων·
οὔπω γὰρ μετὰ πότμον ἐμῷ νόστησα τοκῆι· (Par. 20.72–75)
But God quickly stopped the woman short

As she reached out her hand to his immortal garment
And said to her: ‘Forbear, lest thou shouldst touch my robe:
For I have not yet gone to my Father after death.’128
It is difficult to avoid the impression that the poet may have seen an analogy
between the ‘Passion’ of the Bacchante and that of Christ, both pierced by a
spear.129 Thus, myth can play a bridging role between the classical tradition
and Christianity, legitimizing both the ‘Christian’ allure of the Dionysiaca and
the ‘pagan’ dimension of the Paraphrase, even though, as Jane L. Lightfoot
rightly observes in this volume (641), ‘in the rush to depict a world where all is
comfortable tolerance and bridge-building, one must not lose sight of the need
to make the case for difference.’
8 By Way of Conclusion
Faced with such audacious readings of the ‘pagan’ material, one would be
tempted to compare the attitude of Nonnus with that of Simone Weil (1909–
1943), the author of Intuitions pré-chrétiennes and herself a reader of the
Dionysiaca,130 or that of Snorri Sturluson (1178–1241), who wrote the Prose Edda
for a Christian audience with the aim of emphasizing the similarities between
pagan myths and Christian stories.131
128 Trans. Prost (2003).

129 Accorinti (2015) 68–69.
130 Accorinti (2014b).
131 Abram (2011) 220–221: ‘When writing about pagan gods for a Christian audience, Snorri may
well have found it desirable to make implicit connections between the two mythologies
in order to further the agenda that he sets out in the Prologue: the idea that paganism and
But every cautious reader knows that the last word on the poet from
Panopolis will never be said, unless one happens to meet him in Paradise and
pester him with questions about his poems, as do a German professor and his
students in the novel Happiness (1988) by Theodore Zeldin:
Nonnos could no longer sleep. He had been woken up first by an obscure

German professor, who, accompanied by a little army of earnest students,
demanded to see him, saying that they had devoted their whole lives to
exhuming his manuscripts, studying every word, finding meanings that
no one had suspected (not even Nonnos), worrying themselves to death
as to whether they had spotted the right symbolism behind each charac-
ter in his poems; and they had concluded that Nonnos was a major pre-
cursor of the modern novel. He belonged to modern literature. They had
come to salute him, to get him to preside over congresses they planned to
hold in his honour, where he might explain his thought, his style, his
motives and reveal any little detail about his personal habits that had
escaped their research; they promised that never again would he be
neglected, there would always be a scholar from one country or another
knocking at his door for advice and enlightenment. Nonnos was appalled.
That was the beginning of the vigil from which he had not been able to
escape.132
Christianity are fundamentally similar in certain ways, but that Christianity represents
the truth and paganism a delusion. By drawing attention to the superficial similarities
between the two religions and their myths, he could also encourage people to think about
their differences and to recognize the primacy of the new system over the old. But his
strategy of emphasizing those elements of pagan myths that have similarities to Christian
stories also has the advantage of making his narrative more accessible to an audience that
was largely unfamiliar with pagan traditions. It seems that one of Snorri’s aims was to
bring about a revival in interest in the culture of his ancestors; one way that he may have
done so was to make the old stories feel more familiar to new audiences by introducing
elements that would remind them of myths from their own, current mythology—as
represented by the Bible and the Church’s teachings.’
132 Zeldin (1988) 74 (I owe the reference to Christopher Smith). I would like to thank Mary
Whitby for her kind revision of this chapter.
48 Accorinti
figure 1.1 Richard Garnett, The Twilight of the Gods and Other Tales, with an introduction by
T.E. Lawrence, illustrated by H. Keen (London: John Lane the Bodley Head Limited;
New York: Dodd, Mead and Company, 1924), frontispiece.
figure 1.2 Henry Keen, ‘A Motley Crowd of Goblins’. R. Garnett, The Twilight of the Gods and
Other Tales, with an introduction by T.E. Lawrence, illustrated by H. Keen (London:
John Lane the Bodley Head Limited; New York: Dodd, Mead and Company, 1924),
facing page 180.
50 Accorinti
figure 1.3 Suda. Venice, Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana, MS Marcianus gr. 448 (= 1047), fo. 220r.
figure 1.4 Suda. Venice, Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana, MS Marcianus gr. 448 (= 1047),
fo. 220r (detail).
52 Accorinti
figure 1.5 Nonnus of Panopolis, Par. 1.1–58. Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France,
MS Parisinus gr. 1220, fo. 224r.
figure 1.6
Illumination by Jeanne and Richard
de Montbaston, Pelagia and her
courtesans with the bishop Nonnus
praying for her. Paris, Bibliothèque
nationale de France, MS fr. 185, fo. 264v
(detail).
chapter 2
Nonnus’ Panopolis
Peter van Minnen
1 Introduction
Panopolis in Upper Egypt produced several major cultural (literary) figures

in Late Antiquity: Zosimus the alchemist, Shenoute the abbot, and Nonnus
the poet, to mention only the more remarkable ones. How did this happen?
How did a provincial backwater produce such talent and for such a long time,
roughly from the third through the ninth century? Why did this not happen
earlier?
In what follows I am using a rather generous definition of Late Antiquity
that includes the third century as well as a couple of centuries after the Arab
conquest (ad 641). This has the advantage of not letting the story come to an
abrupt end in the sixth century.1 In recent years, it has become fashionable
to include the early Arab period in studies of Late Antiquity, not just because
there is so much continuity, but also because by including it, we include more
or less everything that shaped subsequent centuries: studies of ancient reli-
gion now typically include Christianity—why not include Islam as well? The
case has been made most recently by Garth Fowden.2 If we include a couple
of centuries after the Arab conquest, we can add a fourth major cultural fig-
ure, Dhu’l-Nun al-Misri, an early sufi. We know more about him than about his
works; the source problems are not unlike those for Zosimus. Shenoute and
Nonnus are in better shape: together their works fill several bookshelves.
Panopolis was one of the major towns in Upper Egypt, the capital of a so-
called nome (from Greek νομός, ‘district’).3 It was located on the east bank
of the Nile, in close proximity to the ridge that separates the Nile valley from
the eastern desert. Across the Nile is more fertile land, and most major vil-
lages were located on the west bank. These villages, as will appear in what fol-
lows, had their own contribution to make. Shenoute, for instance, came from
such a village. Just as Panopolis in Late Antiquity could draw on talent in its
own nome, other, more important centers such as Alexandria could draw on
1 See the collected articles in Allen/Jeffreys (1996).

2 Fowden (2014).
3 On Panopolis in the Greco-Roman period (to 600) see Geens (2007).

Nonnus ’ Panopolis 55
Panopolis. But before Late Antiquity, Panopolis was part of the same kind of
hierarchical network, with Alexandria as the main draw,4 but it did not pro-
duce major cultural figures as in Late Antiquity. Why not?
As most towns in Upper Egypt, Panopolis was part of Hellenistic Egypt for
three centuries—at least most of the time, when there wasn’t a native revolt—
but it was not really Hellenistic. The settlement of Greeks and the influence
from the Greek ‘center’ (peripheral Alexandria) are less marked the further
south one gets. This is an important part of the explanation why Panopolis had
little to contribute in the form of major cultural figures in this period. A caveat
is in order here: as a Classicist I am inclined to look for Greek culture and to
ignore Egyptian culture. But even so, towns further north had a much better
chance of reinventing themselves in a world increasingly dominated by Greek
culture than those further south. The relatively few Greeks in Upper Egypt
were also unlikely to produce major cultural talents, given that the men were
soldiers or kept in reserve for the Ptolemaic military. The women were more
often than not Egyptians. Elsewhere I have argued that the so-called Greeks
in Roman Egypt in fact descended from a mixed Greek and Egyptian popula-
tion and that the men grew up more Greek than the women because of their
participation in public life. Paradoxically, Greek brothers had Egyptian sisters.5
I have also argued that most of the so-called Greeks in Roman Egypt were
not members of the elite. This was certainly the case in Upper Egypt. The tra-
ditional elite there, the Egyptian priests, dominated the cultural scene. They
would have to reinvent themselves in Greek cultural terms before they could
join the new cultural hegemony and speak to a wider world. The use of the
Egyptian language (Hieratic, later Demotic) restricted the reach of Egyptian
literature, as did its genres (often ‘hieratic’). Moving to a bilingual or even
monolingual Greek cultural mode of expression would take the Egyptian
priests several centuries.
As a matter of fact, the Egyptian cultural scene in Panopolis was by no means
unimportant. For this I can point to the funerary evidence, which is plentiful,
and the literary papyri, which are not but are nevertheless important. A couple
of substantial wisdom texts (P.Onchsheshonqi and P.Insinger, the latter named
after a Dutch Egyptologist) and an important narrative text survive in papyri
4 Ptolemais was the nearest Greek city, the only Greek city in Upper Egypt. The other Greek
cities in Egypt were peripheral Alexandria, Naucratis in the Delta, and (from ad 130)
Antinoopolis in Middle Egypt. Ptolemais cuts a sorry figure in Late Antiquity compared to
Antinoopolis or even Panopolis.
5 Van Minnen (2002a).
56 van Minnen
from Panopolis from the first century bc. As elsewhere, this kind of evidence
peters out in the early Roman period, when Hellenization takes center stage.
As a kind of counterexample to my point about the Greek soldiers in Upper
Egypt not being the prime movers in the spread of Greek culture, I can adduce
the first ‘poet’ from Panopolis in the table included at the end of this chapter
(Appendix), a Roman legionary called Agrius Ptolemaeus (or Ptolemagrius, as
he is also called). His monument, a pillar, features a Roman soldier, canopic
jars, and Greek poems, in a variety of metres, on all four sides (I.Métriques 114).
The date is disputed but an early one is more likely. Ptolemagrius offers his
hometown a garden (marked by the pillar) and twice a year up to one hundred
men from Panopolis, representatives of their respective communities, a free
meal. This would have been a tall order in the advanced second or third cen-
tury, the date often given.6 By then the urban elite would have crowded out a
veteran like Ptolemagrius. But did he write the poems himself? They are bad
enough to not have to worry about the ascription too much. The poems were
at any rate composed by a local ‘poet’, perhaps Ptolemagrius himself, and he
therefore features in the table (Appendix) with a question mark.
2 Chronological Survey
It is best to survey the major cultural figures from Panopolis chronologically:

given the relatively obscure nature of many of these ‘major’ cultural figures, it
is probably better to introduce them in their time. For some of them the dates
are very insecure.7
2.1 Triphiodorus
In the third century we find the first ‘major’ cultural figure from Panopolis
I haven’t even mentioned yet: Triphiodorus. The manuscript version of his
name, Tryphiodorus, is attested in papyri but used only in Aphrodite (down
river from Panopolis) in the sixth century (SB XX 14669), when and where they
may not have understood the meaning of the name. Triphiodorus is a typical
Panopolitan name, in Greek as well as in Egyptian (Petetriphis). The name refers
to Triphis, one of the gods of the Panopolitan triad. The Ptolemaic Triphieion
outside Panopolis, on the west bank of the Nile, is not far from Shenoute’s
6 The script of I.Métriques 115, a stela containing a copy of one of the poems, points to the late
first or early second century pace Criscuolo (2002) 63–67, repeated from Criscuolo (2000).
See, e.g., I.Alex.Breccia 65 (ad 117).
7 Earlier surveys include Martin/Primavesi (1998) 43–50 and Miguélez Cavero (2008) 191–263.
monastery, which is sometimes identified in papyri as being in the desert of the

Triphieion.8 Note that already in 298, the Triphieion was secularized and rein-
stalled as a palatium for Diocletian’s visit (P.Panop.Beatty 1.259–261; a similar
reuse is on record for the temple at Luxor9). The new Palladas codex (page 12,
lines 33–34)10 includes a veiled reference to the secularization, which it pres-
ents as a warning issued by Triphis to Lycopolis, downriver from Panopolis.
Apparently, the secularization of the Triphieion was viewed at least by Palladas
as a punishment for the Upper Egyptian revolt against Diocletian. Finds have
shown that, even if the temple was not destroyed by Shenoute, as has often
been thought,11 it was nevertheless used for spolia for the White Monastery.12
Shenoute claims to have burned the (no doubt deserted) Triphieion, presum-
ably to ‘smoke out’ the demons.13
Triphiodorus is the author of the Sack of Troy, a short epic complementing
Homer’s Iliad by writing out what Demodocus would have said in Book 8 of
the Odyssey that brought Odysseus to tears. Triphiodorus was a grammatikos
(a teacher who taught reading and writing Greek poetry) and also the author
of a lost Odyssey of his own, without sigma. For the longest time the Sack of
Troy was put in the context of the so-called school of Nonnus, some epic
poets, who imitated Nonnus in various ways from about 470 onwards. This put
Triphiodorus in the fifth century after Nonnus, but a third- or fourth-century
papyrus from Oxyrhynchus (P.Oxy. XLI 2946–2947) with some verses from the
Sack of Troy as well as what appears to be a comment(ary) on the Sack of Troy or
its subject matter overturned the consensus. Scholars have now generally set-
tled on a third-century date for the poem and the poet, after the Posthomerica
of Quintus Smyrnaeus.14
We do not know whether Triphiodorus was active mainly in his home town
or in Alexandria. As so often with other ‘major’ cultural figures, we have to
assume that the basic education was provided in Panopolis, possibly also
the intermediate education, but that the finishing touches were applied in
8 P.Cair.Masp. III 67312.38–40 (ad 567) refers to Shenoute’s monastery as τοῦ] εὐαγοῦ̣[ς
μον]α̣στηρίο(υ) καλο(υ)μένο(υ) Ἄπα Σεν[ού]θ̣[ου], κ̣ [ει]μ̣ έ[̣� νο(υ)] ἐ�[̣ ν τῷ ὄρει Τρι]φί�ο̣̣ (υ) τοῦ
Πανοπολίτου νομο(ῦ). Cf. similarly P.Ross.Georg. III 48.1. On the spelling Tripheion or
Triphieion see Layton (2014) 12 n. 9.
9 See el-Saghir/Golvin/Reddé/Hegazy/Wagner (1986).
10 Wilkinson (2012) 89.
11 Corrected by el-Sayed (2010).
12 Klotz (2010).
13 On the history of the Triphieion, including the reference in the new Palladas codex, see
Wilkinson (forthcoming).
14 There is now a line-by-line, even word-for-word, commentary by Miguélez Cavero (2013c).
58 van Minnen
Alexandria. My rule of thumb is: Panopolis (or any other provincial city) can
make you a poet (or other cultural figure) but not a good one. Dioscorus of
Aphrodite is an example of a bad poet who did not rise above the provincial
level.15 Triphiodorus is an example of a good poet (not a great one), who must
have perfected his skills in Alexandria.
Ancient education is usually divided into three successive parts, depending
on the teacher: first comes the didaskalos (reading and writing), then the gram-
matikos (reading and writing poetry), and finally the rhetor (writing prose), but
the second and especially the third parts were optional. The second and third
parts could be drawn out and perfected in a major city such as Alexandria.
In Late Antiquity Alexandria is more famous for philosophy and medicine,
but grammatical and rhetorical education was still important—the first port
of call for Egyptians and also frequented by others, as the Life of Severus by
Zachariah Scholasticus makes clear for the second half of the fifth century.16
Even Latin and Roman law were taught there.
For education in Panopolis itself I can refer to an early fourth-century reg-
ister of buildings (P.Berl.Borkowski) that lists the occupation of the owners or
their relatives in about 45% of the cases (c. 160 individuals in all). Among these
are four didaskaloi and two rhetores. There is also a diatribe, a kind of philo-
sophical school (reminiscent to the auditoria of Kom el-Dikka in Alexandria17),
which includes a shrine of Persephone, clearly different from the Egyptian
gods who occupy the temples in the list. Apart from this register we know pre-
cious little about the physical shape of Panopolis in the Roman period, because
the site has been continuously occupied since antiquity and archaeological
research has been thin on the ground.18
Panopolitans who could afford it would probably send their sons to
Alexandria even for their intermediate education, but as I have argued for
the Hellenistic period, so one could argue also for the early Roman period:
the Greek elite would still be thin on the ground in Upper Egypt. One rather
expects to see more of this movement to Alexandria further north, but surpris-
ingly, there isn’t much to report for Middle and Lower Egypt in the early Roman
period either.
With the coming of the Romans, the Greek elite in the cities of Egypt were
let off the hook, so to speak: they were no longer required to serve in the mili-
tary. Some continued to do so, as we have seen in the case of Ptolemagrius.
15 On Dioscorus see Fournet (1999).

16 New translation in Brock/Fitzgerald (2013).
17 On these see Derda/Markiewicz/Wipszycka (2007).
18 For archaeological work in Panopolis itself see McNally/Dvoržak Schrunk (1993).
Male members of the Greek elite could enlist in the Roman legions, but that
would take them away from their natural environment, even to other prov-
inces, where they would spend their military career. Ptolemagrius did return
to Panopolis. Those members of the Greek elite who no longer served in the
military, now the majority, could have become more active culturally, but in
Upper Egypt this took several centuries to produce the kind of major cultural
figures such as Triphiodorus.
This is perhaps not surprising, if we consider what else was going on in the
cities there. The traditional Egyptian elite (Egyptian priests) was itself transi-
tioning to a bilingual, even monolingual Greek cultural mode of expression
in the course of the Roman period, and they were thoroughly Hellenized by
the later third century. We do not know enough about Egyptian priests in the
cities, but their counterparts in villages may stand in for them here. As I have
argued elsewhere,19 Egyptian priests are behind most of the literary papyri
found in villages in the Arsinoite nome to the north of Panopolis, mainly from
the second century. The book collections in Hieratic, Demotic, and Greek from
Tebtynis are especially remarkable. I know of no other period or place before
the very recent past in which so much literary culture had been amassed in vil-
lages as in early Roman Egypt. Traditional Egyptian religion was among other
things a religion of books, and this was not limited to cities. Egyptian villages in
the early Roman Empire were still by and large dominated by Egyptian culture,
when cities such as Panopolis were already on the way to becoming like Greek
cities elsewhere in the Empire. Egyptian temples were important in cities too,
but there was now much else going on there with which they had to compete.
The Greek elite in the cities was transforming the physical makeup of what
was becoming more and more ‘their’ city in the course of the early Roman
period. The Romans increasingly put the responsibility for running the place to
members of the Greek elite, but the full slate of Greek urban magistrates took a
century to hammer out, and the councils, so conspicuously absent in Hellenistic
and much of early Roman Egypt, even in Alexandria, took another century. By
the second century, economic prosperity allowed the Greek elite to change the
face of their cities, at least to some extent, by adding public monuments in
the Greco-Roman ‘Imperial’ style. The traditional Egyptian temples remained
a conspicuous feature, but manifestations of Greek culture, whether monu-
mental or literary, now started to provide competition. By the third century
19 Van Minnen (1998), disputed on insufficient grounds by Ryholt (2007): some texts would
fit a ‘temple library’, but not all, and certainly not the texts written on the back of dis-
carded Greek documents, which must have been private copies of priests, just as the
scores of copies of narrative and other texts.
60 van Minnen
the Greek elite was adding games and other, usually cheaper manifestations
of Greek culture to what was happening in ‘their’ cities. Panopolis first orga-
nized games on the Greek model, the Paneia, in 264, inspired no doubt by what
they read in Herodotus (2.91).20 In this period also belongs the reuse of the
Strasbourg Empedocles,21 a manuscript from the late first century reused to
stiffen the crown of a dead person in the el-Salamuni cemetery to the east of
Panopolis with its rich elite tombs, now used by the Greek elite.22
This rising tide of Hellenization is the background for Triphiodorus.23 With
the progression of time, more Greek cultural manifestations were happening
also in Panopolis. It is not surprising that the first ‘major’ cultural manifes-
tation in Greek there is epic poetry. The Homeric poems were the standard
for Greek education, and Greek poets worked increasingly in its metre and
subject matter. Even before the third century we hear of a Homeric scholar
from Tilothis, a village in the Heracleopolite nome, closer to Alexandria than
to Panopolis, in the early Roman period.24
2.2 Zosimus
In the third century also lie the roots of Zosimus the alchemist from Panopolis.
Unlike Triphiodorus’ Sack of Troy, Zosimus’ work does not survive as such—
except in fragments.25 This is most unfortunate, because Zosimus is a remark-
able character. For want of a better date scholars have usually put him in
about 300. Zosimus has been dubbed ‘the godfather of seventeen centuries
of obscurantism.’26 He is first and foremost the figurehead of the alchemical
tradition in Greek or any language, which locates some dim figures in the ear-
lier Empire whose work is first systematized by Zosimus. In its turn the later
alchemical tradition excerpts Zosimus and comments on his work, a kind of
exegetical afterlife, which kept Zosimus alive for us in some fashion. His fame
is beyond dispute in this kind of literature. His own work is a strange mixture
of science and religion, which he identified as his philosophy. The purpose of
Zosimus’ work was not just to produce effects in the material world, a kind of
applied science, but a life of reflection on how to purify and perfect the soul.
20 See on this Miguélez Cavero (2008) 258–260.

21 Edited by Martin/Primavesi (1998).
22 It is ‘Friedhof C’ in Kuhlmann (1983) 53 (Fig. 14).
23 See also Geens (2009).
24 Suda, s.v. ‘Ἡρακλέων’ (η 455 Adler).
25 The first critical edition of some of Zosimus’ works has started to appear with Mertens
(1995) in the Budé series Alchimistes grecs (IV, 1).
26 Van der Vliet (2002) vii.
For this he draws on a variety of alchemical sources, but also on Hermetic and
gnostic sources. The alchemical sources are too dim for us, but the Hermetic
sources are not: the Poimandres, the first, and the Krater, the fourth treatise in
the Hermetic corpus as we have it.27 The gnostic sources are as always more
slippery. Zosimus is a real syncretist, and he doesn’t hesitate to link the bib-
lical story from Adam to Christ (the Son of God) with alchemy as a kind of
philosophical propaedeusis.28 His dream reports have predictably attracted
the attention of Carl Jung and his followers.
Zosimus ordered his major works according to the Greek alphabet (Alpha
to Omega), but he also wrote other works. We have in particular an introduc-
tion to Omega, addressed to Zosimus’ ‘sister’ Theosebeia (not a real name),
who is also the addressee of one of the other works, the Final Quittance. She is
criticized by Zosimus for something she wrote, thereby deserving her place in
the table (Appendix) as the only culturally active woman from Panopolis we
know of.
Where did Zosimus get all this? He is identified in the sources as a
Panopolitan, even sometimes just referred to as ‘the Panopolitan’ (without
the name). He had a long afterlife, in Greek, Latin, Syriac, and Arabic, and in
all of these, ‘Zosimus’ may stand for something only very indirectly related to
the historical Zosimus from Panopolis, who interests us here. Zosimus must
have received his basic and intermediate education in Panopolis. He mentions
Hesiod and Plato, and these would have been on the program there. A common
assumption is that Zosimus was active in Alexandria, where more resources
would have been available. But one needs only a few books to absorb the kind
of lore that Zosimus exemplifies. According to my rule of thumb (Panopolis
can make you a cultural figure but not a good one) he might have become a
good scientist in Alexandria or a good philosopher, and Zosimus is neither. The
fact that there are several other alchemists in Panopolis several centuries later
(writing in Arabic) rather suggests that Zosimus’ lore (books and apparatuses)
was transmitted locally and that he was therefore active in Panopolis itself.
In Zosimus’ case the main gnostic sources would have been Christian.
Christian gnostic works could be found anywhere. It is a mere coincidence but
nevertheless tell-tale that the Nag Hammadi codices were found ‘not too far’
south of Panopolis. Gnostic texts predominate in the Nag Hammadi codices,
but some Hermetic texts are also included. By about 600 someone was buried
27 See Fowden (1993) 120–126.

28 Cf. the recent attempt at ‘locating’ Zosimus in van den Broek (2013) 223–224. See also
Grimes (2006).
62 van Minnen
at Panopolis, in one of the cheaper tombs in the al-Hawawish cemetery,29 with

a partial copy of the Gospel of Peter and the Apocalypse of Peter in Greek.30 One
of the famous gnostic codices not from Nag Hammadi (the Berlin Codex 8502)
is believed to be from Panopolis.
In the early fourth century register of buildings from Panopolis I men-
tioned earlier we find among the urban property listed only one house church
(οἰκία ἤτοι ἐκκλησία in line 103), and among the occupational designations are
deacons plural. There also was a ‘Parembole of the Christians’ in Panopolis, a
Roman army camp where martyrs had been taken during the Great Persecution
(P.Dublin 31 of 355).31
A younger contemporary of Zosimus is Ammon Scholasticus from Panopolis.
He is only known from documentary papyri from between 283 and 365 or 366.32
Ammon was the last Egyptian priest from Panopolis we know of.33 In a peti-
tion from 348 (P.Ammon II 47) he mentions an insult to his ἅγιον σχῆμα (‘holy
habit’) when he showed himself to an officialis in Alexandria. His grandfathers
had Egyptian names, and so of course did his grandmothers. It is only with his
generation that we find more Greek names in the family. Ammon also kept a
couple of Greek literary texts in his archive, Homer and a list of scholarchs,
heads of Greek philosophical schools, which he copied on the back of a docu-
ment he worked on during a visit to Alexandria.
Ammon called himself a scholastikos, not a legal specialist, but an educated
man who could draw up legal documents, not unlike Dioscorus of Aphrodite
two centuries later. We know Ammon mainly as someone drafting petitions on
behalf of his nephew or on his own behalf. In the petitions from 348 Ammon
presents himself as educated in philosophy and λόγοι (prose). His nephew
Apollon was a poet.
Ammon’s claim to fame is as the author of the longest private letter in
Greek to survive on papyrus, one he wrote to his mother c. 325–330, when he
29 ‘Friedhof A’ in Kuhlmann (1983) 53 (Fig. 14).

30 On these see van Minnen (2003) and (2007) respectively. Nicklas (2005) argues that both
texts derive from the Gospel of Peter.
31 More on the Parembole in Geens (2007) 397–398.
32 See van Minnen (2002b), where I drew on P.Ammon I. Since then, P.Ammon II had added
a few new pieces to the dossier.
33 Coincidentally the few contemporary priests we hear about are all priestesses. One was
involved in organizing transportation for a festival in 332 (P.Panop. 29 and 30), and another
is mentioned in the letter of a physician (a priestess of Triphis; P.Fouad 80). Earlier, in 197
(P.Achmim 8 + P.Bouriant 41a), two priests have paid the fee for the stolisteia, and in the
same year another, Petetriphis (so his name is to be read in line 37 of P.Achmim 8), gets a
fine refunded to him.
was still a young man. It is carefully written with diacritics and all. His mother,
herself a member of an educated elite, would have been able to appreciate this.
In my earlier contribution on Panopolis34 I suggested that from indications in
the text (corrections to mistakes made because of a saut du même au même)
it appears that Ammon copied the clean version from a draft. Presumably he
wrote multiple drafts before committing the final text to papyrus, as he did
about twenty years later for the petitions of 348. One of the issues dealt with in
the letter and a contemporary petition is Ammon’s attempt to get his nephew
Horion II (son of his older half-brother Horion I) a propheteia. His half-brother
had been an archiprophetes, but the Roman government made a fuss about
priestly succession because of the fiscal privileges associated with the ‘hieratic’
status.
Ammon dabbled in prose, but his older brother Harpocration was more suc-
cessful: he was a rhetor turned Imperial (prose) panegyrist—not just teaching
but practicing Greek oratory. Ammon’s brother is an example of the traditional
elite (Egyptian priests) making it to the same kind of new elite in Late Antiquity
(the Imperial bureaucracy in the New Empire of Diocletian and Constantine)
as the other elite in Panopolis, the Greek urban magistrates. Another new elite
in Late Antiquity would have been the bishops, who were also recruited from
among the Greek cultural elite (exceptionally, two brothers who were bishops
of Philae in succession had a traditional Egyptian priest as father35). Monks
were another kind of new elite in Late Antiquity, outside the cities and outside
the hierarchies, be they Imperial or ecclesiastical. My rule of thumb (Panopolis
can make you a cultural figure but not a good one) does not apply to them, as
we shall see.
Ammon’s older brother Harpocration is an interesting figure. He worked
himself into the Imperial bureaucracy with the help of his oratorical tal-
ents, which he presumably acquired in Panopolis and honed in Alexandria.
According to what Ammon tells about him in his petition from 348,
Harpocration had been procurator (epitropos) and curator (logistes) in (the)
cities of old Greece before proceeding to Rome and finally Constantinople. He
died abroad in 348. In the fourth century the Empire needed prose authors
such as Harpocration. In the fifth century it needed poets such as Cyrus and
Pamprepius, both from Panopolis.
34 Van Minnen (2002b) 188.

35 See Dijkstra (2008) 262–264, who downplays this as a literary motif.
64 van Minnen
2.3 Shenoute
The next ‘major’ cultural figure from Panopolis is Pcol, the spiritual father
of Shenoute. Pcol’s revision in Coptic of the Pachomian rules for his monas-
tery across the Nile from Panopolis was recently reconstructed from quota-
tions in Shenoute.36 The Panopolite nome was one of the hotbeds of Egyptian
monasticism.37
Shenoute himself came from the village Senalolet in the Panopolite nome,
also on the west bank. He was born in the late 340s and died in 465. He out-
lived Nestorius who was exiled to Egypt and died in Panopolis in the 450s.
Shenoute presents himself as having been a young monk-apprentice with Pcol,
and this is also implied by the so-called Life, a sermon originally preached by
Shenoute’s successor Besa on the anniversary of Shenoute’s death and later
much expanded by successive hands.38 Shenoute was an adult monk in Pcol’s
monastery (for which the Pachomian rules were revised) and was put in charge
of the monastery himself sometime after Pcol died. For about 80 years from 385
onwards Shenoute was the ‘supreme leader’ of the monastery and its affiliates.
Shenoute is the most prolific Coptic author we know of. Later manuscripts
from the monastery (ninth-century, mostly) preserve a large part of his work in
two collections: Canons going back to Shenoute himself (nine in all) and a sec-
ond series of Discourses (eight in all) collected by his successors. The material
in the Canons appears also anthologized in the so-called Florilegium, allow-
ing a thorough reconstruction. The Discourses are included in a list of titles
of Shenoute’s works (the so-called ‘Vienna Incipit List’), allowing a thorough
reconstruction of Discourses 4–8. In all we have about 150 works by Shenoute
of varying length.39 The difference between the Canons and the Discourses is
not great. Both contain a series of (open) letters and sermons, and even the
occasional treatise40 would have been written with an audience in mind. In
composing Shenoute may have availed himself of stenographic dictation, as
was common in Late Antiquity.
Shenoute the man is famous throughout Egypt and even outside (the Life
appears in Ethiopic also), but the man’s works only survive in manuscripts
from his own monastery with one possible exception—and a number of brief
36 See Layton (2014).

37 See the collection of essays in Gabra/Takla (2008).
38 Lubomierski (2007) denies Besa the authorship of this admittedly very unstable text.
39 See Emmel (2004). Additional fragments of Codex BV have been found by archaeologists:
see Davis/Pyke/Davidson/Farag/Schriever (2014).
40 The treatise Contra Origenistas is unusual for its long quotations of authorities, but it
nevertheless is very ‘appellative’ in nature. See Cristea (2011) for a new edition.
quotations on ostraca from Thebes and in subsequent Coptic authors, such as

a fifth-century abbot of Abydos and bishops of Lycopolis, Hermopolis, Coptus,
and Heracleopolis (from the sixth through the seventh century). The (late) epi-
graphic inventory of books in Shenoute’s Monastery includes 94 biblical codi-
ces, 89 homiletic codices, 78 Shenoutean codices, and much fewer for the other
categories (e.g., hagiography with only 13 codices is the next largest category).41
The most famous single incident in Shenoute’s life (both in his own report
and in the so-called Life) involves one Gessius, a ‘crypto-pagan’ (Emmel), not
an unorthodox Christian or syncretist à la Zosimus, who was ex-governor of
the Thebaid under Valens, shunted in 378 and stuck in Panopolis.42
As a member of the elite Gessius owned vineyards and a commercial bath
house in Panopolis. Vineyards had not always been the preserve of members
of the elite in Panopolis. In P.Achmim 9 from the late second century originally
hundreds of owners of non-arable land, both vineyards and orchards, were
listed, but their numbers would have been much reduced because of the eco-
nomic hardships following the Antonine Plague. We see the same pattern in
Theadelpheia further north.43 As a member of the elite Gessius did not com-
municate with the religion of the mass of the peasants, as Shenoute may have
done, probably not even with that of the mass of the craftsmen in Panopolis
(the kind we know from the early fourth-century register of buildings), but
rather with that of elite pagans elsewhere who were operating (very) low
key within (sometimes without) the boundaries of the law, not unlike their
opponents.44
What triggered the confrontation with Shenoute was Gessius’ nightly visit
to the Triphieion (secularized by Diocletian, as we have seen, then deserted),
where Gessius performed an unbloody sacrifice. When taken to task for this
by Shenoute, Gessius promised to become a Christian (by being baptized).
Shenoute then paid Gessius a nightly visit at his home in Panopolis, where he
and a group of his own people unmasked him as a pagan with hidden ‘idols’,
statues with lamps in working order. In the ensuing conversation Gessius
adduces Plato and Apollonius of Tyana against Shenoute’s exclusive claim
of Christ’s divinity. This was the stock-in-trade of pagan philosophers (not of
unorthodox Christians, let alone syncretists) against Christianity. Admittedly,
Shenoute is providing the details. Are they reliable? Emmel is inclined to
accept Shenoute’s version, given that the story is told in an open letter to the
Panopolitans, who would have known better if it hadn’t been true.
41 See the discussion in Orlandi (2002).

42 For what follows see especially Emmel (2008), expanding on Emmel (2002).
43 See van Minnen (2000) 214–215.
44 See, e.g., Hahn (2012) and (2013).
66 van Minnen
What we can take home from this confrontation is that it actually happened.
Shenoute and a ‘crypto-pagan’ from Panopolis had some kind of conversation
about religious issues. Otherwise we are mostly reduced to pretending that
the various literary texts we have from Late Antiquity are somehow having a
conversation.
Other incidents mentioned by Shenoute and the so-called Life include his
trip with Cyril to the Council of Ephesus in 431 (Shenoute probably also paid
a visit to Constantinople at that time), the famine that allowed him to prove
himself a great organizer, the building of the church known as ‘the White
Monastery’ after its color (indeed the whitest spot in the area on GoogleEarth),
and interactions with representatives of the local elite in Panopolis (once
dubbed Panomos, ⲡ-ἄνομος, ‘Sin City’, by Shenoute45) and the regional authori-
ties in Antinoopolis.
Shenoute became a monk when he was still very young, if we believe his
own chronological statements and the indications in the so-called Life (a mere
lad of nine). Where did he get his education? He mentions Aristophanes’ Birds
and takes aim at Aristophanes’ Frogs also. Both plays were part of the curricu-
lum of the grammatikos in Late Antiquity. Shenoute also mastered a number
of Greek prose compositional forms (from a rhetor?), which he was the first to
successfully adopt in Egyptian (Sahidic Coptic). He must have been educated,
at the elementary, intermediate, and advanced level in the monastery, not in
Panopolis, and not much at any rate in his home village. This shows that in
Upper Egypt one could get pretty far in some monasteries in the fourth cen-
tury, and this is borne out by the Pachomian monasteries in Upper Egypt in
general, even if they are not quite respectable from a Greek literary point of
view. Shenoute and his counterparts in other Pachomian monasteries prove
that my rule of thumb (Panopolis can make you a cultural figure but not a good
one) does not apply to monks. They were setting a major cultural trend for a
millennium and a half.
In the Life of Pachomius the early establishment of a Pachomian monas-
tery near Panopolis is mentioned (before 346).46 A philosopher from Panopolis
quips about the monks bringing olives to Panopolis (think owls to Athens, coal
to Newcastle). One of Pachomius’ representatives quips back about the olives
needing salt, a preservative, which the monks will provide. The philosopher
and his fellow-philosophers are educators, presumably publicly appointed but
with a large private clientele, who expect competition from the monks. The
monks see themselves as an important ‘alternative provider’ of education.
45 Emmel (2008) 178 n. 72.

46 Veilleux (1980) 74–76 (Bohairic) and 353–354 (Greek).
Monastic education in this early period has been underestimated. In addi-

tion to the Pachomians I can adduce Antony and Evagrius. The Bodmer codi-
ces have sometimes been associated with Panopolis, which is ‘relatively’ close
to where they were found.47 Their educational context appears in three ways:
(1) Menander’s Samia, Dyscolus, and Aspis, which form part of the curriculum
in Late Antiquity, (2) Thucydides, who appears as a Lückenbüsser, and perhaps
(3) poems on a set theme (ethopoeiae) that come at the end of the Codex des
Visions.48
Purportedly found in Shenoute’s monastery is a fifth century codex with
Exodus and Sirach in Achmimic Coptic and Greek homilies.49 This codex was
made by reusing administrative documents from Panopolis from the very end
of the second century. The same goes for a (contemporary?) book binding that
was made up of discarded literary texts (P.Achmim 2–5), a summary and glos-
sary of the Iliad, Hesiod, Euripides, and a poem that also appears in the AP, all
of which would not have been out of place in a school—a monastic school,
perhaps. Thanks to this book binding we may get a glimpse of Shenoute’s own
school days in Pcol’s monastery.
Now picture this: Nonnus, half a century later, is himself a schoolboy in
Panopolis, and Shenoute is speaking at a Christian feast. All schoolboys want
to see the old man. What happens? Shenoute addresses the crowd in—what?
Sahidic Coptic? Achmimic Coptic? Achmimic is not hard to perform if you
work off a Sahidic text. Shenoute addressed the crowd definitely not in Greek.
Did Nonnus and the other schoolboys get it? Presumably. Remember my point
about the Greek brothers and their Egyptian sisters. Nonnus was one of those
Greek boys from Panopolis who had thoroughly Egyptian female relatives and
grew up bilingual, Greek in public, Egyptian (Coptic) in private. Dioscorus
of Aphrodite in the middle of the sixth century versifies in Greek and writes
Greek legal documents but also Coptic legal documents.
Shenoute’s successor Besa doesn’t talk about himself, so we can give him
short shrift. He was presumably also educated at Shenoute’s monastery.
2.4 Nonnus
A contemporary of Shenoute was Cyrus the ‘forgotten poet’ (van der Horst50)
from Panopolis. Among other things he was consul in Constantinople in 441
47 The first Bodmer papyrus is not a codex, but a reused document from Panopolis (208/209
and 216/217) with Homer’s Iliad. This must have been a separate find.
48 See on the last-mentioned Fournet (1992).
49 Discussed in Bagnall (2002) 2–3.
50 Van der Horst (2012b).
68 van Minnen
and then, after a fall from grace, bishop of Cotyaeum in Asia Minor. He is the
author of the shortest Christmas sermon ever51 and believed to be behind
the legend that associates Menas, the saint from Alexandria, with Cotyaeum.
Cyrus’ poetry does not survive beyond a few epigrams in the AP.
Shortly after Shenouthe’s death we find another poet from Panopolis, also
active in public life outside Egypt, just as Cyrus. Pamprepius (born in 440)
studied in Athens (with Proclus) where he became a grammatikos. From there
he moved up to Constantinople. He was a pagan and fatefully involved in the
revolt of Illus in 484. Some of his poetry perhaps survives on papyrus.52
In an epigram in the AP (9.198) Nonnus states that he is from Panopolis,
but that he has been active in Alexandria.53 In his Dionysiaca (1.13) he makes
it clear that he wrote the epic in Alexandria. Otherwise Egypt is not often
mentioned in the Dionysiaca,54 Panopolis not at all. None of this surprises in a
mythological epic about Dionysus’ exploits. The Blemmyes to the south-east of
Egypt are mentioned in Book 17 (385–397), but they were on everybody’s radar
in Late Antiquity.55 Surprisingly, Syrian Berytus is covered by three (41–43) of
the later books of the Dionysiaca on Dionysus’ ‘civil’ accomplishments. Syrian
Tyre, more traditional in the context of Dionysus’ exploits, gets just half a book
(40). Perhaps Nonnus was courting the sponsorship of the recently established
Roman law faculty in Berytus.
The Paraphrase of John’s Gospel is by the same author. It probably antedates
the Dionysiaca.56 Nonnus was at any rate not a convert (either way). In the
late antique ‘thought world’ Dionysus was not a problem for most educated
Christians, especially those belonging to the Greek urban elite. Dionysus (even
if just the vine) appears often in the visual arts57 (the funerary textiles from
Panopolis58 or the architectural evidence from Heracleopolis). Also note the
51 Gregory (1975).

52 See the recent reconstruction of Pamprepius’ career by Livrea (2014b), who uses the
Vienna papyrus (P.Vindob. gr. 29788 A–C), which he ascribes to Pamprepius, to fill in some
of the details.
53 For the ‘biography’ of Nonnus see the first chapter by Accorinti in this volume.
54 On Nonnus and Egypt see Gigli Piccardi (1998). For parallels between the Dionysiaca and
Egyptian hagiography (notably the Panegyric of Macarius, bishop of Tkow), see Agosti
(2013b) and the chapter by the same author in this volume.
55 Barthel (2014). See also Agosti in this volume.
56 Vian (1997b) 154–160.
57 Buccino (2013) and Massa (2014) for the earlier stages of this.
58 The textiles also draw on the gospel: a ‘Dionysiac’ hanging was found together with a
‘Mary’ silk at Panopolis, see McNally (2002).
role of vineyards for the Egyptian elite in Late Antiquity. One source of inspira-
tion for the Paraphrase is presumably Cyril’s relatively recent commentary on
John’s Gospel.
Nonnus’ epic versification (only nine different hexameter patterns, with
stress at the end of both halves of the hexameter) is attested from about 470,59
and Nonnus apparently quotes Cyrus (AP 9.136, an epigram dated 441/442)
at Dionysiaca 16.321 (= 20.372). A date in the middle of the fifth century for
Nonnus’ floruit (450–470) seems unavoidable.
Is Nonnus the contemporary bishop of Edessa? This old suggestion of Reich’s
(in Der Mimus) has been revived by Livrea.60 This is pure speculation. And why
not in that case identify Nonnus with the bishop of Aphrodisias, mentioned
by Zachariah Scholasticus in the Life of Severus? This bishop, involved in the
famous affair of the cult of Isis at Menouthis in the Egyptian Delta, fits the
‘pagan’ feel of the elite there much better than the bishop of Edessa.61
The background to Nonnus is the upsurge of epic versification in the
Thebaid (including the Great Oasis), which has recently been traced by
Miguélez-Cavero from the third through the sixth century.62 As Eunapius put
it (vs 10.7.11–12), the Egyptians (his contemporaries) were crazy about poetry
(i.e., didn’t move as easily into the more serious prose genres, oratory foremost).
An older contemporary of Nonnus from Panopolis was Horapollon Sr., also a
poet and grammatikos in Alexandria, author of many works in verse and prose
that don’t survive. His grandson, also named Horapollon, was also active as
grammatikos there. Three generations of this family are known as pagan phi-
losophers in Alexandria and feature in the Life of Severus (patriarch of Antioch
in 512–518, then exiled to Egypt) by Zachariah Scholasticus, which survives in
Syriac. They also feature in the Life of Isidorus by Damascius, variously recon-
structed.63 Horapollon Jr. is now regarded as the author of the Hieroglyphica,
which survives, a treatise on the (hidden) meaning of hieroglyphs. He later
converted to Christianity. A copy of his petition against his wife and cousin
survives among the papers of Dioscorus of Aphrodite (P.Cair.Masp. III 67295
from 491–493). It relates to property at Phenebythis, the ancestral home in the
Panopolite nome.
59 See Magnelli in this volume.

60 Livrea (1987). See also the first chapter by Accorinti in this volume.
61 See, e.g., Robert (1948) on Asclepiodotus, the father-in-law of the Alexandrian
Asclepiodotus involved in the affair of the cult of Isis at Menouthis.
62 Miguélez Cavero (2008). See also Al. Cameron (2007).
63 Most recently by Athanassiadi (1999).
70 van Minnen
In the next century we find a poet of sorts in Panopolis, Sabinus, who curses
his daughter. We have two versions of the curse poem, one that was meant to
go in the tomb (P.Ups. 8), another (a draft on papyrus) that was meant to be
incised on a tombstone, which is less direct (P.Hamb. I 22). Given the correc-
tions in the first papyrus, it seems likely that Sabinus was himself the author.
After the Arab conquest we have to wait until the late eighth and first half
of the ninth century for another major cultural figure in Panopolis, Dhu’l-Nun
al-Misri (‘the Egyptian’, because his fame reached outside Egypt).64 The son of
a converted Nubian slave from Panopolis (a mawla with useful connections
with the Arab elite), he is often regarded as the founder of theosophical sufism,
a kind of Zosimus, but now also including medicine (e.g., Dhu’l-Nun al-Misri’s
Mujarrabat), magic, and theurgy, in addition to alchemy, hermetism, and gnos-
ticism. The anecdotes about Dhu’l-Nun al-Misri include a visit to the (deserted)
Triphieion for inspiration, along the lines of Gessius’ visit earlier. This could be
a baseless accusation, modeled on what was known in the area about Gessius.
Dhu’l-Nun al-Misri spent time in Damascus, Antioch, Mecca, and, when
accused of heresy, Baghdad. One of his followers from Panopolis, Uthman
Ibn Suwayd al-Akhmimi (‘the Panopolitan’), another alchemist, wrote in his
defense. Butrus al-Hakim al-Akhmimi, whose name (Πέτρος) shows he was a
Christian, was another contemporary alchimist from Panopolis. Uthman Ibn
Suwayd al-Akhmimi is the author of the Turba Philosophorum, a fictional con-
versation between early Greek philosophers, which survives in Latin.65
Dhu’l-Nun al-Misri also wrote poetry and a number of lost treatises, eso-
teric lore focused on the symbolic meaning of divine names and formulas.
Anecdotal sayings attributed to him cover more ground: the big topic there is
repentance. But how much of what is attributed to Dhu’l-Nun al-Misri is really
his? He seems to have suffered the same fate as Zosimus, as the figurehead of
a whole movement.
3 Conclusions
The cultural rise of Panopolis coincided with a higher degree of integration

in the Roman world in Late Antiquity than ever before. This repeated itself in
the Islamic world sometime after the Arab conquest. This ‘higher degree’ of
64 See O’Donnell (2010). An early study is Nicholson (1906).

65 Ruska (1931) with the extended review of Plessner (1975). Martin/Primavesi (1998) 50 first
drew my attention to Uthman Ibn Suwayd al-Akhmimi. On the authorship of the Turba
Philosophorum see Plessner (1975) 130.
integration is easier claimed than demonstrated. Let us consider a few of the

current ideas about how things may have been integrated in the past.
The ‘centre and periphery’ idea doesn’t really explain what was so special
about Late Antiquity, because as I already pointed out at the beginning, it was
no different earlier. The idea of a ‘network’ is a variation on this, with a hierar-
chy of ‘nodes’. Panopolis drew on its own nome but also acted as the regional
center for nomes further south (say, to Coptus). As the capital of the Thebaid,
Antinoopolis drew on all of Upper Egypt. As the capital of Egypt, Alexandria
drew on all of Egypt. But again, it was no different earlier. ‘Connectivity’ is a
slippery concept, and why did the ‘connections’ go live in Late Antiquity and
not before?66
Religious change does not explain the cultural rise of Egypt in Late Antiquity
either, because that change postdates it. All religion in Late Antiquity was
Greek and philosophical, and Christianity just happened to be the most Greek
and philosophical of them all.
There was economic recovery in Late Antiquity (after the ‘Great Inflation’
of 275–360), but it was never as good as it had been earlier on in the second
century, when things did not work the way they did in Late Antiquity. Late
Antiquity was a relatively bad time for cities, because the state took part of
their income away, but it was also relatively a bad time for the elite on which
cities depended, because the state shifted taxes away from the relatively poor,
who paid capitation and other money taxes, and onto the land and therefore
onto rich landowners—and eventually doubled and tripled the taxes on land.
The gold ‘fix’ of the currency following the ‘Great Inflation’ was a tide that lifted
all boats, not just the elite’s.67 The bulk of the taxes on land had eventually to
be paid in gold. Between the fourth and the sixth century real prices for goods
dropped,68 which profited especially that part of the urban population that
could not live off the proceeds from their own land (the majority). The urban
elite was smaller than before, and the best spent money elsewhere (Alexandria,
Constantinople), if their career took them there, which now happened more
often than ever before.
Nevertheless, I believe that changes in the elite in Late Antiquity hold the
key to an explanation of the cultural rise of Egypt in Late Antiquity, first by an
administrative, top-down measure of the early Roman Empire, which set the
stage for later developments with the creation of a new elite, second by an
66 Social Network Analysis applied to ancient evidence models the quirks in the evidence,
not what was really going on.
67 Cf. Banaji (2001).
68 See van Minnen (2006) 168–169.
72 van Minnen
administrative, top-down overhaul of the New Empire, which unleashed the

potential of the provincial elite in Egypt, and third by a repeat under Arab rule
of what happened between the first and second stages. Let us take a closer look
at these three stages.
(1) As we have seen, the early Roman Empire let the urban elite off the hook
(of having to serve the military) and thereby allowed the creation of a new
urban elite (parallel to that of the Egyptian priests, but consisting of Greeks
who didn’t go into the military, but were increasingly burdened with running
the place for the Romans). Greek culture becomes a competitor in literature
but also monuments for Egyptian (‘hieratic’) culture. Egyptian priests such as
Ammon had to keep up with the Greek Joneses.
(2) The late Empire is more hierarchical but less steep: it is actually easier
to rise in the now more numerous ranks. Late Antiquity is characterized by
increased mobility, social and otherwise. The ‘wandering’ poets are moving
around just like others who count for something, and some of them become
part of the administrative hierarchy. It is also easier for the centers plural to
stay ‘connected’ with (and exercise control over) what is going on lower down.
More bureaucracy means more bureaucrats, and this means more institu-
tionalized education and tax exemptions for grammatikoi and rhetores. Late
Antiquity was not quite like pre-modern China, but more so than the earlier
Roman Empire. Everyone who counts is now educated, and education now
counts for more than ever before. The increased prominence of grammatikoi
and rhetores in our sources matches their higher prestige.
(3) The Arab conquest puts this on hold initially. The elite first has to adopt
Arabic to become integrated in the ‘New New’ Empire, which stretched from
Egypt to Mesopotamia, the same way as the Egyptian priests did between the
first two stages.
This is a very crude explanation of the cultural rise of Egypt in Late Antiquity
(and beyond). There remains an irreducible rest that is difficult to explain.
Panopolis is a late-comer but scores with a vengeance in Late Antiquity, as
witnessed by the sheer size of the table included at the end of this chapter
(Appendix). But in that long list of ‘major’ cultural figures from Panopolis, sev-
eral clusters can be discerned. These (wo)men, sometimes related, sometimes
not, were ‘egging’ one another on: Zosimus, Theosebeia, and possibly other
correspondents were ‘egging’ one another on; so did Harpocration, his brother
Ammon Scholasticus, and their nephew Apollon; so did Pcol, Shenoute, and
Besa; so did Cyrus, Pamprepius, and Nonnus; so did Horapollon Sr., his sons
Heraiscus and Asclepiades, and the latter’s son Horapollon Jr.; so did Dhu’l-Nun
al-Misri and the two other contemporary Panopolitan alchemists, Uthman Ibn
Suwayd al-Akhmimi and Butrus al-Hakim al-Akhmimi. Only Triphiodorus is a

‘loner’, if we do not count the epigraphic and papyrological poets Ptolemagrius
and Sabinus at either end of the Roman Imperial period.
So, I can have it both ways: a top-down explanation of sorts, according to
which the early Empire facilitates and the late Empire encourages the develop-
ment of (literary) culture, and a bottom-up explanation of sorts, according to
which clusters of Panopolitans jump on the same bandwagon (Zosimus et al. c.
300; Ammon Scholasticus et al. in the first half of the fourth century; Shenoute
et al. in the late fourth and first half of the fifth century; Nonnus et al. in the
middle decades of the fifth century; Horapollon Sr. et al. in the second half of
the fifth century; and Dhu’l-Nun al-Misri et al. in the first half of the ninth cen-
tury. In the last-mentioned case we witness continuity from the first ‘cluster’
(Zosimus et al.). The trajectory of alchemy and related philosophy at Panopolis
is invisible for several centuries, which finally suggests that the maximalist
table included below (Appendix) is merely the tip of an iceberg.
74 van Minnen
Appendix: Table of ‘Major’ Cultural Figures from Panopolis*
Date Author Genre(s) Source(s)
I/II Agrius Ptolemaeus Greek poetry inscriptions

(Ptolemagrius)?
III Triphiodorus Greek poetry manuscripts (Sack of Troy)
c. 300 Zosimus Greek prose excerpts (Alpha to Omega and four more)
c. 300 Theosebeia Greek prose Zosimus
c. 300–365 brother Harpocration Greek prose Ammon Scholasticus
c. 300–365 Ammon Scholasticus Greek prose papyri (letter, associated petition, later
petitions)
c. 300–365 nephew Apollon Greek poetry Ammon Scholasticus
c. 360 Pcol Coptic prose Shenoute
c. 350–465 Shenoute Coptic prose manuscripts (Canons, Discourses); Besa
after 465 Besa Coptic prose manuscripts (letters, sermons, Life of
Shenoute)
c. 400–470 Cyrus Greek poetry, AP; manuscripts (Martyrdom of Menas)
Greek prose
440–484 Pamprepius Greek poetry papyrus (various poems)
before 470 Nonnus Greek poetry manuscripts (Dionysiaca, Paraphrase of
John’s Gospel)
V grandfather Greek poetry, Life of Severus by Zachariah Scholasticus,
Horapollon Sr. Greek prose Life of Isidorus by Damascius
V uncle Heraiscus Greek prose Life of Severus by Zachariah Scholasticus,
Life of Isidorus by Damascius
V father Asclepiades Greek prose Horapollon Jr.; Life of Severus by
Zachariah Scholasticus, Life of Isidorus by
Damascius
V son Horapollon Jr. Greek prose papyrus (petition), manuscripts
(Hieroglyphica); Life of Severus by
Zachariah Scholasticus, Life of Isidorus by
Damascius
VI Sabinus Greek poetry, papyri (curse)
Greek prose
IX Dhu’l-Nun al-Misri Arabic prose excerpts
IX Uthman Ibn Suwayd Arabic prose excerpts, manuscripts (Turba
al-Akhmimi Philosophorum)
IX Butrus al-Hakim Arabic prose excerpts
al-Akhmimi
* This table is maximalist, and doubts about the date, the author, or even the genre(s) are explained in the
text.
chapter 3
The Religious Background of Nonnus

Jitse H.F. Dijkstra
1 Nonnus: ‘Pagan’ or Christian?
Nonnus is the author of both a decidedly Christian work, the Paraphrase

of St John, and a ‘pagan’ work, the Dionysiaca. In searching for the religious
background of our poet, this begs the question whether he was a ‘pagan’ or a
Christian, and how this background influenced his writings. How can we rec-
oncile these two seemingly divergent works by the same author?
In the first section we shall cast our net a bit wider and look at the religious
background of intellectuals such as philosophers and poets in late antique
Egypt. Whereas the idea that these intellectuals formed a ‘pagan resistance’
against Christianity in this period has found widespread acceptance, it has now
been firmly rejected in favour of a more complex model of coexistence and
interaction. No doubt there were some intellectuals who still adhered to the
traditional cults and practices, but they were few and we should not confuse
the extraordinary flourish of Hellenism in late antique Egypt with ‘paganism’.
These views neatly tie in with Alan Cameron’s recent study of the literature of
late fourth- and early fifth-century Rome.
In the next section, his study will be taken as a starting point for a fresh new
look at the religious background of the classicizing poets of late antique Egypt,
in particular of Nonnus. There has been a fierce debate about whether these
poets were ‘pagan’ or Christian and on the basis of their classicizing tendencies
it has long been assumed that they were, at least initially, ‘pagan’. As will be
argued, this discussion is based on the wrong premises as classicizing literature
in this period was commonplace, also among Christian authors, and thus does
not inform us about religious background, though in the case of Nonnus we
know that he was a Christian as he wrote the Paraphrase. Thus reframing the
question we shall look in the last section at how Nonnus combines classical
and Christian learning in his writings.1
1 Many thanks to Jan Bremmer for his insightful comments on an earlier version of this
chapter, which also benefitted from a lively discussion at the Ottawa Early Christianity group
on 27 February 2015.

76 Dijkstra
2 The Myth of Intellectual ‘Pagan Resistance’ in Late Antique Egypt
The Life of Severus, written in Greek by Zachariah of Mytilene shortly after 512
but preserved in Syriac translation, contains a section on Paralius that paints
a detailed picture of his life as a student of Greek philosophy at Alexandria in
the 480s. One of the professors, Asclepiodotus, is said, perhaps in the Spring
of 486, to have visited a shrine of Isis at the nearby suburb of Menouthis after
which a child is born to his barren wife. Perceiving this at first to be a miracle,
Paralius begins to doubt the story under influence of his brother Athanasius at
the Enaton monastery and becomes openly deviant to the professors, includ-
ing his teacher Horapollon. As a result, a group of fellow students beats him
up. Paralius flees to the philoponoi, zealous Christian students with ties to
the Enaton monastery, who hail the incident as a ‘persecution’ by the ‘pagan’
intellectual establishment of a Christian student. Finally, when bishop Peter
Mongus hears of the incident, he reconceives it as an outright Christian-‘pagan’
conflict and sends a group of monks to the shrine to demolish it and parade
its idols.2
These and other remarkable stories of intellectuals associated with tradi-
tional cults and practices at this late date have led scholars traditionally to
assume that there was a sizeable movement in Egypt that actively opposed
Christianity. Papyrologists Jean Maspero and Roger Rémondon speak of it in
terms of ‘la suprème résistance au christianisme’, describing the fifth-century
intellectuals as follows: ‘la “philosophie” formait une sorte de société demi-
secrète, qui considérait comme un devoir national d’employer la science à
défendre les restes de l’ancienne religion; et des générations de sophistes se
transmettaient de père en fils ce poste de combat’ and ‘Le paganisme des phi-
losophes de la capitale, au Ve siècle, n’est donc pas un anachronisme isolé
et sans racines, il est lié au paganisme d’une partie du peuple, il n’en est que
l’expression intellectuelle.’3 Such views are not surprising as it has long been
held that one of the main characteristics of Late Antiquity was a fight to the
death between Christianity and ‘paganism’.4
2 Kugener (1907) 14–44. For the place of the Paralius section in the larger work, see Watts
(2005); for the Life, see Greatrex (2011) 15–18. A detailed study of the incident is offered by
Watts (2010), with pp. 263–264 (Appendix 1) on the date.
3 Maspero (1914), quote at p. 18, providing a first edition of a remarkable petition on papyrus of
Horapollon (P.Cair.Masp. III 67295 i–ii), a copy of which ended up in the papers of Dioscorus
of Aphrodite (see below), from which we learn that the philosopher possessed lands and
came from the village of Phenebytis in the Panopolite nome; Rémondon (1952), quote at p.
67. The influence of these studies is still felt e.g. in Wipszycka (1988) 125–126, 145.
4 As appears e.g. from Momigliano (1963), on which see Brown (2011).
The Religious Background Of Nonnus 77
It was the work of Peter Brown that placed the debate on a new footing.5
From the 1980s, the religious transformation of Late Antiquity is seen as a
dynamic and gradual process in which religions interacted in various, complex
ways rather than that it was dominated by a stark Christian-‘pagan’ conflict.6
Despite these advances, the idea of a ‘pagan resistance’ in late antique Egypt
was picked up again by David Frankfurter, who even speaks of these intel-
lectuals as being ‘priests’.7 However, a close analysis of the above-mentioned
Paralius passage has shown that the tensions it describes need to be seen
in the specific context of the intellectual environment of late fifth-century
Alexandria and that we cannot generalize from the incident, as Frankfurter
does, since the different parts of the Life of Severus ‘were never intended to be
read as general discussions of religious or philosophical practices of the time.’8
Moreover, Alan Cameron has called for a critical reading of the text due to its
anti-‘pagan’ discourse and has definitively brushed aside the idea of a ‘pagan
resistance’ in late antique Egypt: even if there is no doubt that there were some
philosophers who had a strong interest in the old religion and in some cases
even performed traditional rituals and practices, they cannot have constituted
but a small circle of enthusiasts.9
Rather than the image proposed by Frankfurter of a continuity of the tradi-
tional cults until far into Late Antiquity that inevitably resulted in resistance to
Christianity, this assessment fits better with the now generally accepted picture
of mostly peaceful coexistence, which—like elsewhere in the Empire—set in
motion a complex process of religious transformation that was essentially syn-
cretistic, dynamically combining elements from the traditional religions and
Christianity.10 By the 480s, the last major Egyptian temple—that of Philae—
was no longer in operation and the longing for the (religious) past among some
5 Esp. Brown (1971).

6 The main general studies are MacMullen (1984), Lane Fox (1986), Trombley (1993–1994),
MacMullen (1997), Chuvin (2009), Rebillard (2012) and now Jones (2014).
7 Frankfurter (1998) esp. 217–237, further elaborated in Frankfurter (2000a) esp. 184–192.
8 Watts (2005) 456, refuting Frankfurter (2000a) 189–191 specifically, and p. 464 for the
quote; see also the summary in Watts (2010) 142–152.
9 Al. Cameron (2007) 21–28. Cf. the response by Watts (2010) 265–268 (Appendix 2), who is
less sceptical about the trustworthiness of the Paralius passage but could have done more
with Cameron’s critical reading of the text, for which point see the review of Watts’ book
by Dijkstra (2013).
10 Dijkstra (2008) 14–23, which also critiques Frankfurter (1998) at pp. 20–22. On syncretism
in late antique Egypt, see Frankfurter (2003), in particular his definition of the phenom-
enon at p. 344; applied to magic in De Bruyn/Dijkstra (2011) 178–182. For the fate of the
temples in late antique Egypt, see Dijkstra (2011). It should be noted here that the idea
that religious violence was widespread in Late Antiquity—a remnant of the old model of
78 Dijkstra
of the Alexandrian professors can therefore best be considered as a devoted

antiquarianism in an increasingly Christian world.11
In his magnificent The Last Pagans of Rome, Cameron has now dealt in a
similar manner with the persistent idea of a ‘pagan revival’ in late fourth-cen-
tury Rome. The study systematically unravels the myth that aristocrats such
as Symmachus, Praetextatus and Flavian formed an active ‘pagan’ opposition
against Christianity, fervently patronizing ‘pagan’ literature and the arts, and
supporting the traditional Roman cults and festivals. Indeed, he argues, many
of the activities, artifacts and literary works that have been adduced as evi-
dence for a ‘pagan resistance’ do not hold up to scrutiny and turn out to be
part and parcel of the daily life of educated Christians. As a result, rather than
a period of heightened tension he sees the end of the fourth and beginning of
the fifth century as a period in which the Roman elite, after the state cults had
been abolished, gradually turned to Christianity.12
One of the major assumptions that Cameron has revised is the idea that
literature in the classical tradition, often termed ‘pagan’ literature, necessarily
informs us about the religious background of the author or even that it implies
anti-Christian sentiment. The dichotomy between ‘pagan’ and Christian litera-
ture is misleading, since all intellectuals, including Christians, went through
the same educational system that was essentially based on the classics and
classicizing literature could therefore just as well be appreciated and writ-
ten by Christians: ‘for most Christians it was quite literally the culture of the
world.’13 In his book, Cameron revisits a whole series of Latin authors who have
traditionally been put down as ‘pagans’ on the basis of the classicizing litera-
ture they were writing, but of which the religious background is upon reflec-
tion more complex. A case in point is Drepanius Pacatus, the author of the
conflict—is still common among scholars, including for Egypt. See now, however, Dijkstra
(2015), with an overview of recent scholarship.
11 A good example of the antiquarianism of some of the Alexandrian intellectuals at this
time is the Hieroglyphica, probably written by Paralius’ teacher Horapollon, which pur-
ports to have been originally written in Egyptian and to contain a study of the interpreta-
tion of hieroglyphs but in fact betrays a fundamental lack of knowledge about the subject.
See Bowersock (1990) 56, 61; Masson/Fournet (1992); Fowden (1993) 185; Frankfurter
(1998) 223, 253–254; Thissen (1998) and (2001); cf. Miguélez Cavero (2008) 10 who leaves
the authorship question open.
12 Al. Cameron (2011), with the quote at p. 12: ‘Roman paganism petered out with a whimper
rather than a bang.’
13 See the earlier, concise summary at Al. Cameron (2007) 28–34 (quote at p. 29), with exam-
ples from both East and West, and (2011) esp. 31–32, 206–207, 230.
last-dated of the Panegyrici Latini (12) in 389, who was previously considered
a ‘pagan’ until a Christian work of his was discovered, On the Paschal Candle,
which definitively proves that he was a Christian.14
We may even go one step further and wonder whether the term ‘pagan’ is
useful for describing (aspects of) the religious transformation process at all.
Cameron devotes a whole chapter to discussing the multiple meanings of the
word from which ‘pagan’ is derived, paganus, and, despite his awareness of
the problems involved in the term in phrases such as ‘pagan literature’, still
settles on using it for lack of a better alternative.15 However, a growing body
of scholarship has demonstrated the problematic nature of the term, which is
used from a Christian perspective to describe everything that is non-Christian
and is thus derogatory or at least one-sided. Moreover, it depended on one’s
definition of ‘Christian’ what constituted a ‘pagan’ and since identities were
ever shifting the dichotomy ‘pagan’-Christian simplifies a far more complex
situation.16 Accordingly, in what follows we shall avoid the term ‘pagan’ and
use more precise descriptions, such as classicizing instead of ‘pagan’ literature,
unless we discuss the views of other scholars using this term. With these con-
siderations in mind, let us now turn to the classicizing poets of late antique
Egypt.
14 Al. Cameron (2011) 206–230 (ch. 6), of which pp. 227–230 concern Drepanius; many more
cases are discussed in the following chapters. For Drepanius, see PLRE I, s.v. ‘Latinius
Pacatus Drepanius’. For the rediscovery of Drepanius’ Christian work, see Turcan-Verkerk
(2003).
15 Al. Cameron (2011) 14–32 (ch. 1), culminating in the conclusion, at p. 32: ‘in most cases
“pagan” is the simplest, most familiar, and most appropriate term, and I make no further
apology for using it.’
16 As Al. Cameron (2011) 173 himself recognizes, citing Markus (1990) 28. See also e.g.
Bowersock (1990) 5–6; Av. Cameron (1991a) 121–122; Frankfurter (1998) 33–34; Vinzent
(1998) 34–41, 63–65; Kahlos (2007); Dijkstra (2008) 16–17; Shorrock (2011) 3–6; Rebillard
(2012) esp. 1–8 (Introduction) and 92–97 (Conclusion); Jones (2014) 1–8. Several attempts
have been made to transcend the rigid ‘pagan’-Christian categorization by creating
a middle group or even several groups in the grey area between the extreme poles of
staunch ‘pagans’ and Christians: Kahlos (2007) 30–34 speaks of incerti and Al. Cameron
(2011) 176–177 of ‘center pagans’, ‘center Christians’ and a group of which adherence can-
not be categorized. While in the first case, the term ‘incertus’ wrongly implies uncertainty
or doubt on the part of the person in question (as also remarked by Al. Cameron 2011,
176), the problem with the second proposition is that it again presupposes a division in
groups, whereas in reality identities were more fluid and could change according to the
circumstances, as pointed out by Rebillard (2012) 94–95 and (2013).
80 Dijkstra
3 The Religious Background of the Classicizing Poets of Late Antique

Egypt
In a seminal 1965 article, Cameron drew attention to the extraordinary flourish-

ing of poets in late antique Egypt. For the first time he described these poets in
terms of a ‘literary movement’ and summarized several features that they had
in common, such as their scholarly nature, wanderlust—hence ‘Wandering
Poets’—, and ability to combine literary skills with a career in politics. The
first feature that he mentions, however, is their ‘paganism’: ‘in a Christian
world they were almost all professed pagans’; and he devotes a whole section
on supporting this thesis.17 Among these poets, the religious background of
Nonnus in particular had been hotly debated, especially since the 1930s.18 The
debate was entirely framed by the Christian versus ‘pagan’ paradigm, as schol-
ars time and again attempted to resolve the discrepancy between the ‘pagan’
Dionysiaca and Christian Paraphrase. Although other opinions were expressed,
the prevalent view was that Nonnus had written the Dionysiaca first and that
he converted to Christianity later in life and then wrote the Paraphrase.19 As
advocated by the great Nonnian scholar Rudolf Keydell, Cameron followed the
conversion theory.20
Seventeen years later, in 1982, Cameron retracted his earlier assessment
of another poet from Panopolis, Cyrus, as a ‘pagan’ who later converted to
Christianity. He demonstrated that Cyrus was a Christian all along, whose lit-
erary skills earned him a place at the Imperial court resulting in a successful
career in administration that brought him the consulate in 441. The allegations
that he was a ‘pagan’ were brought against him as part of a court intrigue after
which he was demoted to the bishopric of Cotyaeum in Phrygia (where he
delivered what is probably the shortest Christmas sermon ever delivered—
17 Al. Cameron (1965) 471–477, with quote at p. 471 and ‘School of Nonnus’ at pp. 476–477.
18 For overviews of scholarship on this question, see Vian (1976) xi–xii; Livrea (1987) 97–102,
for the most part reprinted in Livrea (1989) 19–23; Gigli Piccardi (2003) 45–46; Miguélez
Cavero (2008) 16–17; Shorrock (2011) 49–51; Accorinti (2013c) 1111–1112.
19 Nonnus first wrote the Paraphrase, then the Dionysiaca, and was a Christian writing in a
syncretistic environment: Golega (1930) 79–88; see also below. Nonnus’ works are purely
literary and do not say anything about the author’s religious background: Cataudella
(1936), cf. Cataudella (1934) where he still condones the conversion theory; String (1966)
71. Nonnus converted to Christianity and wrote the Dionysiaca first, then the Paraphrase:
e.g. Keydell (1927) 433–434; Collart (1930) 8–15; Keydell (1931) 119–121; Bogner (1934);
Keydell (1936) esp. 904–905, 915–916.
20 Al. Cameron (1965) 476.
basically consisting of only one sentence!).21 In this study we also see Cameron
beginning to transcend the strict ‘pagan’-Christian dichotomy in late antique
literature, though he does not draw conclusions from this for Nonnus and
maintains the order of writing (the Dionysiaca before the Paraphrase) and the
theory that he converted.22
By 1976, in the inaugural volume of the Budé edition of the Dionysiaca, how-
ever, Francis Vian had challenged the communis opinio. He suggested that the
Paraphrase was most likely written first and, picking up a point made in the
important study of this work by Joseph Golega of 1930, proposed that Nonnus
was a Christian who wrote in a milieu where Christianity and ‘paganism’ coex-
isted.23 The idea of Nonnus as a poet in between ‘paganism’ and Christianity
was elaborated on by Pierre Chuvin in 1986.24 In 1997, Vian returned to his ear-
lier hypothesis and on the basis of an exhaustive study of the word μάρτυς and
cognates in both Nonnian works built a strong case for the anteriority of the
Paraphrase.25 Three years later, Cameron endorsed this view and also accepted
that Nonnus must have been a Christian when he wrote the Dionysiaca.26
With the ‘pagan’-Christian paradigm thus discarded, Cameron recently—
over forty years after his ‘Wandering Poets’ article—revisited the religious
background of the classicizing poets of late antique Egypt. As stated in the
previous section, and backed up by his changing views on Cyrus and Nonnus,
he now assumed that writing classicizing literature did not say anything about
21 Al. Cameron (1982); summary in Al. Cameron (2007) 41–42; cf. Al. Cameron (1965) 473–474.
22 Breaking down ‘pagan’-Christian divide: Al. Cameron (1982) 220–221, 246. Conversion
theory for Nonnus: Al. Cameron (1982) 237–238.
23 For Golega, see n. 19 above; Vian (1976) xii–xv.
24 Chuvin (1986); see also, briefly, Chuvin (1991) 320.
25 Vian (1997b). It has been suggested by Livrea (1987) 102, 108, repeated in Livrea (1989) 23,
30 and (2000) 56, 76, that both works were written at the same time, a point of view that
has been accepted in a number of recent studies, e.g. Gigli Piccardi (2003) 82; Whitby
(2007) 200–201; Shorrock (2011) 51–52. However, until a similar analysis is undertaken
that disproves Vian’s argument for the anteriority of the Paraphrase, it remains standing
and will also be followed here. This does not take away from the fact that Nonnus could
have already been working on materials that were eventually included in the Dionysiaca
during the composition of his Paraphrase, for which see the prudent comments by Vian
(1997b) 160. Cf. also the earlier remarks on this matter by Golega (1930) 87–88.
26 Al. Cameron (2000) 175–181, referred to in Al. Cameron (2004a) 227 and (2004b) 341. Cf.,
however, the remark at p. 181: ‘They were simply able to compartmentalize their lives.
Religious beliefs and practice had no necessary bearing on literary interests and enthu-
siasms’, where the first sentence still suggests a division between ‘pagan’ and Christian,
even though classical culture and Christianity were fully integrated.
82 Dijkstra
an author’s religious background,27 and came to a conclusion diametrically

opposed to the one arrived at in 1965: ‘I suspect that most of the classicizing
poets of the late fourth, fifth, and sixth centuries were Christians, even those
who wrote on mythological themes.’28 Another important recent study, by
Laura Miguélez-Cavero, not only offers a useful synthesis of the works of the
poets well-known through the manuscript tradition but has also placed them
in the wider context of all hexametric poetry from Egypt, mostly those works
or fragments of works known through papyri and inscriptions. Her study dem-
onstrates that the extraordinary flourishing of hexametric poetry, especially
mythological poetry, on all levels of sophistication was a common phenom-
enon in late antique Egypt and, indeed, the late antique world.29
A well-studied example of the dynamics of Hellenism is Dioscorus of
Aphrodite, whose archives have been preserved, leaving us hundreds of docu-
ments, (part of) his personal library and numerous poems, most of them writ-
ten by his own hand. Dioscorus has been brandished as ‘the worst poet of
antiquity’, but has now been rehabilitated as a typical representative of the late
antique world.30 In his authoritative study of the poems, Jean-Luc Fournet has
27 See n. 13 above.

28 Al. Cameron (2007) 34–44 (quote at p. 43). On Musaeus, who wrote his Hero and Leander
at the end of the fifth or beginning of the sixth century and is generally considered to be
a Christian, see Miguélez Cavero (2008) 27, Dümmler (2012) 413, and Accorinti (2013b)
165. Cameron’s claim (p. 35), ‘The only one of these poets we can confidently identify as
a serious pagan is Pamprepius’, merits a revaluation too since, just as Cyrus, Pamprepius
was accused of ‘paganism’ in the context of the revolt of Illus in 484 (see PLRE II, s.v.
‘Pamprepius’); however, such a study falls outside of the scope of this chapter.
29 Miguélez Cavero (2008), who on account of the diversity of material at pp. 93–96, 103–105
rejects the commonly used term ‘School of Nonnus’, even though many of the later poets
were influenced by him and there are a set of characteristics that the majority of authors
of this period have in common. At pp. 97–98, 101–102 she also rightly questions the useful-
ness of the term ‘Wandering Poets’ in describing this diversity of literary production, as it
does not fit the bill in many instances: e.g. Cyrus and Pamprepius agree quite nicely with
Cameron’s typology but of Nonnus we do not know whether he travelled or embarked
on a political career. As remarked in an astute review by Schubert (2009) 289, one criti-
cism that can be brought against Miguélez-Cavero’s work is that it lays the emphasis on
Panopolis as a centre of learning (ch. 3), whereas her own analysis shows that hexametric
poetry came from all over Egypt. On Panopolis see also van Minnen in this volume.
30 ‘Worst poet of antiquity’: Maspero (1911) 427; Bell (1944) 27; cf. also Al. Cameron (1965)
508–509, who ends his study on the ‘Wandering Poets’ thus: ‘Not that the attempt was
not made in some quarters to keep the torch alight; witness Dioscorus. But Dioscorus
was a Christian, and sadly deficient as his poems are in respect of grammar, metre, style
and content alike, they are in fact the clearest proof that the flame had already gone out.’
shown that many of them had a diplomatic function and were handed in with
documents at the governor’s court in Antinoopolis, where Dioscorus worked as
a notary in c. 565–573.31 These poems are predominantly classicizing in style,
witness for example an anacreontic poem that celebrates the accession of the
governor (dux) Athanasius in 565/566 by referring to the Bacchae and compar-
ing the high official to Heracles.32 On the other hand, there are also a number
of specifically Christian elements that in some cases strikingly appear side by
side with classicizing ones, such as in an epithalamium for one Isak (565/566–
573?) in which the favour of the Moon, Dionysus and the Nile that is bestowed
upon the happy couple is followed by an affirmation of the Christian God’s
protection.33 The same combination is present in the documents, especially
the petitions, in which Dioscorus displays both his classical and biblical learn-
ing to the greatest extent possible in support of the case of his client(s).34
As the case of Dioscorus makes clear, in the syncretistic environment of
late antique Egypt, Hellenism and Christianity were not incompatible and in
fact often dynamically interacted: we should not fall into the trap of equat-
ing Hellenism with ‘paganism’.35 In this situation it was perfectly acceptable
to produce a paraphrase of a Gospel on one occasion and a grand epic in the
classical style on another. Thus the whole discussion about Nonnus’ religious
background in terms of whether he was a ‘pagan’ or a Christian on the basis
Rehabilitation: MacCoull (1988); Gagos/van Minnen (1994); Fournet (1999) and numerous
other publications, e.g. Fournet (2008).
31 Fournet (1999) esp. I, 317–343 and II, 684–690.
32 P.Aphrod.Lit. IV 39. As Fournet (1999) II, 647 remarks in the commentary on verse 14,
Dioscorus uses the hapax *ποθοβλήτης for Heracles, which is no doubt inspired on the
Nonnian adjective ποθόβλητος (‘causing desire’, e.g. Dion. 15.235).
33 P.Aphrod.Lit. IV 34.9–13. On the overall classicizing character of Dioscorus’ poems, see
Fournet (1999) I, 258–290 and II, 673–680. Christian elements: Fournet (1999) I, 341–342
and II, 680–682.
34 For classicizing and Christian elements in the petitions, see Fournet (1999) II, 674–675,
681. For the biblical learning of Dioscorus, see Dijkstra (2003), with a case study of P.Cair.
Masp. I 67004 at pp. 140–146. For the combination of biblical and classical elements in this
petition, see Dijkstra (2004) 140.
35 A good example of this is Bowersock (1990) 55–69, who in his otherwise excellent treat-
ment of the dynamics of Hellenism in late antique Egypt often confuses Hellenism in its
broad meaning of ‘Greek culture’ with the more specific ‘paganism’, the two main mean-
ings of Ἑλληνισμός (as he himself succinctly explains at pp. 9–11). Thus he speaks of ‘the
Panopolite nome, well known for Nonnos and other distinguished figures of fifth-century
Egyptian paganism’ (60). Cf. also the equation of Greek (Neoplatonic) philosophy at
Alexandria with ‘Greek philosophical paganism’ (57); for a description along similar lines,
see Fowden (1993) 177–186.
84 Dijkstra
of his works is erroneous, a ‘faux dilemme’ as Vian already rightly called it in

1976.36 As has been made amply clear, the fact that he wrote classicizing poetry
does not tell us anything about his religious belief. In the same way as in the
case of Drepanius cited above, we only know that he was a Christian because
he wrote a Christian work, the Paraphrase. But what kind of a Christian he was
or with what intention he wrote his works is a difficult, if not impossible, ques-
tion to answer without having more information.37 The only question that we
can ask is how he used his classical and Christian learning in the poems that
he composed, a question that will be addressed in the next, and final, section.
4 Classicizing and Christian Elements in Nonnus
Of the two works ascribed to Nonnus, the blending of the classical and
Christian traditions appears most clearly from the Paraphrase. Nonnus’ ren-
dering of the Gospel of John in hexameters falls under biblical epic, a genre
widely practiced at this time in both East and West in which (parts of) the
Bible are recast in classicizing fashion.38 The genre itself is an excellent illus-
tration of the above-made statement about the dynamic interaction between
Hellenism and Christianity in Late Antiquity, and in the Paraphrase we see
Nonnus at work expanding and embellishing each verse in dialogue with both
Christian and classical sources. Already in 1930, Golega showed Nonnus’ deep
engagement with various Christian sources, in particular the homilies of John
Chrysostom and Cyril’s commentary on John (425–428).39 On the other hand,
the Paraphrase is riddled with classical references, such as in the episode of
the Wedding at Cana (Par. 2.1–60), which—as is not wholly unexpected in this
context—is full of Dionysiac imagery.40 As Domenico Accorinti has demon-
strated, another example are the two appearances of Christ to his disciples
after the resurrection (Par. 20.84–89, 103–105 and 118–122), in which his arrival
36 Vian (1976) xii–xv, quote at p. xiv.

37 Cf. Chuvin (2014) 3–4. The identification of Nonnus with a homonymous bishop of
Edessa, as argued by Livrea (1987), reiterated in Livrea (2000) 55–70 and (2003), is tenuous
and convincingly refuted by Al. Cameron (2000) 182–188; see also Gigli Piccardi (2003)
34; Whitby (2007) 200; Accorinti (2013c) 1110–1111, as well as the first chapter by the same
author in this volume.
38 E.g. Roberts (1985); Agosti (2001); Green (2006); Whitby (2007); Miguélez Cavero (2008)
309–316; Faulkner (2014). See also the chapter by Whitby in this volume.
39 Golega (1930) 116–142.
40 Golega (1930) 62–63; Livrea (2000) 76–85; Al. Cameron (2007) 37; Shorrock (2011) 58–71;
Doroszewski (2014b) 287–294.
through the air, especially by means of the epithet ἄπτερος (‘unwinged’, 120),
reminds of the traditional depiction of Hermes, which is also found in the
Dionysiaca (4.87, 35.239).41
At first sight, the Dionysiaca is more strictly classicizing. Compared with
the Hellenic poetry of Dioscorus for instance, which was strongly influenced
by both of Nonnus’ works and as we have seen also contains some Christian
elements,42 references to Christianity in the Dionysiaca are less overt. An
exception that has been much discussed are the words describing Dionysus’
mourning at the death of his friend Ampelus: Βάκχος ἄναξ δάκρυσε, βροτῶν ἵνα
δάκρυα λύσῃ (‘Lord Bacchus has wept tears, that he may wipe away man’s tears’,
Dion. 12.171). As was pointed out by Golega, this line is influenced by Cyril’s
commentary on John where he describes Jesus weeping at the grave of Lazarus:
δακρύει δὲ ὁ Κύριος, . . ., ἵνα τὸ ἡμῶν περιστείλῃ δάκρυον (‘And the Lord weeps, . . .,
that he may put an end to our tears’).43 Golega also listed a number of other
Christian allusions in the Dionysiaca.44
Thinking within the ‘pagan’-Christian framework, several scholars argued
that such Christian allusions were part of a deliberately anti-Christian attempt
by the ‘pagan’ Nonnus to portray Dionysus as a rival of Christ.45 No longer bur-
dened by the antithesis, Vian has on several occasions countered this view by
arguing that, despite some parallelisms, Christ and Dionysus are indeed very
different figures and that such Christian elements are purely literary, part of
an intricate literary Spiel devoid of a profound religious meaning.46 The same
line of thought has been adopted by Cameron, who writes about the Christian
allusion mentioned above: ‘For all its Christian resonance, the line in ques-
tion is just a formula that came naturally to the pen of a Christian, without
any wider implications beyond its immediate context.’ And about the points
of contact between Dionysus and Christ, after demonstrating the differences
between them, he concludes: ‘Nonnus is not trying to portray Dionysos as a
rival of Christ, nor is he even (as sometimes suggested) trying to assimilate
Dionysos and Christ.’47
41 Accorinti (1995) and (1996) 218; Whitby (2007) 201–207, who analyses Par. 20.103–135.
42 For the influence of Nonnus on the poetry and even the petitions of Dioscorus, see
Fournet (1999) ΙΙ, 678–679.
43 Cyr. In Jo. ΙΙ, 281.18–282.2 Pusey; trans. Randell (1885) 123. See Golega (1930) 69.
44 Golega (1930) 68–78. For an overview of the scholarly debate about the Christian influ-
ence on the Dionysiaca, see Shorrock (2011) 116–117; Accorinti (2013c) 1112–1113, 1120–1121.
45 E.g. Bogner (1934) 332; Keydell (1936) 915.
46 E.g. Vian (1994b) 214–233 and (1997b) 156–157. See also Liebeschuetz (1995) 203–208,
(1996) esp. 81–84, and (2001) 231–234.
47 Al. Cameron (2000) 180–181, (2007) 37 (both quotes are from this page), and (2011) 700–701.
86 Dijkstra
This view, for the most part represented by members of the ‘French School’
who look at the Dionysiaca primarily from a classicizing perspective, has been
challenged in a number of recent studies, mostly by adherents of the ‘Italian
school’, who have drawn attention to numerous further Christian allusions in
the Dionysiaca.48 For example, Accorinti has demonstrated that the entry of
Dionysus into Athens (Dion. 47.1–33), which is related to and elaborates on the
god’s earlier entry into Thebes (Dion. 44.123–129), is influenced by the entry of
Jesus into Jerusalem in the Gospels, where a crowd of people also covers the
streets upon his arrival.49 Moreover, Konstantinos Spanoudakis has conducted
detailed studies of Nonnus’ creative use of the story of the passion of Christ in
the Icarius episode (Dion. 47.1–264) and of the resurrection of Lazarus in the
Tylus episode (Dion. 25.451–552), which also has strong intertextual ties with
the Lazarus episode in the Paraphrase (11.151–171).50
Inspired by these studies, Robert Shorrock has now argued in his The Myth of
Paganism, which significantly came out in the same year as Cameron’s The Last
Pagans of Rome, that such allusions are of the highest importance. In line with
what was said above, Shorrock relinquishes the ‘pagan’-Christian dichotomy
and for the first time systematically studies both works of Nonnus together as
typical examples of the complex dialogue between the classical and Christian
traditions, thereby successfully placing him in the context of the late antique
world. Rather than emphasizing the difference between Dionysus and Christ,
Shorrock argues for their similarity and the dynamic intersection between ‘the
world of Christ’ and ‘the world of Dionysus’ in both the Paraphrase and the
Dionysiaca. As a result, it is no longer possible to downplay the Christian allu-
sions in the Dionysiaca, just as it is impossible to read the Paraphrase through
an exclusively Christian lens.51
However, we should also not go too far in this, especially in the case of
the Dionysiaca, looking for references to Christianity or profound theologi-
cal debates everywhere and assuming that every Christian allusion is of the
48 See, in general, Gigli Piccardi (2003) 50–60.

49 Accorinti (2004) 25–36; cf. Fayant (2000) 9–12.
50 Icarius: Spanoudakis (2007). Tylus: Spanoudakis (2013b); see also Espinar/Hernández de
la Fuente (2002); Shorrock (2011) 97–98; Hernández de la Fuente (2013) 479–480. For a
similar analysis of the shield of Dionysus as a whole (Dion. 25.380–572), of which the Tylus
scene forms part, see Spanoudakis (2014a) 47–52 and (2014b); cf. Chuvin (2014) 6–7.
51 Shorrock (2011). In order to account for the coexistence of classicizing and Christian ele-
ments in late antique literature, Shorrock (8, 13–48) introduces the useful concept of
poetic personae, in which an author can wear either ‘the mask of Dionysus’ or the ‘mask
of Christ’, or even both combined in the same work, as in the case of Nonnus, regardless
of their religious background.
highest significance.52 For example, Shorrock has drawn parallels between

the death of Ampelus and his metamorphosis into the vine (Dion. 11–12), and
the resurrection of both Jesus and Lazarus. However, no clear similarities are
present in the text and the metamorphosis is rather different from a resur-
rection, so that an allusion to these stories is unlikely.53 Another example is
the Ariadne episode (Dion. 47.265–475), which Shorrock has recently read in
a Christian light. The question τί Παλλάδι καὶ Κυθερείῃ; (‘What has Pallas to do
with Cythereia?’, Dion. 47.418) may well be modelled on a similar question with
double dative in the Gospels, which Nonnus also uses in his rendering of the
Wedding at Cana, τί μοι, γύναι, ἠέ σοι αὐτῇ; (‘Woman, what concern is this of
mine or yours?’, Par. 2.21),54 but it goes too far to subsequently assimilate Mary
to Ariadne who, as Shorrock himself admits, is represented in a very different
manner in the Dionysiaca.55
Reading the Dionysiaca in a late antique context does not mean, therefore,
that we need to overstate the Christian influence.56 Nonnus wanted to write a
grand epic in a classicizing style on the exploits of Dionysus and his apotheosis
on the basis of his vast knowledge and learning, and this naturally included
his Christian learning. In order to attain his goal, Nonnus combined a dazzling
52 See e.g. Spanoudakis (2007), who distinguishes a Christian subtext in the Icarius episode
rather than studying the Christian allusions in dialogue with the classical ones, with the
critical comment by Shorrock (2011) 124, though as the following examples show Shorrock
himself sometimes goes too far in detecting Christian influence. Cf. also the ‘profound
theological connotations’ that Spanoudakis (2013b) 202, 205 discerns in the Tylus episode.
Another problem is that Shorrock assumes that the Paraphrase and Dionysiaca were com-
posed pari passu and are mutually intertextual, and as a result ‘should be seen as two parts
of a provocative diptych’ (118). This approach belittles the difference in genre between
both works and, as we have seen above (n. 25), it is far from proven that the works are
contemporaneous. Cf. Spanoudakis (2013b) 207 who in his comparison between the res-
urrections of Lazarus and Tylus takes into account the difference in genre between both
works and adds arguments for the priority of the Paraphrase (for the latter point, see also
Spanoudakis 2007, 88).
53 Shorrock (2011) 98–100. In an excellent review of Shorrock’s work, Bär (2012) 100 makes
the same observation.
54 Accorinti (2004) 555 (on Dion. 47.418), referring to Mark 5:7, Luke 8:28, John 2:4 (τί ἐμοὶ καὶ
σοί;), Matthew 8:29 and Mark 1:24 (τί ἡμῖν καὶ σοί;).
55 Shorrock (2014) esp. 328–331.
56 In the words of Chuvin (2014) 18: ‘Nonnus, in his secular poem, is sometimes actually
alluding to the Christian holy books he is using, even if at a much lesser degree than to
his secular models.’ Cf. Lightfoot (2014b) 53–54, who in her discussion of oracles in the
Dionysiaca, despite some overlap in terminology with the Paraphrase, detects no note-
worthy Christian influence; see also her chapter in this volume.
88 Dijkstra
array of sources in a creative and innovative way.57 As part of this larger pro-
cess, Nonnus makes use of Christian allusions on all levels, as we have seen,
from phrases (crying Dionysus) to scenes (Dionysus’ entry into Athens) and
even entire episodes (Icarius and Tylus episodes). These allusions are, how-
ever, always in open communication with classical sources. Thus Nonnus
masterfully succeeded in creating an intricate tapestry, in which as part of his
original combination of different traditions he also subtly interwove Christian
elements. In so doing he both fully embraced Hellenism and at the same time
adapted his masterpiece to the reality of an increasingly Christian world.58
5 Conclusions
Scholarship on the religious background of Nonnus has come a long way. In

the twenty-first century it is no longer an issue why this author wrote both
the Paraphrase and the Dionysiaca. In fact, the dynamic interaction between
classical and Christian elements in both works fits perfectly in the syncretis-
tic world of Late Antiquity. Just as Dioscorus, Nonnus can therefore now be
seen as a man of his times, who is deeply engaged with both Hellenism and
Christian culture, two concepts that should—certainly by this time—be seen
not in opposition but rather in fruitful dialogue. In this light, it is possible to
equally appreciate Nonnus’ rendering of Jesus’ appearance to his disciples as a
latter-day Hermes in the Paraphrase and his depiction of Dionysus’ entry into
Athens on the model of Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem in the Dionysiaca. It is this
dynamic dialogue that ensured the instant popularity and lasting legacy of
Nonnus’ oeuvre throughout Late Antiquity, and beyond.59
57 As is well illustrated by the important study of Chuvin (1991).

58 Cf. Shorrock (2011) 118.
59 For the influence of Nonnus on late antique poetry, see Miguélez Cavero (2008) 91–93
and Tissoni in this volume; on poetry from the seventh century onwards, see De Stefani
(2014b) and the chapters by Tissoni and Hernández de la Fuente in this volume.
part 2
The Dionysiaca
∵
chapter 4
Nonnus and Dionysiac-Orphic Religion

Alberto Bernabé and Rosa García-Gasco
1 Orphism during the Imperial Period
Orphism never was a coherent, doctrinally defined, movement. Rather, it con-

sisted in some basic principles that went through a number of modifications
and diverse formulations over time.1 Thus, during the Roman Imperial period
it presents a number of fairly different characteristics than it had displayed
during the classical and Hellenistic periods. There are two major phenomena
that lead up to this.
First, we must speak of a certain homogenization, seen most evidently in
the redaction of the Rhapsodies, probably dating around the first century bce.
This was the longest poem attributed to Orpheus, and the most quoted one
during the Imperial period. It consists of a summa of briefer and more ancient
poems, forming a unit with 24 books, in the same dimension as the Homeric
poems. In the Rhapsodies, extensive fragments that were transmitted mostly
by Neoplatonic authors such as Proclus or Damascius present an ongoing story
from the beginning of time to the doctrine of the salvation, throughout which
there is an attempt to attain a level of coherence. The story begins with an eclec-
tic theogony whose primeval being was the Night. Later, Time appears, and
another primeval called, amongst other names, Phanes (‘the shining one’)
and Protogonos (‘the first-born’), who originates all the beings of the world.
After the known sequence of Uranus, Kronos and Zeus, this last one swallows
the god Protogonos and becomes ‘pregnant’ with the universe, to give birth to
a new creation that was ordered and rational. The poem continues on with a
‘sacred history’ that includes the origin of man as a product of the remains of
the Titans, fulminated by Zeus as a punishment for having eaten Dionysus. This
story provides an etiology of a dualist doctrine about man being composed of a
mortal body and an immortal soul, tainted by guilt. Included in the Rhapsodies
is a detailed narrative about the reincarnations that souls were condemned to
in order to expiate the Titanic sin, and the way in which souls could reach their
final liberation and recover their original divine status.
1 About Orphism see Bernabé/Casadesús (2008) and the opposite point of view by Edmonds
(2013); for a complete bibliography see Bernabé (online).

92 Bernabé and García-Gasco
Second, in order to understand the particular characteristics of Orphism

during the Imperial period we must consider two circumstances, which are
possibly interrelated: a strong tendency to convert Orphic postulates into lit-
erary motifs or philosophical doctrines, and the rise of Christianity. Indeed,
the process of philosophers adopting certain Orphic principles began in the
bosom of Pythagoreanism (to the point that some Pythagorean authors sign
their works as Orpheus) and had developed notably in the hands of Plato, who
incorporated certain Orphic beliefs into his doctrine such as the immortality
of the soul or transmigration. Of course, Plato did not keep the form in which
they were held by the Orphics. Rather, he adapted them in depth to make them
more compatible with his own philosophical principles. This process contin-
ued in other movements, such as Stoicism, but it reached its height with the
Neoplatonic philosophers who, convinced that the greatest inspiration for
Platonic doctrines was Orpheus, focused on discovering and commenting
on Orphic poems to find within them the keys and ultimate origin of their
own philosophical ideas. The motivation for this interest lays in the fact that
Greeks considered the older a doctrine, the more prestigious it was. Orpheus,
inasmuch as he was supposed to be a very ancient poet and the son of a god-
dess, was the ideal candidate to attribute new postulates too, in order to make
them pass as ancient ideas. Symbolic interpretation played a key role in the
process of converting Orphic doctrines into philosophical ones: the idea was
that within the simple Orphic postulates lay hidden a much more complex and
deep truth. We see this process begin in the Derveni Papyrus (4th century bce),
a ‘translation’ of a theogonic poem into a physical cosmogonic narration, car-
ried out by an anonymous author, well-versed in the doctrinal principals of
post-Parmenidean philosophers.2 It then carries on with Plato (who allows
himself to interpret the true Orphic ‘Bacchuses’ to be philosophers, cf. Phaedo
69c–d), and then, by authors such as Crisipus, who attempts to find in Orpheus
the origin of Stoic theories, or Apion, who appears as a character of the pseudo-
Clementine writing, with a scientific interpretation of the Rhapsodies, secun-
dum allegoriam, transformed into a more true reading than the mere secundum
litteram.3 At the same time, the Orphic ideas fed poets who, independently of
their beliefs, see in them potent literary motifs: this is seen clear enough in how
Virgil uses them in his description of Aeneasʼ descent into Hades.
2 Online editions of the papyrus can be found in The Derveni Papyrus: An Interdisciplinary
Research Project, Center for Hellenic Studies, Washington, DC (url: http://chs.harvard.edu/
CHS/article/display/5418).
3 Rufin, Recognit. 10.30 (346.17 Rehm) (= OF 669vii).
Nonnus and Dionysiac-Orphic Religion 93
As a consequence of this intrusion of philosophy and literature into religion,

some of the religious traits that had characterized the most ancient Orphics,
particularly the more ritualistic vision of salvation that appears in the Orphic
gold tablets, from between the fifth and second century bce,4 became watered
down or simply disappeared. At the very least, they left a much smaller traces in
this period, without that being an impediment for the occasional appearance
of Orpheus or Orphic texts in ritual testimonies such as the magical papyri or
inscriptions. Orphism started becoming less ritual and religious and more phil-
osophical and bookish as time passed. Orpheus himself was seen more and
more as a literary author or a philosopher and less as a religious leader. This
is evidenced in how this mythical poet to whom, in the earliest periods, only
a scarce variety of literary themes (katabasis, theogonies and ritual literature)
has been attributed, became during the Imperial period a prestigious name to
whom a number of scientific or pseudoscientific literature are assigned, from
astrology to magic, from medicine to divination.5
Despite the scarcity of reliable testimonies regarding the rites practiced
by Orphic officiants or initiates in the Imperial period, later authors allude to
the Orphics and their rituals as a reality, surely a projection into the past of the
rising communities of Christians or initiates of other cults such as that of Isis
or Mitra.
On the other hand, the appearance of Christianity has a catalyzing effect on
Orphism. The particular kind of ‘philosophical religion’ that it had become made
it very attractive in the hands of certain philosophers, such as Neoplatonists, to
oppose the emerging Christian religion. In addition, Christian apologists writ-
ing between the second and fifth century ce, from an external and slightly
artificial perspective, found it useful to portray Orpheus as the champion of
paganism in order to spread their new religion. In this way, they made him into
a sort of ‘complex’ of pagan theology, exaggerating the coherence of Orphic
religious traits and adding foreign elements. Thus, they created a common
enemy with a fairly clear profile to attack en masse.6 A good example of this
is the case of the mysteries. Although the founding of mysteries, the so-called
teletai—ritual practices intended not to worship divinities, but rather to satisfy
personal religious needs—had always been attributed to Orpheus, it is during
the Imperial period that, again as a part of an internal process and partly as a
result of the external vision held by Christians, Orpheus is intimately associ-
ated to these religious manifestations. He becomes a ‘pagan prophet’ of sorts,
4 About the gold tablets cf. Bernabé/Jiménez San Cristóbal (2008); Graf/Johnston (2013).
5 Martín Hernández (2015).
6 Herrero de Jáuregui (2010).
offering salvation (false salvation, or perdition according to Christians such as

Clement of Alexandria or Arnobius). Despite this, on occasion some Christian
authors, imitating the philosophersʼ allegorical techniques, would take advan-
tage of Orphic texts that could be presented as pagan announcements of
Christian truth, such as the so-called The Testament of Orpheus, which was
composed by Hellenistic Jews and re-used by Christians.7
In short, during the Roman period we find an image of Orphism that is
characterized by even greater confusion than earlier on. This version came
alongside other religious movements (with mystery cults, and more traditional
Dionysism), was interpreted mostly allegorically, which made it more assum-
able to philosophers, and therefore become quite integrated into Neoplatonism.
The oral transmission of the old itinerant Orpheotelests, which stressed the
need to practice purity, to fulfill certain taboos such as vegetarianism, or to
celebrate rites, such as the teletai, to achieve definite liberation for the soul
after death and access a privileged place in the afterlife, was exchanged for a
liberal, philosophical, and allegorical transmission of the religion, more in the
line of intellectuals.
2 Religious Beliefs in the Work of Nonnus of Panopolis? The Eternal

Question Examined
In the last few years, research on the work of Nonnus has undergone a revolu-
tion and a notable development that has produced numerous contributions
to studies on late antique literature and to the figure of the poet of Panopolis.
However, one is obliged to ask certain questions when approaching this author.
It is hard to affirm whether this is because it has become a tradition in the his-
tory of Nonnian studies to methodically doubt certain aspects of research or
whether, beyond the generalized scholarly consensus that comes from a long
sequence of balanced research, it is difficult to affirm a definitive and univocal
answer. The question regarding Nonnusʼ religious faith underlies the study of
almost every element of any particular section of his work. This happens due
to the mixed nature of the two poems that have been transmitted to us under
his name: the great epic work on Dionysus, the Dionysiaca, and the Paraphrasis
of the Gospel of John, which is shorter and apparently inferior in literary qual-
ity. Until the end of the twentieth century, scholars approached each of these
poems searching for a reflection of the authorʼs religious beliefs. This inevita-
bly led to very difficult, or impossible conciliation of the pagan feel of the one
7 Riedweg (1993) and (2008).

with the Christian inspiration of the other.8 This difficulty was encompassed
within an amalgamation of problems that, due to its similarities with those
that emerged regarding Homeric epic, was called the ‘Nonnian question’. The
absence of clear biographical data for Nonnus and dates of composition for his
works contributes in feeding the sense of mystery.9 In the same way that a lack
of security tends to result in speculation, the different postures on this ques-
tion have been conflicting from early on. The researchersʼ imagination reached
fictional terrain and curious biographical recreations of our author emerged,
as an attempt to adapt erudite theses into novel formats.10 Beyond the field
of fiction, explanations for the disparity between Nonnusʼ two works were
sought for in theories around relative chronology. Damiani (1902) emerged as
one of the first examples of the tendency to associate beliefs with the content
of the two works. He postulated that Nonnus had been a convinced pagan,
a banner of the reactionary anti-Christian literature that was led, politically,
by Julian the Apostate. Another group of experts, represented by Keydell and
Lesky, defended the posterior dating of the Paraphrasis, related directly to
the authorʼs supposed conversion to Christianity,11 despite its inferior qual-
ity, which, as Vian argues, points to it being written during the poetʼs youth.12
Bognerʼs celebrated thesis (1934) presents a compilation and study of refer-
ences to magic, astrology and mystery religions, present in both of Nonnusʼ
works, as proof of his paganism. Other authors, such as Sherry (1991 and 1996),
tried to solve the problem by introducing the thesis that different authors com-
posed each poem.
In the first decades of our century, however, there was certainty that Nonnus
was the author of both works. Additionally, he was considered a Christian,
probably the bishop of Edessa, also named Nonnus, as Livrea (1987 and 2003)
postulated, despite Cameronʼs the strong opposition (2000). This is highlighted
by Chuvin (2014), even though it requires resolving or, at least debating, some
particularly ‘hot’ points in the Dionysiaca, as the scholar himself recognizes:
the important mystical weight in some places of the work13 on the one hand,
and the abundance of episodes with highly erotic content on the other, which
8 See the summary panoramic of the history of solutions to this question in Shorrock (2011)
49–52.
9 See the first chapter by Accorinti in this volume.
10 The most noteworthy are those by Garnett (1888) and Riemschneider (1970). See
Hernández de la Fuente (2014b) and the chapter by the same author in this volume.
11 Keydell (1936) 917–918; Lesky (1971) 915.
12 Vian (1976) xii.
13 See Chuvin (2014) 5 n. 7 for specific examples.
Cameron qualifies as ‘soft porn’,14 although on occasion, such as in the detailed

rape of Philomela in the fourth book or that of Aura in 48.652–688, these are
not really ‘soft’ episodes at all.
These problems do not disallow a moderate and eclectic position, though.
This was the case with the position defended by Rohde15 in the last third of the
nineteenth century and seconded in the first decades of the twentieth century
by Geffcken (1920) and Golega (1930). Alluding to examples of other Christian
authors that use abundant pagan literary motifs, such as Dracontius, Ausonius
or Claudianus, they proved that there need not be a direct relation between
literature and religious faith. This position has progressively gained terrain in
prestigious authors such as Vian, Gigli Piccardi and Shorrock.16 These schol-
ars attempt to show with a number of arguments that the same writer could
have composed both works, even simultaneously. Professing Christian faith
in Nonnusʼ time was not an obstacle for knowing magical practices or mys-
tery religions in a greater or lesser degree, and vice versa: using pagan literary
motifs does not necessarily imply believing in them. Shorrock (2011) explains
this brilliantly with two dichotomous and complementary concepts, ‘poet of
the Muses’ and ‘poet of Christ’, referring to the adoption of one or the other
‘mask’ by late antique poets. This idea of a ‘poetic persona’ alludes to a double
possibility: either to maintain the inspiration of the traditional muse, or to
explicitly reject the classic position and instead take on a new poetic iden-
tity, new here being Christian.17 Nonnusʼ case is significant because it brings
together two poetic personae into one same person. Thus, the Paraphrasis
emerges from the inspiration of a ‘poet of Christ’, while the Dionysiaca follows
the classic tradition in heart and form.
It also seems clear that the notable contact points between the Dionysiaca
and the Paraphrasis can be explained from the perspective of a Christian
Nonnus. We stand before an author with a very wide command of classic tradi-
tion, who knows and perfectly exploits the ambivalence of wine and, above all,
the proximity of the salvation figures of Christ and Dionysus. Without taking a
clear position regarding either, nor showing any signs of anti-Christian or anti-
pagan polemic, instead we find in him a series of cross-references, that create
14 Al. Cameron (2007) 38.

15 Rohde (1914) 507.
16 Gigli Piccardi (1985) 242–245 and (2003) 45–60; Vian (1988b); Shorrock (2011).
17 As an example of one rejecting the ‘classic’, Shorrock (2011) 15–21 quotes Paulinus of Nola;
the opposite position is incarnated by Paulinusʼ master, Ausonius.
a kind of question-answer game between one poem and the other.18 Therefore,
it is logical and convenient to establish a marked difference between real
beliefs and literary motifs. These motifs are what, in general, fill the Dionysiaca,
even in prodigious and miraculous scenes, such as resurrections that we will
comment on later, and which highlight Nonnusʼ incredibly vast knowledge of
pagan culture.
3 Traces of Orphism and Dionysism in the Work of Nonnus
3.1 The Role of Orpheus in the Dionysiaca

The Nonnian epicʼs treatment of Orpheus, the mythical founder of the reli-
gious movement that bears his name, clearly illustrates the reduction to a lit-
erary motif of an element with a depth of true belief. The first sign of this is
the fact that he does not mention the founderʼs his name. In almost twenty-
two thousand hexameters in the Dionysiaca, Orpheus is only named four
times. In other places he is alluded to indirectly, by mentioning members of
his family, or using metonymic references to his most notorious mythical abil-
ity: the highest mastery of music,19 by which he is able to charm everything.
The name Orpheus literarily incarnated musical ability. With this inspiration
and based on this model, in even more indirect references, Nonnus describes
other charactersʼ achievements through music, without even mentioning the
Thracian.
Out of these four direct allusions in the Dionysiaca (13.428–431, 19.100–101,
19.112–113, and 41.375), only one really refers to Orpheus. It appears in 41.375
Ὀρφεὺς μυστιπόλοιο θεηγόρα χεύματα μολπῆς, and it points to him as the dis-
coverer of ‘the streams of mystic song with divine voice’20 amidst a catalogue
of mythical inventors, πρῶτοι εὑρεταί, responsible for favorable inventions for
humanity. Amongst these appear figures such as Pan, Hermes, Linus, Cadmus,
and even Solon, the city legislator, as well as the mythical Cecropes.21 Orpheusʼ
18 Amongst the most frequently quoted coincidences we find the allusion in 9.72 to Semele
as ‘blessed among all the daughters of Cadmus’ (which reminds Mary’s greeting by the
angel Gabriel in Luke 1:28, cf. also Dion. 3.425–426), or the apparent and shocking charac-
terization of Dionysus as a pious god, a redeemer in the way of Christianity, in 12.171 ‘Lord
Bacchos has wept tears, that he may wipe away manʼs tears!’ (trans. Rouse 1940).
19 Orpheusʼ musical ability is his most characteristic trait in all the versions of his mythical
story that we know of, see Bernabé (2008c).
20 Trans. Rouse (1940).
21 For more about this list of inventors and mythical founders, see García-Gasco (2011b).
contribution to humanity is religious, denoted by the adjectives μυστιπόλος and

θεηγόρος which, applied to their respective nouns in the verse, frame Orpheusʼ
invention of music and religion. The first of these adjectives, ‘proper or rela-
tive to the celebration of mysteries’, is a technical mystery term.22 The second,
θεηγόρος, literally means ‘relative to the gods’ (or ‘speaking about gods’) and
also ‘inspired’. In a word, in only one verse, the poet concentrates a number of
Orphic religiosityʼs fundamental data, thus boasting of his knowledge that it
consists in rituals that require initiation and include music that comes from
and speaks about the gods as a key element.
In other references, Orpheusʼ name appears alongside his father, Oeagrus,
king of Thrace. This second type of mention, in Dion. 19.100–115 and 13.428–431,
has a double function. On the one hand, they provide data regarding Oeagrusʼ
genealogy, who fights alongside Dionysus in the war against the Indians, about
a generation before Orpheus. This aspect, it is worth mentioning, is the sec-
ond function of the reference: to trace a relative chronology of the characters
within this legendary time. On the other hand, Nonnus shows Oeagrus in
19.100–115 winning a singing contest thanks to an ability that no other source
mentions, but which his son does have, as any educated reader would know.
This kind of ‘inverse genetic heritage’ works therefore as a poetic anticipation
of the capability that would make Orpheus well known later on.
In a third group of references we find signs of musical powers typical of
Orpheus being attributed to other characters in the saga. These are the most
indirect references, since his name is not mentioned, but rather he is merely
alluded to by the description of the surprising effects of music. This occurs
with Cadmus (1.492–499) and Amphion (5.49–67 and 25.414–428), who are
able to operate on nature, men or gods, with similar results to what tradition
attributes to Orpheus.
3.2 Orphic Divinities in the Dionysiaca

The Dionysiaca includes references to divinities present in Orphism. Rhea,
Phanes and Dionysus Zagreus appear with similar traits as those from Orphic
sources. This shows that Nonnus knew at least one of the theogonies transmit-
ted with Orpheusʼ name.23 However, the divergencies appear to be as abundant
as the contact points. In addition, Nonnus is interested in neither an ordered
22 On the mystery terminology in Nonnus see Doroszewski in this volume.
23 Out of the three mentioned by Damascius, the Sacred Discourses in Twenty-Four
Rhapsodies, that of Hieronymus and Hellanicus and that of Eudemus (Dam. Pr. 123 = III,
159.17 Westerink), it was probably the first, Rhapsodies, that Nonnus knew and had access
to. See Bernabé (2008d) and West (2008).
exposition of the succession in the heavenly kingdom, nor in its repercussions

on the possibilities of salvation for the humanity. Both of these were funda-
mental functions in the authentic Orphic theogonic narratives, which leads
us to affirm that they are names and episodes used solely for poetic interests.
If the presence of Kronos and Rhea in the Dionysiaca allows alluding to the
Rhapsodies, it is also true that tricking the goddess to keep Zeus from devour-
ing her husband was already part of Hesiodʼs Theogony.24 The presence of
Phanes, ‘the oldest of the divinities’, is also object of a merely literary treat-
ment (cf. Dion. 9.141, 157, 12.34, 19.207). In addition to the detail of its antiq-
uity, it sidesteps the most relevant ones from Orphic points of view: his birth
from an egg made by Chronos, and the role in the first creation of the cosmos25
that the theogonies attribute to him. Regarding the narrative of Zagreusʼ death
by the hand of the Titans—probably influenced by the Neoplatonic version—
we find all anthropogonic and soteriologic repercussions stripped away.
We will examine these episodes individually, albeit summarized, in order to
reach what is already being drawn out as an anticipated conclusion: the poet
pursues a wide variety of themes and motifs in form and content, and puts
his rhetoric capacity at the service of this aim, without showing any sure foot-
prints of belief, nor anti-pagan nor anti-Christian polemic.26
3.2.1 Rhea: The Intermittent Syncretism

The Rhea of the Dionysiaca draws from the Rhea of the Rhapsodies and from
the Hesiodic account: wife of Kronos, king before Zeus, co-protagonist of the
renown episode of the stone that her husband devours in place of her young-
est son.
In Orphic literature there is an intense syncretistic process between divini-
ties. This is the case in particular with Rhea. The poets use etymology to justify
one god acquiring the most characteristic traits of another, or even the fusion
of both, as if there were a recreation of one for another.27 Rhea assimilates
Demeter and, simultaneously, Ge, due to the similarity between the name
Δημήτηρ and the sequence Γῆ μήτηρ (‘Mother Earth’). This happens in Orphic
literature beginning with the birth of Zeus, which makes Rhea a mother by
24 Hes. Th. 490. For the differences between theogonies in the episode of the stone and
Kronos, see Vian (1990) 269 (on Dion. 25.553–562).
25 The second would be that of Zeus.
26 Chuvin (2014) 15.
27 Bernabé (2008b). In Nonnusʼ time, syncretism was not exclusive to any religion, but rather
it encompassed all of them, and it is based upon a lack of manifest interest to point to the
exact origin of each allusion.
antonomasia.28 In the Dionysiaca, this fusion is intermittent, at the service of

the poetʼs interests in each passage.29
Rheaʼs most important appearances in the saga show her role as Dionysusʼ
constant protector. In contrast to Semele, whose mission is reduced to gestate
him so that, later, she can boast from Olympus about the superiority of her
son, Rhea acts as the tireless mother. Her condition as the mother of gods par
excellence30 justifies her becoming responsible for Dionysus, and therefore
acquiring quite a relevant role. This is also warranted by the play on words
that identifies her with Earth and Demeter. In the Dionysiaca, this identifica-
tion is extended to Cybele: in his fleet from Hera, the obstinate stepmother,
Dionysus the baby passes through the successive hands of the daughters of
the fluvial god Lamos, the Theban Ino, and the wet nurse Mystis. Finally he
is able to remain in Phrygia, which explains Rheaʼs new syncretic identifica-
tion. In addition to being the mother of the gods (45.98), Rhea-Cybele is most
importantly Dionysusʼ mother, whom she nurtures as a wet nurse (1.20–21). She
is also explicitly called his ‘mother’ in 9.145, 9.175, 11.241 and 43.22. Dionysus
himself affectively calls her ‘my Rhea’ (11.299).
All these references, and others which populate the ninth book, dedicated
to the godʼs childhood,31 show the essential similarities between Rhea and
Demeter. They also connect her to the Dionysiac sphere, by using, for example,
the ritual adjective εὔιος, practically employed as a synonym of ‘Bacchic’ to
qualify certain elements related to the god.32
Summing it up, Rheaʼs maternal role in raising Dionysus and her iden-
tification with Demeter are the elements that lead us to see most clearly
how the poet is using a tradition bound up to Orphism for poetic interests,
since Dionysus and Demeterʼs relation is present in the foundational myth
of Orphism. According to this story, in Persephone Zeus engenders the first
28 OF 206.
29 This is not the only occasion in which Nonnus uses the names of different goddesses as
epithets for a single one. In other passages he will unweave them or break apart their
identification: see Dion. 44.254–257, where Persephone and Moon are two different char-
acters, and 44.193–196, 204–205, where they seem to be the same being.
30 She appears as ‘mother of the gods’ or ‘mother of all’ in Clidem. FGrH 323 F (= OF 29). Also
in Nonnus: Dion. 8.162, 9.222, 13.35–36, 25.354. Deo appears with the title ‘mother of all’ in
19.83; Gaia (Earth) in 48.7.
31 Rhea proudly contemplates the early achievements of the little one, who subdues wild
animals in 9.182–183, drives the goddess’s carriage in 9.191, or handles her musical instru-
ments in 10.139–140.
32 Her cymbal, in 1.39; her general instruments, in 10.140; the calmness of her enclosure,
in 14.249.
Dionysus, called Zagreus in some testimonies, and he suffers a terrible death at

the hands of the Titans. After dismembering and devouring the god, the assas-
sins are fulminated by Zeus; and their remains birth the human race.33 In the
Dionysiaca we find a version of the Titanic myth. However, as we will see next,
it is presented without reference to the anthropogony.
It is worth remembering, on the other hand, that Demeter and Persephone,
goddesses affected by this syncretism from early on, appear in the Dionysiaca
with interchangeable roles, as if one were no more than the unfolding of the
other. If Rhea, Demeter and Persephone are, in the last instance, the same
syncretic goddess, the second Dionysus, poetically, is the same for Rhea as
Demophon is for Demeter in the traditional myth (HHom. Dem. 233–243): a
new ‘son’ to care for, after having lost the true one. This is a key similarity in
the stories of both goddesses. Thus, Rhea would be Zagreusʼ mother inasmuch
as she is the mother of Zeus—by virtue of the confusion amongst both which
is presented in Orphic literature34—and, similarly, the mother of the second
Dionysus, who is put under her care in the Dionysiaca.
3.2.2 Phanes: Primeval Divinity

As the divine carrier of Dionysus in his journey from wet nurse to wet nurse,
Hermes constantly avoids the ill-intentioned mother-in-law. He does this
in a curious way in 9.137–144: disguising himself as the Orphic god Phanes,
whose venerable appearance and old age tricks and dissuades Hera, who had
come out to oppose him. This passage abounds in terms that highlight the
treacherous nature of Hermesʼ image: δολόπλοκον and νόθης in 144, referring
to the image of the god altogether, and ψευδομένας in 143, which alludes to the
rays that emanate from his face. These rays identify the god with the Greco-
Egyptian Hermes-Toth,35 who frequently appears represented in iconogra-
phy crowned by a solar disc. Additionally, some Orphic testimonies identify
Phanes with the Sun (OF 60 and 540). On the other hand, Hermes, the inventor
of writing and patron of the heralds, is inevitably near to the divine scribe of
the Egyptian religion, which poetically justifies him taking on this appearance.
The fact that Hermes disguises himself as Phanes to escape from Hera, all in all,
shows Nonnusʼ knowledge of Orphic literature, which allows us to again speak
of a strong syncretism. In this passage, Phanes is presented with the most
important adjective in Orphic texts: πρωτόγονος (‘first-born’), alternating with
the variant πρωτόσπορος (‘first-fruit’, 9.142), and Φάνης (‘the shining one’, 9.141),
33 Bernabé (2008c). See also the introduction to this chapter.

34 West (1983) 166–175 offers the key, alluding to Zagreus as an unfolding of the Cretan Zeus.
35 Chrétien (1985) 112–113 (on Dion. 9.141).
another adjective, whose meaning is bound up with the luminous appearance

of the god.
Another brief reference to Phanes appears later on in the Dionysiaca, in a
passage in which one of the Hours, wanting to know when the grapevine is to
be born, goes before Helios, who is in possession of some ‘tablets’ that contain
‘all the oracles of the world’. The author is Phanes, the first-born (12.32–34),
who owes his mantic qualities to his primeval condition, manifested again
through the use of adjectives.36 In Orphic literature Night and Kronos through
their predictions helped Zeus recreate and reorder the world. Nonnus recog
nizes and concedes to Phanes the prophetic ability attributed to his original
condition which, appropriately assumed by the disguised Hermes, causes fear
and reverence towards Hera.
3.2.3 Dionysus Zagreus

From the abundant allusions to Dionysus son of Zeus and Persephone within
the Dionysiaca, the ones most related to Orphism are those relative to the
birth of Persephone (6.103–162) and Dionysus’ death at the hands of the Titans
(6.169–205). The myth of the dismembering of the first Dionysus, considered
central in Orphism, explains the origin of humanity while also implicating a
series of ritual needs for the lifestyle of the initiate. In addition to Nonnus,
other authors refer to this myth in a number of ways and more or less directly:
Callimachus, for example, had used the expression Ζαγρέα γειναμένη (‘after
begetting Zagreus’)37 referring to Persephone. This is identical to the expres-
sion used by Nonnus in Dion. 6.165. The name Zagreus must have been applied
to Dionysus, son of Persephone, to distinguish him from the second Dionysus,
from Semele, in some Orphic cults such as those described in the fragment from
Euripidesʼ Cretans, which is the longstanding locus classicus of the question.38
Euphorion also must have dealt with the episode, from what appears in light of
an allusion to the Titans, bearing plaster cast masks in order to kill Dionysus.39
However, the Neoplatonic commentators—more concretely Olympiodorus
(In Phd. 1.3, I, 41 Westerink) and Proclus (In Tim. I, 175 Diehl)—are the most
important sources for the Nonnian recycling of the myth, despite some dif-
ferences. Proclus understands that the crime is produced merely out of envy,
while both Olympiodorus and Nonnus point to Hera as the instigator. But there
36 See Gigli Piccardi (2003) 815–817 (on Dion. 12.33–35).

37 Call. fr. 643 Pf.
38 TrGF V.1 472 (= OF 567). See Bernabé (2004). Also Plutarch, De E apud Delph. 389a labels
‘Zagreus’ a cult name and not Dionysusʼ literary name.
39 Euph. fr. 13 de Cuenca (= 14 van Groningen; OF 35). García-Gasco (2011c).
are divergences that affect the heart of the issue rather than the form, since
Olympiodorus collects the version according to which the human race was
born from the Titans, slayed by the thunderbolt of Zeus, while Nonnus only
alludes to the dismembering event and purposely avoids referring to the des-
tiny of murdered Dionysusʼ flesh. As an innovation, he substitutes the Titanic
banquet for a series of metamorphoses carried out by Zagreus while attempt-
ing to free himself from his aggressors (6.169–198): first, he successively takes
on the form of his father Zeus (an adult), Kronos (an elder), a baby and an ado-
lescent (the most frequent image of Dionysus), gathering in himself manʼs four
ages. Acquiring all these forms relative to human ages points to the possibility
of a multiplex representation of a god who is and encompasses everything. It is
tempting to defend, thereby, a poetic allusion to the simultaneous and ambig-
uous form of an adult and a child used to worship Dionysus in certain Orphic
settings. In this sense, it helps support the testimony of a gold tablet from
Pherae (OF 493), where a strange term appears, ANDRIKEPAIDOTHYRSON,
which is apparently composed by ἀνήρ, παῖς and θύρσος. Underlying this term
one finds a cult epithet belonging to Dionysus, used in a number of mystery
settings to designate him a god who is at once an adult man, a child and a thyr-
sus (or carrying a thyrsus, at the least).40
Upon assuming the four human forms, Zagreus continues to metamorphose
into animals, according to Nonnus: a lion, a horse, a serpent, a tiger, and a bull.41
This is a new successive accumulation of appearances, probably symbolic:
individually, each metamorphosis (except the horse) is related to the cult of
Dionysus. Meanwhile, looking at the whole, it is possible to establish a parallel
with the description of Phanes as a being composed of elements of lion, bull
and serpent, as stated in Proclus.42
The name Zagreus reappears in less lengthy passages further on in the
Dionysiaca, within longer stories. Thus, in 44.213, when the second Dionysus,
in his fight against Pentheus, requires the help of Moon-Persephone by virtue
of his shared name with Zagreus: ‘I pray thee, master this impious creature, to
honour the Dionysos who revived the name of primeval Zagreus.’43 Even Hera,
also before Persephone, uses the name Zagreus for her own interest: to get her
40 ANDRIKEPAIDOTHYRSON was after deformed into Erikepaios, that appears in the
sources as an epithet of Phanes (especially in the Rhapsodies) or of Dionysus (Procl. In
Tim. I, 336.15 Diehl), cf. Bernabé/Jiménez San Cristóbal (2008) 155.
41 A summarizing discussion of the meaning of this kind of appearances in Bulla (1964) and
Hernández de la Fuente (2002). For the bull, see García-Gasco (2014a).
42 Procl. In Tim. I, 427.20, 429.29 and III, 101.9 Diehl (= OF 134).
to join her side against Dionysus. Hera tries to show how unjust it is that a
‘mortal’44 might enjoy such divine privileges along with the protection of Zeus,
something that the previous Dionysus, a real god, had never counted on.
Nonnus plays at will with the identification or separation of the two
Dionysus,45 in a way comparable to what has been said regarding the ‘mother
goddesses’. This ‘intermittent’ syncretism, therefore, principally affects the
central god in the Dionysiaca: although the reign of Zagreus never takes place
factually, nor is the reincarnation of the first Dionysus in the second clear
(quite the contrary, in fact, in the Orphic sources), the notion of the god as a
representative of a new order, at Zeusʼ expense, is persistent.
3.3 An Afterlife in Nonnus? Promises, Hopes and Punishments

A priori, it would seem logical to affirm that the presence of Orphism in the
Dionysiaca is less prominent than that of Dionysism. Yet, even if we assume
Nonnusʼ motifs as merely literary, we must highlight that in all probability by
this time period there were no longer clear differences between religious con-
cepts; the poet, in his erudite zeal, tries to bring together in one literary monu-
ment all that is related to Dionysus, without meaning to ascribe to any one
system the beliefs that are contained in his poem.
Some episodes still allow discussion regarding the presence of allusions to
an afterlife, which would have Dionysus as a guarantor, that is somehow related
to Orphism.46 However, there are fundamental differences between the Orphic
literature and the Dionysiaca: while Orphism offers the possibility of personal
salvation post mortem to all the mystai (the initiates and those who partici-
pate in the rites), in Nonnus it is the divinity, in particular Dionysus, who dotes
gifts or punishments at will, and, of course, being part of his entourage does
not guarantee salvation. Generally, awards and punishments take place strictly
during life or in the shape of a diffused promise for the afterlife: resurrections,
whenever they take place, are purely physical; the dead person returns to his
or her earthly life in the same condition as before death. Criminals, for exam-
ple, are punished with horrendous, exemplary deaths. Thus, Nonnus does not
depict a world of the dead for the just or the unjust, and, except in a few con-
crete cases, the precise kind of immortality that awaits the one who deserves
it is not clearly portrayed.
44 It is a topos of Dionysiac literature that his enemies would consider Dionysus mortal.
45 García-Gasco (2007) 485–502 and (2011a).
46 One of the defining traits of Orphism in opposition to Dionysism is, precisely, the belief
in an afterlife. See Jiménez San Cristóbal (2008b).
This issue is equally undefined in the case of privileged beings such as

Zagreus, a god, or Tylus, the protagonist of a Lydian myth narrated by Pliny47
and reused by Nonnus (25.451–552). Zagreusʼ death at the hands of the Titans
(6.169–205) presents a degree of parallelism to the Tylus episode, which
is included in the ekphrasis of Dionysusʼ shield.48 The myth of Tylus thus
describes the peculiar resurrection of a group of beings related to the vegetable
world and the cult of the Earth.
While walking near the river, Tylus is mortally wounded by a snake-bite.
A naiad mourns for him, but Morie, the sister of the deceased, demands ven-
geance from Damasen, a giant, son of the Earth. Damasen plucks out a tree
(that re-roots itself immediately afterwards) and kills the serpent. The female
companion of the reptile quickly marches off to find a herb that, once intro-
duced through the nostrils, gives life back to the dead animal. The myth ends
as abruptly as it began when Morie resurrects Tylus, reproducing with him the
same process that the female serpent had carried out.
The presence of an identical phrase allows comparing the narrative of the
death of Zagreus and that of the resurrection of Tylus: τέρμα βίου Διόνυσος ἔχων
παλινάγρετον ἀρχήν (6.175) and Kαὶ νέκυς ἀμφιέπων βιοτῆς παλινάγρετον ἀρχήν
(25.545). In both verses, παλινάγρετον (‘returning’), which complements the
substantive, ἀρχήν (‘beginning’), refers itself to the beginning of a new life—
renewed—which in both cases affects the deceased. Regardless, this similarity
is purely formal given the fact that, while Tylus resurrects in an effective and
physical way, Zagreusʼ return to life is not as clear; it does not occur, indeed, in
a physical way, but rather in a more metaphorical or symbolic way, since it the
memory or the name of the god in the second Dionysus endures, as we have
seen already, through opaque allusions in other characters of the poem.
All in all, returning momentarily to the resurrection episode of Tylus, it is
important to highlight the relevance of what is vegetal, considering that all
the implied elements have to do with the Earth and with vegetation: the Naiad
that cries for the deceased is a river divinity;49 Morie, a nymph from the olive
tree in the original myth; Tylus himself, who represents the homonymous tree;
47 Quoting Xanthos of Lydia: Plin. HN 25.14 (= Xanth. FGrH 765 F 3).
48 See concrete aspects of the episode of Tylus in Vian (1990) 37–39; Espinar/Hernández de
la Fuente (2002); Agosti (2004c) 129–131; Spanoudakis (2013b). For a study on the shield
scenes, see Spanoudakis (2014b).
49 Spanoudakis (2013b) sees another sister of Tylus, Naias, in the Naiad of this episode. This
allows him to make the parallelism between Tylusʼ resurrection and that of Lazarus in the
Paraphrasis extreme: Naias and Morie are equivalent, in his view, to the sisters Martha
and Mary in the Gospel (John 11:1–44).
Damasen is son of the Earth, as are the tree and, of course, the serpent, the
chthonic animal par excellence, whose relationship with the Dionysiac world
and the belief in the afterlife is already a topos in religious studies.50
Regardless the particular meaning or origin of this belief, the insistence in
the vocabulary relative to salvation or resurrection seems clear, both here and
in other episodes of the poem. In the case of Ampelus and Staphylus, for exam-
ple, they are tightly related to the vegetal world in general, and to the Dionysiac
in particular: they personify the vine plant and the grape cluster, respectively,
so that their resurrections in the form of these elements are more than certain,
to the delight of their downcast friends. After the bloody death of the beauti-
ful Ampelus (11.214–223),51 Dionysus receives a clear consolation from Atropus
(12.142–143): ‘He lives, I declare, Dionysos; your boy lives, and shall not pass the
bitter water of Acheron.’52 And shortly afterwards (12.171): ‘Lord Bacchus has
wept tears, that he may wipe away manʼs tears!’53
The sudden death of Staphylus, of his son Botrys, his servant Pithos and his
wife Methe, each allegories of the grape cluster, the jar of wine, and drunk-
enness, respectively, no longer surprises nor saddens Dionysus, who promises
that all will live forever in Dionysiac courtship (19.44–58). Neither Ampelus
nor Staphylus, in summary, experience an immediate or physical resurrection.
It is rather an allegory or, at the least, two similar etiological accounts. This
does not mean, however, that they completely lack a deep meaning, very dif-
ficult to demarcate, especially in the curious case of Tylus, as well as in the
sum of Dionysusʼ shield scenes. Since Collart pointed out that after the afore-
mentioned ekphrasis stands merely a rhetorical exercise without any inter-
est beyond linking colorist scenes,54 the tendency now seems to be inverted:
scholars such as Vian, Hernández de la Fuente or Chuvin have discovered not
only a will to emulate Homer, but also a proposition of an ideal image of the
world, recycling traditional myths. For Nonnus, Zeusʼ taking possession of
power (the last shield scene) and the extension of the Dionysiac cult by
Dionysus himself brings definitive and desirable order to the cosmos. In this
50 Regarding the serpent and the belief in immortality, see Davies (1987), and, for partial
aspects of the serpent in Nonnus, Newbold (1984). For a panorama of the serpent in the
Dionysiaca see García-Gasco (2007) 215–220, 391–439.
51 A study of the Ampelus episode from a rhetorical constructionist point of view in Kröll
(2014).
53 Trans. Rouse (1940). This verse is renown since Golega (1930) 69. Chuvin (2014) 15 cites it
among a list of similarities between the Dionysiaca and the Paraphrasis to demonstrate
Nonnusʼ use of Christian books.
54 Collart (1930) 114.
vein, Spanoudakis explores the parallelisms between Tylusʼ resurrection and

that of Lazarus. After a similar examination into the rest of the shield scenes,
he concludes that their amalgamation is a skillful handling of well-known—
for the educated reader—elements of the classic paideia. The result is a uni-
versal history equal to Christian salvation: from the creation of the world (the
first shield scene is the construction of walls of Thebes) to the installation
of the new world (the birth of Zeus and the victory over Kronos, fourth scene of
the ekphrasis), prefigured, albeit not fulfilled, in Dionysus and Zeus.55 Chuvin
(2014) reaches a similar conclusion after re-examining the Nonnian use of
mystical vocabulary and discovering, for example, that the word σωτήρ is not
used even once in the Dionysiaca, whereas the verb σῴζω is only employed as
a farewell greeting between characters. In this way, Nonnus seems to avoid any
possible confusion between Dionysus and the ultimate Saviour, Christ, which
Chuvin translates into an absence of authentic Dionysiac zeal. The hope of
a better afterlife appears to be imprecise, hardly discernible; that of Semele,
who reaches the Olympus as Thyone, is the only realized promise of immortal-
ity (7.351). The wine is nothing other than a momentary forgetting of sorrows,
although Dionysus, according to Chuvin, far from rivaling Christ, anticipates
him, and represents a kind of coarse Justice that will be fulfilled in Roman
institutions. The protagonist of the Dionysiaca does not imitate or explicitly
announce Christ, but he does prepare the material world for the arrival of him
who Christianity considers the true Saviour.56
3.4 Sacred Account, Ritual and Rites

Regarding salvation promises, we find a number of allusions to punishments
destined for those who, like Pentheus and Lycurgus, paradigmatic cases both
for tradition and the Dionysiaca, incur in grave hybris faults against Dionysus.
Nonnus composes his Lycurgeia and Pentheis (books dedicated to the faults
and punishments of Lycurgus and Pentheus respectively) with the Bacchae
of Euripides and the structure of the Dionysiac sacred accounts as reference.
Regarding the sacred account, we know that it was used in religious ceremonies
as the doctrinal foundation of the rite. In all probability the narrative scheme
was fixed: since Dionysusʼ divinity is unquestioned and his power is genuine,
anyone who continually doubts or confronts the god, incurs in a very grave
fault that exposes the being to his punishment; however Bacchus is merciful
and gives the sinner a second chance, he also respects and compensates friends
who have recognized the god and his power; lastly, Zeus acts as the ultimate
55 Spanoudakis (2014b) 370–371.

56 Chuvin (2014) 17–18.
guarantor of the legitimacy of Dionysus and the imposed punishment. These

characteristics, studied by Sutton (1987) stemming from a hymn to Dionysus
from the third century ad that recounts the vengeance against Lycurgus, are
perfectly fulfilled in the Nonnian Lycurgeia and Pentheis,57 accounts which,
essentially, provide details to vital questions about the nature, powers and
virtues of the god.
In order to calibrate other possible references to rituals in the Dionysiaca,
it is necessary to ponder over the use of mystic vocabulary.58 As Vian (1988b)
already pointed out, the religious terms lose their particular sense and become
profane in a process of ‘desacralization’. This happens, for example, with the
use of the term βάκχος, which in Dionysiac religion designated indistinctly
the faithful and the god, and βακχεύειν, traditionally used in reference to
Dionysiac ecstasy.59 The first and most concrete sense would have been ‘to suf-
fer the effects of wine’ or ‘to be intoxicated’. Stemming from that meaning, in
most of the seventy-two appearances, it designates any kind of intense insan-
ity: Agaveʼs anguish (44.47), the warrior fury of a fighter (1.227, 14.338, 17.321,
23.57), and also drunkenness (16.255, 46.125–127).
We find some of the most interesting Nonnian references to ritual in a less
dispersed manner, in concrete episodes and in the shape of personification.
We will look at two cases: Mystis, whose name is related to the verb μυέω
(‘to initiate’), a technical term in mystery religions, and Telete, which means
‘ceremony’ as a common name, frequently referred to Orphic ones.60
Both are episodic characters in the poem and, despite divergences in degree
of importance in their interventions, we can equate the way Nonnus uses them
to allegorically justify certain milestones in the life of Dionysus and, again,
show off his knowledge of mystery elements.
Mystis intervenes in one passage what is already a locus classicus of Nonnian
mystic vocabulary studies,61 as Dionysusʼ last wet nurse before being brought
before Rhea (9.111–131). The Nonnian text describes in detail and with abundant
mystery vocabulary the godʼs first initiation, in which the wet nurse shows him
the ritual, while he learns how to execute it. Before Dionysusʼ birth, Nonnus
seems to say, these rites did not exist. The Mystis episode results, therefore, in
57 García-Gasco (2007) 347–381.

58 See Doroszewski in this volume.
59 Cf. the mystic vocabulary classification and the uses of Nonnus in Vian (1994b) 218.
60 Jiménez San Cristóbal (2008a).
61 This episode is studied by Wilson (1993), Ruiz Pérez (2002), and García-Gasco (2014b).
For Vian (1994b) 220–221 this is the only place in the poem with real allusions to the
Dionysiac ritual.
a literary anticipation and an etiological explanation that encompasses what

is done, how it is done, and all the instruments, clothing and other precise
circumstances necessary for the ritual: cymbals, a buzzer, torches, ivy, a thyr-
sus, vine branches, and snakes are packed together in a passage full of allusions
to the night cult of Dionysus, called by the name of Lyaeus, to dance, and to the
transmission and celebration forms of the rites.62
In respect to Telete, born from Dionysusʼ first female lover, Nicaea, after her
rape (16.270–291), she only has one function unique to her character: together
with her mother, Athena, and the Eleusinian nymphs, she will care for Iacchus
(48.948–968), the son of the nymph Aura.63 Iacchus is, at that point, the third
person called Dionysus in the poem,64 the son that the second Dionysus leaves
to the world before his expected apotheosis. In the quoted passage, Nonnus
identifies him with Erichthonius, a mythical character with no relation to the
religious sphere, and concurrently, with Iacchus, the son of Demeter, a figure of
hardly any mythological weight, but with a strong presence in the Eleusinian
mysteries.
The parallels between Mystis and Telete seem clear enough: both act like
wet nurses for the second and third Dionysus, respectively, in corresponding
symmetric scenes that grant a curious circularity to the account of the godʼs
life. All in all, after the abundant mystery terminology, there are no allusions
to a Dionysiac or any other kind of ritual; Nonnus offers an exuberant vocabu-
lary compendium aimed at dazzling the reader, not to describe cultish circum-
stances of his time. We cannot say, however, that both episodes are flagrant
cases of desacralization: notwithstanding the hotchpotch of allusions in the
passage on Iacchus, in the Mystis text all the elements point to a unified idea
and the result is coherent and identifiable with the Dionysiac ritual, despite
the fact that its function in the poem is solely an anticipated etiology.
4 By Way of Conclusion
Nonnusʼ heterogeneous work appears to be plagued with references to multiple

pagan elements, amongst which Orphism and Dionysism occupy a prominent
62 See more details in García-Gasco (2014b).

63 Regarding the common elements in Nicaea and Aura, in addition to her rape and regard-
ing the importance of Dionysusʼ lovers and wives in the unified structure of the poem,
see Vian (1994b) and Chuvin (2014) 7–8. Regarding Mystis and Teleteʼs iconography, see
Miguélez Cavero (2014b) 183–187.
64 García-Gasco (2007) 485–502 and (2011a).
place. Such allusions do not attest to the faith of the poet, but they do cor-
roborate the power and allusive strength of the pagan religions, which the poet
seems to claim as complementary to Christianity. The example of the power of
wine, imperfect even in Dionysus, which never is a reliable promise of a future
life, yet already perfect in the person of Christ, is probably the best way to
illustrate this idea. Moreover, the references to Orphic divinities, under whom
there is not even a shadow of their meaning in the original sources, take on a
colorist sense in Nonnus, who aspires mainly to boast of his generous erudite
condition as the ‘poet of the Muses’.
chapter 5
The Poet of Dionysus: Birth of the Last among

the Gods
Pierre Chuvin
1 From the Beginning to the End in the Dionysiaca
The very long profane poem by Nonnus displays from a blaze provoked by
Zeus, the master of thunder and lightning (Dion. 1.1–10):
Εἰπέ, θεά, Κρονίδαο διάκτορον αἴθοπος εὐνῆς,

νυμφιδίῳ σπινθῆρι μογοστόκον ἄσθμα κεραυνοῦ,
καὶ στεροπὴν Σεμέλης θαλαμηπόλον· εἰπὲ δὲ φύτλην
Βάκχου δισσοτόκοιο,1 τὸν ἐκ πυρὸς ὑγρὸν ἀείρας
Ζεὺς βρέφος ἡμιτέλεστον ἀμαιεύτοιο τεκούσης, 5
φειδομέναις παλάμῃσι τομὴν μηροῖο χαράξας,
ἄρσενι γαστρὶ λόχευσε, πατὴρ καὶ πότνια μήτηρ,
εὖ εἰδὼς τόκον ἄλλον ἑῷ γονόεντι καρήνῳ,
ὡς πάρος ὄγκον ἄπιστον ἔχων ἐγκύμονι κόρσῃ
τεύχεσιν ἀστράπτουσαν ἀνηκόντιζεν Ἀθήνην. 10
Tell the tale, Goddess, of Cronides’ courier with fiery bed, the gasping
travail which the thunderbolt brought with sparks for wedding-torches,
the lightning in waiting upon Semele’s nuptials; tell the naissance of
Bacchos twice-born, whom Zeus lifted still moist from the fire, a baby
half-complete born without midwife; how with shrinking hands he cut
the incision in his thigh and carried him in his man’s womb, father and
gracious mother at once—and well he remembered another birth from
1 See Shorrock (2008) esp. 99–104 and more recently Paschalis (2014) 103: ‘The first section
of Nonnus’ Proem (1–10) deals with the birth of Dionysus, the son of Zeus and Semele. The
“birth” of the god whose heroic life and exploits constitute the topic of the Dionysiaca func-
tions at the same time as a suitable “beginning” and also as a metaphor for the creation of the
work itself’; also Gigli Piccardi and Shorrock in this volume.

112 Chuvin
his own head, when his temple was once big with child, and he carried
that incredible lump, until he shot out Athena scintillating in her armour.2
‘Twice-born’ (δισσοτόκοιο, 4), and nonetheless ‘half-complete’ (ἡμιτέλεστον, 5),3

is the Dionysus of Nonnus: the poet is paradoxical from the beginning, in which
the birth motif is abundantly exploited in lines 1–10.4 His tale is thus composed
of still, juxtaposed and allusive images, with a refrain at lines 11 and 34:
Ἄξατέ μοι νάρθηκα, τινάξατε κύμβαλα, Μοῦσαι,

καὶ παλάμῃ δότε θύρσον ἀειδομένου Διονύσου.
Bring me the fennel, rattle the cymbals, ye Muses! put in my hand the
wand of Dionysos whom I sing.
Ἄξατέ μοι νάρθηκα, Μιμαλλόνες, ὠμαδίην δέ

νεβρίδα ποικιλόνωτον ἐθήμονος ἀντὶ χιτῶνος 35
σφίγξατέ μοι στέρνοισι, Μαρωνίδος ἔμπλεον ὀδμῆς
νεκταρέης, βυθίῃ δὲ παρ’ Εἰδοθέῃ καὶ Ὁμήρῳ
φωκάων βαρὺ δέρμα φυλασσέσθω Μενελάῳ.
Bring me the fennel, Mimallons! On my shoulders in place of the wonted

kirtle, bind, I pray, tight over my breast a dapple-back fawnskin, full of the
perfume of Maronian nectar; and let Homer and deep-sea Eidothea keep
the rank skin of the seals for Menelaos.5
Amidst the racket of cymbals and tambourines,6 the frenzy of dances, the
thyrsi carried by Bacchantes, the Dionysiac celebration is no less spectacular
2 The Dionysiaca is quoted according to the Budé edition (Vian et al. 1976–2006). Translations
are from Rouse (1940), occasionally modified.
3 It may be revealing that the adjective ἡμιτέλεστος is also used for a ‘half-finished’ (LSJ, s.v.)
literary work (cf. above, n. 1) in Eudocia’s proem to the Homeric centos, l. 9 ἡμιτέλεστον . . . ἔργον;
see Agosti (2001b) 77–78.
4 An analysis of this theme in Accorinti (2009) 76–79.
5 For the imitation of Nonnus’ passage in the description of Paris in Colluthus’ Rape of Helen
(108–110), see Cadau (2015) 54–55. The ‘Maronian nectar’ alludes to Hom. Od. 9.196–211; on
Nonnus and Homer, see Bannert/Kröll in this volume.
6 On the ‘power of sound’ in Nonnus’ poem see Newbold (2003b), who also makes reference
to the proem to Book 1: ‘Volume in the Dionysiaca is, generally, turned up loud. The epithet
Βρόμιος, “noisy”, “roaring”, occurs 117 times. The poem opens with an attempt to capture some
of the essence of Dionysus worship, not only invoking the Muses but also the intoxicating
The Poet of Dionysus 113
than the original nuptials. Violence, too, pervades the beginning: violence in
the flayed Marsyas’ torture, violence in the flayed seals, with their legendary
stench (39–44):
Εὔιά μοι δότε ῥόπτρα καὶ αἰγίδας, ἡδυμελῆ δέ

ἄλλῳ δίθροον αὐλὸν ὀπάσσατε, μὴ καὶ ὀρίνω 40
Φοῖβον ἐμόν· δονάκων γὰρ ἀναίνεται ἔμπνοον ἠχώ,
ἐξότε Μαρσύαο θεημάχον αὐλὸν ἐλέγξας
δέρμα παρῃώρησε φυτῷ κολπούμενον αὔραις,
γυμνώσας ὅλα γυῖα λιπορρίνοιο νομῆος.
Give me the jocund tambours and the goatskins! but leave for another
the double-sounding pipe with its melodious sweetness, or I may offend
my own Apollo; for he rejects the sound of breathing reeds, ever since he
put to shame Marsyas and his god-defiant pipes, and bared every limb of
the skin-stript shepherd, and hung his skin on a tree to belly in the
breezes.7
However repulsive these images may be, the mild fragrances of exquisite
Maronian wine envelop them, as promise of pleasure. It will take long before
it comes true . . .
Indeed, no less than twenty-one thousands lines late, is the mission accom-
plished: Dionysiaca ends up on the Mount Olympus, with a solemn rhythm and
an appeased reception meal. There, the mature Dionysus takes a seat round
the table of Zeus, near his older brothers, Apollo and Hermes (48.974–978):
Καὶ θεὸς ἀμπελόεις πατρώιον αἰθέρα βαίνων

πατρὶ σὺν εὐώδινι μιῆς ἔψαυσε τραπέζης, 975
καὶ βροτέην μετὰ δαῖτα, μετὰ προτέρην χύσιν οἴνου
οὐράνιον πίε νέκταρ ἀρειοτέροισι κυπέλλοις,
σύνθρονος Ἀπόλλωνι, συνέστιος υἱέι Μαίης.
sound of cymbals (κύμβαλα), tambours (ῥόπτρα), pipes, song and the cry of Euoi, thereby
invoking and celebrating the god. There is an intention to go beyond but still include the
pipes of Apollo and pastoral music in the sonic array’ (457); Miguélez Cavero (2008) 127–129.
For the cymbals in the Dionysiac mystery rites, see Doroszewski in this volume.
7 For ‘Nonnus’ manipulation’ of the Homeric episode of Proteus (Od. 4.351–434, esp. 435 ff.)
and the allusion to Marsyas in the proem to Book 1, see Shorrock (2001) 117–118; Paschalis
(2014) 107–108.
114 Chuvin
Then the vinegod ascended into his father’s heaven, and touched one
table with the father who had brought him to birth; after the banquets
of mortals, after the wine once poured out, he quaffed heavenly nectar
from nobler goblets, on a throne beside Apollo, at the hearth beside
Maia’s son.8
The choice of his commensals is not due exclusively to their family kinship, but
also to elective affinities: music and poetry gather the three of them together.
The warning comes from the contrast between the beginning and the end
of the story: despite the massiveness of the work, there are subtle but clear
correspondences forging a whole. Thus, we are given the milestones of the
god-to-be earthly biography in a specific order, in which some acknowledge
the influence of the rhetoric of the Imperial praise. Viktor Stegemann, in
a pioneering study published in 1930, points out especially the influence of
Menander Rhetor’s principles.9
2 A Rhetoric of Praise?
The influence of rhetoric over Nonnus is crystal clear, but sometimes more
limited, sometimes more diffuse, and less systematic than what Stegemann
thought. It provided an array of fixed themes, often drawn from the epic
mythology, and they are broached one after the other: the ethopoeia (i.e.
commentaries by ad hoc characters), the syncrisis (i.e. comparison) and the
ecphrasis (i.e. depiction).10 Furthermore, this influence can be felt through
some narrative devices, which can be highlighted at different levels; such as
the circular composition, and often the attempt to balance the rhythms, always
following a guiding pattern—although sometimes loosely. The distinction
made by Menander Rhetor (373.5–9) between belligerent and pacific actions
is hardly effective in Nonnus’ poem. Dionysus’ military behaviors are, as we
shall see, that extraordinary, in spite of the author’s openly declared ambition.
At the very threshold of the properly military part of his work, he challenges
8 On the conclusion of the Dionysiaca, see Accorinti (2009) 78–79, who emphasizes the ring
composition (1.7 ~ 48.975), and Spanoudakis (2012) §§ 31–32 (cf. the chapter by the same
author in this volume), who comments that ‘Ascent to heaven after earthly toils is valid
for Christ too (in His case a “return”)’.
9 Stegemann (1930).
10 See Miguélez Cavero (2008) 355–366 (‘The Dionysiaca as an encomiastic poem’) and
(2013b); Agosti (2012) 373–375.
Homer in the proem to Book 25 (ll. 22–30), as he should sing a war which
exceeded all the others:
Ἀλλὰ πάλιν κτείνωμεν Ἐρυθραίων γένος Ἰνδῶν.

Οὔ ποτε γὰρ μόθον ἄλλον ὁμοίιον ἔδρακεν Αἰών
Ἠῴου πρὸ μόθοιο, καὶ οὐ μετὰ φύλοπιν Ἰνδῶν
ἄλλην ὀψιτέλεστον ἰσόρροπον εἶδεν ἐνυώ, 25
οὐδὲ τόσος στρατὸς ἦλθεν ἐς Ἴλιον, οὐ στόλος ἀνδρῶν
τηλίκος. Ἀλλὰ νέοισι καὶ ἀρχεγόνοισιν ἐρίζων,
εὐκαμάτους ἱδρῶτας ἀναστήσω Διονύσου,
κρίνων ἠνορέην τεκέων Διός, ὄφρα νοήσω
τίς κάμε τοῖον ἀγῶνα, τίς εἴκελος ἔπλετο Βάκχῳ. 30
Once more let us slay the race of Erythraian Indians. For Time never saw
before another struggle like the Eastern War, nor did he see an equal bat-
tle after the Indian campaign in later days. No such army came to Ilion,
no such host of men. But I will set up the toils and sweat of Dionysos in
rivalry with both new and old; I will judge the manhood of the sons of
Zeus, and see who endured such an encounter, who was like unto
Bacchos.
A main theme can be made out in that work, recurrent throughout the poem,
although it actually is part of mythography more than historic biography. Even
though the Dionysiaca uses the whole range of the sovereign’s praise, its main
point is not exclusively to prove the nobility of his ascendency, to recognize
his triumphs or his good deeds. In the perspective of a universal history, it is
to highlight, on the one hand the apostolate and the unbelievers’ conversion,
and on the other hand the reception of Zeus and Semele’s son on the Mount
Olympus. Through a series of ordeals, he conquers an increasing closeness
and commensality with the world of gods.11 An eternal banquet was forecast,
foreshadowed by the Olympian banquet in which Semele is allowed at the
moment of her simultaneous death (struck by lightning) and apotheosis, at
the end of Book 8 (ll. 413–418):
Καὶ καθαρῷ λούσασα νέον δέμας αἴθοπι πυρσῷ,

καὶ βίον ἄφθιτον ἔσχεν Ὀλύμπιον· ἀντὶ δὲ Κάδμου
11 On Dionysus’ apotheosis, see Vian (1976) xxii and more recently Chuvin (2014) 8–10; for
its relation with divine banquets, see Hopkinson (1994b) 53 n. 3; Simon (1999) 150 and
nn. 2–3; Frangoulis/Gerlaud (2006) 39–41.
116 Chuvin
καὶ χθονίου δαπέδοιο καὶ Αὐτονόης καὶ Ἀγαύης 415

σύνθρονον Ἄρτεμιν εὗρε καὶ ὡμίλησεν Ἀθήνῃ
καὶ πόλον ἕδνον ἔδεκτο, μιῆς ψαύουσα τραπέζης
Ζηνὶ καὶ Ἑρμάωνι καὶ Ἄρεϊ καὶ Κυθερείῃ.
And after bathing her new body in the purifying fire, Semele received the
immortal life of the Olympians. Instead of Cadmos and the soil of earth,
instead of Autonoë and Agauë, she found Artemis by her side, she had
converse with Athena, she received the heavens as her wedding-gift,
sitting at one table with Zeus and Hermaon and Ares and Cythereia.12
And it presages a new phase under the reign of the third Dionysus, the
Eleusinian Iacchus.
Put in another way, the Dionysiac message and values, enveloped in their
legends, are being accepted and legitimized in the human societies. But were
they not worn out by their frequent apparitions and illustrations during the
long millenium of Classical Antiquity, like a coin handed too many times,
with their indistinct symbols, their forgotten codes? About 150 years after the
final triumph of Christianity as the one religion in the Roman Empire, what
could be left of these values, conveyed by pagan legends? Of the behaviors,
the expectations, the ecstasies that they induced? Nonnus composed his poem
in Alexandria around 450, roughly half a century after Hypatia’s lynching—
which revealed pagan intellectuals’ loss of influence in the city, as they were,
from then on, confined in their philosophy schools.13
3 Nonnian Paradox
How could a Christian poet, author of the Paraphrase of St John’s Gospel and
keen on theology (this cannot be doubted anymore after Enrico Livrea and his
disciples’ analysis), be Dionysus’ eulogist?14 He would have been expected to
12 Gigli Piccardi (2003) 617 (on Dion. 8.417 f.) stresses the link between 8.417 and 48.975,
and also quotes Par. 2.10 ἀχράντῳ παλάμῃ γαμίης ψαύουσα [sc. Χριστοῖο θεητόκος . . . μήτηρ]
τραπέζης (with Livrea 2000 ad loc.).
13 On the political meaning of Hypatia’s murder, see Chuvin (2009) 91–95. For Hypatia’s
biography, see recently Al. Cameron (2013).
14 I refer to the volumes so far published of the critical and commented edition of Nonnus’
Paraphrase: Livrea (1989) and (2000); Accorinti (1996); De Stefani (2002); Agosti (2003);
Greco (2004); Caprara (2005); Franchi (2013); Spanoudakis (2014a). For a general overview
provide interpretations either allegorizing, as John of Gaza’s Descriptio Tabulae

mundi, a century later, is filled with;15 or moralistic, as the series of pictures
evoking Phaedra and Hippolytus’ legend, which are described by Procopius of
Gaza (c. 470–c. 530) in his Ἔκφρασις εἰκόνος ἐν τῇ πόλει τῶν Γαζαίων κειμήνης.16
Yet no such interpretation is offered, and the mythographic material remains
lively and profuse in Nonnus’ work. In this respect, Dionysus’ earthly career
parallels another one, traced for long too, but which no chronicler as abundant
as Nonnus reported: Heracles’ career, another benefactor for humankind (euer-
getes), another hero chased down by Hera. Both of them have passed through
the utmost trial of fire to achieve immortality. With a difference though; the
fire sign is to be found in one case at the very beginning of his existence in
this world, in the other at the very end: Semele’s death by lightning strike and
Heracles’ death on the pyre on Mount Oita. A killer of monsters, a pioneer
that opened paths, a land clearer of the wilderness, Heracles had it all to be
Dionysus’ forerunner or counterpart.
But in the syncrisis devoted to Heracles in Book 25 (ll. 174–252), Nonnus only
deprecates him to praise Dionysus, aiming his irony at the Twelve Labours;
amongst them, especially at Heracles’ two most brilliant victories, over the
Nemean Lion and the Lernaean Hydra. These two are despised in 20 (176–195)
and 27 lines (196–222) respectively (out of 79 for this piece). Dionysus’ deifica-
tion is perceived as the reward of a predestinated being, triumphing in a series
of exploits: the main one, but not, and by far, the only one, consisting in con-
verting the Indians. Nonnus underlines it far more than a mere reproduction,
in a mythical past, of prowesses already achieved by others—like a Theseus
in Heracles’ shadow. Nonnus’ character develops in a heroic background, in
which Perseus, instead of Heracles, stands out as the main figure; and he is com-
pared four times to Dionysus (18.289–305, 25.31–147, 30.264–277, 47.498–526).
Once in Book 25—a key passage to the composition of the whole—in the
same part as Heracles, but longer than him: the comparison stretches on
117 lines (31–147). And another time, a unique honour, in a ‘reverse’ syncrisis
which highlights the compared character (47.498–526) at the expense of the
comparing one (spokesman of the Bacchanalian side). Truth be told, the con-
text minimizes the impact: it is only a curse from an Argive man, not threaten-
ing Dionysus’ upcoming victory. The poet reveals to be a master when using
of the so-called Nonnian question, see recently Accorinti (2013c) and the first chapter by
the same author in this volume.
15 Cf. Gigli Piccardi (2014) and the chapter by the same author in this volume. The poem has
been recently edited by Lauritzen (2015).
16 See the Budé edition by Amato et al. (2014) 190–210.
118 Chuvin
the tools of rhetoric, building the characters more subtly than it seems at first
sight. Nonnus appears to be in between two legacies: the Attic logographs’ leg-
acy, molding their way through their clients’ psychology, and Homer’s much
more weighty legacy. Although he breaks free from both of them.
4 From Homer to the Bildungsroman
The Indian War explicitly takes inspiration, sometimes very closely, from
episodes of the Trojan War told by Homer.17 But let’s compare two pieces by
Nonnus echoing two other Homeric type-scenes: the funeral games, depicted
twice in the Dionysiaca: in Book 19 (ll. 59–286, the funeral of Staphylus, a prom-
inently Dionysiac character) and Book 37 (the funeral of Opheltes, a conven-
tional Homeric-type fighter).18
The contests in Nonnus’ Book 37 are shaped entirely after Iliad’s Book 23
(for Patroclus’ funeral); whereas Nonnus’ Book 19 has only formal Homeric
elements—it displays an example of protean virtuosity, of poikilia.19 Nonnus
rewrites the Homeric model in a two-pronged perspective: first, it reflects the
enthusiasm of his time for the chariot race,20 then, it underlines the perfection
of the Homeric tale as opposed to Phaethon’s confused rush, as recounted just
after, in Book 38 (ll. 105–434).
But in Book 19, the poet displays before his audience a very pantomime,
about mythological subjects, just as Lucian listed them in his treaty On Dance
(19).21 He renews an epic somewhat conventional theme, the funeral games,
shifting the contests to the artistic sphere, making them ‘musical’ contests. But
first of all, the precedence of the Dionysiac artist’s fluidity over the athlete’s or
charioteer’s laborious effort is emphasized.
17 See Frangoulis (1995) and (1999) 3–74, esp. 4–5 (‘Tableau comparé des jeux funèbres’), 25,
27, 47, 55, 60, 66; Agosti (2004c) 671–675. Cf. also Vian (1976) xlv: ‘Nonnos multiplie les
réminiscences et les références homériques; il orne la guerre des Indes à l’aide de “scènes
typiques” tirées de l’Iliade’.
18 Gerbeau/Vian (1992) 72–100 and Frangoulis (1999) 3–74 (cited above, n. 17) respectively.
See also Bannert/Kröll in this volume.
19 Gerbeau/Vian (1992) 74 and Gonnelli (2003) 320–322. On the poikilia, see Gigli Piccardi in
this volume.
20 See Agosti in this volume.
21 Gonnelli (2003) 321, who also observes (n. 4) that Panopolis possessed a theater; cf. Willis/
Maresch (1997) 4. On Nonnus’ native town, see van Minnen in this volume.
We could make similar observations about the catalogue of troops fac-

ing each other for the Bacchanalian army in Books 13–14.22 The beginning
may mimick rigorously the Iliad: the contingents, as well as the guiding line,
are inspired by Homer’s work.23 But the conclusion of the whole, Book 14
(ll. 228–246), consists of an awe-inspiring portrait of Dionysus with his arms,
very strange one, in opposition with a traditional epic warrior, as Nonnus him-
self underlines (230–237):
ἐς ὑσμίνην δὲ χορεύων 230

οὐ σάκος, οὐ δόρυ θοῦρον ἐκούφισεν, οὐ ξίφος ὤμῳ,
οὐ κυνέην ἐπέθηκεν ἀκερσικόμοισιν ἐθείραις,
χάλκεον ἀρραγέος κεφαλῆς σκέπας, ἀλλὰ καρήνου
ἄπλοκον ἐσφήκωσε δρακοντείῳ τρίχα δεσμῷ,
κράασι κυκλώσας βλοσυρὸν στέφος· ἀντὶ δὲ τυκτῆς 235
δαιδαλέης κνημῖδος ἕως ἐπιγουνίδος ἄκρης
ἄργυφα πορφυρέοις ἐνεθήκατο ταρσὰ κοθόρνοις
Dancing to battle he came, holding no shield, no furious lance, no sword

on shoulder, no helmet on his untrimmed locks, or metal to cover his
inviolated head. He only tied his loose tresses with serpent-knots, a grim
garland for his head; instead of fine-wrought greaves, from ankle to thigh
he wore purple buskins on his silvery feet.
Led by such a general, the marching arming transforms into a cortege of heavy
drinkers; throughout the enumerations, the poet distanciated himself from his
Homeric model, no matter with how much fervour it was invoked in the open-
ing of the series of catalogues or announces (13.53–61).24 A cosmic note sounds
when the speckles of the fawn-skin are mentioned, ‘dappled with spots like
the stars’ (14.239): here is the apparition of the star-spangled tunic theme, on the
minor mode, which will be developed in the episode of Heracles Astrochiton
in Book 40 (ll. 411–417).25 The ancient model and the modern follower inter-
twine, for example, contingents of ‘half-divine’ beings gathered together at the
beginning of Book 14 were announced, in the same order, in Book 13 (ll. 44–46).
Toughness, stiffness, for the frame, flexibility for the content.
22 In Dion. 26.38–365, Deriades’ ‘farscattered troops from cities and from islands’ (38–39)
may suggest a world coalition; see Vian (1990) 78–96.
23 Cf. Chuvin (1991) 29–33.
24 Cf. Vian (1995) 255–258 (App. I, ‘Le catalogue du chant XIII et ses clés numériques’).
25 Cf. Gigli Piccardi in this volume.
120 Chuvin
Dionysus’ troops are of a different kind from Deriades’. Varying scales and
themes, we are presented, through the renewed aesthetics of the Dionysiaca,
a hero turning into a god, and his entourage. They stand for an apprenticeship
novel; a picturesque one, or even picaresque, with features of roman noir—
though the author doesn’t take his tale too literally. A clue can be found in Aura’s
cannibalism (48.910–942), fitting into a tradition of half-sinister, half-grotesque
tales originating from the Odyssey’s story of the Cyclops.26 The diverse adven-
tures, often tainted with scandal, grow more and more significant in the ‘novel’
of Morrheus and Chalcomede (Books 33–35)27 and the last pieces. They culmi-
nate in Book 48, and a great part hints at parody:28 Gigantomachy of Dionysus
(1–89), fight with Pallene (106–182), Aura’s rage (890–924). Dionysus, in spite of
his increasing powers, does fail sometimes; even though most of his failures, in
the end, turn to his advantage. So let’s recount schematically the (mis)fortunes
of our hero and his followers.
5 A Hero far from Heroic
Dionysus is first a prosecuted toddler (Books 8–9) but he benefits from the
powerful protection of Rhea. Then, as a young man in mourning (Books 10–12),
whose childish games and love with Ampelus are shattered by an infuriated bull,
but the vine stems from that torture. He is turned down by Nicaea (Book 16),
as Hymnus before him (Book 15), but he will beget a child, and Nicaea will
have the priviledge of bringing to birth Telete, ‘Celebration’, a term far wider
than ‘Initiation’,29 as Nonnus himself testifies to this in the last lines of Book 16
(399–402):
Ἐκ δὲ γάμου Βρομίοιο θεόσσυτος ἤνθεε κούρη,

ἣν Τελετὴν ὀνόμηνεν ἀεὶ χαίρουσαν ἑορταῖς, 400
κούρην νυκτιχόρευτον, ἐφεσπομένην Διονύσῳ,
τερπομένην κροτάλοισι καὶ ἀμφιπλῆγι βοείῃ.
From the marriage of Bromios a god-sent girl grew to flower, whom she
named Telete, one ever rejoicing in festivals, a night-dancing girl, who
followed Dionysos, taking pleasure in clappers and the bang of the dou-
ble oxhide.
26 Cf. Vian (2003) 75–81 and Accorinti (2009) 77–78.

27 See Frangoulis (2014) 63–65 and Miguélez-Cavero in this volume.
28 On this topic, see De Stefani (2011a) and Frangoulis (2011).
29 Pace Gerlaud (1994) 102 and Vian/Fayant (2006), s.v. ‘Télété’.
Dionysus half-man/half-god, who still remains more human than divine,30 is

defeated without glory by Lycurgus (Books 20–21) but this defeat provides him
an occasion of being pampered by some deities of his family, and tasting nec-
tar, the drink of gods (21.170–184). Later on, general struck with madness, he
cannot prevent his Bacchants from being slaughtered (Books 32 and 34–35) but
he drinks a mouthful of Hera’s motherly milk, thanks to Zeus, despite the god-
dess (35.314–335). That represents a stride towards apotheosis,31 but Dionysus’
own qualities are not at stake, neither here nor when he ‘conquered’ Nicaea
and Aura.
The rape of Nicaea (Book 16), who is inhibited by the wine drunk so thought-
lessly and naively, is first a punishment inflicted to the young girl, to chastise
hersdman Hymnus’ murderer (Book 15). Whose name was probably chosen for
its resonance (it means ‘celebration poetry’), far wider than the French word
‘hymne’; his complete absence from the rich iconography of supernatural
beings haunting Nicaea and its surroundings, is noticeable.32
6 Of Literature, First
From Hymnus’ death surges a threnody, and the whole bucolic world laments
as well—a purely literary world, without doubt (15.370–422). The wild girl
killed the symbol itself of the celebration chant. However its primary sources,
the historic, agonistic, ritual or even simply anecdotal context, this charming
piece warns us from forgetting that the Dionysiaca should please their audi-
ence first. And we understand easily that this audience needed variety and
thrills to spice up the declamations.33
The half-erotic, half-sports joust with Pallene (48.106–182), and over all the
traps into which he fools Aura (48.564–612, echoing and worsening Nicaea’s
fall), are just as amoral. They mirror a coward and lustful future god, as well
as his savage and wild preys, presenting us a gloomy picture. Dionysus seems
to leave his role as a victim only to become the blind blade of a vindictive
justice, to become a Nemesis.34 Even his followers are not safe, and around him
only distress spreads: be it the sudden death of Assyria’s good king Staphylus
(18.327–333), or, in Attic, the death of his host and his daughter—Icarius, the
30 Gerlaud (1994) 90–94.

31 Frangoulis/Gerlaud (2006) 36.
32 These pictures are illustrated on the coins of the city, mainly pseudo-autonomous; see
Chuvin (1991) 150–151 (probably not exhaustive).
33 For Nonnus’ audience, see Agosti and Spanoudakis in this volume.
34 Vian (2003) 21; Chuvin (2014) 8.
122 Chuvin
generous host, is beaten to death, Erigone hangs herself to death, and even
the dog starving to death at his mistress’s gibbet . . . (47.34–245).35 We could go
on listing (in 47.265–471, Ariadne’s fate falls under the same rule), but we should
underline that most of time a benefit stems out of a misfortune. Even the most
unfortunate Nonnian heroines—Agave ripping apart her own son (46.209–220)
and Autonoe discovering that her son’s enraged hounds have devoured him
(5.539–551)—do have a ‘coming hope’ (ἐλπίδος ἐσσομένης, 46.363).36 Even the
dogs, which Nonnus gifts with a human affectivity (5.442–472), get the promise
that they will be retributed—at least, they will get a catasterism.
7 Dionysus as a Missionary
Dionysus’ wanderings37 also serve a mission: the worldwide diffusion of vine

and wine. An expected aspect shows us Nonnus as the poet of the wine pro-
vider Dionysus (and no longer of the suffering Dionysus). More specifically, he
furnishes inebriation, which is quite ambivalent; good most of time, when it
draws humankind from sadness (as shown in the prayers of Aion to Zeus at the
beginning of Book 7); or individually, when it provides solace to Botrys’ family
(Books 18–19); or when it rejoices the whole creation on the banks of the Indian
river (40.234–250). Spreading to animals, dogs or pantheras, the inebriation
can exceptionally turn bad, when it excites the Attic farmers into committing
a crime in the Icarius episode (Book 47).38 But if the gift of wine has a uni-
versal value, there is no precise evocation of the art of drinking. The allegoric
ingredients are there, though: the kings, father and son, Grape (Staphylus) and
Bunch (Botrys), the queen Drunkenness (Methe) and her servant Jar (Pithos).39
Then in Book 19, after the metamorphosis, the troops of dancing satyrs (rivers)
directed by Mixer (Crater) appears, so the entertainment is complete (19.118–
348). As for the technical sides of wine consumption, Nonnus has not been
interested in using them, he even does not record the addition, yet crucial, of
water to pure wine.40
35 On this episode, see Borgeaud (2011) and Agosti in this volume.
36 For the Christian allure of this expression, see Accorinti (2004) ad loc.
37 See Montiglio (2005) 73–83 (‘Dionysus, the Wanderer’).
38 For the interaction of this episode with the Passion of Christ, see Spanoudakis (2007),
whose analysis is partly accepted by Shorrock (2011) 124.
39 On the ambiguity of the names Pithos, Staphylus and Botrys, see Lasek in this volume.
40 The poet confines himself to an extended use of the verb κεράννυμι. See Vian (1995) 259–
264 (App. II, ‘Vin pur ou vin coupé d’eau? À propos du sens de κεράννυμι’).
8 Nonnus, the Worldly Poet
Exceeding the praise of wine, he became the poet praising the god of the plea-
sures of life; amongst which the trio of unseparable arts: dance, musique, and
poetry. Nonnus also enjoys nice edifices, such as Samothrace’s (3.131–179)
and Assyria’s (18.62–92) palaces:41 colorful marble plated frontages, facades
dressed in glistening mosaic, automata wonders which were so popular in Late
Antiquity, royal gardens charms. He enjoys, and has the readers enjoy another
pleasure: the pleasure of sites. On the one hand, Tyre’s urbanism and luxuri-
ance of its countryside (40.311–365); on the other hand, the mildness of Beirut’s
surroundings (41.14–49). Combining botany with mythology, the poet can even
feel the appeal of flowery landscapes, of solitary prairies where the wanderer
lets himself go. And he can feel it directly, and not through the imitation of
Homer; thus, the theogamy pattern is adaptated to Dionysus’ union with Aura
(48.570–589).
We also owe him some of the most detailed evocations of the performances
of his time. Gennaro D’Ippolito has shed light on the hydromimes’ influence:
both the poetic declamation contests and the silent pantomimes, where all
of the spectator’s attention is focused on the actor’s looks and features, are a
favourite theme with Nonnus.42 The ‘soft porn’ scenes, according to the word of
Alan Cameron,43 are present in the life’s pleasures: especially the scenes stag-
ing an ‘erotic lookout’, such as Zeus observing Persephone bathing or Hymnus
looking under Nicaea’s tunic lifted by the wind (5.601–615, 15.220–254). These
and many others: it is one of the poet’s predilection scenes.
The use of a vocabulary tinged with jubilation when describing a visitor’s
feelings in Tyre is all the most striking (40.311–365); just as the lyricism displayed
by Nonnus when picturing the natural site of Beirut (41.14–49), and which
makes a delight of this part of the poem—maybe the most successful one.44
9 Sacred or Profane History?
Finally, two intertwined themes in the first books reappear with a wider
broadth in the last movement of the work. There, Nonnus takes on the role
of herald of the Roman political stability (cf. 3.188–203, 358–371, 41.155–184,
41 See Faber in this volume.

42 D’Ippolito (1962); Gerbeau/Vian (1992) 85–87 and 188 (Index, s.v. ‘pantomime’).
43 Al. Cameron (2007) 38.
124 Chuvin
364–367, 387–398),45 opening the path for the Dionysiac rejoicement and
embodying an everlasting, endless order, exceeding by far Dionysus’ figure
and introducing a new phase of the history of humankind. And this after Zeus’
reign has been definitively established (Books 1–2) and a pact has been scealed
between the supreme God and an elected family—the family of Agenor and
Cadmus (Books 3–5). Featuring the traditional gods, a kind of sacred history
displays, an optimistic view of history, even though the patron god (Zeus) does
not minimize the ordeals his protected ones have to pass through. A straight
history in the purest Christian way; instead of withdrawing into itself toward
an ‘éternel retour’, it is oriented. Nonetheless, in extremis, in the very last lines
of the poem, the name of the Eleusinian Iacchus, second Dionysus’ (Bacchus)
and Aura’s son, is told in 48.943–968 (26 out of 978 lines).
10 Conclusions: New Wine in Old Wineskins
Nonnus celebrates a cosmic and political order, but also, first of all, the cul-
tural order of the paideia, symbolized by the tutelar and reappearing figure of
Homer.46 Dionysus is the god of endless joy—as shown in the contest between
Aristaeus, the discoverer of the delicious but sickening honey, and Dionysus
providing the never fading pleasure of wine (13.253–274, a theme broached
in more details as a pantomime pattern in 19.236–262, one last allusion in
29.115–117, after Aristaeus’ portrait, very precise and coherent in 5.214–279).
Aristaeus, as Ampelus, is one of the young men Dionysus most fears to loose.
But Aristaeus is a culture hero too, and his noticeable presence (Nonnus often
forgets his characters once their duty done) confirms the importance of the
celebration of classical Greek and Roman culture in the Dionysiaca.47
45 See Mazza (2010); Chuvin in Chuvin/Fayant (2006) 4–6, 10, 26.
46 On paideia’s role see Al. Cameron (2007) 30 ff.; Miguélez Cavero (2008) 191–263; Agosti
(2012) esp. 378–380 and (2015b).
47 [Ed.—Pierre Chuvin wishes to add the following note: ‘Ce travail a tiré grand profit de
l’aide amicale de Domenico Accorinti et de Gianfranco Agosti, alors que j’étais victime
d’un accident de santé et que je me trouvais retardé. Remerciements aussi à Marie Chuvin
pour sa traduction.’]
chapter 6
Major Themes and Motifs in the Dionysiaca

Fotini Hadjittofi
A feature which will immediately strike the first-time reader of Nonnus’

Dionysiaca is the poet’s penchant for creating formulaic scenes or expressions:
verses can be repeated verbatim or in a slightly varied form, and passages can
be recast several times, with different protagonists and only minor alterations.1
These recurrent scenes and expressions are certainly a manifestation of
Nonnus’ aesthetic principle of ποικιλία (variatio),2 and have an obvious role
to play in structuring the poem. For example, in looking for unifying threads
that would tie together the disparate episodes of the Dionysiaca, scholars have
identified a set of close structural parallels between the first and last books of
the epic.3 Thus, the narrative proper begins with a rape (of Europa, by Zeus)
and ends with a rape (of Aura, by Dionysus). The Typhonomachy, in which
Zeus defeats Typhoeus, in Books 1–2 corresponds to the Gigantomachy, in
which Dionysus defeats the Giants of Thrace, in Book 48. The tragic narratives
of Actaeon (Book 5) and Pentheus (Books 44–46) clearly echo each other. Even
though this chapter will often focus on the thematic correspondences between
the first and last books (as themes which appear in these narratively privileged
positions are likely to be fundamental for the whole poem), it does not aim
to explore structural questions, such as how far we can push these particular
similarities and to what extent Nonnus was indeed striving for a perfect ring
composition.4 My aim is to provide an outline of the most important themes
and motifs which recur throughout the entire epic, and which will be studied
1 The formularity of Nonnus’ language will not concern me in this chapter, but see D’Ippolito
in this volume. For specific examples of formulaic language see Livrea (1971); Gigli Piccardi
(1980); D’Ippolito (2003) and (2013a); Massimilla (2003); Miguélez Cavero (2008) 122–125 and
157–158. For repetitions (anaphoric, etymological, etc.) see Schmiel (1998a).
2 On variatio as the aesthetic principle underpinning much of late antique poetry in the Latin
West see the classic analysis by Roberts (1989) passim, esp. 56. On ποικιλία in Nonnus see
D’Ippolito (1964) 37–57; Fauth (1981); Hopkinson (1994c) 10–11 and 23–24; Shorrock (2001)
21–23; Miguélez Cavero (2008) 139–145 and 162–168; Giraudet (2014).
3 For a detailed scheme of thematic correspondences encompassing, in a circular manner, the
entire poem see Collart (1930) 59–60. For criticism and modification of that scheme see Vian
(1976) xxii; Shorrock (2001) 10–13; Giraudet (2014) 140–141.
4 On the structure of the Dionysiaca see Geisz in this volume.

126 Hadjittofi
here under three headings: 1. Apotheosis, metamorphosis, and soteriology;

2. Theomachies and Gigantomachies; 3 Love, rape, and paradoxical generation.
This overview will naturally raise the question whether Nonnus’ ideal audience
would be expected to read meaning into the poem’s obsessive intratextuality
(e.g. looking at one scene or verse under the light of its previous instantiations
or putting side by side different forms of the ‘same’ episode). Although some
observations will be made regarding the interpretation of specific themes and
whether repetition can indeed be meaningful in the deep resonance chamber
of the Dionysiaca, a systematic examination of this (very important) question
lies beyond the scope of this chapter.
1 Apotheosis, Metamorphosis, and Soteriology
If there is one thing the Dionysiaca is about, it is Dionysus and his long journey
to Olympus, where he will finally be welcomed as a god in the last verses of
Book 48 (974–978). From the Dionysiac ‘archaeology’ of Books 1–12 to Dionysus’
campaign against the Indians in Books 13–40 and the spreading of his cult
along with its key component, wine, around the Eastern Mediterranean in
the rest of the poem, everything builds up to Dionysus’ apotheosis.5 Dionysus
becomes a god by being assimilated to his father, Zeus, to whom he is repeat-
edly compared, and who serves as his ultimate model. As the epic draws to
its close, Dionysus is increasingly seen as a replica of his father, and thus
becomes himself an embodiment of the imitation motif (the tendency to
see things as copies or imitations of other things), which is an integral part
of Nonnus’ poetics.6 In Book 48 he fights against the Giants using a torch,
which is ‘an exact imitation of the thunderbolt cast by Zeus’ (ἀντίτυπον
μίμημα Διοβλήτοιο κεραυνοῦ, 66).7 Later on (551–552), Ariadne’s ghost appears
to Dionysus in his sleep to accuse him of having forgotten her and complain
about his repeated affairs: ‘You are just like Cronion changing from bed to bed,
and you have imitated (μιμήσαο) the doings of your womanmad father, having
5 On the first twelve books of the epic as a Dionysiac ‘archaeology’ see Vian (1976) xxiii.
6 See, e.g., Riemschneider (1957) 57–61, and Schmiel (1998b) 394.
7 For the text of the Dionysiaca I am using the Budé edition (Vian et al. 1976–2006). Translations
are adapted from Rouse (1940). For the expression ἀντίτυπον μίμημα as a Nonnian formula see
Gigli Piccardi (1985) 233–235. For a metapoetic reading of this verse see Shorrock (2001) 199.
Major Themes and Motifs in the Dionysiaca 127
an insatiable p assion for changing your loves.’8 Even where the language of
imitation is not as strikingly present, the narrative suggests ways in which the
Dionysus of Book 48 reflects the Zeus of Book 1. Both the rapes of Europa and
Aura result in the birth of twin sons,9 which has a mythological precedent only
in the case of Aura,10 meaning that Nonnus shaped the story of Europa already
with Aura in mind.11 The episode of Europa ends with Zeus establishing in
the heavens, as a constellation, the form of the bull (Ὣς ὁ μὲν ἐστήρικτο κατ’
οὐρανόν, 1.362); similarly, the last act of Dionysus on earth, right before his apo-
theosis, is the catasterism of Ariadne’s crown (ἀνεστήριξεν Ὀλύμπῳ, 48.972).12
Like many other major events in the epic, both Dionysus’ apotheosis and
the catasterism of Ariadne’s crown have been prefigured in earlier episodes,
as well as alluded to in the context of prophecies, much before they actually
happen.13 To start with the least important between these two specific exam-
ples, even before Ariadne herself appears as a character in the poem, Thetis
prophesies that her crown will be catasterised (33.373–374), while Dionysus,
in his speech of seduction, promises her a ‘starry crown’ (ἀστερόεν . . . στέφος,
47.451). As for Dionysus’ apotheosis, this most significant event is announced
8 Shorrock (2001) analyses the entire poem in terms of Dionysus’ attempt to imitate his
father, which corresponds to the poet’s attempt to imitate (but also surpass) his own
father, Homer. On this passage in particular see p. 202 n. 309, with Vian’s objection (2003,
181, on Dion. 48.550–562), based on the fact that the motif of the son who imitates his
father is also very much present in the Paraphrase.
9 See 1.352 (διδύμῃ . . . γονῇ) for Europa’s and 48.853 (διπλόος . . . τόκος) for Aura’s twin
progeny.
10 Our only other source for the rape of Aura by Dionysus is an entry in the Etymologicum
Magnum, s.v. ‘Δίνδυμον’ (276.36–43)—quoted in full by Vian (2003) 27 and Accorinti (2004)
608–609—where Aura’s twins provide the aition for the name of a mountain in Phrygia
(Dindymon). For Europa, however, no other source records the birth of twins. In some
texts (e.g. Il. 14.322) she has two sons, Minos and Rhadamanthys, while in others (e.g. Hes.
Cat. fr. 140 M.-W.) three, with Sarpedon as the third son. The Europa of Aeschylus’ frag-
mentary play that bears her name as one of its two alternative titles (‘Carians or Europa’),
explicitly recalls that she had to endure the pangs of childbirth three times (TrGF 99.7–8:
καὶ τρὶς γοναῖσι τοὺς γυναικείους πόνους | ἐκαρτέρησ’ ἄρουρα).
11 On the episode of Aura as the culmination of the entire poem see Schmiel (1993) 470.
12 Shorrock (2001) 203 suggests that this act legitimises Dionysus’ apotheosis.
13 Lightfoot (2014b) has recently provided a comprehensive account of the many ways in
which Nonnus likes to foreshadow the future of his characters; see also the chapter by the
same author in this volume. On the influence of oracular poetry on Nonnus’ language see
the recent overview by Gigli Piccardi (2012). On the theme of prophecy as a structuring
element in the Theban myths in the Dionysiaca see Ruiz Pérez (2002).
128 Hadjittofi
already within the oracle that foretells his birth and the discovery of wine.
When Aion supplicates Zeus, asking for something to alleviate the suffering of
the human race, Zeus prophesies that his son, whom he himself shall deliver
(7.79–81), will become a god after many toils on earth (7.97–105):
Τοῦτον ἀεθλεύσαντα μετὰ χθόνα σύνδρομον ἄστρων,

Γηγενέων μετὰ δῆριν, ὁμοῦ μετὰ φύλοπιν Ἰνδῶν
Ζηνὶ συναστράπτοντα δεδέξεται αἰόλος αἰθήρ.
Καὶ θεὸς ἡμερίδων, ἐπικείμενον οἴνοπι κισσῷ 100
ὡς στέφος ἑρπηστῆρα περὶ πλοκάμοισιν ἑλίξας,
σῆμα τεῆς θεότητος ἔχων ὀφιώδεα μίτρην,
καὶ μακάρων ὁμότιμος ἐπώνυμος ἀνδράσιν ἔσται
ἀμπελόεις Διόνυσος, ἅτε χρυσόρραπις Ἑρμῆς,
χάλκεος ὥς περ Ἄρης, ἑκατηβόλος ὥς περ Ἀπόλλων. 105
This my son after struggles on earth, after the battle of the giants, after the
Indian War, will be received by the bright upper air to shine beside Zeus
and to share the courses of the stars. So the god shall wind a tendril of
garden vines laid upon the bright ivy round his locks for his garland, hav-
ing a serpent coronet as a sign of new godhead. He shall have equal hon-
our with the gods, and among men he shall be named Dionysos of the
Vine, as Hermes is called Goldenrod, Ares Brazen, Apollo Farshooter.14
It is characteristic of Nonnus’ penchant for prolepsis that the contents of the

entire poem, in broad lines, are anticipated in Zeus’ prophecy, even though
they are not cited in chronological order (the Gigantomachy appears here
before the Indian War).15 Eris disguised as Rhea later appears to Dionysus in
a dream (a vehicle through which many characters in the Dionysiaca receive
signs, advice or instructions),16 stirring him to fight Lycurgus, and delivers a
prophecy very similar in spirit, telling how his path to heaven will take him
14 On the textual problems in this passage (esp. whether there is a lacuna after v. 101) see
Chuvin (1992) 172 (on Dion. 7.100–105), whose text is printed here. For discussion of Aion’s
supplication see Spanoudakis (2012).
15 The proemium of the Dionysiaca (1.16–33) likewise anticipates several key episodes, also
not in their chronological order.
16 On the motif of dreams in the Dionysiaca see the overview by Auger (2003). Chrétien
(1985) 148–149 (on Dion. 10.266) divides them into several categories including prophetic
or symbolic, deceiving, involving apparitions of the dead, and consoling an unhappy
lover. Inevitably, some dreams will fall into more than one category. Chrétien, for exam-
ple, includes this dream of Dionysus in the category of deceiving dreams whose purpose
through ‘hardship of every kind’ (πόνους πολυειδέας, 20.97).17 Apart from being
prophesied, Dionysus’ apotheosis is also prefigured. As in Book 48 Dionysus’
ascent to Olympus is thought of in terms of a banquet, where Dionysus will
share a table with his father and drink nectar, anticipations of his apotheosis
also involve divine foods. When he is anointed with milk from Hera’s breast,
the milk is described as ‘leading him on the way to Olympus’ (προηγήτειραν
Ὀλύμπου, 35.304). The future god will first try nectar and ambrosia at the feast
Heracles offers him in Tyre (in 40.411–421)—this scene both refers explicitly to
the precedent of Hera’s milk and prefigures his ultimate apotheosis.18 Heracles,
in fact, serves as a model for Dionysus, as he is the, par excellence, deified, toil-
ing son of Zeus, who also happened to have been suckled at Hera’s breast.
Scholars have already pointed out that, even though Dionysus himself is
promised immortalisation and a blissful existence on Olympus, there is no such
prospect for his numerous followers nor is the god portrayed as the Christ-like
redeemer of the entire human race.19 Dionysus, however, is not the only char-
acter in the epic to whom eternal life will be granted as a reward for his deeds
on earth. Even though no other character actually follows in his footsteps to
full Olympian divinisation, several other mortals become (minor) deities. The
apotheosis that comes closest to Dionysus’ is that of his mother, Semele, who
will also ascend to Olympus, where she will enjoy eternal life and share a table
with Zeus and the other gods.20 Cadmus’ distant ancestor, Io, is first meta-
morphosed into a heifer, and then becomes a horned goddess, the ‘Egyptian
Demeter’, in 3.266–283. Ino, who was one of Dionysus’ nurses, will become a
marine deity, receiving a new name, Leucothea; her divinisation is predicted in
9.78–91 and completed in 10.120–125. Even one of Dionysus’ main adversaries,
Lycurgus, is at first punished for disrespecting the god (Zeus makes him a blind
is to incite their recipient to war, although Eris’ speech also includes a prophetic section
at the end (20.94–98).
17 See Spanoudakis (2012), especially regarding the Hesiodic flavour of the two prophecies.
18 40.420–421: ψαύων ἀμβροσίης καὶ νέκταρος· οὐ νέμεσις δέ, | εἰ γλυκὺ νέκταρ ἔπινε μετὰ γλάγος
ἄμβροτον Ἥρης. On the feast in Tyre as Dionysus’ ‘first apotheosis’ see Vian (1976) xxii.
19 See, e.g., Vian (1994b) and (2003) 94–95; Liebeschuetz (1996) 77; Miguélez Cavero (2009)
568–569; Spanoudakis (2012).
20 See 8.407–418. Semele gloats over her divinisation and the superiority of her son in 9.208–
242. As Chuvin (1992) 116–117 notes, Semele’s apotheosis does not carry any traces of pagan
mysticism. Moreover, Nonnus avoids making Dionysus the one to divinise his mother or
bring her back from Hades, as the god does in other versions of the myth, thereby depriv-
ing his protagonist of the privilege of resurrecting or immortalising other characters. On
Nonnus’ Indiad as a metaphorical catabasis instead see Lefteratou (forthcoming).
130 Hadjittofi
wanderer), but is then transformed by Hera into a god for the Arabs, who offer
him libations of blood instead of wine (21.155–169).
The epic repeatedly evokes the idea that catasterism also entails a sort
of immortalisation, which can serve as a reward or consolation for certain
characters. Harmonia’s foster mother, Electra, hopes that one day she will
join her sisters, the Pleiads, in the sky; her hope is qualified as ‘comforting’
or ‘consoling’ (παρήγορον ἐλπίδα, 3.351), while the idea that the sky will be her
home (οὐρανὸν οἶκον ἔχουσα, 3.354) is certainly reminiscent of apotheosis. The
Bacchante Ambrosia, thanks to whom Lycurgus is defeated, will, at the end,
be catasterised (21.295–297) as a recompense for her long and arduous battle.21
Erigone’s dedication to her father is rewarded by Zeus, who takes pity on her
and fixes her in the sky (47.246–247) or ‘joins’ her soul to the star of Virgo, while
also catasterising her beloved dog as the Sirius star close by (47.257–262).22
Notice also that in the prophecy of Zeus cited above Dionysus’ apotheosis is
first evoked in a phrase reminiscent of catasterism (in 7.97 Dionysus is pre-
dicted to ‘share the courses of the stars’, σύνδρομον ἄστρων). This is not to say,
however, that catasterism is consistently portrayed as a serious alternative to
death or as a state of perfect, blissful immortality. Apart from occasionally
being attacked or chased by monsters,23 constellations can also continue suf-
fering, in their astral form, what they suffered on earth. The most entertaining
example comes in the context of the syncrisis between Dionysus and Perseus
in Book 25.24 There, Andromeda herself complains that catasterism did her no
good, as even in the stars she is chained up and persecuted by the sea monster,
while the constellation of her mother, Cassiopeia, has to suffer being dipped
into the sea, fearful of the Nereids (25.123–142).25
21 Fayant (2000) 25 considers Ambrosia’s case not a catasterism but an apotheosis, which
is telling of how easily one can fade into the other. Hopkinson (1994b) 47–49 speaks of
catasterism.
22 Cf. 47.246–247 Ζεὺς δὲ πατὴρ ἐλέαιρεν· ἐν ἀστερόεντι δὲ κύκλῳ | Ἠριγόνην στήριξε and
257–260 ὑψιμέδων Ζεύς | ψυχὴν Ἠριγόνης σταχυώδεος ἀστέρι Κούρης | οὐρανίης ἐπένειμεν
ὁμόζυγον, αἰθερίου δέ | ἄγχι Κυνὸς κύνα θῆκεν. On the differences between the two versions
see Fayant (2000) 25–38, with further comments and bibliography on the importance of
astrology in the Dionysiaca.
23 See the second part of this chapter.
24 On the motif of syncrisis (i.e. the comparison of Dionysus to other sons of Zeus, in which
the protagonist of the poem always emerges victorious) see Miguélez Cavero (2010)
35–39. For Perseus as a figure of ridicule in the Dionysiaca see Gigli Piccardi (1981).
25 Ogden (2008) 76 considers this ‘the most creative literary deployment of the catasterisa-
tion theme’ in the myth of Perseus and Andromeda.
To the extent that catasterism perpetuates in a new physical form what a

mortal achieved or suffered in their previous life, it is comparable to metamor-
phosis, which is one of the most important themes in the Dionysiaca.26 This
is not surprising, of course, given that the epic is composed under the sign of
Proteus, the shape-shifting god. The first and last episodes of the poem serve
as emblems of how metamorphosis is inflected in different ways depending
on whether the character transformed is a god or a mortal. In Book 48 Aura,
Dionysus’ unwilling bride and mother of his son Iacchus, is at the end of her
story transformed into a spring. As she throws herself into the river Sangarius,
in utter desperation and having devoured one of her newborn twin boys, Zeus
turns her breasts into sprouts of water, her body into a stream, her hair into
flowers (48.930–937). None of this is within her control, and judging from
Aura’s obsessive pride over her unripe breasts (her rape by Dionysus comes
as punishment for having unfavourably compared Artemis’ supposedly volup-
tuous, feminine breasts to her own), the last thing she would have wanted
would be for this particular part of her body to become an ever-flowing foun-
tain, a reminder of new motherhood. Conversely, in Book 1 Zeus assumes the
guise of a bull in order to abduct Europa; then, as soon as they get to Crete, he
puts off his ‘bull-faced form’ (ταυρώπιδα μορφήν, 1.344), and takes the (equally
false) shape of a young man in order to deflower his bride. Like Proteus, who
appeared in the prologue only a few verses before this episode, Nonnus’ Zeus is
a shape-shifter.27 His metamorphoses are transient, consecutive, and entirely
within his own control.
Shape-shifting is, of course, a conventional trait of Dionysus at least since
the Homeric Hymn dedicated to him, where the god appears to the pirates first
as an attractive boy and then as a lion (Hymn 7), and it is a trait Nonnus expands
on when he has his hero fight against the Indian king Deriades assuming a host
of different forms, including fire, water, lion, plant, and panther (36.294–333).28
It is noteworthy, however, that Nonnus transfers the motif of shape-shifting to
other gods as well, usually in contexts that are relevant to Dionysus, although
26 Indeed, in his recent discussion of metamorphosis in the Dionysiaca Buxton (2009b)
145 and 150 takes catasterism as equivalent to metamorphosis.
27 On the shape-shifting gods of the Dionysiaca see Hopkinson (1994c) 11; Buxton (2009b)
148–151; Paschalis (2014) 97–103. For Proteus’ multiple self-transformations see the pro-
logue (1.16–33) and, in the context of the Indian war where Proteus fights on Dionysus’
side, 43.230–245.
28 For Deriades’ (imperfect) recollections of Dionysus’ shape-shifting see 36.339–349 and
40.40–56.
132 Hadjittofi
not necessarily so.29 Thus, while the god’s first embodiment, Zagreus, is being
torn apart by the Titans, he self-transforms into a man at the various stages of
life (young, old, infant), and then into a lion, a horse, a serpent, a tiger, and a
bull (6.174–199). Zeus also transforms himself into various Dionysiac animals
while engendering the epic’s protagonist in 7.318–333. Zeus’ metamorphoses in
his numerous affairs with mortal women, evoked frequently in catalogue form,
also allow the reader to imagine a quick succession of transformations. For
example, when Eros shows Aion the arrows of desire which will make Zeus fall
in love and then rape twelve mortal women, with each rape described in a sin-
gle verse (7.117–128), we hear that for seven out of these twelve rapes Zeus will
appear in a different, false form (a bull for Europa; a shower of gold for Danae;
an eagle for Aegina; a satyr for Antiope; a swan for Leda; a horse for Dia; a snake
for Olympias).30 Given the rapid pace of the catalogue, Zeus’ successive trans-
formations give the impression of shape-shifting. When (16.49–70) Dionysus
thinks of ways in which he could seduce Nicaea, his evocation of three of
these myths (Europa, Aegina, and Danae) as possible models for himself, also
involves an imaginative, successive metamorphosis of the god into bull, eagle,
and shower of gold, which is at least reminiscent of his shape-shifting nature.31
The metamorphosis of mortals—as the story of Aura, briefly outlined above,
suggests—works in markedly different ways: it is definitely more permanent, it
sometimes leads to death, and is often the only outcome possible for mortals
in desperate situations, left with no other option. A great number of myths
involving metamorphosis appear in the Dionysiaca, maintaining their tradi-
tional outlines. Some are narrated in full (e.g. Actaeon’s metamorphosis into a
fawn and his dismemberment by his own hounds in Book 5), while others are
alluded to only briefly (e.g. the transformations of Pitys, Syrinx, Echo, Asterie,
Philomela and Procne, Comaitho, Myrrha, Phaethon’s sisters, and Niobe are
all alluded to in the Hamadryad’s speech in 2.113–162). Finally, as the episodes
of both Actaeon and Aura (the two illicit voyeurs of Artemis at her bath)
indicate, the metamorphosis of mortals can also function as punishment: in
Artemis’ speech to Nemesis in Book 48, Niobe’s transformation into a stone
is interpreted by Artemis not as a consequence of the punishment (the death
29 Paschalis (2014) 102–103 has recently suggested that Io’s metamorphosis first into a heifer
and then into a goddess constitutes a sort of shape-shifting. The same could be said, to a
certain extent, of Lycurgus and Ambrosia. Again, shape-shifting is associated, if not with
gods, then with divinised (or catasterised) mortals.
30 For the possible sources of this catalogue (Peisander of Laranda is a name often men-
tioned) see the discussion in Chuvin (1992) 71–77.
31 Dionysus also shape-shifts in 14.154–167, in his attempt to hide from Hera.
of her children), but as the punishment itself: it is the price Niobe had to pay
for offending the goddess’ mother, Leto (Ἀλλ’ ἡ μὲν νόθον εἶδος ἀμειψαμένη πόρε
ποινήν, 427).
There is one very striking case, however, in which metamorphosis figures
as a way of surviving death (or even of being resurrected): that of Ampelus
transformed into Dionysus’ own plant, the vine. In 11.214–223, Dionysus’
beloved young satyr is tricked into riding a bull, which then overthrows and
gores him to death. An inconsolable Dionysus hears from one of the Moirai
that his favourite boy lives (ζώει, 12.142), that ‘he is not dead, even if he died’
(οὐ τέθνηκε, καὶ εἰ θάνεν, 12.145), and that he and Dionysus shall eclipse Apollo
and Hyacinthus—yet another syncrisis between Dionysus and another son of
Zeus.32 As the paradigm of Hyacinthus suggests, Ampelus is duly transformed
into a plant. His metamorphosis, however, is atypical in that the young boy
changes his own form (ἑὴν ἠλλάξατο μορφήν, 12.175), although he has been dead
for almost an entire book. Moreover, Ampelus at first appears to crawl as a
snake (ὡς ὄφις ἕρπων, 174) before transforming himself (in a long and detailed
process) into the vine plant. Not only does Dionysus have no part in bringing
about his metamorphosis, he is also presented as witnessing the event in ‘great
astonishment’ (μέγα θάμβος, 173), an expression which, as Buxton puts it, ‘is
used to designate the reaction of mortals when the sacred bursts in upon them;
but here Nonnos uses it to describe Dionysos’ own reaction, as if to emphasize
that this occurrence really is astonishing.’33 Ampelus is not only metamor-
phosed, but also, in a way, resurrected and deified. The half-line ἑὴν ἠλλάξατο
μορφήν has appeared before in the Dionysiaca to describe Zeus transforming
himself into an eagle in order to spy on Semele (7.210).34 The fact that Ampelus
first crawls as a snake could suggest that he actually ‘took the form of a snake’,
as Rouse translates it, which would then make Ampelus a shape-shifter, like
other gods in the Dionysiaca. But even if we are meant to take this phrase only
as a simile, with no real transformation taking place, the image of the serpent
32 I have analysed what this syncrisis implies in terms of the imaginary geography of the
Dionysiaca in Hadjittofi (2011) 37–38.
33 Buxton (2009b) 152; emphasis his own. He also points out that the episode of Ampelus is
‘framed by abundant examples of the poem’s trademark metamorphoses’ (151), referring
specifically to Ate and Eros appearing in disguise to Ampelus and Dionysus respectively,
as well as to the metamorphoses of Calamus and Carpus within Eros’ speech (11.351–483)
and the astrological calendar which includes prophecies of a series of metamorphoses in
12.70–102.
34 It occurs again, slightly altered, in 18.340 and 33.28, but not in metamorphic contexts.
Nonnus seems to have borrowed it from the Metamorphoses of Nicander (fr. 62.3), where
it appears in exactly the same form; see Hollis (1994) 57.
134 Hadjittofi
is here to evoke the idea of return to life: the only actual resurrection in the
Dionysiaca, that of Tylus in Book 25, comes to pass thanks to a snake.35
A lot has been written on the overtones of soteriology in the Ampelus epi-
sode: Dionysus’ tears (12.171) have often been read as an instance of divine suf-
fering which will eventually lead to the salvation of humanity.36 On the level of
thematic recurrence at least, there is no emphasis on this aspect of the god: his
suffering on behalf of the entire humankind is not a motif in the Dionysiaca.
Even the miraculous healings he performs are few and limited in scope: restor-
ing the sight of a blind old Indian in 25.281–291 and the voice of five mute
men in 26.261–290.37 What is indeed a recurrent theme in the epic, and also
appears in this episode, is the concern of cosmic personifications for the well-
being of humankind and their (successful) consultation of higher forces or
inscribed texts (or both).38 We have already seen that Aion supplicates Zeus on
behalf of the suffering human race in Book 7. At the beginning of Book 12, the
Seasons consult the prophetic tablets of Harmonia in the palace of Helios, for
Autumn to find out when her own attribute (vine) will come about: the tablets
record a long catalogue of transformations, apparently outlining the history
of the universe, culminating in the metamorphosis of Ampelus (101–102). In
the last instantiation of this theme, in Book 41, Aphrodite consults the tablets
of Harmonia to find out about her daughter Beroe, the city named after her
(Beirut/Berytus), and the prominent place that this city will occupy in the his-
tory of the world. In spite of the apparent cosmic significance of these consul-
tation scenes, as Lightfoot has recently argued, they do not seem ‘to contribute
much of philosophical depth or theological innovation.’39 They certainly do
not portray Dionysus as the redeemer of the human race, and Ampelus’ meta-
morphosis (or even resurrection) is not presented as an alternative to death
available to all mortals.40
35 For the connection between the serpent and resurrection in this passage see Gigli Piccardi
(2003) 836 (on Dion. 173–176). On how the episode of Ampelus intersects with that of
Lazarus in the Paraphrase see Shorrock (2011) 98–100. On the resurrection of Tylus and its
various Christian intertexts see Spanoudakis (2013b) and (2014b).
36 See the overview by Dijkstra in this volume.
37 For a much more extended list of ‘miracles’ performed by Dionysus in the Dionysiaca see
Hernández de la Fuente (2013), who sees the god as modelled on Christ and the poem as
the result of religious syncretism. Cf. Gigli Piccardi (2003) 746–747.
38 On the impact of personifications in the Dionysiaca see Miguélez Cavero (2013a) esp. 352–
359 on cosmic personifications. For cosmic elements in general cf. Fauth (1981) 181–186.
39 Lightfoot (2014b) 53.
40 See Vian (1994b) 222–226, (1995) 83–86, and (2003) 94–95. For Nonnus’ Dionysus as a sym-
bol not of salvation but of hope see the recent analysis by Chuvin (2014). Miguélez Cavero
2 Theomachies and Gigantomachies
Dionysus, the perennially new addition to the Greek pantheon, is the god
in whose divinity mortals are often bound to disbelieve. Most of the myths
traditionally associated with Dionysus involve at least some element of
theomachy.41 Mortals attack Dionysus, casting doubts on his divine nature or
genealogy: from the Lycurgus of the Iliad and the pirates of Homeric Hymn 7 to
the Pentheus of Euripides’ Bacchae, Dionysus is regularly seized, chased away,
reviled. Even Dionysus’ major contribution to the improvement of human life,
wine, is at first met with hostility, as the myth of Icarius suggests.42 Resistance
to the god, scripted into the most famous myths concerning Dionysus, natu-
rally becomes one of the most important themes in the Dionysiaca. Nonnus
recounts at great length all of these well-known myths, and preserves in his
portrayal of Dionysus those characteristics which his enemies traditionally
slight him for: he is effeminate in both the way he looks and the way he fights,
and his victories rely on tricks (sometimes interpreted as magic) and the assis-
tance of women, whether his army of Bacchants or the goddesses Rhea and
Aphrodite.43
Orontes, Morrheus, and Deriades, Dionysus’ three main adversaries in the
Indian War, are all irascible, hyper-virile men, who fail to recognise Dionysus’
godhead, and accuse him of exactly the same things Pentheus had reviled him
for in the Bacchae. According to Euripides’ Pentheus, Dionysus is a Lydian
magician (γόης ἐπωιδὸς Λυδίας ἀπὸ χθονός, 234), a ‘woman-shaped stranger’ (τὸν
θηλύμορφον ξένον, 353), who spends day and night with young girls, alluring
them with his ‘euian’ mysteries (ὃς ἡμέρας τε κεὐφρόνας συγγίγνεται | τελετὰς
(2014a) argues that Dionysus and his various animal metamorphoses are devoid of deeper
religious significance, and that the stock character of the natural world in the Dionysiaca
indicates that ‘a connection with the real world is generally avoided in the poem’ (261).
41 I use this term here not in the sense of ‘a battle between gods’—of which there is also one
in the Dionysiaca, in Book 36, modelled on Iliad 21; see Vian (1988a)—but in the sense of
mortals fighting against a god. The archetype of Dionysus’ enemies, Pentheus, is explicitly
said to θεομαχεῖ in the Bacchae (45), while Deriades is repeatedly called a θεημάχος in the
Dionysiaca; see, e.g., 29.41–42: ἄφρονα Δηριαδῆα, | δυσμενέων βασιλῆα θεημάχον.
42 It is noteworthy, however, that before ‘taking’ wine to Attica and Icarius, Nonnus’
Dionysus first teaches viticulture to Brongus in Phrygia (Book 17) and then Staphylus in
Syria (Books 18–19), places where the god meets no resistance whatsoever. On the signifi-
cance of this fact in terms of cultural geography see Hadjittofi (2011) 37–38.
43 On the presence of these characteristics already in Homer’s portrayal of Dionysus in Iliad
6.132–140 see Graziosi/Haubold (2010) 113 n. 132.
136 Hadjittofi
προτείνων εὐίους νεάνισιν, 237–238).44 Orontes, the first Indian hero openly
to challenge Dionysus,45 portrays the god in exactly the same terms as he
addresses his troops (17.171–189):
ἄρεα μὴ τρομέοιτε φυγοπτολέμου Διονύσου·

μηδέ τις ὑμείων πιέτω ξανθόχροον ὕδωρ,
μὴ γλυκερῆς δολόεντα μεμηνότα φάρμακα πηγῆς,
Ἰνδῶν αἰνομόρων δεδαϊγμένα χειρὶ Λυαίου
μὴ μετὰ τόσσα κάρηνα καὶ ἡμέας ὕπνος ὀλέσσῃ. 175
Δεῦτε, πάλιν μαχόμεσθα πεποιθότες· ἀπτόλεμος δέ
ἀμφαδίην πότε Βάκχος ἐμοὶ στήσειεν ἐνυώ;
Εἰ δύναται, μενέτω με φυγὰς πρόμος, ὄφρα δαείη,
οἵους Δηριάδης προμάχους ἐς ἄρηα κορύσσει.
Μαρνάσθω πετάλοισιν, ἐγὼ δ’ αἴθωνι σιδήρῳ. 180
Χάλκεον ἔγχος ἔχοντι τί μοι ῥέξειε κορύμβοις
Λυδὸς ἀκοντίζων δρυόεν βέλος; Αλλὰ μαχητήν
σφιγγόμενον βαρύδεσμον ἀνάλκιδα τοῦτον ἐρύσσω
θηλυμανῆ Διόνυσον, ὀπάονα Δηριαδῆος.
Οὗτος ὁ θῆλυν ἔχων ἁπαλὸν χρόα, πάντας ἐάσσας 185
Ἰνδοὺς τοσσατίους ἑνὶ μάρναο μοῦνον Ὀρόντῃ.
Ἡδὺς ὁ δινεύων κεχαλασμένα βόστρυχα χαίτης,
ἡδὺς ὁ Βασσαρίδων ἐρόεις πρόμος· ἀλλὰ καὶ αὐταί
κάλλεϊ τοξεύουσι καὶ οὐ βελέεσσι γυναῖκες.
Fear not the warfare of Shirkbattle Dionysos! Not a man of you must
drink of the yellow water, not one be tricked by the sweet fountains of
madness with its maddening potions! Or sleep will destroy you also, after
the cruel fate of our Indians, after so many heads have been brought low
by Lyaios’s hand! This way! Let us fight again and fear not! Could unwar-
like Bacchos ever hold front against me in open field? If he is able, let the
runaway champion stand up to me, that I may teach him what champi-
ons Deriades arms for the fray! Let him fight with leaves, I will use flashing
steel! While I hold a metal spear, what can a Lydian do to me with a bunch
44 Nonnus’ Pentheus echoes this last accusation in 44.134 θῆλυν ἀλήτην. On the effeminacy
of Dionysus see Otto (1965) 171–180; for the Bacchae in particular see Buxton (2009a), and
for θῆλυς qualifying either Dionysus or his thyrsus in the Dionysiaca see Fayant (2000) 183
(on Dion. 47.522–523).
45 On the numerous thematic correspondences between the Orontes episode and Euripides’
Bacchae see Gerlaud (1994) 142–145.
of twigs, a volley of vegetables? This warrior! I will truss up the feeble

coward in heavy fetters, and drag him along, this womanmad Dionysos, to
be a lackey for Deriades. You there, you with the soft skin of a woman! Leave
all those Indians and fight a duel with one, Orontes. Simple soul! how he
waves those long flowing locks round and round! A simple soul is the
charming champion of the Bassarids! yes, the women do just the same—
pretty looks are the shafts in their quiver.46
The representation of Dionysus (by his theomachic enemies, and never by the
narrator) as a coward and a sorcerer is a persistent motif in the various episodes
where the epic’s protagonist is challenged by recalcitrant mortals. The Indian
champions provide some of the most characteristic examples of anti-Dionysiac
harangues. Soon after the passage quoted above, and shortly before com-
mitting suicide, defeated by Dionysus and his paradoxical weapons, Orontes
voices for a second time his belief that Dionysus is just a ‘feeble coward’ (οὐ
θεράπων ἀσίδηρος ἀνάλκιδός εἰμι Λυαίου, 257) from Phrygia, ‘where the men are
women’ (Οὐ Φρυγίης γενόμην, ὅθεν ἄρσενές εἰσι γυναῖκες, 255), who uses potions
(Φάρμακα σοὺς προμάχους οὐ ῥύσεται, 258), but will be unable to beguile him
(ἕνα μοῦνον ἀθελγέα θέλξον Ὀρόντην, 252). Morrheus will later repeat Orontes’
threat to make Dionysus θηλυμανής ‘a lackey for Deriades’ (36.469 = 17.184), and
will also claim (36.448) that it is unheard of that women with ‘paltry leaves’
would be effective in battle (οὐτιδανοῖς πετάλοισι πότε κτείνουσι γυναῖκες;)—the
first two words of this verse constitute a formula used by other enemies of
Dionysus as well.47 The accusation that Dionysus is a sorcerer (or, at least, a
trickster) recurs in three speeches by the Indian chieftain Deriades. In his first
speech after their duel, in which Dionysus self-transformed into several dif-
ferent shapes, Deriades asks (36.339) why his opponent uses tricks instead of
battle (Τί σοι δόλος ἀντὶ κυδοιμοῦ;). In another speech he refers to Dionysus’
changing of the river water into wine as sprinkling ‘cunning potions’, which
‘reddened my Hydaspes with Thessalian (i.e. magical) flowers’ (πολύτροπα
φάρμακα τεύχων | ἄνθεσι Θεσσαλικοῖσιν ἐμὸν φοίνιξεν Ὑδάσπην, 39.40–41). Finally,
professing his desperation, he declares in Book 40 (vv. 57–60):
46 In both the text and translation emphasis is mine.

47 See 24.159, 30.17, 47.587. On Dionysus’ unusual weapons and his paradoxical portrayal as a
dancer in war (30.42, 47.597 and 13.39–40, 501–506, respectively) see Gigli Piccardi (1985)
131–133 and (2003) 78. As she points out, these motifs, as well as Dionysus’ tendency to
spare his enemies’ lives, for which cf. Frangoulis (2012), are disorientating for the reader,
who does not know if the story should be taken seriously or not.
138 Hadjittofi
Ἔνθεν ἐγὼ τρομέων πολυφάρμακα θαύματα τέχνης

φύλοπιν ἀλλοπρόσαλλον ἀλυσκάζω Διονύσου·
ἀλλὰ πάλιν Βρομίῳ θωρήξομαι, ἄχρις ἐλέγξω
μάγγανα τεχνήεντα δολορραφέος Διονύσου. 60
Therefore I tremble at the many-potion miracles of his art, and shrink

from the changeable warfare of Dionysos. But I will confront Bromios
again, until I lay bare the artful enchantments of Dionysos the botcher of
guile!48
The same (or very similar) accusations are voiced by Dionysus’ non-Indian
enemies.49 Pentheus, for example, thinks that Dionysus enchants women with
potions (45.223), Lycurgus speaks of Dionysus’ effeminate dress and shoes as
appropriate gifts for Aphrodite (20.228–232), while an anonymous Argive man
fighting on the side of Perseus dwells on the unmanly nature of Dionysus’
accoutrements (47.520–526).50 And just as the accusations hurled against him
are more or less interchangeable, Dionysus’ many opponents can, to a certain
extent, be seen as cut from the same cloth, that of theomachic monsters.51
Already in Books 1 and 2, the earthborn, cosmic monster Typhoeus, who
challenges Zeus and the reign of the Olympian gods, sets the scene for all the
adversaries who will later threaten Dionysus, as various motifs from his own
portrayal and behaviour will come to be attached to Dionysus’ numerous foes.
As mentioned above, Dionysus emulates his father’s Typhonomachy in his
own Gigantomachy of Book 48, with the two episodes sharing a number of
common motifs,52 while the god also defeats a near copy of Typhoeus, Alpus
‘the son of Earth who fought against gods, who touched the Sun, and pulled
back the Moon, and tormented the company of stars with his tresses’ (Ἄλπον
48 On the representation of Dionysus as a sorcerer in the Dionysiaca cf. Frangoulis (2000).
49 For a full list of harangues against Dionysus and the arguments used each time see
Miguélez Cavero (2010) 32.
50 On the overall ridiculous appearance of Dionysus (a combination of his effeminate looks
and clothes and his lack of manly accoutrements) and the riddle that this poses for the
reader see Miguélez Cavero (2009) 564–566 and (2010) 33.
51 In late antique encomia the laudandus’ opponents are frequently portrayed in terms
of gigantic monstrosity; see Miguélez Cavero (2010) 24–26 with further bibliography, to
which should now be added Coombe (2014) passim, esp. 166–167.
52 For a detailed scheme of correspondences see Aringer (2012) 94–98. As Gigli Piccardi (2001)
170 points out, Nonnus is the only author, as far as we know, to attribute a Gigantomachy
solely to Dionysus; this is surely to make the Typhonomachy and Gigantomachy mirror
each other, and thus to bring Dionysus closer to his model, Zeus.
ἀπηλοίησε, θεημάχον υἱὸν Ἀρούρης, | Ἄλπον ἐχιδναίοις ἑκατὸν κομόωντα καρήνοις, |

Ἠελίου ψαύοντα καὶ αὐερύοντα Σελήνην, | ἀστραίην πλοκάμοισι περιθλίβοντα
χορείην, 25.238–241).53 When Dionysus’ victory over Alpus is narrated more
extensively—by Teiresias in 45.169–215—the verse qualifying Alpus as a
θεομάχος is repeated verbatim (25.238 = 45.174), while the vocabulary employed
is strongly evocative of Claudian’s (Greek) Gigantomachy, thus reinforcing
Dionysus’ portrayal as a giant-slayer. It is also significant that the monster’s
death is patterned onto that of Deriades: a single blow of the thyrsus is enough
to strike down these two enemies of Dionysus, after which they both fall into a
body of water (Deriades into the river Hydaspes and Alpus into the sea), which
they fill with their monstrous corpse.54
Dionysus’ human enemies are explicitly compared to earthborn monsters,
and indeed some of them to Typhoeus himself. This is especially true of the
Indian chieftains: Morrheus ‘was not like men of this earth, but he resembled
the ancestral strength of the earthborn Indians in high-necked body and gigan-
tic limbs; he had the earthborn breed which towering Typhoeus had’ (34.180–
183); Orontes also has a ‘towering giant-stature’ (47.626); another Indian leader,
the ‘prodigious’ Thureus was ‘like towering Typhoeus when he attacked the
thunderbolt’ (22.140–141).55 Pentheus is yet another opponent of Dionysus
who ‘having the earthborn breed of his ancestor sprung from the soil, should
suffer the direful fate of the Giants’ (46.75–76).56
Although Dionysus’ mortal enemies do not pose the same kind of cosmic
threat as Typhoeus or the Giants, their speech sometimes evokes motifs which
first appeared in the episode of Typhoeus. Thus, when Pentheus mockingly
suggests that, if Dionysus is a god, then he himself is the son of Helios and
should be allowed to take Athena as his concubine, Hebe as his consort, and
Artemis as his wife (44.174–179), we are reminded of Typhoeus’ threats to marry
off Artemis, Leto, and Athena to different Giants, and keep Hera for himself
53 For Typhoeus attacking the Sun, the Moon, and the constellations see 1.165–175, 213–218,
2.284–285. Vian (1990) 253 (on Dion. 25.237–241) provides a fuller account of the corre-
spondences between Typhoeus and Alpus. He also points out that the Alpus of Book 45 is
presented in a somewhat different key, more like a brigand and less like a cosmic monster.
54 See Simon (2004) 72–73. As if to confirm that Alpus is modelled onto Typhoeus, the two
monsters are buried in the same area (in Sicily)—‘Typhoeus’ rock’ is mentioned explicitly
in 45.211. Cf. Aringer (2012) 97–98.
55 For a comprehensive list of passages where the Indian War is presented as a Gigantomachy
see Vian (1976) xliii n. 7.
56 Nonnus’ portrayal of Pentheus here certainly harks back to Euripides’ χθόνιον | γένος . . . |
φόνιον δ’ ὥστε γίγαντ’ ἀντίπαλον θεοῖς (Bacchae 538–544). On the serpentine nature of
Pentheus and the Indians in the Dionysiaca see Lefteratou (forthcoming).
140 Hadjittofi
(2.306–333).57 Deriades’ order not to kill Dionysus’ Cyclopes, because he will

force them to forge for him new thunders and lightning, so as to make him a
‘Zeus on earth’ (Ζεὺς χθόνιος, 27.93), is evocative of Typhoeus’ wish (2.340–346)
to have the same Cyclopes forge a superior lightning and a greater number of
thunderbolts (as his two hundred hands require more weapons than Zeus’ mea-
gre pair!). Typhoeus is, of course, a ‘bastard Zeus’ (Ζεὺς νόθος, 1.295),58 whose
insurrection is doomed to failure, just as Deriades is destined to be defeated.
However, it is not as easy as it at first appears to distinguish between heroes
and villains in the Dionysiaca, at least not based on the presence of theomachic
themes and motifs. For instance, the Cyclopes mentioned by both Typhoeus
and Deriades are earthborn creatures (Γηγενέας Κύκλωπας, 27.86), and yet they
are Dionysus’ allies.59 One of them, Brontes, is described, like Typhoeus, as a
‘bastard Zeus’ (νόθος πέλεν ἀννέφελος Ζεύς, 28.199) in his attempt to raise an
artificial thunderstorm in order to aid Dionysus against Deriades; but unlike
Typhoeus, who failed to produce a storm in 1.299–320,60 Brontes is success-
ful. The good giant Damasen, represented on Dionysus’ shield, is also a ‘son
of Earth’ (υἱέι Γαίης, 25.486), whose enormous height makes him ‘a neighbour
of the sky’ (αἰθέρι γείτων, 25.492)—yet he does not fall in the category of theo-
machic monsters.61
57 Cf. 1.468–470, where Typhoeus offers Cadmus as prospective brides Athena, Leto, Charis,
Aphrodite, Artemis or Hebe. In the introduction to the Gigantomachy (48.20–22), Earth
promises her children, the Giants, that they shall have Hebe, Aphrodite, Athena, and
Artemis for wives. Later in the same book (799–807), Aura, in her vindictive rage, wishes
to see the two virgin goddesses suffering pregnancy and childbirth; on Aura as a theo-
machic monster see Hadjittofi (2008) 132 n. 31 with further bibliography. On Nonnus’
tendency to represent cosmic chaos in terms of either sexual assault or barrenness see
Winkler (1974) 123–124.
58 Shorrock (2001) 121–125 provides a metapoetic reading of Typhoeus as a failed (or novice)
poet. His take on Typhoeus as a ‘bastard Zeus’ is that ‘The monster is destined always to
be a counterfeit, bastard version of the original’ (123 n. 42) and that the distance between
model and copy is insurmountable. Hardie (2007), on the other hand, sees the two adver-
saries more as ‘two of a kind’ (124) and Typhoeus as a ‘master of mimicry’ (123).
59 The Corybantes are also earthborn (14.25), but fight on Dionysus’ side; cf. Lefteratou (forth-
coming). Dionysus’ allies from Samothrace, although not earthborn, have the appearance
of Titans and Giants; see 13.396 Τιτήνων μελέεσσιν ἐοικότας, and (for their chieftain) 13.419
ἴνδαλμα Γιγάντων. On Samothrace within the catalogue of Dionysus’ troops see Hadjittofi
(2011) 32.
60 Significantly, perhaps, the adjective ‘cloudless’ is used for both Brontes and Typhoeus
(1.299 ἀννεφέλου δὲ Γίγαντος).
61 The αἰθέρι γείτων formula is used for both a gigantic Indian in 36.251 (who in the follow-
ing verse is explicitly identified as a θεομάχος: Γηγενέος προγόνοιο θεημάχον αἷμα κομίζων)
Another theme that is introduced with (and is embodied in its purest form
in) Typhoeus is that of hybridity. With his one hundred heads in the shapes of
all sorts of animals, Typhoeus is the par excellence multiform monster. A Naiad
sums up his appearance as ‘strange-formed and polymorphous’ (ἀλλοφυῆ
πολύμορφον, 2.148). Campe, the female counterpart of Typhoeus, who is also
defeated by Zeus but dispatched much more quickly in the context of an exem-
plum, is described in almost identical terms: her entire body is ‘polymorphous’
(πολύμορφον ὅλον δέμας, 18.238) and ‘manifoldshaped’ (ποικιλόμορφος, 257)—
her feet are viperish, while her fifty heads are formed like various wild beasts
(καρήατα ποικίλα θηρῶν, 242)—making the battle with her ‘strange-formed’
(ἀλλοφυῆ, 238).
Hybridity, however, proves difficult to pigeonhole, as it is actually a trait
of both the Dionysiac and the theomachic camps. The exact same adjec-
tives that described Typhoeus and Campe are frequently used for characters
that belong to the Dionysiac realm. Proteus, the embodiment of Nonnian
ποικιλία, is not in fact a hybrid, as the different forms he adopts are not pres-
ent in him simultaneously, but, like Typhoeus, he is called ‘polymorphous’
(φωκάων πολύμορφον . . . νομῆα, 43.229).62 Another shape-shifting character,
Zagreus, is both ‘strange-formed’ (ἀλλοφυής, 6.176) and ‘manifoldshaped’
(ποικιλόμορφον . . . βρέφος, 6.179). The archetypically hybrid centaurs, who in the
Dionysiaca are Dionysus’ allies, thus joining the forces of civilisation as opposed
to barbarity for probably the first time in their literary career,63 are a ‘twin-
formed’ (διφυής, 14.193) or ‘strange-formed generation’ (ἀλλοφυῆ . . . γενέθλην,
14.202). Even wine is praised as a kind of hybrid, which will combine in itself
the smell of all the flowers (12.240–244) and can thus be described as ‘strange-
formed water’ (ἀλλοφυὲς δέ | . . . ὕδωρ, 47.84–85). That hybridity should be an
attribute of the Dionysiac world is, of course, not remarkable, since the god
himself is (or appears to be) a ‘hybrid’, as his anonymous Argive enemy calls
him (διφυὲς γένος, 47.498), and his troop of satyrs is, equally, a ‘twin-formed
and for Dionysus himself, when he lengthens his body to intimidate his enemies (29.321
and 47.657).
62 Hardie (2007) 121 compares Proteus and Typhoeus and finds that similarities in their
animal forms make it difficult to distinguish between the voices of Typhoeus and the
poet’s own voice. The fact that Typhoeus is specifically described as ‘manifold-voiced’
(ποικιλόφωνον, 2.510) reinforces this point.
63 Centaurs, however, can appear in surprising contexts in Late Antiquity, and are able to
embody diverse values. On the centaur as a ‘hyper-icon’ in Jerome’s Life of St Paul the
Hermit, symbolising the wildness but also spiritual knowledge of ascetic Christianity, see
Cox Miller (1996).
142 Hadjittofi
generation’ (Σατύρων διφυὴς . . . γενέθλη, 14.104).64 All the same, it is potentially

disconcerting that a monster like Campe is also called a ‘twin-formed nymph’
(διφυὴς . . . νύμφη, 18.248), and that Deriades gets to jeer at the bestial satyrs,
calling them ‘doubleshaped men’ (διδυμόχροας ἄνδρας, 21.216), ‘strange-shaped’
(ἀλλοφυεῖς, 21.218), ‘bastards, bull and men at once’ (εἰσὶ νόθοι ταῦροί τε καὶ
ἀνέρες, 21.220).65
Finally, another important theme that is most clearly symbolised in
Typhoeus, but is in no way restricted to him or the other θεομάχοι, is that of the
universe going topsy-turvy. As the cosmic monster that he is, Typhoeus is able
to wreak havoc on heaven, earth, and sea, confounding the three realms.66 He
cuts off mountain peaks to either send them hurtling into the sea (1.258–262)
or fling them upon Olympus (2.29). When this motif shows up again in
Dionysus’ Gigantomachy (48.33–42), the Giants will also use mountain peaks
as missiles, but this time the narrative dwells on the more comic consequences
of this hubristic action: as one of the Giants slices off the peak of Pelion, he
leaves Cheiron’s cave ‘naked’ and the poor centaur literally without a roof over
his head.67 The confusion of land and water is an especially frequent motif in
this context: when Typhoeus dashes masses of earth into the sea, they become
‘new-made islands’ (αὐτοπαγῆ ῥιζοῦτο νεηγενέων σφυρὰ νήσων, 2.76); the monster
also drinks the rivers dry,68 making the Naiads flee from their homes (2.53–59),
but frees up the subterranean rivers, creating new springs (2.70–72). As
Hardie has already pointed out, however, the confusion of land and sea is not
the exclusive concern of theomachic monsters; in fact, it first appeared in the
epic as one of the effects of Zeus-the-bull riding the waves with Europa on his
back. The speech of the Achaean sailor, astonished to see a bull at sea, shows
how ‘Zeus sets about the same kind of boundary transgression more usually
associated with the sinfulness of mankind’s first ship.’69 It is also interesting
that Dionysus himself considers imitating Typhoeus, in a way, by cutting off
hills and making the sea near Beirut dry and stony land (43.128–132). Again,
64 The same adjective is applied to the satyrs in 17.193.

65 Dionysus famously appears as a bull in the Bacchae (100, 618, 920–922, 1017, 1159).
66 Typhoeus orders his own hands to ‘mix earth with sky, water with fire, sea with Olympus’
(ἠέρι μίξατε γαῖαν, ὕδωρ πυρί, πόντον Ὀλύμπῳ, 2.272).
67 48.40–41 γυμνώσας Φιλύρης γλαφυρὸν δόμον· ἁρπαμένου δέ | ἀσκεπέος σκοπέλοιο γέρων
ἐλελίζετο Χείρων. On the Gigantomachy as written on a more humorous key than the
Typhonomachy see Vian (2003) 7–10.
68 For parallels of other monsters doing the same, most significantly in Claudian, see Vian
(1976) 166 n. 53.
69 See Hardie (2007) 124. On the confusion of land and sea as a motif in the Dionysiaca (espe-
cially in the descriptions of cities) see Giraudet (2011).
the motif is repeated on a more humorous key: Dionysus’ plans to redesign the
landscape of Beirut are motivated by his desire to keep Poseidon away from his
beloved Beroe, the nymph of Beirut. Similarly, the motif of the fleeing Naiads
or Hamadryads is applied to increasingly comical or at least trivial situations:
in 23.275–279 and 24.24–30 Naiads are driven out of the Hydaspes, set on fire by
Dionysus,70 and in 32.144–145 a mad Dionysus hurls cliffs into a river and leaves
its Naiads homeless; but then in 37.20–21 the cutting of wood for the pyre of
Opheltes makes the Hamadryads flee and join the, unfamiliar to them, Naiads
of the brooks, while in the last appearance of the motif in 43.29–33 an elephant
drinks a spring dry and leaves its nymph ‘thirsty and uncovered’ (ἀχίτωνα
μετήγαγε διψάδα Νύμφην, 43.33). Once again, it proves impossible to attach the
motif to a particular set of characters or circumstances; it is even difficult to
determine with certainty where it is used seriously and where humorously.
3 Love, Rape, and Paradoxical Generation
In his study on the structure of the central books of the Dionysiaca (13–40),
Vian pointed out that among the main themes of the epic, ‘[l]east apparent,
but perhaps most important, is the succession of theogamies which punctuate
the poem.’71 For Vian, what makes theogamies a significant plot pattern is the
sheer number of times they appear: for Zeus we have three affairs which
are narrated extensively (Europa, Persephone, and Semele) and three which are
mentioned more briefly (Plouto, Danae, and Aegina), while for Dionysus we
have four ‘successful’ unions (Nicaea, Ariadne, Pallene, and Aura) and one failed
seduction (Beroe). Apart from the theogamies, however, a number of other
episodes include a prominent erotic element (e.g. Cadmus and Harmonia,
Actaeon and Artemis, Morrheus and Chalcomede), which reinforces the signif-
icance of themes such as infatuation, voyeurism, erotic pursuit, seduction, and
deception. Moreover, the narratively significant positions of the epic’s begin-
ning and end are taken up by two erotic episodes, the theogamies of Europa
and Aura. The visibility of eros in the poem is, thus, very much pronounced,
and Kuhlmann was certainly making a valid point when he recently suggested
70 Immediately after this, Oceanus speaks out against Dionysus’ transgression (23.284–319),
and threatens to raise his roaring streams onto the sky, and drag down from heaven the
catasterised Dolphin, Eridanos, and the Fishes. This is all reminiscent of Typhoeus, who
also drags the Fishes from the sky and into the sea in 1.180.
71 See Vian (1994a) 86. According to Vian, the frequency of this theme is due to the fact that
Nonnus imitated Peisander of Laranda’s Ἡρωϊκαὶ Θεογαμίαι.
144 Hadjittofi
that there is a general eroticisation of the plot in the Dionysiaca, which is at

least reminiscent of Ovid’s Metamorphoses.72 The following paragraphs will
look at the episode of Europa (1.45 ff.) in some detail, to examine the ways in
which it programmatically sets out themes which will recur in erotic contexts
throughout the epic.
At v. 45 the narrative proper begins with an invocation to the Muse, asking
her to tell of Cadmus’ long travels. Without explicitly stating the connection
with Cadmus, the following verses present Zeus transformed into a bull on the
beach of Sidon (46–48), as ‘little Eros’ lifts up a girl (only identified as Europa
in v. 53) onto his back.73 In an imitation of the opening scene of Achilles Tatius’
Leucippe and Clitophon,74 we then have an ecphrasis (53–90) of Europa carried
across the sea, followed by the long speech (93–124) of an astonished sailor,
who tries to interpret what he sees, a bull at sea.75 Europa then speaks, in much
fewer verses (128–136), addressing the water and coasts, lamenting her fate, and
guessing that the bull will become her ‘bed-fellow’ (παρακοίτῃ, 132). In typical
Nonnian fashion, her speech remains a monologue which no character in the
narrative seems to perceive,76 as immediately afterwards the Europa narrative
breaks off, interrupted for the first instalment of the Typhoeus episode. When
we see Zeus and Europa again (321–323), they are arriving at Crete. Hera then
delivers a sarcastic speech (one of many such speeches in the epic),77 mock-
ing her husband for his transformation (326–343), just as he abandons his bull
form, and appears to Europa as a young man, before he deflowers her (344–351).
72 See Kuhlmann (2012) 486.

73 On Nonnus creating mythological riddles for his readers (e.g. by withholding names) see
Frangoulis (2014) 172. On the abruptness of connections between individual passages, and
especially within the Europa episode, see Kuhlmann (2012) 486–487.
74 The allusion to Achilles Tatius probably begins, in fact, already at v. 46, where Nonnus’
Σιδονίης . . . ἐπ’ ᾐόνος is reminiscent of Achilles’ Σιδῶνος ἡ γῆ (1.1.2). See Gigli Piccardi (2003)
128 (on Dion. 1.46), followed by Frangoulis (2014) 47. On the whole episode of Europa in
Nonnus as an imitation of (or response to) Achilles Tatius see ibid. 169–178.
75 On the sailor’s speech as an ethopoeia developing a theme already found in Moschus’
epyllion (135 ff.) see Gigli Piccardi (2003) 135 (on Dion. 1.93–124).
76 On monologue as the standard ‘mode’ of speaking in the Dionysiaca see Wifstrand (1933)
142. For another maiden fearing rape and addressing the waves in a desperate monologue,
see Chalcomede at 33.324–345.
77 Braden (1974) 865 calls this the ‘first example of a crucial Nonnian genre feature, exasper-
ated jeering or bitching’. For another example see above, n. 20. For Nonnus’ interest in
contests and competitiveness see Newbold (2010a).
The conclusion of the episode quickly passes over Zeus and Europa’s ‘twin
progeny’ (διδύμῃ . . . γονῇ, 352), and focuses on the catasterism of the bull.78
Apart from setting up eros as an important theme in itself and inviting a
reading against the background of the Greek novel,79 this episode also intro-
duces Nonnus’ reader to the dangerous reversal of gender power dynamics,
for which eros will be responsible throughout the epic. Zeus’ transformation
into an animal is in its own right ridiculous and demeaning,80 as Hera’s scorn-
ful speech points out: a farmer could catch him and set him to work in the
fields; Selene might put him under the yoke of her chariot and give him lash-
ings; Hermes, the cattle-thief, might steal his own father. But even beyond
the metamorphosis, Zeus-the-bull is a submissive creature: ‘he curved his
back downwards, spread under the girl to mount’ (κυρτὸν ὑποστορέσας λοφιὴν
ἐπιβήτορι κούρῃ, 51)81—the word ἐπιβήτωρ, though modifying κούρη, is natu-
rally masculine and, as a noun, can denote a male animal, such as a bull (e.g., in
Theoc. 25.128); but even when used as an adjective, as it is here, it can have the
metaphorical meaning of ‘master of a thing’.82 Europa is, then, Zeus’ master;
in a way, she is (also) the/a bull. In the following verse, Zeus’ back is qualified
as ‘slackened’ or ‘submissive’ (κεχαλασμένα νῶτα). Becoming slack or weak will
be one of the main consequences of desire in Nonnus’ erotic narratives. The
78 On the catasterism of the bull as illogical (given that the bull ceases to exist once Zeus
transforms himself into a young man) and evoking rationalised versions of the myth
(where Zeus used an existing bull to abduct Europa) see Kuhlmann (2012) 488–489.
Cf. Vian (1976) 14.
79 For an overview of the Greek novel’s influence on Nonnus see Miguélez-Cavero in this
volume.
80 Cf. Miguélez Cavero (2009) 573, who further compares Nonnus to Lucian, ‘whose charac-
ters several times deride Zeus and feel ashamed for his demeaning metamorphoses.’
81 The participle ὑποστορέσας comes straight from Moschus (104), and, as Hopkinson (1988)
ad loc. points out, it is ‘suggestive, because commonly used of beds’. In Moschus, however,
it is Europa herself who sees the bull’s back as a bed, hinting at her own sexual awakening.
In Nonnus there is no such awakening for Europa, as the story is told from the point of
view of external observers.
82 See LSJ, s.v. ‘ἐπιβήτωρ’. While ἐπιβήτορι παλμῷ is a frequent Nonnian formula, always
occupying the end of the verse (see 4.367, 20.113, 30.82, 37.256, 41.8, 191, and 45.320), and
ἐπιβήτορα δίφρων/θώκων/εὐνῆς also appear more than once, this is the only occurrence of
a ‘mounting girl’. It is noteworthy that, when Ate tries to convince Ampelus to ride the
bull, she uses the exemplum of Europa, who ‘even though she was a female, a young girl,
she had a ride on bull-back’ (ἐπεὶ καὶ θῆλυς ἐοῦσα | παρθένος Εὐρώπη βοέων ἐπεβήσατο νώτων,
11.152–153); the inherent contrast between being a female and ‘mounting’ is highlighted
once again.
146 Hadjittofi
entire episode of Morrheus and Chalcomede will be devoted to demonstrat-

ing just how detrimental eros can be to masculinity, and how, under the effect
of sexual desire, Morrheus, a preeminent war hero, can be entirely feminised,
while the object of his desire is empowered and masculinised.83
The last two verses of the ecphrasis of Europa on the bull crystallise the par-
adoxical position of Europa as both the victim of the abduction, and thus the
passive ‘cargo’ of the bull imagined as a ship, and, at the same time, the seaman
who steers that very same ship: Καὶ βοὸς ἀφλοίσβοιο κυβερνήτειρα πορείης | κούρη
φόρτος ἔην καὶ ναυτίλος (‘Thus a girl steered the bull’s unboisterous passage, her-
self at once both pilot and cargo’, 89–90). Frangoulis’ recent reading of these
lines maintains that κυβερνήτειρα and ναυτίλος describe ‘la situation apparente
d’Europe, aux yeux par exemple d’un observateur extérieur, alors que le mot
qui reflète la réalité de la situation est φόρτος’.84 Even though appearances and
external observers are indeed very important for the Dionysiaca in general
and this episode in particular, my suggestion is that these verses anticipate the
ambivalence expressed in the rest of the epic towards the gender reversal that
hetero-erotic desire implies. It cannot be a coincidence that only a few verses
before this, Nonnus used the traditional imagery of Cupid(s) driving Zeus-the-
bull with Europa on his back,85 but gave it an interpretation focused on its
skewed power dynamics, with Zeus seen as a slave: ‘the drover Eros flogged the
servile neck with his charmed girdle’ (βουκόλος αὐχένα δοῦλον Ἔρως ἐπεμάστιε
κεστῷ, 80).86
It is also true, however, that Europa is repeatedly objectified, as a number
of different characters gaze at the scene, and, in fact, one of them actively
participates in making a sexualised spectacle out of Europa: in vv. 69–71 a
love-sick and jealous Boreas bellies out her robe and whistles on her breasts.87
Voyeurism, many times involving wind-blown clothes, will become one of the
83 See Hadjittofi (2014) 191–202.

84 Frangoulis (2014) 176; emphasis her own.
85 On the imagery of flying Cupids in literary as well as visual representations of the rape of
Europa see Vian (1976) 139 (on Dion. 1.79–83).
86 This could be an intensification of Achilles Tatius’ Eros smiling at Zeus ‘as though mock-
ing him’ at the end of this novel’s programmatic ecphrasis (1.1.13 ὑπεμειδία, ὥσπερ αὐτοῦ
καταγελῶν, ὅτι δι’ αὐτὸν γέγονε βοῦς). Chew (2000) 61 notes that ‘depicting the king of the
gods as a prime example of love’s fool is programmatic for Achilles Tatius’ parodic treat-
ment of his novelistic and classical tradition.’
87 This, of course, recalls the traditional representation of Europa velificans; see Vian (1976)
139 (on Dion. 1.70).
most frequent themes in the epic.88 In the voyeuristic description of Europa’s

deflowering we also have the first passage (out of many) where the beauty of
a woman’s body as well as its uncovering are portrayed in terms of (almost
obsessive) circularity: Zeus first ran round the girl (περιδέδρομεν, 345), then
loosed her ‘circular girdle’ (μίτρην . . . περίτροχον, 347), and then pressed ‘the
circle of her breast’ (ἄντυγα μαζοῦ, 348).89 Finally, it is indicative of Nonnus’
tendency to combine voyeurism and (sometimes false) modesty or propriety
that he chooses to include Athena among the divine spectators of Europa’s
abduction.90 The goddess’ reaction, blushing with virginal shame ‘when she
spied Cronion ridden by a woman’ (ἡνίοχον Κρονίωνος ὀπιπεύουσα γυναῖκα, 85),
not only highlights Europa’s paradoxical gendering as a (masculine) rider or
driver, as discussed above, but also points towards the importance of mod-
esty and virginity for the majority of female characters in the epic.91 Although
Europa’s own brief speech does not explicitly lament or even mention her
virginity, her wish to be carried into the air by (ironically) Boreas so as to
escape her ravisher is typical of Nonnus’ φυγόδεμνοι παρθένοι.92 The first real
conversation in the epic, between two Hamadryads fleeing Typhoeus whom
they imagine as a rapist (2.98–162), dwells on the themes of rape and virginity:
the first nymph hopes to be killed before she is forced to wed, while the sec-
ond considers all kinds of refuges (including metamorphosis), before rejecting
them all as potentially threatening for her virginity—just as Europa eventually
senses that Boreas is or might become just as love-mad as the bull, and decides
to stay her own voice.93
88 Winkler (1974) 4–17 provides a list of the passages, and further notes that on many occa-
sions the voyeur’s vision and imagination are blurred: ‘what he actually sees is not clearly
distinguished from what he wants and hopes to see’ (9).
89 For the motif of circularity as a Neoplatonic influence on Nonnus see Hernández de la
Fuente (2011a). For the terms κύκλος, ἴτυς, and ἄντυξ in the voyeuristic description of bod-
ies and how they create the impression that we are looking at a two-dimensional painting
see Winkler (1974) 37–38. On the formularity of the ἄντυγα μαζοῦ/μαζῶν see D’Ippolito
(2013) 292–293 and the chapter by the same author in this volume.
90 In Moschus’ Europa 118–124 we have the Nereids, Poseidon, and the Tritons as spectators;
they also appear here in 1.60–65. For Nonnus’ addition of Athena see Kuhlmann (2012) 487.
91 For the lack of reciprocity in Dionysus’ affairs with women and how this subverts novelis-
tic conventions see Hadjittofi (2008).
92 Contrast Moschus’ Europa, who wonders if the bull, after crossing the sea, will then
take to the air like a bird (144–145)—she presumably imagines herself still riding the fly-
ing bull.
93 1.135–136 Ἴσχεο, φωνή, | μὴ Βορέην μετὰ ταῦρον ἐρωμανέοντα νοήσω. On Nonnus’ characters
as quick to sense ominous threats see Winkler (1974) 54.
148 Hadjittofi
The rape of Europa is also programmatic for love affairs in the Dionysiaca in
that it introduces the aquatic element, which is present in one form or another
in most of the poem’s erotic episodes, usually in conjunction with the voy-
eurism theme. The anonymous seaman’s speech emphasises the confusion
between land and sea effected by the bull’s voyage,94 and guesses at Europa’s
identity, comparing her to Selene, Thetis, and Demeter.95 In the penultimate
book of the epic, Dionysus spies on Ariadne asleep on the shore and also won-
ders if she is (among others) Selene or Thetis (47.275–294). When Zeus gazes
upon Semele at her bath, a Naiad wonders if the astonishingly beautiful bath-
ing girl could be Aphrodite, a Muse, Selene or Athena (7.226–254).
The motif of the bath is particularly prominent in the Dionysiaca, and could
have something to do with pornographic aquatic spectacles popular in Late
Antiquity.96 It is introduced in Book 5 with the myth of Actaeon, who intruded
upon Artemis’ bath and ‘measured out the holy body of the unwedded virgin’
(ἁγνὸν ἀνυμφεύτοιο δέμας διεμέτρεε κούρης, 306), but then paid for his crime with
his own demise. Interestingly, most other voyeurs of bathing maidens are gods,
and not only do they go unpunished, they also end up having sex with the
girls they spied upon. In the same book as Actaeon, Zeus gazes at a bathing
Persephone (5.601–610) and then fathers Zagreus. Only two books afterwards,
in 7.171–279, he transforms himself into an eagle and gazes upon Semele at
her bath; the vocabulary used recalls Actaeon’s action, only in Zeus’ case the
object of his desire is not ‘holy’, but simply naked and pretty: the god ‘mea-
sured out the naked body of the girl with the lovely hair’ (γυμνὸν ἐυπλοκάμοιο
δέμας διεμέτρεε νύμφης, 216).97 Dionysus will also spy upon a bathing maiden,
Nicaea (16.5–13), whom he will later rape, while in the context of his affair with
Ampelus we have a description of Dionysus himself bathing (10.141–174) as
well as two sets of swimming contests, one between Dionysus and Ampelus
(11.5–55) and one between Carpus and Calamus (11.406–426).
94 See above, n. 68. Gigli Piccardi (2003) 129 (on Dion. 1.54) notes that such mingling of land
and sea, although presented in this speech as wondrous, would in fact have been a very
familiar spectacle for Nonnus and his fellow Egyptians during of the flooding of the Nile.
95 As Vian (1976) 140 (on Dion. 1.92) notes, this speech develops the τίς ἔπλεο; that Moschus’
Europa addresses to the bull. For the speech as an ethopoeia of the type τίνας ἂν εἴποι λόγους
ὁ δεῖνα see Agosti (2005b) 59, where it is compared to a progymnasma by Nicephorus
Basilaces. Cf. Whitby (1994) 102 and Minuto (2012).
96 See D’Ippolito (1962).
97 In 42.41 Dionysus’ spying on Beroe is described in identical terms: ἁβρὸν ἐυπλοκάμοιο
δέμας διεμέτρεε νύμφης; although Beroe is not actually bathing, she is the nymph of Beirut,
already described as a city-nymph bathing in the sea, with Poseidon’s arm around her
(41.28–37).
It should also be noted that two crucial and extensive erotic episodes
include a perversion of the bath motif. In 48.302–375 Artemis is again intruded
upon while at her bath, but this time the illicit voyeur is a virginity-obsessed
maiden, Aura, who, exactly like Actaeon, ‘measured out the holy body of the
unwedded virgin’ (48.343 = 5.306), but then also proceeded to touch and mock
the goddess’ breasts, a crime for which she is duly punished—by being raped
by Dionysus.98 In the episode of Morrheus and Chalcomede, the one to be
seen bathing is not the beautiful (and also virginity-obsessed) maiden, but
the unattractive man who aspires to become her lover (35.185–196). The swap
between the viewing subject and bathing object in this case is suggestive of
Morrheus’ feminisation and Chalcomede’s corresponding masculinisation,99
a reversal that is under way throughout the entire episode and naturally
reaches its climax here close to the end of the story and Morrheus’ final humili-
ation. A speech by Aphrodite herself (35.164–183) proclaiming the superiority
of her arms (i.e. beauty) to those of Ares precedes the scene of the bath, and
condenses a set of metaphors very dear to Nonnus, according to which breasts,
thighs, eyebrows, and, most of all, eyes shoot forth arrows and wound men
more fatally than actual weapons.100
Erotic episodes in the Dionysiaca are dominated by a nexus of meta-
phors, which describe beautiful body parts as potentially lethal weapons,
love as a wound, and sexual attraction as a disability.101 Eros is thus rendered
problematic for the epic’s men, as their virility and occasionally even life is
threatened by female beauty imagined as a stealthy sniper. The theme of beau-
ty’s inherent danger for men in conjunction with the poem’s virginity-bent
98 For rape as punishment in the mirror narratives of Nicaea and Aura see Hadjittofi (2008).
99 Chalcomede, however, is a very unwilling witness of Morrheus’ bath: ashamed to look
on a naked man, she ‘drew her modest eyes from Morrheus unclad’ (Μορρέος ἀχλαίνοιο
σαόφρονας εἷλκεν ὀπωπάς, 35.201).
100 The metaphor of ‘beauty’s arms’ is prevalent in the episode of Morrheus and Chalcomede,
and does not apply only to the two main protagonists of the episode: in 35.21–78 an anony-
mous Indian soldier is wounded by the beauty of a Bacchante he just killed. The metaphor
often appears in the context of bath scenes, e.g., Semele’s breasts shoot at spying Zeus
in 7.263–264 κατὰ Κρονίδαο δὲ γυμνοί | μαζοὶ ἐθωρήχθησαν ἀκοντιστῆρες Ἐρώτων; Clymene
shoots ‘rosy shafts from her cheeks at Helios’ in 38.126 Ἠέλιον ῥοδέῃσιν ὀιστεύουσα παρειαῖς.
Beroe is not seen naked, but still wounds Dionysus with her beautiful eyes and cheeks in
42.235–237 ἔγχεα κούρης | ὀφθαλμοὶ γεγάασιν ἀκοντιστῆρες Ἐρώτων, | παρθενικῆς δὲ βέλεμνα
ῥοδώπιδές εἰσι παρειαί.
101 For the sources of these metaphors and how in the Dionysiaca (and in Claudian’s Greek
Gigantomachy) they assume a real, aggressive force see Gigli Piccardi (1985) 41–45 and
57–63. Cf. Winkler (1974) 157–159.
150 Hadjittofi
heroines makes for an environment in which procreation is often the result of

either rape or paradoxical, mostly spontaneous, processes.102 Dionysus’ theo-
logically significant offspring, Telete and Iacchus, are the product of his mirror
rapes of Nicaea and Aura. The god himself is paradoxically born twice: once
when he is removed from Semele’s womb and then again when he emerges
from Zeus’ thigh. Dionysus’ double birth (Βάκχου δισσοτόκοιο, 1.4) is the subject
of the poem’s prologue, where Zeus’ ‘masculine womb’ (i.e. his thigh) and his
becoming both mother and father to the new god (ἄρσενι γαστρὶ λόχευσε, πατὴρ
καὶ πότνια μήτηρ, 1.7) are brought into connection with Zeus’ previous ‘child-
birth’, when he shot out Athena from his pregnant head. Dionysus’ paradoxi-
cal birth is highlighted again in Zeus’ prophecy in 7.79–81, where the god says
he will undergo female birth pangs (τλήσομαι ἄρσενι μηρῷ | θηλυτέρας ὠδῖνας,
80–81), while the narrative pointedly reminds us of Zeus’ labour right at the
end of the epic, where Dionysus is said to share a table with his ‘fruitful’ or ‘eas-
ily delivered’ father (πατρὶ σὺν εὐώδινι, 48.975).103
Within the episode of Europa we already have another reference to paradox-
ical generation: in 1.86–87 the sea is unable to quench Zeus’ passion, because
the ‘pregnant water’ was the one that ‘gave birth’ to Aphrodite of the deeps
(ὤδινεν . . . ἔγκυον ὕδωρ, 88). Aphrodite’s ‘self-perfected birth’ from the waves
(τόκον αὐτοτέλεστον, 7.228; from the Naiad’s speech referred to above) is a partic-
ularly recurrent motif, while it is noteworthy that even the two deities personify-
ing the union or attraction between two persons, Gamos and Eros respectively,
are born in paradoxically spontaneous ways, the first without a mother and the
second without a father.104 The books where these two births occur are in fact
celebratory of spontaneous generation: in Book 40 the Tyrians are praised as
the ‘holy offspring of the unwedded earth’ (ἁγνὸν ἀνυμφεύτοιο γένος χθονός, 432),
while in Book 41 the inhabitants of primordial Beirut are brought forth by Nature
herself ‘by her own breeding, in some unwedded way, begat without bridal,
fatherless, motherless, unborn’ (οὓς Φύσις αὐτογένεθλος ἀνυμφεύτῳ τινὶ θεσμῷ |
ἤροσε νόσφι γάμων, ἀπάτωρ, ἀλόχευτος, ἀμήτωρ, 52–53).105 Although it will not be
my concern here, it should also be noted that the thematic preponderance of
102 For a connection between paradoxical generation (or lactation) in the Dionysiaca and the
Christian ideology of virginity see Hadjittofi (2008) 130, and Shorrock (2011) 92–96.
103 The ring composition here is pointed out by Accorinti (2009) 78.
104 Gamos is born of Zeus’ seed falling on the ground in 40.402–406 (see Accorinti 2003a,
14–24), while Eros is brought forth by a (paradoxically) newborn Aphrodite, an ‘unwed-
ded mother’ (μητρὸς ἀνυμφεύτοιο, 41.134).
105 On the whole of Book 41 as a narrative section whose theme is spontaneous generation
see Winkler (1974) 72–74.
paradoxical generation in the Dionysiaca has a lot to do with Nonnus’ frequent

use of pregnancy and childbirth metaphors in both of his works.106
This (necessarily brief and by no means comprehensive) overview of the
Dionysiaca’s major themes and motifs has aimed to show how the poem creates
an impression of circularity, a feeling that we return to what we have already
seen. As Segal notes of the baroque style, ‘individual actions lose their sharp-
ness of outline by being repeated in slightly varied form.’107 At the end, the
formulaic system in which Nonnus’ intratextuality is embedded equally draws
attention to the descriptive details and patterns and, paradoxically, veils the
characters and actions represented in this thematic (and linguistic) variatio
within repetition.108
106 See Gigli Piccardi (1985) 228–229 on pregnancy and 110–111 on lactation metaphors; cf.
also the chapter by Newbold in this volume.
107 Segal (1984) 322.
108 For Nonnus’ visual objects as veiled by the conventionality of voyeuristic descriptions see
Winkler (1974) 47.
chapter 7
Minor Characters in the Dionysiaca

Berenice Verhelst
1 Introduction
‘Nessuna delle figure del poema nonniano può dirsi personaggio: sono tutti,
compreso Bacco, fiacchi strumenti in balia di forze superiori, endogene, come
le passioni, esterne, come le stelle.’1 Perhaps this rather categorical denial of
character development in the Dionysiaca, pronounced by Gennaro D’Ippolito,
one of the few real authorities in the field of Nonnus studies, may help to
explain why this Companion contains a chapter on minor and none on major
characters. For can any character (obvious candidates are Dionysus, Deriades,
Zeus and Hera) be rightfully called a ‘major character’, a term often associated
with round and lifelike characters, if they are all mere ‘strumenti’, puppets on
the string of ‘higher powers’? Even Zeus cannot fall in love without being hit
by one of Eros’ arrows (7.110–135). Even Hera, whose jealousy for her rivals and
their children could almost be called proverbial, needs Phthonus, the personi-
fication of envy, to incite her to action against Semele (8.34–108).
When focussing on the Dionysiaca’s minor characters instead, one could
also remark that the presence of characters like Eros in Book 7 (among other
passages) and Phthonus in Book 8 also increases the already crowded effect
of Nonnus’ densely populated mythological scenery. There are no less than
124 individual speaking characters in the poem and many more silent charac-
ters (individually portrayed or presented as a group) could be counted.2 The
very instructive Index général des noms propres (vol. 19 in the Budé edition of
the Dionysiaca, some 130 pages long) gives a dazzling overview of all characters
1 D’Ippolito (1964) 52.

2 See Verhelst (2014b) 45–47. As part of my doctoral research, I have created a database of
all speeches in Nonnus, on which this count and all following are based. This number of
124 speaking characters includes 28 anonymous characters and excludes 5 characters who
only appear as a speaking character in a subordinate level of the narration, in an embedded
story told by a secondary narrator.

Minor Characters in the Dionysiaca 153
mentioned in the poem, of which a large majority would probably have to be

labelled ‘minor’.3
The use of the word ‘characters’ in the previous sentence, however, is not
entirely unproblematic. ‘A character’ could either be defined very broadly as
‘the representation of a human or human-like individual in/by a (literary)
text’4—in which case the mere reference to a proper name could be seen
as a minimal form of representation—or in a more restrictive way as those
individuals that undergo or cause the events in the plot.5 This second, more
restrictive definition would probably exclude the large number of mythologi-
cal figures who in the Dionysiaca are referred to by characters and narrator
alike, but do not have an actual role to play in the poem’s plot (e.g. Io, Medusa
or Philomela and Procne). And where would we, in that case, have to fit in the
‘characters’ that only appear in embedded stories? Like Tylus, whose resurrec-
tion is depicted on the shield of Dionysus in Book 25 (451–552)? Or Calamus
and Carpus, whose tragic love story is told by Eros in Book 11 (369–483) in order
to console Dionysus for the loss of his beloved Ampelus?
2 Minor and Major Characters in an Epic Narrative ‘à tiroirs’
The mere possibility to doubt whether Io or Tylus should be counted as ‘char-

acters’, seems to suggest—if we do acknowledge them this title—a further
categorisation of them in the camp of the minor characters. But, to use the
words of Bernhard Zimmerman, ‘the division of a play’s [or in this case: an
epic poem’s] characters . . . into leading roles and minor roles . . . is not such
an easy task as one might first imagine.’6 In his chapter on ‘Minor Characters’
in the recent Brill’s Companion to Sophocles,7 Zimmerman opens his discus-
sion of the terminology of ‘minor’ and ‘major characters’ by discarding two
possible approaches to concretize this division: ‘first, that which is predicated
upon a purely quantitative analysis creating a hierarchy of a play’s characters
based upon the number of lines they speak, and second, that based on a simple
3 Vian/Fayant (2006). Besides names of individuals (the large majority of all entries), the index
also contains toponyms and proper names referring to groups (nationalities, families and
other group entities).
4 De Temmerman/van Emde Boas (forthcoming).
5 E.g. Bal (1979) 3.
6 Zimmerman (2012) 507.
7 Markantonatos (2012).
154 Verhelst
differentiation between speaking and silent characters.’ The third possible

approach, which he strongly defends, is to categorize ‘in terms of the charac-
ter’s participation and function within the dramatic plot’, for which he refers
to the representation of a tragic plot as a set of concentric rings, on which
each character can then be placed closer by (major characters) or further from
(minor characters) the centre.8
Whereas this model, developed for the analysis of tragedies, could with-
out major problems also be used to schematize the plot of the Homeric epics,
praised for their ‘unity of action’,9 the Dionysiaca’s episodic structure and many
detours call for a different approach.10 For how to determine which charac-
ters are major and minor characters when there is no clear hierarchic rela-
tion between the various episodes of the Dionysiaca? Characters like Icarius
(47.34–264), Hymnus (15.204–16.405) or Brongus (17.37–86) are major charac-
ters, even protagonists, in the episode in which they appear, but—given the
limited length of these episodes—can they also be regarded as major charac-
ters in an absolute sense? Does a long episode (e.g. Beroe in 41–43) by its sheer
length carry more weight than a shorter one (e.g. Pallene in 48.90–237)? Or
are both girls outshone by Aura (48.238–947) because she unwillingly becomes
the mother of Dionysus’ son Iacchus—an important consequence of their
union—and, moreover, also is the only one of Dionysus loved ones to be men-
tioned in the Dionysiaca’s programmatic prologue (1.26–28)?11
Characters like Aeacus and Erechtheus, on the other hand, regularly appear
in Books 13–39, during the Indian War narrative. As heroes in Dionysus’ army
and leaders of respectively the Myrmidons and the Athenians (13.171–221),
8 Zimmerman (2012) 507–508, referring for this model of analysis to Pfister (1977) 220–264.
9 Aristotle, Poetics 1451a 22–35.
10 Shorrock (2001) 22: ‘[I]t is a coordination of different narratives and structures. The story
of Dionysus is not a single story; it is constructed out of a series of different frames (epyl-
lionic, astrological, encomiastic etc.) which all intersect, and overlie one another.’ See also
in this volume the chapter by Geisz.
11 The prologue of the Dionysiaca contains a list of six subjects that will be treated in the
poem, each associated with one of the metamorphoses of Proteus. In the order of their
mentioning these are: the Gigantomachy (48.1–89), the childhood of Dionysus in Rhea’s
care (9.145–246), the Indian War (13–40.250), Dionysus’ love for Aura (48.238–947), his
confrontation with Lycurgus (20.149–21.177) and the death of the vinedresser Icarius
(47.34–264). It has been the subject of much discussion how to interpret this (program-
matic?) selection of episodes. See, among others, Giraudet (2005) and Bannert (2008).
Because Proteus is staged by Nonnus as a symbol of ποικιλία (1.15), it is generally agreed
on that the six episodes associated with his six metamorphoses likewise symbolize the
variety of subjects treated in the poem.
they hold a prominent position during battle scenes and also participate
(victoriously) in several of the athletic contests of the funeral games in hon-
our of Opheltes (37). In Book 39, finally, their status as the two lieutenants of
Dionysus is confirmed by the remarkable set of four speeches preceding the
decisive battle: two exhortations by the armies’ commanders (Deriades and
Dionysus, 39.33–73 and 78–122) are immediately followed by two prayers by
Aeacus (39.138–170) and Erechtheus (39.174–211), marking the start of battle
for the Bacchic army. Comparing their role and importance with those of
Odysseus, Diomedes or Ajax in the Iliad, would, however, do Aeacus and
Erechtheus too much honour: they fight valiantly (e.g. 22.253–389, 32.281–284),
but never undertake any truly decisive action. Are they major or minor char-
acters? The answer again partially depends on which function we would agree
to assign to the story line in which they are involved: does the Indian War take
up a privileged position in the whole as the centre of the Dionysiaca’s plot? Or
does it not necessarily have to be regarded as the most important but rather
as simply the largest of all building blocks—or, to use Nonnus’ own metaphor
from the Dionysiaca’s prologue (1.11–33)—as merely one of the varied (ποικίλος)
appearances of Proteus?
In the absence of answers we might be inclined to return to the mathemati-
cal approaches discarded by Zimmerman. There are 124 speaking characters
(excluding silent characters like Brongus, Beroe or Pallene) of whom 84 (like
Aeacus) only speak once. Dionysus’ role as the Dionysiaca’s true protagonist
seems to be confirmed by the numerical superiority of his speeches. With
his 55 speeches (1341 lines in total) he simply outnumbers all other candi-
dates: Morrheus (13 speeches, 225 lines), Zeus (12 speeches, 354 lines), Hera
(12 speeches, 326 lines) and Deriades (9 speeches, 279 lines).12
The advantage of such clear statistics, however, also has its limitations. Only
35.6% of the Dionysiaca is character speech and it is much more difficult to
measure in numbers the importance of certain characters in the narrator text
and in the speeches of other characters. Zimmerman’s warning against disre-
garding all silent characters in tragedies as ‘minor’ is, therefore, all the more
relevant for the delineation between major and minor characters in Nonnus’
epic,13 as could be illustrated by the example of the goddess Rhea. She is a
12 It may seem surprising to find Deriades’ son in law and not Deriades himself in the second
position. The explanation lies in the elaborate love story of Morrheus and Chalcomede
that is developed in Books 33–35. No fewer than 9 of his 13 speeches are pronounced in
this context.
13 Cf. Zimmerman (2012) 509: ‘On the one hand we find the non-speaking characters who
have a fixed place in the literary tradition and are often given a dramaturgically important
156 Verhelst
silent character, speaking only through messengers or deceptive dreams,14 but

regarding her function in the plot, which is not limited to one episode or plot
line, she can be called a major character. She is Dionysus’ adoptive mother and
the only one able to protect him against Hera during his childhood (9.145–246,
also one of the passages announced in the programmatic prologue). She takes
the lead in assembling Dionysus’ army for the Indian campaign (13–14). She
is of invaluable help to him during the campaign by sending her foster son a
new god-made shield and announcing him his nearing victory by the mouth
of Attis (25.310–379, giving a flying start to the second half of the poem), and
by eliminating Ares as helper of the Indian battle force (29.325–362). She, how-
ever, also intervenes in Dionysus’ favour in other episodes (e.g. giving speech to
the metamorphosed Ambrosia in the Lycurgus episode, 21.33). Finally, after the
war, her home is the destination of Dionysus’ νόστος (43.440–449); the spoils of
war have been collected in her honour (35.369–370).
The only possible conclusion to be drawn from the above, is, therefore, that
the distinction between major and minor characters is a highly problematic
one. Different factors can be taken into account but no general rules can be set.
The relevant question is perhaps not as much if and how a line can be drawn,
but whether drawing this line so strictly would also generate valuable insights
in Nonnus’ poetry. I am personally not convinced it would. Therefore, I will not
try to further define ‘minor characters’, but rather, in the following paragraphs,
discuss and analyse the representation of a selected number of characters and
groups of characters that can be of interest with regard to their role in the nar-
rative or their characterization. The bigger roles, which in studies of character-
ization almost always receive most attention, will, in accordance with the title
of this chapter, be left aside.
3 Intertextuality and the Search for Equivalence
In a mythological epic poem, characters are never drawn ex nihilo. Mythological

characters are part of a long tradition. There is, on the one hand, the literary
tradition in which Nonnus inscribes himself, but also the iconographic and
cultic traditions may influence the representation of certain familiar charac-
ters. Their personality and appearance are recreated from traditional material,
function in the play’s action by the poet, and who therefore cannot be counted as minor
characters.’
14 In Book 25 (310–379), Attis acts as Rhea’s messenger to Dionysus. In Book 29 (325–362),
she sends a deceitful dream to Ares.
but simultaneously, they also often undergo a process of re-characterization

in order to fit the new role and context in which they appear or, conversely,
in order to challenge the conventional representation of their character. One
could, for example, think of the representation of the goddess Artemis in the
Aura narrative (48.238–947), where she spitefully refuses to act as the goddess
of childbirth when her former companion Aura unwillingly delivers Dionysus’
twin sons.
A related phenomenon is that of the creation of new characters to play roles
that are familiar from the literary tradition, a strategy which is frequently used
by Nonnus to pay homage to his literary models, most importantly to Homer.
Numerous episodes from the Iliad find a counterpart in the Dionysiaca: the
catalogue of troops in 13.53–14.227 and 26.38–365 ~ Il. 2.484–877, the bat-
tle with the river in 22.136–24.122 ~ Il. 21.1–382, the ‘Διòς ἀπάτη’ episode in
31.24–35.340 ~ Il. 14.153–15.77, the theomachy in 36.1–133 ~ Il. 21.383–513 and
the funeral games in 37.1–778 ~ Il. 23.257–897, only to mention a few of the
most striking examples.15 Each time it is possible to find clear character equiv-
alents (or rather characters that are casted to play equivalent roles) in the
Homeric model and the Nonnian adaptation. The Iliadic role of Achilles in
Nonnus’ battle with the river, for example, is played by his grandfather Aeacus
(the connection is made explicit in 22.383–389),16 which also indicates the
ambiguous nature of Nonnus’ homage to Homer. Nonnus does not only claim
the chronological priority of his own subject (the Indian War is fought by the
generation of the Iliadic heroes’ grandfathers) but also its inherent superiority
(see esp. 25.26, 253–260).17
Besides being a mythological character with a tradition of his own account,18
Aeacus not only plays the role of the Iliadic Achilles (he is introduced as the
15 On Nonnus and Homer, see Vian (1991); Hopkinson (1994c); Shorrock (2001). Cf. also the
chapter by Bannert/Kröll in this volume. On Nonnus’ creative adaptation of the ‘Διòς ἀπάτη’
episode see also De Stefani (2011a) 68–70; Lovatt (2013) 63–65; Verhelst (2014b) 63–96.
16 The connection between Achilles and Aeacus is, however, not exclusive. In other episodes
it is Dionysus, who plays part of Achilles’ role, whereas Aeacus also takes on the role of his
other grandson Ajax (see below).
17 Cf. also 22.383 καὶ πολὺν Ἀστεροπαῖον ἐδέξατο νεκρὸν Ὑδάσπης, referring to Asteropaeus,
one of the victims of Achilles in the Scamander. At 25.255–256, Nonnus states that he
will not compare Dionysus and Deriades to Achilles and Hector (but implicitly does so,
while making the statement) and suggests that Homer should actually have sung about
Dionysus instead of Achilles.
18 See 13.301–221, 22.392–397, 24.78–82 and 39.153–155 for references to Aeacus’ descent from
Zeus and Aegina and 22.276–283 and 39.138–152 for his earlier success of bringing rain to
his people by prayer.
158 Verhelst
leader of the Myrmidons in 13.201–221, cf. Il. 2.681–694), but in 37.750–778

(hoplomachy during the funeral games for Opheltes, as the counterpart of
Il. 23.798–825) also, quite paradoxically, that of the victorious Diomedes,
whereas the Cretan hero Asterius takes up the role of the second combatant,
Aeacus’ other grandson Ajax. Is the reversal of the roles of grandfather and
grandson here a deliberate choice of Nonnus to confuse his audience?19 Or
does he, perhaps, even aim to correct Homer, who did not ‘cast’ the Aeacid in
the winning role for this contest?
Constantly evoking Iliad 23, the funeral games episode of Book 37, in fact,
also raises more fundamental questions of character equivalence, especially
concerning the roles of the organizing hero (Dionysus) and the deceased (the
otherwise insignificant character Opheltes).20 The suggestion that they—at
least in the context of this book—have to be interpreted as the Dionysiaca’s
counterparts for Achilles and Patroclus is enforced by other, less problematic
character doublets. Aristaeus and Actaeon are clear examples. They are the
only father and son fighting in Dionysus’ army and are given the roles of Nestor
and Antilochus, the father advising the son on how to win the chariot race
(37.174–225 ~ Il. 23.304–350).21 But, whereas the role of Dionysus, as the pro-
tagonist of the epic narrative, also elsewhere reminds of that of Achilles in the
Iliad (e.g. both receiving a god made shield from their mother),22 Opheltes who
is mentioned for the first time in a catalogue of victims of Deriades (32.186)
seems too minor a character to be compared to the Iliadic Patroclus.
The explanation for the apparent mismatch between the epic grandeur of
the funeral games of Book 37 and the fact that the bewailed Opheltes truly plays
‘un rôle mineur’23 in the Dionysiaca has been sought in other literary sources,
especially Dionysius’ Bassarica (1st century ad?), regarded as a major source
of inspiration for Nonnus, but, with the exception of a few fragments, lost to
us today. According to Francis Vian, the Cretan hero Asterius must have played
a major role in the Bassarica, probably as the eromenos of the protagonist
19 See also Agosti (2004c) 753 (on Dion. 37.759–760) on Aeacus’ role in this passage: ‘La sua
presenza qui si spiega con la parentela con Aiace’.
20 See Collart (1930) 205; Vian (1998) 71: ‘Mais pourquoi Opheltès?’; Frangoulis (1999) 3–6;
Shorrock (2001) 8; Agosti (2004c) 672–673.
21 See Frangoulis (1999) 18–19.
22 See also n. 17 and below (§ 3) on the transposition of Il. 22.188–305 in 40.1–81 (Deriades/
Hector pursued by Dionysus/Achilles, Deriades/Hector beguiled by Athena in the guise of
Morrheus/Deiphobus).
23 Frangoulis (1999) 3.
Dionysus.24 Opheltes, a lesser hero from the same Cretan garrison, must have
been one of his lieutenants who—a suggestion by Hélène Frangoulis—possi-
bly sacrificed his own life to save a badly injured Asterius from Deriades’ attack.
Although this reconstruction is uncertain and largely based on Opheltes’ and
Asterius’ scarce appearances in the Dionysiaca, Frangoulis even suggests a cer-
tain character resemblance, via Dionysius, between Opheltes and the Iliadic
Patroclus: ‘[P]eut-être Opheltès y obtenait-il les mêmes honneurs que Patrocle
dans l’Iliade parce qu’il avait sacrifié sa vie pour sauver celle de son chef’.25
Only the learned reader of the Dionysiaca, familiar with Dionysius like Nonnus
himself, would be able to make this connection. Today, we know far too little
about the content of the Bassarica to draw any conclusions, but the mere fact
that this kind of explanation is raised, shows well the suggestive force of the
Dionysiaca’s many intertextual references to the Iliad. By the clear, sometimes
patronizingly explicit references to Homer, we, as readers, are stimulated to
search beyond the superficial correspondences and feel challenged to find
explanations whenever the analogy (seemingly) fails as in the case of Opheltes
and Patroclus.
4 Disguised Identities
The predilection of Nonnus for multi-layered character-puzzles is also appar-

ent in the frequency with which he stages characters ‘in the guise of’ other char-
acters. In doing so, he adopts a feature characteristic for the Homeric poems,
which, however, only exceptionally occurs in Apollonius’ Argonautica or
Quintus’ Posthomerica.26 Apart from the famous disguise of Odysseus (assisted
by Athena to effect his transformation) as a Cretan beggar in Odyssey 13–22,
24 See Vian (1998). Vian explains that the characters of the Cretan warriors Opheltes and
Asterius are introduced in the Dionysiaca as if prior knowledge of the reader about these
figures were to be expected. Several details about his beauty (13.223–224), about Dionysus’
reaction when Asterius lies injured (35.384–391) indicate that he may have been an ero-
menos of Dionysus in a different tradition, but has been replaced by Hymenaeus in the
Dionysiaca. The reference to Zeus ‘Modaios’ in the passage introducing the Cretan troops
(13.236) serves as the connecting thread with Dionysius, whose Bassarica (also relating
the story of Dionysus’ war against the Indians) is, at any rate, a very plausible ‘source of
characters’ for Nonnus’ Indian War narrative.
25 Frangoulis (1999) 6 n. 1.
26 The only example in the Posthomerica that I know of is 11.137–141: Apollo addresses Aeneas
and Eurymachus in the guise of Polymestor. In the Argonautica Triton takes the guise of
an anonymous youth to communicate with the Argonauts (4.1554–1600).
160 Verhelst
the Homeric poems do not contain any deviations from the basic pattern
of a god taking on a mortal guise to address (often exhort) a mortal. A clear
example of this pattern in Nonnus is Athena’s speech to Deriades in Book 40
(11–30). Taking on the guise of Morrheus she makes the Indian king stand
against Dionysus, thus giving her brother the opportunity to kill his cowardly
enemy. It is yet another clear transposition of an episode in the Iliad, with
Athena/Morrheus in the role of Athena/Deiphobus, Dionysus in the role of
Achilles and Deriades in the role of Hector (cf. Iliad 22.188–305).27
It will not come as a surprise that deviations from this basic pattern are
regularly found in the Dionysiaca, an epic in which the central hero himself
is a young god. The divinity of the protagonist brings about a different, less
strictly divided relation between the mortal and divine worlds, which partially
explains the occurrence of situations in which one god disguised as another
god approaches a third god. Dionysus is, for example, approached by Iris in the
guise of Dionysus’ brother Hermes in order to trick him into approaching his
enemy Lycurgus unarmed (20.266–288), a situation which bears clear similari-
ties to that of Athena/Morrheus and Deriades.28 Disguise is, however, not only
used in front of Dionysus, who has not yet earned his position on the Olympus,
but also in front of the most powerful Olympic gods, which may then be inter-
preted as a mock-epic feature.29
An interesting example with regard to characterization is that of Nike’s
exhortation to Zeus in the guise of Leto. The difference with Iris’ speech
to Dionysus lies not only in the fact that the addressee is a more powerful,
presumably all-knowing god, but also in the fact that Nike has no inten-
tions to deceive her addressee. Why would she then make use of a disguise?
The answer seems to lie in her rhetorically constructed speech (2.209–236),
27 A few other examples following the same pattern: Aphrodite disguises as Peitho to con-
vince Harmonia to accept marrying Cadmus (4.67–178), Hera disguises as an old nurse to
trick Semele (8.178–266), Ate appears to Ampelus in the guise of a boy of his age (11.113–155),
Hera uses the guise of Melaneus to exhort Astraeis (14.303–316), Athena uses the guise of
Orontes to exhort Deriades (26.1–37), Hera uses the guise of Melampus to exhort Perseus
(47.534–567).
28 A few other examples in the same vein: Eros takes the guise of Silenus to console Dionysus
(11.351–483), Eris and Phobus exhort Dionysus in the guise of Attis and Rhea (20.35–100),
Iris exhorts Lycurgus in the shape of his father Ares (20.188–252).
29 Auger (2003) 417: ‘[Q]uand un dieu adopte la forme d’un autre dieu pour donner des
encouragements mensongers à un dieu qui rêve, les codes de l’épopée se brouillent et
il ne reste plus que la dimension de tromperie’. See also Vian (1976) 76. The example of
Nike’s disguise as Leto to exhort Zeus is analysed below. Another striking example is that
of Hermes’ disguise as Phanes to deceive Hera (9.140–159).
for which she not only assumes the identity, but also fully adopts the per-
spective of Leto, who—sufficiently characterized by the mythological tradi-
tion—does not appear elsewhere in the Dionysiaca as an acting and speaking
character.30 The speech starts with a request to Zeus to fight on behalf of his
children (σῶν τεκέων πρόμος ἵστασο, 2.209), which is certainly an appropriate
opening sentence for Leto both as the mother of two of these children and in
her capacity of a benign mother goddess, connected in her cult to the initiation
of young boys and girls.31 The reference to Athena at the start of her speech
(γάμων ἀδίδακτον Ἀθήνην, 2.210), whose virginity is threatened by Typhon, has
to be connected to the end of the speech, where Leto more elaborately returns
to the same topic, now concerning her own daughter Artemis (2.232–236),
whom she urges Zeus to defend with even more urgency.32
Whereas the middle part of Leto’s speech is more neutral in tone (2.214–226:
a catalogue of gods who have abandoned their tasks because of Typhon), the
last part clearly aims at an emotional impact. Leto concludes her catalogue
of afflicted gods with an exclamation of surprise, for, despite their history of
animosity, she even feels pity for Hera (Ἆ μέγα θαῦμα, | καὶ μάλα μοι κοτέουσαν
ἐποικτείρω σέθεν Ἥρην, 2.226–227). A second exclamation follows (2.228),
now in the form of a question: will Kronos and the Titans return to Olympus?
(Ἦ ῥα τεὸς γενέτης πάλιν ἵξεται εἰς χορὸν ἄστρων;). Leto immediately confirms
that she certainly hopes not and emphasizes in her answer her own identity as
a Titan goddess (εἰ Τιτηνὶς ἀκούω, 2.229).33
In her emotional reaction, Leto is portrayed as a faithful Olympian. She puts
her rivalry with Hera aside in a time of need and prefers the Olympians over
the Titans, thus renouncing her own Titan identity. The emotional impact on
Zeus that is aimed at is clear: Leto is made an example of selfless and magnani-
mous loyalty. Her unselfish reaction to the events has to serve as an incentive
for Zeus to fight Typhon with more vigour. Leto’s character and position among
the Olympians make her a suitable speaker to exhort Zeus, which explains
30 This analysis of the speech of Nike is a reworked version of my analysis of the same
speech in my doctoral dissertation. See Verhelst (2014b) 199–204.
31 Leto is characterized as ‘mild’ and ‘gentle’ in Hesiod’s Theogony 406–408 (μείλιχον αἰεί,
406). Leto appears mostly in connection with her children Apollo and Artemis, but is
in her own cults connected to the initiation rites of young men or young girls. See Graf
(1999).
32 See also Vian (1976) 76: ‘[E]lle prend le visage de Létô, ce qui permet à la déesse d’apitoyer
Zeus sur le sort d’Artémis et à Nonnos de placer sa pointe finale.’
33 See again Vian (1976) 76: ‘Grâce à sa forme d’emprunt, elle peut aussi se présenter comme
une Titanide et proclamer que les divinités préolympiennes elles-mêmes souhaitent la
victoire de Zeus.’
162 Verhelst
Nike’s choice to impersonate Leto. But one might also wonder why Nonnus
did not choose to give Leto herself this role in the first place. Why inserting an
exhortation by Nike ‘in the guise’ of Leto? There are two factors which we may
have to take into account.
On the one hand, Nike’s presence as the goddess of Victory can be inter-
preted as a symbol of Zeus’ nearing victory. Her identity is veiled for Zeus, but
for the reader of the Dionysiaca it functions as an interpretative key. On the
other hand, the (seemingly unnecessary) complex construction with Nike,
who appears in the guise of Leto, puts more emphasis on the choice of Leto as
speaker, than would have been the case if Leto herself spoke to Zeus. It draws
the attention of the reader to the persuasive effect of the choice of the speaker,
and, ultimately, also to the intelligent design of this speech. Within the frame-
work of the Dionysiaca, Nike gives a fine example of an ethopoeia (the rhetor-
ical exercise of speaking ‘in character’) by quite literally putting herself in the
shoes of Leto and creating in this way the most suitable persona to convince
her addressee. One could say that Nike’s (veiled) presence has a key function
in the narrative, whereas Leto’s appearance (though actually absent) has an
argument function for the addressee of her speech.34
Perhaps it is also possible to generalise this observation, as in most cases
one can read a scene with a disguised character from two distinct perspectives.
Words spoken by disguised characters often have a different meaning on both
interpretative levels, which in some cases leads to situations of dramatic irony.
Hera, disguised as Semele’s old nurse, for example, ironically assures Semele
that Hera will not hurt her (Ζηλήμων περ ἐοῦσα Διὸς δάμαρ οὔ σε χαλέψει, 8.251).35
Also when Aphrodite, disguised as Peitho, a young friend of Harmonia with a
telling name, claims to recognize Cadmus as an Assyrian because of his resem-
blance to Adonis (4.80–82), this reference by Aphrodite to her own lover as a
criterion of manly beauty can be read with a certain irony.
Interesting with respect to characterization are also the scenes in which
the metamorphosis itself takes place. In order to appear to Semele as her old
nurse, Hera also imitates the gestures and posture of an old woman (8.201–205:
34 For the concepts of ‘argument function’ vs. ‘key function’ see Andersen (1987) and de
Jong/Nünlist (2000) 160.
35 This warranty, pronounced by Hera while she at that very moment is setting off a chain of
reactions that will eventually lead to Semele’s death, is—and this is perhaps even more
ironic—not entirely false. Hera is only pulling the strings, but Semele will cause her own
death and it is Zeus who will unwillingly kill her.
she trembles, bends her back, groans and feigns a tear).36 In other cases, there
is ample attention for theatre props (cf. Phthonus’ use of theatre blood to
impersonate Ares in 8.40–44 or Cadmus’ full transformation from a traveller
into a shepherd in 1.368–375 by means of a costume, flute, shepherd’s hut and
a herd of cattle borrowed from Pan).37 Perhaps one would even be able to con-
clude that, to a certain extent, more attention is being paid in the Dionysiaca
to the lifelike representation of these unreal, ‘faked’ characters (with attention
both for their personal perspective and for the specificity of their voice, cloth-
ing and gestures, etc.)—and thus to characterization on a meta-literary level,
as an act of performance—than to the individual portrayal of many other fig-
ures, including those more central to the plot.
5 Symbolic Presences and Speaking Personifications
The examples of Nike and Phthonus not only present us with two intriguing
character studies of, respectively, Leto and Ares, they also indicate the impor-
tance of a third interesting group of characters in the Dionysiaca: the large
group of personifications that populate Nonnus’ mythological world ‘[g]iving
shape and visual entity to incorporeal elements’.38 This heterogenic category
of characters mainly consists of, on the one hand, D’Ippolito’s forze superiori
(cosmic deities like Aion and Harmonia and guiding forces like Ate and
Nemesis) and, on the other, newly immortalized figures in the entourage of
the wine god: Ampelus (ἄμπελος: vine), Staphylus (σταφυλή: bunch of grapes),
Botrys (βότρυς: bunch of grapes), Methe (μέθη: drunkenness), Pithos (πίθος:
wine jar), Ambrosia (ἀμβροσία: elixir of life), etc. Both groups have recently
been the subject of investigation by Laura Miguélez-Cavero, in whose work a
more detailed overview (also including a third important group of personifica-
tions: topographical personifications) of this intriguing category of characters
can be found.39 I will discuss a few examples from the first group.
36 Hera’s talent to act ‘in character’ of her disguise can best be compared to Odysseus’
‘acting performances’ as a beggar in the Odyssey (esp. Books 14–17). See de Jong (2001)
ad loc., esp. pages 338 and 409.
37 Compare also 20.188–194, Iris preparing her disguise as Ares both by adapting her voice and
changing her robes. In the Homeric poems, no special efforts seem required when a god
takes on the guise of a mortal (compare among others Il. 5.462, 16.716–720, Od. 6.23–24).
The theatrical means of disguise used by Nonnus’ gods rather remind us of Odysseus’
transformation into the Cretan beggar (Od. 13.429–438).
38 Miguélez Cavero (2013a) 351.
39 Miguélez Cavero (2013a) and (2014b).
164 Verhelst
As has already been indicated above, Nike’s role in Book 1 is an example of

the symbolic function of personifications. In the same way that Nike’s pres-
ence alongside Zeus prefigures his imminent victory, Aphrodite’s and Eros’
presence as Dionysus’ guides and companions on his travels towards Naxos
(where he will find Ariadne, 47.267–268) and as the judge and referee of his
wrestling match with Pallene (48.106–107) prefigure Dionysus’ amatory con-
quests. Nike, Eros and Aphrodite in these passages primarily seem to symbol-
ize their domain of influence. Their presence also has a prophetic value.
In a few remarkable cases, personifications also seem to be used to external-
ize and visualise a mental process. Ampelus’ fatal decision to ride a wild bull
(Book 11) is motivated by jealousy, but it is Ate, the personification of blind folly,
who triggers this jealousy and talks him into approaching the bull (11.118–154).
The personification of Ate as the external cause of a fatal decision is as old as the
Iliad,40 but by staging her as a speaking personification (disguised as a young
boy), who does not use her divine powers to exert influence over Ampelus, but
convinces him by means of arguments, Nonnus goes much further than his
epic predecessors.41 Ate not only personifies and inspires Ampelus’ fatal deci-
sion, she is now put ‘on stage’ as a genuine character and effects the decision
by the means of well-chosen words and arguments, a manipulative technique
which does not allow to distinguish between her as a divinity and the human
form she adopts.42
A second example in the same vein is that of Phthonus’ (Envy) appear-
ance to Hera in the guise of Ares, mentioned above.43 In the chronology of
the Dionysiaca (part of the love story of Zeus and Semele), it is immediately
40 In Agamemnon’s apology to Achilles (Il. 19.78–144) he blames Ate for his own deeds, refer-
ring to her as πρέσβα Διὸς θυγάτηρ Ἄτη, ἣ πάντας ἀᾶται (Il. 19.91). He describes her as an
anthropomorphic god (walking with her delicate feet over the heads of men) and claims
that she even once blinded Zeus.
41 Compare also Theogony 230, Argonautica 4.817 (Ate or ἄτη?) and Posthomerica 1.753–754.
42 See Verhelst (2014b) 195–199 for a full analysis of Ate’s speech to Ampelus. Ate first rouses
Ampelus’ indignation by pointing out that other members of Dionysus’ entourage have
certain privileges (concerning the riding of animals and the driving of chariots) that are
denied to him. Other gods, she claims, do give this kind of privileges to their beloved
boys. After, in this way, having roused in Ampelus the desire for a spectacular ride, she
advises him in the second part of her speech on his choice of animal, using the examples
of Bellerophon and Glaucus of Potniae to indicate the danger of a horse ride, and the
example of Europa to indicate the feasibility of a bull ride. Finally, she points out the bull
to him and disappears.
43 Compare also Callimachus, Hymn to Apollo 105–113 and Ovid, Metamorphoses 2.768–805
(on the personified goddess Invidia).
followed by a third example, Hera’s encounter with Apate (Deceit). These

two scenes seem to put on stage first the growing indignation of the betrayed
Hera and then her search for a clever plan to take revenge on her rival Semele.
Phthonus does not only take on Ares’ appearance (see above for his use of
theatre props), he also cleverly adopts Ares’ perspective and uses his position
as Hera’s favourite son to play on his mother’s emotions. The immediate suc-
cess of Phthonus’ approach can not only be derived from the fact that Hera
promptly leaves to search for Apate but also from the reuse of his arguments in
Hera’s own speech to Apate, now applied to convince the goddess of Deceit of
Hera’s need to act against Semele.44
Very different, with regard to their function in the narrative of the Dionysiaca,
are the personifications that occur in the four episodes which by Francis Vian
have been called ‘préludes cosmiques’.45 The first shows the visit of Demeter
to the cosmic god Astraeus, who reads her future in the stars. The second puts
Aion, Father Time, on scene as the guardian of mankind, pleading with Zeus
to bring an end to man’s suffering. In the third episode, the personified four
Seasons visit the palace of their father Helios to read the tablets of Harmonia
and to learn about the invention of wine. And finally, in the fourth, Aphrodite
visits Harmonia to inform about the future of the city of Berytus, described on
the same tablets (12.32 κύρβιας Ἁρμονίης ἑτερόζυγας ~ 41.340).
Abstract deities of time and cosmic harmony are in these passages staged
as the governing forces of the universe, residing in heavenly palaces and pos-
sessing an a-temporal knowledge of the history of mankind. As such, they
might be regarded as Nonnus’ alternative for the Homeric distinction between
a ‘human’ and a ‘divine’ plot. With Dionysus as the central hero and with Zeus
no longer able to be the impartial holder of the balance deciding the outcome
of battle,46 these abstract deities to some extent fulfil the role of the Homeric
Olympic gods, but this with—in the words of Miguélez-Cavero—‘the added
44 See Verhelst (2014b) 204–222 for a full analysis of Phthonus’ speech to Hera and Hera’s
speech to Apate. In order to convince Hera of the need for action, Phthonus/Ares
repeatedly uses the argument that Ares, disgusted by his father’s adultery, will leave the
Olympus. Hera reuses the same argument no less than three times in her own speech to
Apate. Both speeches also contain a very similar catalogue of Zeus’ mortal loves.
45 See Vian (1993) for an analysis of the function of these four passages in the narrative of the
Dionysiaca.
46 Cf. 39.372–373 (Zeus manipulating the balance of war). See also Kuhlmann (1999) on the
change in the position of Zeus in the Dionysiaca (Zeus as the father of the protagonist)
in comparison with the epic tradition before Nonnus (Zeus as the ruler of gods and men)
and Miguélez Cavero (2009).
166 Verhelst
benefit of appealing to both a pagan and a Christian audience because they

may be considered as less explicitly pagan.’47
The first two functions of personifications mentioned here (symbolic/
prophetic, externalizing mental processes) could be (and have been) connected
to the influence of the iconographical tradition, as in pictorial representations
of mythological stories abstract concepts are often visualised as personifica-
tions. The prominent position of abstract cosmic deities in Nonnus, on the
other hand, has been connected to contemporary Neoplatonic and Christian
allegories. It is possible to refer to the late antique allegorical interpretations of
epic poetry (esp. Homer), but also to the production of allegorical epic poetry,
such as Prudentius’ Psychomachia.48
6 Observing Characters
The presence of all these personifications definitely adds to the general

crowdedness of Nonnus’ mythological world. Compare, for example, Ovid’s
and Nonnus’ rendering of the story of Hera’s ruse against Semele (8.34–285 ~
Met. 3.271–287): Nonnus not only adds two extra scenes to the well-known
story (Hera’s encounters with Phthonus/Ares and Apate), but apart from
Phthonus and Apate also introduces two silent characters with telling names
(personifications of Hera’s convincing rhetoric?), the servant girls Peisianassa
and Thelxinoe (8.193–195), to witness the execution of the ruse.
As a second, perhaps even more important factor to explain the general
crowdedness of the Dionysiaca’s scenery, it is possible to refer to the multitude
of characters whose role is to observe and react on rather than to participate in
the on-going events. They seem to be introduced in the story of the Dionysiaca
only to express, often in direct speech, their amazement or indignation.49 The
Europa episode is one of the most striking examples. Similar to—and probably
in imitation of—the painting of the abduction of Europa described in Achilles
Tatius’ Leucippe and Clitophon, also Nonnus’ Zeus is guided by a flying Eros,

48 See Miguélez Cavero (2013a) and (2014b) for a discussion of the different factors explain-
ing the popularity of personifications in late antique literature. On Neoplatonic allegories
and the epic tradition, see Lamberton (1986).
49 The first scholar to draw attention to this conspicuous group of characters in the
Dionysiaca was Krafft (1975) 112: ‘. . . die gänzlich außerhalb des Geschehens stehenden
Sprecherrollen, denen Nonnos nicht wenige Monologe zuweist . . .’. See also Verhelst
(2014b) 227–275 and (forthcoming).
indicating his submission to love.50 In Nonnus’ version of this familiar mytho-

logical scene, Eros, Zeus and Europa are, however, far from alone at sea. The
reader of the Dionysiaca is invited to look at the scene from a range of different
perspectives by the introduction of a large number of onlookers. There are on-
looking marine deities who are responding with surprise (Poseidon, Nereus,
Doris) or enthusiasm (Triton). There is Boreas, personifying the wind blowing
in Europa’s robes, who is jealous of Zeus’ amatory conquest. There is an anony-
mous Achaean sailor, trying to figure out in amazement who the girl on the
bull might be. And, finally, there is Hera, venting her spleen and ridiculing her
husband’s bull-shaped submission.51
The reactions on Zeus’ and Europa’s sea voyage vary in accordance to the
reference frame of the on-looking character, which can be an ignorant outsider
(Achaean sailor), on whose personal history we are not informed, a mytho-
logical figure (Boreas), whose personal history is used to explain his attitude,
or a deity (Hera), looking down on the events on earth from a bird’s eye per-
spective. The Europa episode is exceptional for the multitude of perspectives
presented (including also the perspective of Europa herself, who expresses her
feelings in 1.128–136), but more examples of each of these three main types of
observing figures can be found throughout the poem.52
The presence and speeches of such observing characters seem to have a
range of different narrative functions in the Dionysiaca. The sudden introduc-
tion of observing figures can in some cases be seen as a break in the narra-
tive flow, delaying the denouement of the story, but also creating suspense. In
Book 35, for example, the climax of the Morrheus and Chalcomede episode
is interrupted to report on the reaction of Aphrodite, who has been following
the events and now claims her victory (the victory of love and of her agent
Chalcomede) over Ares (the defeat of war and the warlike Morrheus).
50 See Vian (1976) 16 and ad loc.; Shorrock (2001) 34; Reeves (2003) 277–293. As to the pres-
ence of Eros in Achilles Tatius’ rendering of the story, it is not insignificant that we are
dealing with a description of a painting. See above for the connection of personifications
in late antique literature with the representation of abstract concepts in the visual arts.
51 On the multiplicity of viewing points in the Europa episode, see also Kuhlmann (2012)
485–489 and Geisz (2013) 150–155.
52 A few more examples: anonymous observers: 2.94–162 (two Hamadryad nymphs), 3.97–123
(crow), 4.236–248 (passenger), 7.225–255 (nymph), 10.278–289 and 16.309–319 (satyr),
36.257–270 (soldier); mythological characters: 6.300–325 (Pan and Galatea), 6.333–366
(Alpheus, Nile and Pyramus), 14.274–282 (Niobe), 39.257–266 (Galatea); deities observing
the events from above: 4.213–225 (Selene), 9.206–243 (Semele), 10.126–138 (Semele and
Zeus), 35.160–185 (Aphrodite and Ares). Compare also Posthomerica 13.469–477 (observa-
tions of an anonymous sailor) and the so-called τις-speeches in Homer (see de Jong 1987).
168 Verhelst
In other cases, observing characters are used to introduce a learned parallel

or comparison,53 to emphasize the importance of certain events in the poem54
or to illustrate the effect of these events on the inhabitants of Nonnus’ mytho-
logical world.55
Many of these observing and commenting figures are introduced in
the poem with a clear reference to the visual impulse that has caused their
reaction,56 which may be an indication of, perhaps, their most important
function: enhancing the visualization of the events in the poem. Rather than
providing concrete descriptions of physical details, the eye-witness reactions
stimulate the imagination of the reader by offering emotional reactions and
drawing lines of comparison with other familiar mythological scenes. A good
example is that of the young girl Semele, of whose beauty we learn, first by
the constant emphasis on the insatiability of Zeus’ gaze while watching her
bathing (7.190–221); then by the amazed reaction of an anonymous Naiad
nymph (7.224–255) who uses several visual clues to determine which goddess
she might be; and finally, in an erotic climax, again focalized by Zeus, who lets
his eyes travel from one body part to another (7.258–268). Without providing
many physical details, the highly suggestive passage leaves the reader with a
strong impression of truly exceptional beauty.57
53 A somewhat strange example is that of the rock Niobe, who is given her voice back when
the army of Dionysus passes by and speaks out a warning to the (absent) Indians against
the wrath of Dionysus, hereby presenting her own experience of the wrath of Apollo and
Artemis as a caveat (14.274–282).
54 Striking examples are the two speeches by Semele (9.208–242 and 10.129–136). After
her apotheosis, Dionysus’ mother Semele, now following the life of her son and other
relatives from above, makes two more appearances. In both cases her comments give
closure to the episode. When commenting on Dionysus’ youth under the protection of
Rhea, she emphasizes the symbolic importance of him being nursed by Rhea, which can
be regarded as an important first step on his path towards apotheosis.
55 Nymphs and other mythological figures often appear as victims, commenting on the
ongoing wars. Compare for example the conversation between two Hamadryads in
Book 2 (94–162), during the Typhonomachy, and the encounters and conversations
between Pan and Galatea and Nile, Pyramus and Alpheus in Book 6 (300–366), comment-
ing on the floods after Zagreus’ death.
56 The lines introducing their presence in the narrative often contain a verb of seeing
(e.g. 1.90 εἰσορόων, 1.324 ὁρόωσα, 2.112 εἰσορόωσα, 4.213 ὁρόωσα, 4.237 ὁρόων, 6.300 ἰδών,
6.344 λεύσσων, 7.224 ὀπιπεύουσα, 10.278 ἰδών, 14.273 ὁρόων, 16.311 ἰδών, 36.258 ἰδών, 42.98
ἐσαθρήσασα) or showing (e.g. 10.126 ἐπεδείκνυε, 35.161 ἐδείκνυεν).
57 On the abundance of such voyeuristic scenes in the Dionysiaca, and the general empha-
sis on the pleasure of viewing, see Winkler (1974) 1–68. In Agosti (2008b) the Dionysiaca
is presented as exemplary for the general emphasis on ‘lo sguardo e la visione’ in late
antique literature and in the visual arts from this period: ‘La poesia non manca di cogliere
7 Absent Characters? The Case of Polyphemus
The group of marine deities, watching Europa’s and Zeus’ sea voyage in Book 1
finds its closest parallel in Book 39 in a similar, even larger group, now consist-
ing of Melicertes, Leucothea, Thetis, Doris, Panopea, Galatea, Poseidon, and
Thoosa. They are watching the naumachy between the Indian and Bacchic
naval troops and the passage in which they rise to the surface briefly interrupts
the battle narrative. Interestingly, Galatea’s concerned reaction (φόβῳ δ’ ἤμειψε
παρειάς, 39.260), is not triggered by something she has seen, but someone she
mistakenly thinks to have recognized in the chaos of battle, but is actually
absent: her beloved Cyclops Polyphemus (ἔλπετο γὰρ Πολύφημον ἰδεῖν, 39.261).
Because of his role as probably the most conspiciously absent ‘character’ of
the Dionysiaca, I would like to conclude this chapter with a small case study on
Polyphemus, whose only ‘appearances’ in the Dionysiaca are the passages in
which his absence is noticed.
He is mentioned for the first time in Book 6, by Pan addressing Galatea,
both victims of the floods after the death of Zagreus. He suggests she might
be looking for Polyphemus (6.302–317). Galatea answers uninterestedly that
she is too much concerned with the floods to worry about the Cyclops as well
(6.319–324). His second mentioning is in the catalogue of troops. Six of all fif-
teen lines (14.52–67) on the division of the Cyclopes are devoted to the absence
of their tall and mighty captain, which is explained by his infatuation for
Galatea. He is too busy courting her to go to war. His absence on the battle-
field is drawn attention to later on (third mentioning) by a comparison with
the equally tall figure of the Cyclops Brontes (μῆκος ἔχων ἰσόμετρον ἀερσιλόφου
Πολυφήμου, 28.225). The passage in Book 39 is his fourth and longest ‘appear-
ance’. Later on, Galatea and Polyphemus are mentioned as an example of
love between a water-born woman and an earthly man (40.555). In the battle
between Poseidon and Dionysus (Book 43), Galatea is said to be fighting with
Polyphemus’ club (43.264–267) and afterwards, whilst celebrating Poseidon’s
victory and subsequent marriage to Beroe, she is said to be singing a marriage
song, using musical skills taught to her by Polyphemus (43.390–393).58
l’intensità dello sguardo: le Dionisiache, in particolare, sono il trionfo dello sguardo, spe-
cie di quello curioso, ammiccante, seducente. Il poeta è interessato alla reazione di chi
guarda, che perlopiù si tramuta in ammirata stupefazione. . . . La meraviglia dinanzi alla
bellezza delle opere d’arte . . . o degli spettacoli naturali . . . è un aspetto costitutivo della
poetica di un’opera che canta Dioniso, il dio del cangiante’ (25–26).
58 See also Simon (1999) 84 for an overview of the references to Polyphemus and Galatea in
the Dionysiaca.
170 Verhelst
Together, the references to Polyphemus and Galatea throughout the

Dionysiaca could be read as the story of their developing relationship, as
a novella developed in the background of the story of Dionysus. The use of a
similar technique has been noticed with respect to the references to the story
of Danae and Perseus, developing in many ways parallel to the story of Semele
and Dionysus.59 Polyphemus does not serve as a foil to the poem’s protagonist,
like Perseus, but his presence, or rather his absence, is made significant in a dif-
ferent way. When Galatea in Book 39 mistakes one of the fighting Cyclopes for
Polyphemus, she immediately calls on Aphrodite (no reaction) and Poseidon
to assist him in battle. Poseidon soon hereafter appears, scans the troops with
his eyes (ὀπιπεύων, 39.270) and, seeing (ὁρόων, 271) that another Cyclops is win-
ning honour in battle instead of his son, he speaks out his indignation about his
son’s absence. The headline of his speech reads as a Homeric ‘if not’ situation,60
for Poseidon confirmedly claims that, if his son, a mighty fighter, would have
been involved in the Indian War, the war would only have lasted one day (εἰς
μίαν ἠριγένειαν, 39.283). So if Polyphemus in Book 14 would not have refused to
join Dionysus’ allied forces, the Indian War would not only not have lasted for
59 Vian (1990) 17: ‘De même qu’Apollonios de Rhodes esquisse la geste d’Héraclès à l’arrière-
plan de l’expédition contemporaine des Argonautes, de même Nonnos établit un syn-
chronisme entre Persée et Dionysos et s’en autorise pour évoquer les exploits du fils de
Danaé au fil de sa narration.’ Because Perseus is slightly older, and thus slightly ahead
of Dionysus in performing heroic deeds during his own heroic quest, Perseus is repeat-
edly staged as Dionysus’ role model and rival, while Semele also challenges Danae. The
two heroes finally meet in Argos (Book 47), at which occasion Perseus petrifies Ariadne
and Zeus has to stop Dionysus from destroying Perseus and Argos in his anger. Up to
this point, Perseus, just like Polyphemus, is only mentioned as an absent character, leav-
ing behind traces of his actions in the admiration of his former host Staphylus (hosting
Perseus before hosting Dionysus) and in the frustrations of his stepmother Hera (who is
just as irritated about Perseus’ successes as about Dionysus’ progress in the Indian War).
See also Giraudet (2010) 128–132.
60 In their ‘Homerische Poetik in Stichwörtern’, de Jong/Nünlist (2000) 171 define the ‘if
not’ situation (‘ “Wenn nicht”-Situation’) as follows: ‘Das Einfugen von “Wenn nicht”-
Situationen (“und da wäre X geschehen, wenn nicht Y”) steigert Spannung und/oder
Pathos der Erzählung. Die Intervention des Erzählers ist hier besonders deutlich zu sehen,
weil er einen anderen (freilich kontrafaktischen) Ereignisverlauf wenigstens andeutet
(z. B. [Il.] 2.155 f).’ On this type of narratorial interventions in the Iliad, see also de Jong
(2004) 68–81. For its occurrence in the Dionysiaca, see Geisz (2013) 247–257. Here, how-
ever, the ‘if not’ situation is an intervention by a character, instead of by the narrator.
It does not add any tension, because the possibility of a quick victory with the help of
Polyphemus is only mentioned when, after seven years, the actual victory is in sight.
seven years (εἰς χρόνον ἑπταέτηρον ἔχεις πολύκυκλον ἀγῶνα, 39.275), but also the
Dionysiaca itself would have been significantly shorter.
Of course, one has to keep in mind that the presumed impact of Polyphemus’
absence is not confirmed by a more trustworthy source than his own father
Poseidon, who is here boasting about and probably exaggerating his son’s
capacities. Nevertheless the suggestion that his presence would have changed
the course of the entire Indian War (= Books 13–40 of the Dionysiaca) makes
him—although absent—a character with a hypothetically decisive influence
on the course of the Dionysiaca’s most prominent story line.
8 Conclusions
As the example of Polyphemus introduces yet another possible factor to be

taken into account to determine the centrality of a character’s role, it could, in
fact, be used to reopen the discussion of § 1, and to further problematize the
distinction between major and minor characters. What I primarily have tried to
show in this chapter, is, however, not the relative importance of certain minor
characters of the Dionysiaca, like Polyphemus, but the variety of roles they take
on and the variety of narrative functions that are assigned to their presence (or
absence), words and actions.
Observing characters, like the Naiad nymph looking at Semele, could, to a
certain extent, be regarded as intermediaries between the events in the plot
and the perception of it by the reader. They do not represent the perspective
of the reader himself, but as a privileged internal audience (seeing what the
reader can only imagine), they invite the reader to look at the events from
their personal perspective. Through the eyes of Hera, for example, the reader
is invited to see the irony of Zeus’ transformation into a bull. Alternatively,
through the eyes of the Achaean sailor, he is forced to look at the scene with
the fresh astonishment of someone who accidently witnesses the mythological
events, and, logically, lacks the ability to recognize the protagonists from liter-
ary and iconographical representations of the myth. And, finally, through eyes
of Boreas, the same scene is eroticized as one is invited to share his voyeuristic
viewing point, enjoying the image of the wind playing in Europa’s dress.
Also the presence of personifications contributes to our visualisation of
the Dionysiaca’s mythological tableaux, but in a different way, by bringing
abstract concepts to life. In the examples of Ate and Phthonus, these abstract
forces are dramatized to such an extent that they become speaking charac-
ters who exert their influence by rhetorical means rather than by using their
divine powers. But also the reverse process can be found in the Dionysiaca.
172 Verhelst
Whereas, in the one episode, Nonnus stages Aphrodite and Eros as mythologi-
cal characters with a genuine personality and a history of their own, in the
other, their appearance on scene is largely reduced to a symbol of love. The
coexistence of both in the Dionysiaca (and of all stages in between), is, in
my opinion, an indication of Nonnus’ conscious play with different levels of
abstraction.
Other minor characters play an important role in the intertextual dialogue
with Nonnus’ literary models, as I have demonstrated with the examples of
Aeacus and the funeral games episode. Still others are staged as actors, them-
selves performing another character’s role and thus drawing attention to the
process of characterization. A common element to these two final groups is
the effect of a multi-staged and multi-layered process of characterization,
inviting the reader to interpret the character’s words and actions from two dif-
ferent perspectives, searching for glimpses of respectively the literary model or
the disguised character behind the figure presented on the surface.
chapter 8
Narrative and Digression in the Dionysiaca

Camille Geisz
1 Preliminary Remarks
One striking aspect of the narrative in the Dionysiaca is its profuseness in char-
acters and secondary story lines: the Nonnian narrator is fond of complement-
ing his poem with digressions which vary greatly in length and function.1 He
makes the most of any opportunity to mention variants and draw parallels
between the main narrative and other myths, giving his poem an encyclopedic
aspect. As a result, the Dionysiaca is our only source for myths that have not
survived anywhere else, such as the race between Calamus and Carpus, or the
battle between Dionysus and the giant Alpus.
At the same time, the narrative structure of the Dionysiaca, the multiplica-
tion of story lines, and the resulting density of the work, raise the q uestion of
what indeed constitutes a digression in the Dionysiaca. In the proem, the nar-
rator calls for the patronage of Proteus and announces his choice of ποικιλία;
therefore it is not surprising that the poem should offer such a variety of sto-
ries and characters, linked more or less tightly by the main story line: the life
and deeds of Dionysus. With such a narrative style, the limit between main
narrative and digressive episodes can be a very fine line indeed. In the words
of Gianfranco Agosti, ‘le Dionisiache sono dominate dalle interruzioni del rac-
conto. L’autore è del tutto indifferente alle preoccupazioni di unità proprie
dell’epica classica: digressioni di ogni genere, descrizioni, inserzioni inniche
sono presenti in tutto il poema in una misura assolutamente eccezionale,
favorita certo dalla lunghezza dell’opera.’2
The problem becomes apparent from the very beginning. While the narra-
tor starts the proem by asking the Muse to tell the birth of Dionysus, φύτλην
| Βάκχου δισσοτόκοιο (1.3–4), the final line of the proem is a request for the
Muse to relate the wanderings of Cadmus, μαστῆρος ἀλήμονος ἄρχεο Κάδμου
(1.45). Should one then consider the first eight books of the Dionysiaca as a
long digression, since they depart from the topic announced in the first Muse
1 A trait of epic poetry since Homer, but very extensively exploited by Nonnus. See van
Groningen (1935) 15.
2 Agosti (1995b) 142. See also Agosti (2006) 355.

174 Geisz
invocation? These books are focussed on Dionysus’ ancestors and their feats;
yet such details certainly appear digressive when compared to the preliminary
announcement. What is more, the second request is not fulfilled immediately,
but is followed by the stories of the rape of Europa and of the Typhonomachy.
Cadmus is far from being the main character in these episodes; he is men-
tioned en passant, in ll. 138 and 321, travelling to Arima, the mention of which
leads to the Typhonomachy episode. He only starts to partake in the narrative
at l. 364, when Zeus asks for his help in the fight against Typhoeus.
Yet these apparent inconsistencies can be explained by the structure of the
poem, which follows that of a royal ἐγκώμιον, the first part of which is tradi-
tionally devoted to the birth and upbringing of the person praised, including
a recounting of their ancestry; this is indeed what is found in Books 1 to 12.
The structure of the royal ἐγκώμιον also accounts for self-contained episodes in
which Dionysus does not appear, such as the death of Actaeon or the story of
Zagreus: the presence of these characters is part of the long review of Dionysus’
ancestry.
The multiplication of story lines in Book 1 also hints at the protean persona
of the narrator, fond of using narrative techniques characteristic of genres
other than epic. According to Francis Vian, ‘Nonnos utilise une technique nar-
rative propre au roman: il commence par mener de front plusieurs actions,
distinctes en apparence, et laisse au lecteur le soin de découvrir peu à peu les
fils qui les unissent.’3
Thus the opening book is very characteristic of the art of the Nonnian nar-
rator, who does not hesitate to disregard chronology, and the narrative expec-
tations he has himself created, in order that his poem might be as inclusive
as possible. His endeavour to relate the story of Dionysus’ life is the starting
point for a dense poem, encompassing the history of the world from primeval
times, when Typhoeus was still roaming the world. Such a wide frame presents
the opportunity to include as many digressions and allusions to mythologi-
cal scenes or characters as possible. When the ensuing Typhonomachy wreaks
havoc upon the whole universe, from the depths of the earth to entire constel-
lations, it seems indeed that the narrator is setting his poem the ambitious task
to incorporate all space and time. The allusive technique of the narrator is also
exemplified in the speech of the Achaian seaman (1.93–124), who attempts to
interpret the surprising vision of the swimming bull by listing hypotheses: is it
Selene, Thetis, a Nereid, or maybe Demeter?
3 Vian (1976) 11.

Narrative and Digression in the Dionysiaca 175
Thus the narratee must expect to find many parallels and alternative stories,
rather than a smooth storyline following the life of Dionysus in a chronological
manner; digressions are natural in a narrative style based on profusion and
expansion. This very nature of the Nonnian style narrows the difference
between what constitutes a digression, and what is simply part of the wide
angle adopted by the narrator.
Digressions are equated by Irene de Jong 4 with ‘external analepses’, i.e. nar-
ratives unrelated to the subject matter of the main story. According to Norman
Austin, digressions are ‘anecdotes which describe action outside the time of
the poem’;5 but since the Dionysiaca has so wide and malleable a time frame, it
is inevitable that some digressions, although referring to events ‘outside the
time’ of the episode in which they occur, will still belong to the overall time of
the poem. Such an example can be found in the story of Amymone/Beroe
introduced in Book 41. It is clearly marked as an interruption by its proem-
like introduction, and yet, since it involves Dionysus, it is internal to the scope
of the main narrative, and ‘inside’ its time as well, since it takes place during
Dionysus’ lifetime. Finally, Bruce Braswell defines digressions as ‘stories that
have only incidental relevance to the main narrative’.6 We shall see how, in the
construction of the Nonnian narrative, stories which started as possibly ‘irrel-
evant’ become necessary to the unfolding of the main narrative.
2 Narrator-Text Digressions
In narrator-text, the transition between the main narrative and digressions

is often elusive—unlike, we shall see, character-text digressions which are
always clearly announced by introductory formulae. They are often triggered
by the mention of a character about whom the narrator provides additional
information, and vary greatly in length, from a few lines to more than a book.
The very first digression in the poem (1.8–10) is remarkable for what it
reveals of the Nonnian narrator. He starts, as expected, with a Muse invoca-
tion, as he sets out to tell the story of Dionysus from his birth, and goes on
4 De Jong (2004) 307. Gaisser (1969) 2 defines digressions as ‘the tales and episodes that inter-
rupt the flow of the action to tell of events unconnected with the main story and to give
background information.’
5 Austin (1966) 300.
6 Braswell (1971) 16.
176 Geisz
to describe how Zeus took care of Dionysus after the death of Semele, which
leads to the first digression:
εὖ εἰδὼς τόκον ἄλλον ἑῷ γονόεντι καρήνῳ,

ὃς παρος ὄγκον ἄπιστον ἔχων ἐγκύμονι κόρσῃ
τεύχεσιν ἀστράπτουσαν ἀνηκόντιζεν Ἀθήνην. 10
Well aware of this other birth from his child-bearing head, he who once
carried this incredible unsown weight in his pregnant temple and shot
out bright Athena in arms.
This digression is very short and does not occasion a fully developed narrative
of the episode. The transition is achieved by the participle εἰδώς, which justi-
fies the digression by presenting it as Zeus’ thoughts. Although this mention
of Athena’s birth is neither necessary to the comprehension of the story, nor
will be mentioned again later, this short digression, occurring so early, is highly
significant. First, it justifies the choice of Dionysus as the main character. This
choice could be problematic for a narrator claiming the Homeric influence,
since Dionysus takes no part in Homer’s poems;7 but the digression equates
the birth of Dionysus to that of Athena, a parallel which implies that Dionysus
is a suitable character for an epic poem. Another function is to establish the
prominent persona of the Nonnian narrator. Although he has just asked for
the Muse’s inspiration to help him tell the story of Dionysus’ birth, he states his
independence by briefly narrating the birth of Athena, an episode not included
in the initial request, thus proving that he is the one in charge of structuring
the narrative as he pleases, rather than the mere mouthpiece of the Muses.8
The brevity of the story recalls the allusive style of Pindar, the narrator of the
Odes being ‘fascinatingly economical in [his] way of forging the fabula into a
story.’9 What is more, through this Pindaric allusive style appears the persona
of the learned Callimachean scholar who enjoys drawing links between myths
and complementing his own narrative with allusions to other stories.
Among the other digressions found in narrator-text, three are clearly intro-
duced by a narratorial intervention. The most prominent is the second proem
at the beginning of Book 25, in which the narrator calls upon his sources of
inspiration and builds up a syncrisis between Dionysus and other sons of Zeus.
7 His name appears once at Il. 6.132 and Od. 11.325.

8 The Nonnian narrator repeatedly asserts his pre-eminence and independence from the
Muses. See Geisz (2013) chapters 1 and 2.
9 Pfeijffer (2004) 220.
The main narrative is interrupted for two hundred and seventy lines, at the
central point of the poem, an adequate moment for the narrator to defend
his protagonist and explain his choices. This digression is presented in a con-
versational, rather than a narrative, tone, with many addresses spoken by the
narrator to the narratee.
In Book 47 (ll. 256–257), a short digression about the catasterism of Erigone
occurs because the narrator wishes to reject a variant and restore the true ver-
sion of the story:
Καὶ τὰ μὲν ἔπλασε μῦθος Ἀχαιικὸς ἠθάδα πειθώ

ψεύδεϊ συγκεράσας. Τὸ δ᾽ ἐτήτυμον . . .
This is what the Achaian story fabricates, blending the usual persuasive-
ness to a lie; but the truth is . . .
The first version tells how Zeus changed Erigone, her father, and her dog into
constellations, respectively the Virgin, Bootes, and Canis Minor. But these con-
stellations were already associated with specific myths. In the second version,
Erigone, Icarius, and the dog’s souls are joined with the souls of the Virgin, the
Plowman, and the Dog, so that all myths associated with these constellations
are reconciled. The narrator does mention the origin of this second version,
although he presents it explicitly as the truth, and his vehement disparaging of
the Achaian version enforces his view.
In Book 4 (ll. 320–321), the narrator uses the first person to introduce an epi-
sode of the story of Philomela and Procne. This digression is triggered by the
mention of a place that Cadmus reached in his wanderings:
Δαυλίδος ἔστιχεν οὖδας ὁμούριον, ἔνθεν ἀκούω 320

σιγαλέης λάλον εἷμα δυσηλακάτου Φιλομήλης
[sc. Cadmus] travelled the land of nearby Daulis, whence I hear comes
the tell-tale garment of silent Philomela, the spinner of woe.
This is the longest of five allusions to this character, all linked to the main sto-
ryline by various means.10 By reporting the origin of the story rather than the
10 She is also mentioned in character-text at 2.131 (threatened by Typhon, a nymph wishes
she could become a bird like Philomela); and in one of the prophetic tablets at 12.75. The
last two occurrences are linked to the Furies’ knife at 44.267, and to a nightingale singing
at 47.30. Other versions of this myth are found in Apollodorus 3.14.8, Hyginus, Fabulae 45
178 Geisz
story itself, which is briefly and partially summarised in the next nine lines,
the narrator assumes that the story is famous and that his narratee, already
knowing it, will take interest in learning its origin. However, it would be unlike
the Nonnian narrator not to tell a story when there is an opportunity for it;
taken together, the five allusions to Philomela complement each other so
that the story can be gradually reconstructed.11 The link with the main story
of the Dionysiaca is strengthened in Book 48 (ll. 745–748), where Aura is com-
pared with Procne: she contemplates killing her child to punish its father, as
Procne did.
This peculiar handling of the story of Philomela puts into sharp relief
the importance of the thematic organisation and connections within the
Dionysiaca: if the digressions pertaining to Philomela and Procne seemed but
loosely tied with the context in which they appeared, they are nonetheless
closely related to the theme of the relationship between mother and son, here
in its most violent variation—the murder of the son by the mother. It fore-
shadows the story of Pentheus and Agave; like Pentheus, Itylus was killed by
his mother and his mother’s sister.12
In Book 12 (ll. 292–294), after the death of Ampelus and his metamorphosis
into a vine, the narrator intervenes to highlight an alternative story for the ori-
gins of wine. This event is of great importance in the life of Dionysus. It occurs
in Book 12, i.e. at the end of the first quarter of the poem, a prominent posi-
tion. As we shall see, the first version—the metamorphosis of Ampelus—is
announced by a long character-text digression relating the story of Calamus
and Carpus. At the end of this first version, the narrator intervenes (ll. 292–294):
Καὶ τὰ μὲν ἀμπελόεντος ἀείδεται ἀμφὶ κορύμβου,

πῶς πέλεν ἡβητῆρος ἐπώνυμος. Ὑμνοπόλων δέ
ἄλλη πρεσβυτέρη πέλεται φάτις . . .
and Ovid, Metamorphoses 6.424–674. Apollodorus is the only one to mention the flight of
Philomela and Procne in Daulis.
11 A similar technique is used in Apollonius’ Argonautica to tell the story of Ariadne in three
different places: 3.997–1003; 3.1096–1101; 4.430–434.
12 The similarity is even more striking in Ovid’s version in Metamorphoses 6.639–645.
Compare with Dion. 46.190–218: both Pentheus and Itylus address supplications to their
mothers before they are dismembered; both Agave and Procne are helped by their sis-
ters. In Ovid’s version, Procne, having learned her sister’s fate through the embroidered
robe, uses Bacchic celebrations as a pretext to leave Tereus’ palace to go find Philomela
(6.587–600), rather like Agave running to the mountain in her Bacchic frenzy.
Such are the songs about the grape cluster, how it took its name from the
young man. But among the poets there is another, older story . . .
According to this story, wine fell from the sky as an ‘Olympian ichor’ which
grew into a plant; and Dionysus, seeing a snake drinking from the plant’s fruits,
found out how to make wine. The book ends (ll. 395–397) with Dionysus, hav-
ing celebrated and revelled with the satyrs, going to the halls of Rhea:
δύσατο κυδιόων Κυβεληίδος ἄντρα θεαίνης, 395

κλήματα βοτρυόεντα φιλανθέι χειρὶ τιταίνων
Μαιονίην τ’ ἐδίδαξεν ἑὴν ἄγρυπνον ἑορτήν.
Exulting, he entered the cave of the Cybeleïd goddess, holding grape-

bearing vine shoots in his flowerloving hand, and taught Maionia his
sleepless feast.
In the very first lines of Book 13, Zeus sends Iris to find him in Rhea’s cave13 and
enjoin him to start the war against the Indians. Thus the narrator, instead of
going back to the first variant and resuming the narrative thence, makes the
continuation of the narrative, including the Indian War, depend on this ver-
sion of the discovery of wine. The second variant, instead of being presented as
a parenthesis, becomes fully part of the narrative. F. Vian remarks that ‘Nonnos
oublie aussitôt qu’il rapporte une simple variante, car c’est à ce second récit
que se raccorde le ch. XIII. La raison de cette anomalie est contenue dans
l’expression πρεσβυτέρη . . . φάτις (v. 294): Nonnos apprend par là à son lecteur
que le second récit est le plus ancien et le plus autorisé; c’est par goût pour la
nouveauté qu’il a donné la préférence à une version locale moins répandue,
celle d’Ampelos’.14
The narrator’s choice of ποικιλία and his style of narration which favours the
repetition of themes and the creation of doublet scenes, as well as his desire
to be exhaustive, and his liking for new and lesser-known versions of myths, in
keeping with his persona of the Hellenistic poet, explain the presence of the
story of Ampelus.
13 On Dionysus’ birth caves in the Dionysiaca see van Opstall (2014a) 22–27.
14 Vian (1995) 203 (on Dion. 12.294). The only other narrative of Ampelus’ death is found in
Ovid’s Fasti (3.403–414): Ampelus fell over as he tried to reach grapes from a vine which
had grown high into an elm’s tree and died; Dionysus turned him into a constellation.
Ovid’s version is a catasterism, not an explanation of the origin of wine, which might be
why Nonnus, if he knew of this variant, did not include it in his poem.
180 Geisz
Finally, the Beroe/Amymone episode is introduced by a Muse invocation at

the beginning of Book 41 (ll. 10–11):
Ἀλλὰ θεμιστοπόλου Βερόης παρὰ γείτονι πέζῃ 10

ὕμνον Ἀμυμώνης Λιβανηίδες εἴπατε Μοῦσαι
Now, on the neighbouring land of law-dispensing Beroe, tell the song of

Amymone, you Muses of Lebanon.
As Dionysus visits Lebanon, the narrator launches into the history of the ori-
gins of the city of Beroe, proposing two variants: Beroe the city (41.13–154)
and Beroe/Amymone the daughter of Aphrodite (41.155–427). Thus Book 41 is
entirely concerned with this twofold character, and dwells at length on the
background to the episode of the battle between Dionysus and Poseidon for
the love of Amymone.15 This innovative Muse-invocation is the sole example,
to our knowledge, of Lebanese Muses; the Nonnian narrator tends to invoke
specific Muses or deities to fit in with the contents of the poem.16 Also inno-
vative is the request for the Muses to sing a ‘lay’, ὕμνον . . . εἴπατε, rather than
the traditional request for precise elements. Such a request is reminiscent of
singers’ embedded narratives: in the Odyssey, Penelope asks Phemius to ‘sing
one of the deeds’ of men or gods, (τῶν [sc. ἔργων] ἕν . . . ἄειδε, 1.339), leaving the
choice to the singer. Here the Muse is at the service of the narrator who can
summon her up and ask her to sing a specific song. This is another clue point-
ing to the persona of an independent narrator.
Of the three books occupied with the story of Amymone, the first, Book 41,
is the digressive one. Dionysus does not appear in it; the narrator recounts the
history of the city of Beroe, before focussing on Beroe the girl, her birth and
childhood, her mother’s hopes and fears. The beginning of this second version
is clearly signalled by the narrator (ll. 155–157):
Ἀλλά τις ὁπλοτέρη πέλεται φάτις, ὅττί μιν αὐτή 155

ἀνδρομέης Κυθέρεια κυβερνήτειρα γενέθλης
Ἀσσυρίῳ πάνλευκον Ἀδώνιδι γείνατο μήτηρ.
But there is another, more recent story: that Cythereia herself, who steers
the generations of men, was her mother, and conceived the all-fair girl
with Assyrian Adonis.
15 See Picard (1956).

16 See Geisz (2013) 70–72.
Although this second part begins as a digressive variant to the first part, it is
in fact necessary for the continuation of the narrative. After his defeat, dis-
appointed Dionysus continues his journey and reaches Thebes, where the
Pentheus story takes place, in Books 44 to 46. In addition, Eros had promised
another bride, Aura, to Dionysus at the end of Book 43; the Aura episode is
developed in Books 47 and 48.
Thus, in the stories of Ampelus and Beroe, the narrator illustrates his role in
ordering the sequence of events. He pays attention to the different versions and
reports them scrupulously, with details on their chronological order; but these
details are merely informative since chronology is not a criterion in the choices
he makes. The order of presentation of the variants is established according
to whether or not they introduce events which will make the narrative move
on. The digressions on the invention of wine and on the birth of Beroe play
the part of transitional episodes, which enable the story to unfold smoothly: the
narratee expects the variants to be parentheses in the main narrative, but as a
consequence of their length, he eventually forgets that they started as second-
ary versions. When the narrative carries on by grafting itself at the end of the
digressions, the narratee has forgotten that they started out as such.
Other narrator-text digressions do not have such explicit introductory for-
mulae; the transition with the main narrative is less obvious and the digres-
sion does not create a clear interruption. This absence of clear marking for the
beginning of a new narrative is another Pindaric trait, according to I. Pfeijffer:
‘They [sc. Pindar and Bacchylides] very rarely provide explicit signals marking
off the narrative from its surroundings. On the contrary, their usual practice
is to obscure the boundary between the narrative and what precedes it. Often
they use a relative pronoun, camouflaging the narrative as a mere afterthought
to what proceeded’.17
In the Dionysiaca, five digressions are introduced by a relative or demon-
strative pronoun.18 They provide background on the characters: the Dardanus
digression is the occasion to include a quick review of the three deluges
caused by Zeus. The very long story of Zagreus is introduced—like the Athena
digression in Book 1—by a reference to the thoughts of Zeus. The Nicaea epi-
sode begins as a digression, as the Beroe episode does, but Nicaea, one of the
Bacchants, becomes very closely involved in the main narrative when Eros
makes Dionysus fall in love with her, to punish her for having killed Hymnus.
17 Pfeijffer (2004) 214.

18 3.191–219, Dardanus and the three deluges; 5.229–279, Aristaeus’ inventions and achieve-
ments; 5.566–6.388, Zagreus; 15.169–422, Nicaea and Hymnus; 30.195–203, Alcimacheia.
182 Geisz
In other cases, the narrator indicates clearly when a digression ends and
makes explicit the overall chronology of events. At the beginning of Book 1,
at the end of the Europa episode, the narrator explains how, while following
the bull, Cadmus found himself in Arima, a place bearing the marks of the
Typhonomachy (1.137–140). The narrator then (ll. 321–323) reveals the chronol-
ogy between all these events:
Ὄφρα μὲν εἰν Ἀρίμοις ἐπεφοίτεε Κάδμος ἀλήτης,

τόφρα δὲ Δικταίης ὑπὲρ ᾐόνος ὑγροπόρος βοῦς
ἐκ λοφιῆς ἀδίαντον ἑῆς ἀπεθήκατο κούρην.
At the time when wandering Cadmus arrived in Arima, then it was that
the seafaring bull let down the girl from its back, quite dry, on the Diktaian
shore.
Similarly, at the end of the digression dwelling on Ino’s madness (9.243–10.138),

the narrator resumes the main story with the phrase, τόφρα δὲ καί (‘meanwhile’).
In two occasions, the digression is capped with a formula which clearly
defines the events as analeptic, as coming even from a remote past. Thus
the catalogue of troops in Book 13 contains a digression referring to the
Typhonomachy (13.475–498), triggered (l. 474) by the mention of a place name,
Στατάλων . . . ἧχι (‘from Stataloi . . . where’).19 The narrator concludes (l. 498):
Ἀλλὰ τὰ μὲν προτέροισιν ἐν ἀνδράσιν ἤγαγεν Αἰών.
But Τime made these events happen among the men of long ago.
A similar formula occurs at the end of the digression narrating the marriage of
Morrheus (34.184–193). The width of the temporal gap between this story and
19 Another long digression, about Cadmus and Harmonia’s visit to Libya (13.336–366), is
introduced (l. 335) with κεῖθι (‘there’), after the narrator has mentioned the arrival of
the Libyan troops. The catalogue of Book 13 also contains the digression narrating the
rivalry between Dionysus and Aristaeus (13.256–274), to explain the presence of Aristaeus
in the Dionysiac troops (275 ἔνθεν, ‘for that reason’). This episode is repeated in Book 19
(see below). The Nonnian catalogues, like the Homeric ones, are full of short digressions
providing background information of the troops, their leaders, of the places they come
from. It is beyond the scope of this paper to dwell on the effect and function of each
one. We did not consider the catalogues themselves as digressions; although they create a
pause in the narrative, they are focussed on characters taking part in the main narrative.
See Gaertner (2001).
his fight against the Bacchante is emphasised by the adjective immediately

following the formula (l. 193):
Καὶ τὰ μὲν ἐν προτέροισιν· ἐν ὀψιγόνῳ δὲ κυδοιμῷ . . .
But this happened in the past; in this later battle . . .
According to Vincent Giraudet, this formula signalling an analepsis is an adap-

tation of a Callimachean phrase signalling a prolepsis (Aet. fr. 12.6 Pf. καὶ τὰ
μὲν ὣς ἤμελλε μετὰ χρόνον ἐκτελέεσθαι),20 a phrase which the Nonnian narrator
himself uses himself to indicate the end of the proleptic digression on Pithos’
metamorphosis (20.130–142):
Καὶ τὰ μὲν ὣς ἤμελλε μετὰ χρόνον ὀψὲ τελέσσαι
But these [sc. Dionysus] was only going to accomplish after a long time.
The variant Καὶ τὰ μὲν ὣς ἤμελλε γέρων Χρόνος ὀψὲ τελέσσαι is also found twice,
at 5.211 (after the mention of the expulsion of Polydorus from Thebes by
Pentheus) and 21.162 (after the depiction of Lycurgus’ apotheosis).
Another clue to the art of the narrator is given by the digression narrating
the visit of the Seasons to Helios (11.485–12.116). It starts and ends very abruptly,
interrupting the narrative of Dionysus’ grief after the death of Ampelus. As
Autumn complains that she is the only season not to have a specific attribute,
Helios shows her one of Harmonia’s tablets, announcing the creation of the
vine. This change of scene is unexpected and surprises by its remoteness from
the previous narrative. Vian explains the role of this digression by its position
in the poem, as an introduction to Book 12, which concludes the first fourth
of the poem with the major event of the metamorphosis of Ampelus into of
the vine: ‘Cet événement, majeur pour l’histoire du monde, méritait un pré-
lude grandiose. . . . L’épisode a lieu dans le palais océanique d’Hélios: c’est une
transposition, mise au goût du jour, des scènes dans l’Olympe de tradition
homérique.’21
The description of the tablets allows for more mythological reminiscences
and allusions, including the reign of Kronos, the deluge created by Zeus,
and a number of metamorphoses caused by love or grief, and thus linked
20 Giraudet (2010) 46–47. Apollonius also uses this phrase in the Argonautica, at 1.1309 and
4.1216. So does Quintus in the Posthomerica at 14.370.
21 Vian (1995) 51.
184 Geisz
to the situation of Dionysus at this point in the poem. What is more, these
cosmic themes create a solemn and elevated tone, well adapted to introduce
the momentous events of Book 12, and delay the resurrection of Ampelus
and the consolation of Dionysus, increasing the suspense for the narratee.
Here the narrator uses a digression to emphasize the importance of an aspect
of the main narrative.
To complete the discussion of narrator-text digressions, let us mention a
passage in Book 2 where the narrator interrupts the story of the Typhonomachy
to introduce an explanation of the creation of thunder and lightning bolts
(2.482–507).22 This digression, reminiscent of didactic epic, adds yet another
facet to a poem claiming ποικιλία to be its guiding principle. The narrator
slipped naturally into the digression after the mention of the effect of Zeus’
lightning bolts. The transition back to the main narrative is rather abrupt: Ζεὺς
δὲ πατὴρ πολέμιζε (2.508).
It now remains to examine the question of the ekphrasis of Dionysus’
shield in Book 25 (ll. 380–572). As a self-proclaimed successor of Homer, the
Nonnian narrator cannot avoid including a shield ekphrasis, even though
Dionysus, with his powerful thyrsus and magical powers, does not need a
shield, and indeed will never use the one described here. This ekphrasis takes
a prominent place nonetheless at the centre of the poem. Apart from the con-
stellations in the middle (ll. 384–412), four main scenes are depicted on the
shield: Thebes and its seven gates (ll. 413–428), the abduction of Ganymedes
(ll. 429–450), Tylus and the snake (ll. 451–552), and Rhea’s deception of
Kronos (ll. 553–562). The story of Tylus stands out in its narrative aspect: it is
presented as an autonomous narrative, so that the ekphrastic background dis-
appears completely. The links to the main narrative are thematic ones. Thebes
is the city of Dionysus’ ancestors, as well as the location of the Pentheus epi-
sode; it represents Dionysus’ life on earth. The miraculous role of music in
the building of the city mirrors Dionysus’ power over natural elements. The
abduction of Ganymedes is reminiscent of the Ampelus episode; Zeus’ fears
lest Ganymedes fall and die mirror Dionysus’ fears as he watched Ampelus
ride the bull; but the depiction of Ganymedes feasting with the gods also
announces the apotheosis of Dionysus. The use of a plant to restore Tylus to
life calls to mind the solace brought to men by Dionysus’ wine. Finally, the
story of Kronos vomiting his children out of his ‘pregnant throat’ (ἐγκύμονος
ἀνθερεῶνος, 25.562), offers a parallel to Dionysus’ own birth, and places him on
the same level as the main gods of the Greek pantheon, all born twice like him.
22 Vian (1976) 185 (on Dion. 2.482–507).

Thus Dionysus, in spite of belonging to the second generation of gods, can lay
claim to the same status as the gods from the first generation.23
3 Character-Text Digressions
Character-text in the Dionysiaca is a particularly fertile ground for allusions

to external elements. The greatest majority of the speeches are not part of
dialogues, but monologues in which the speakers either investigate a situa-
tion by comparing it to other mythological occurrences in a list of allusions
(such as Pan’s speech to Dionysus, 42.243–251), or express their admiration for
another character through a list of comparisons to other mythological figures
(as Dionysus does when he first sees Ariadne, 47.275–294). We will restrict this
study to digressions proper, i.e., those which have a narrative of their own.
Such digressions are clearly introduced by their narrator through the word
μῦθος,24 which refers to a fictitious tale, remote from the characters’ reality.
This is in keeping with the use made of this word by the primary narrator who,
in his interventions signalling the trustworthiness, or absence thereof, of a
variant to a story, always uses the word μῦθος to create a distance with what he
is going to report.25 Of course the aim here is not to signal that the story is inac-
curate, or a lie, but simply to highlight the distance between the situation in
which the characters find themselves and the events related. Thus the listener
is made aware that he is about to hear a story from which he must attempt to
gain a certain knowledge.
Character-text digressions are very clearly framed and most of them have
an explicit perlocutionary function: they are told by their character-narrator in
attempts to influence their addressee’s reaction to an event. Out of five digres-
sions of this type, four are addressed to Dionysus: the story of Calamus and
Carpus, told by Eros (11.369–481); the story of the victories of Zeus and Ares
against monsters, by Staphylus (18.223–285); the story of Phaethon, by Hermes
(38.107–434); and the story of the building of Tyre, by Heracles Astrochiton
(40.429–573). Finally, Teiresias tells Pentheus the story of Dionysus and the
Tyrrhenian pirates (45.105–168) and of Dionysus and Alpus (45.172–213). All five
digressions partly owe their presence to the encyclopedic aim of the Nonnian
narrator as well as to his fondness for creating parallels and relating obscure
23 See Shorrock (2011) 97–98 for links between this episode and the resurrection of Lazarus
in the Paraphrase. See also Lovatt (2013) 196–197 and Spanoudakis (2014b).
24 Eros, 11.369; Staphylus, 18.222–224; Hermes, 38.107; Heracles, 40.429; Teiresias, 45.102–103.
25 See Geisz (2013) 107.
186 Geisz
(to us, at least) myths; but this is not their only function. The stories told by
Eros, Staphylus, and Teiresias have a perlocutionary function: the speaker is
attempting to produce an effect on his addressee, here respectively to comfort
Dionysus, to encourage him, and to scare Pentheus into respecting him. These
stories correspond to the use of paradeigmata by Homeric characters in order
to increase the effect of their words.
The first of these digressions is an external analepsis, introduced by ποτε
(11.370) which underlines its remoteness—an equivalent to our ‘once upon
a time’. The perlocutionary function of this digression is emphasized by Eros
choosing to appear to Dionysus a Silenus, a member of the Bacchic troop given
to philosophising, and occasionally associated to Socrates.26 In this guise, Eros
is meant to embody wisdom and experience, and to teach Dionysus about love
and life. And yet, as he so often does, the narrator leaves it to his audience
to discover the link between the main narrative and the digression. Although
he indicates, through the introductory phrase (παρήγορον ἴαχε φωνήν, 11.355),
that the speech is meant to comfort Dionysus after Ampelus’ death (cf. 11.482
τοῖα παρηγορέων), this aim is only fulfilled by the few lines of commonplace
ἔρωτος φάρμακον (l. 359)27 preceding the digression. For the story of Calamus
and Carpus is not exactly an uplifting one: after Calamus dies in a swimming
race, Carpus drowns himself, overcome by his grief. Both youths are then
turned into their namesakes, the reed and the fruit of the harvest. Thus, instead
of being linked to the opening of the speech (Eros’ advice to replace an old love
by a new one), this digression announces what follows: the metamorphosis of
Ampelus into the vine, Dionysus’ true consolation. This digression operates
as a transition between Dionysus’ grief and the assuagement of this grief. The
main narrator creates expectations for his audience: the theme of the remedia
amoris is a well-known one, as is the advice of replacing a lost love by a new
one (11.358–359, 362):
Παλαιοτέροιο γὰρ αἰεί

φάρμακόν ἐστιν ἔρωτος ἔρως νέος· . . .
πόθος πόθον οἶδε μαραίνειν.
A new love is always the remedy for an old love. . . . desire can delete
desire.
26 See Plato, Symp. 221d–e.

27 A well-attested theme before Nonnus, see Vian (1995) 17.
Love being an inescapable necessity, it can only be replaced by itself—as is

underlined by the polyptota ἔρωτος ἔρως and πόθος πόθον.28 But, the expecta-
tion that Dionysus will find a new love is waylaid by the digression: Dionysus’
solace will come from the creation of the vine, that is to say, from his lost
love itself.
Staphylus’ encouragements to Dionysus in Book 18 contain a pair of digres-
sions, focussing on two exempla of gods fighting and defeating monsters:
Staphylus reminds Dionysus of Zeus’ and Ares’ exploits, in order to incite him
to attempt to match them. The first digression is focussed on Zeus’ fight against
the Titans and Campe. This story is an analepsis, external to the lifetime of
Dionysus, but Staphylus makes the parallel explicit, encouraging Dionysus not
to fear the Indian elephants, since his father was victorious against Campe
(18.236–237 and 268).
This digression is clearly signalled by its introductory formula: Μέμνημαί
τινα μῦθον . . . ἐγὼ δέ σοι αὐτὸς ἐνίψω (222, 223); what is more, it is presented as
a separate narrative passed down generations from Belus, Staphylus’ grand-
father. But why is this specific fight thus singled out? The main narrator has
Staphylus mention Zeus fighting the Titans, but chooses to develop this par-
ticular episode. One reason is that Campe provides a parallel for Typhon men-
tioned in Book 1; this is in keeping with the Nonnian taste for variants and
mirroring episodes. It is also an occasion to create an elaborate description of
Campe, a hybrid monster whose body, with all its disparate elements, can be
seen as a symbol for the whole poem. As early as the proem, the narrator had
claimed to be able to write a poem as changeable as Proteus; indeed, with all
its allusions, digressions, and adaptations from other genres, the Dionysiaca is
similar to Campe and her πολύμορφον . . . δέμας (l. 238). Finally, it is worth noting
that this description is much more precise than the descriptions of Typhoeus
in Books 1 and 2. This preference for the lesser-known story is another charac-
teristic feature of the Nonnian narrator: rather that describing Typhoeus, the
better-known creature, in Book 1, the narrator leaves the narratee’s expecta-
tions unfulfilled then, only to meet them with the description of Campe, the
lesser-known, feminine version of Typhoeus.
In the second digression, Staphylus continues to elicit Dionysus’ emula-
tion by telling the story of Ares’ fight against Echidna’s son, mirroring Zeus’
fight against Campe. This second story is unique to Nonnus. Joëlle Gerbeau
explains the anachronistic presence of Ares at the time of the Titanomachy by
astrological considerations, and sees parallels between the son of Echidna and
28 See also Ovid’s Remedia amoris 483–484; Achilles Tatius 6.17.4.
188 Geisz
an Indian dragon.29 This digression is very characteristic of the Nonnian style,

both redundant and inclusive: the perlocutionary function justifies the pres-
ence of two similar stories to strengthen Staphylus’ argument, and this gives
the Nonnian narrator an opportunity to provide an alternative story dyed in
Indian colours.
Finally, Teiresias tells the story of Dionysus and the Tyrrhenian pirates
(45.105–168) in order to warn Pentheus against the dangers of impiety. Teiresias
himself underlines the perlocutionary function of this digression in the intro-
duction (ll. 103–104):
Ἀλλὰ χόλον Βρομίοιο φυλάσσεο· δυσσεβίης δέ

σοί, τέκος, ἢν ἐθέλῃς, Σικελόν τινα μῦθον ἐνίψω.
Beware the anger of Bromios; I will tell you a Sicilian tale of impiety, my
child, if you wish.30
This digression is internal since it involves Dionysus, but the time frame is
unclear, since this encounter with the pirates is not included by the narrator
in the main narrative. Dionysus alludes to it (47.629–632), relegating it to the
past by the use of ποτε—as does Teiresias (45.105). It is also mentioned by
the Pelasgian man comparing Dionysus to Perseus (47.507–508) and briefly
told by the Moon (41.240–249). Finally it is announced by Hera in a speech
where she mocks Zeus for his inactivity, including his not punishing the ‘law-
breaking Tyrrhenian’ pirates (31.89–91). This implies that Dionysus’ confronta-
tion with the pirates happened between Books 31 and 41, as far as the internal
chronology of the poem is concerned.
This story is well attested in earlier literature, and two long versions are
found in the Homeric Hymn to Dionysus and in Ovid’s Metamorphoses.31 The
Nonnian narrator follows the Homeric version in which Dionysus himself
decides to test the pirates, whereas he appears as an unwary victim in the Latin
version. This choice is made necessary by the context, since Teiresias needs
to make Dionysus appear as the keeper of justice, dealing punishment unto
unlawful men. But the narrator also imitates the Ovidian model, in which
the story is told in character-text by Dionysus disguised as a Tyrrhenian. This
digression is followed by the story of Dionysus’ fight against Alpus (45.172–213),
which also takes place in Sicily. This story always appears next to that of the
29 See Gerbeau/Vian (1992) 31–34.

30 See D’Ippolito (2000) 80–89 and Vian (2000) 685 about the Sicilian origin.
31 See James (1975).
Tyrrhenian pirates: as another example of Dionysus’ might, it is a fitting argu-

ment for Teiresias, although Pentheus will remain unconvinced, even after
having heard these two stories.32
Because of their perlocutionary function, these digressions are justified on
the level of the diegesis. They appear to spring from the characters’ minds, as a
means to influence another. On the level of the enunciation, however, they are
opportunities for the narrator to increase the number of myths mentioned in
his poem, while the narratee is invited to reflect upon the links between these
myths and the main narrative.
The stories of Phaethon and of Tyre are told by Hermes and Heracles in
answer to Dionysus requesting to know more about these topics. The Phaethon
digression is the longest found in character-text. It occurs in Book 38, which
begins with two signs of Dionysus’ future victory. The first of these signs is
an eclipse (cf. 38.17–20; 38.78 ἠματίη νύξ); Hermes, interpreting this sign for
Dionysus, claims that this is the greatest marvel ever seen since Phaethon’s
fall onto the earth (38.90–93), which leads Dionysus to ask about this story.
Paul Collart writes: ‘L’insistance du poète à employer Phaéthon pour Hélios
dans tout ce passage montre assez que le nom devait lui servir à introduire
l’histoire.’33 Hermes is happy to comply (ll. 106–107):
εἴ σε παλαιγενέων ἐπέων γλυκὺς οἶστρος ἐπείγει,

μῦθον ὅλον Φαέθοντος ἐγὼ στοιχηδὸν ἐνίψω.
If sweet desire urges you to hear these old stories, I will tell you the whole
tale of Phaethon.
The digression then occupies the remainder of the book, delaying the narrative
of Dionysus’ victory. Bernadette Simon explains how this myth can be linked
both to the eclipse and to the sight of the snake falling into the Hydaspes, like
Phaethon into the Eridanus.34 This digression is both an occasion to insert an
epyllion into the narrative, and to engage in the game of repetition of scenes
and themes. By going back to the meeting of Phaethon’s parents, the digression
offers a bathing scene, a wedding, a birth, and childhood scenes; all of which
are variants of similar scenes in the rest of the poem. Even the destruction
32 See Vian (2000) 690 and Simon (2004) 73.

33 Collart (1930) 219.
34 Simon (1999) 6.
190 Geisz
caused by Phaethon’s inexperience finds a parallel in the consequences of the

Typhonomachy in Book 1.35
Finally, Heracles Astrochiton is invited by Dionysus to narrate the founda-
tion of the city of Tyre (40.429–573). This foundation story is one of three in the
Dionysiaca, but it is the only one in which Dionysus is not involved.36 As with
the Phaethon story, the Tyre digression is triggered by Dionysus’ questions to
Heracles, who answers them willingly (l. 429):
Βάκχε, σὺ μὲν κλύε μῦθον· ἐγὼ δέ σε πάντα διδάξω.
Bacchus, listen to the story, and I will tell you all.
This time the digression is internal, though remote in time, as underlined by

ποτε (l. 430); it presents variants of the traditional elements in a foundation
myth (oracle, sacrifice, existence of fountains, development of the popula-
tion). Here again the aim is ποικιλία. Wishing to praise both Tyre and Beroe, the
narrator proposes two narratologically very different accounts of their founda-
tion: Tyre’s is narrated in character-text as an internal digression; Beroe’s is part
of the main narrative proper, since Dionysus is involved in it.
These five digressions are the longest and the most clearly framed. The sto-
ries of Calamus and Carpus, of the Tyrrhenian pirates, and of Phaethon are so
long and self-contained that they can be seen as epyllia inserted in the lon-
ger epic poem. They allow for variety by transporting the narratee out of the
main narrative, and they are opportunities for the narrator to offer alternative
treatments of certain themes. It is also significant that the longest digressions
should be found in character-text. In the Dionysiaca, the great majority of the
speeches do not make the narrative go forward. Rather, they slow it down and
have no consequence on the unfolding of events. It is therefore not surpris-
ing to find long digressions in them, since using this device means creating a
pause in the main narrative. Vincent Giraudet writes: ‘Le chant 38 est même
considéré par beaucoup comme un simple “chant intercalaire”, dont le seul but
est de retarder la fin de la guerre indienne.’37 Thus digressions appear as one of
the characteristics of this ‘neue Stil der epischen Rede’;38 they are not crucial
35 Shorrock (2001) 185–189.

36 He founds the city of Nicaea (16.403–405), and he takes part in the Beroe episode
(Books 41–43).
37 Giraudet (2010) 252. Cf. Collart (1930) 215; Simon (1999) 6.
38 Wifstrand (1933) 146.
for the continuation of the action, but are part of speeches whose role seems
to create a distance from the main narrative.
To conclude this section on digressions in character-text, let us consider
digressions caused by the context in which they occur, i.e. games and feasts in
which characters are challenged or asked to tell a story as part of the competi-
tion, or to entertain the guests. There are three such instances in the Dionysiaca.
In Book 19 (ll. 82–96), during Staphylus’ funeral games, Erechtheus sings
about Celeus and Deo. This digression, reported in indirect speech, functions
as a paradeigma: as Demeter consoled the wife and son of Celeus, who died
after having offered her hospitality, similarly Dionysus consoled Botrys and
Methe after the death of Staphylus. The narrator underlines how relevant the
story is in this context by using the adjective ἅρμενον (l. 99).39 Indeed Dionysus
and Demeter are traditionally seen as complementing each other, the former
having brought wine to the mortals, the latter wheat.
In Book 24, during the feast following the crossing of the Hydaspes by
Dionysus and his troops, the poet Leucos sings about the Typhonomachy
(ll. 232–236), and about the contest between Athena and Aphrodite (ll. 242–329).
Both stories are reported by the narrator in indirect speech; the first one is
a summary. The story of Athena and Aphrodite, however, can be seen as the
Nonnian version of Demodocus’ song in Book 8 of the Odyssey; as often in
the Dionysiaca, the narrator pays homage to the Homeric model by imitating
elements of it, which he reworks in an innovative manner.40 Here he chooses a
similar topic—the humiliation of Aphrodite and Ares in the Odyssey becomes
the shaming of Aphrodite in the Dionysiaca. This game of imitation and inno-
vation is also visible as far as the form is concerned.41 One of the most obvi-
ous similarities is the choice of indirect speech both in the Odyssey and in the
Dionysiaca.42 This digression is one of the best examples of the Nonnian nar-
rator’s skill; as such, it is probably not by chance that it occurs in Book 24, at
the centre of the poem. Neil Hopkinson writes: ‘Il [sc. Le chant de Leucos] est
en lui-même une performance poétique et on peut le considérer comme une
reproduction en miniature des Dionysiaques dans leur ensemble, parce qu’il
est un condensé des divers types de relations qu’un poète de l’époque tardive
entretient avec les poèmes homériques. À ce titre, Nonnos est un authentique
héritier des poètes hellénistiques.’43
39 See Gerbeau/Vian (1992) 117 n. 1.

40 See the chapter by Bannert/Kröll in this volume.
41 Hopkinson (1994b) 157–162.
42 See Richardson (1990) 86.
43 Hopkinson (1994b) 155.
192 Geisz
Finally, the Dionysiaca offers an example of a digression conveyed not

through a speech, but through a dance. It is found in the funeral games of
Book 19, where Maron and Silenus engage in a pantomime competition: Silenus’
performance tells of the rivalry between Dionysus and Aristaeus, between
wine and honey. The narrator describes the dancer’s gestures, which depict
the two contestants mixing their preparations before the gods taste them
and award victory to Dionysus. This unusual digression strongly resembles an
ekphrasis, as the narrator unfolds the story for an audience who cannot see
the pantomime, even telling the story in a fluid manner which the reality
of the pantomime could not match. The visual aspect of the episode is under-
lined by the use of the verbs καταγράφω (l. 226) and ὑφαίνω (l. 263), which liken
the dance to a painting or a tapestry. The story of Dionysus and Aristaeus had
already been told in Book 13 (ll. 253–274). In Book 19, the focus is likely to rest
on the manner in which the story is told, rather than on its subject matter itself.
4 Conclusions
The multiplicity of digressions in the Dionysiaca is not, as it used to be seen, a

sign of the lack of structure in the poem, or a deficiency of talent in the poet.
Rather it is characteristic of the ‘jeweled style’ of the period, in which, as in an
elaborate jewel, or in a mosaic,44 a number of disparate elements are joined to
create an harmonious whole. For these digressions are not gratuitous or point-
less; rather, they complement the narrative by providing an alternative point of
view on one of the main themes, or by illustrating and giving more resonance
to a situation through a parallel mythological example. What the story loses in
linearity, it gains in variety and diverseness. In contrast with the solemnity and
self-discipline of the Homeric poems, Nonnus offers changeability and impul-
siveness. The story of Dionysus therefore appears as a mirror for the entire
mythological world; and through his art, the narrator makes Dionysus into a
universal god, about whose life something can be found in common with any
story ever told.
44 See Roberts (1989) 71.

chapter 9
The Psychology in the Dionysiaca

Ronald F. Newbold
1 Introduction
‘People with hysterical personalities use repression, sexualisation and regres-

sion. They act out in counter-phobic ways, usually related to preoccupations
with the fantasised power and danger of the opposite sex’.1
All artists reveal the contents of their unconsciousness to some degree. In
varying degrees, and as intuitive psychologists, they use various defence mech-
anisms (denials) to shape unconscious material into what they believe is an
acceptable, culturally useful product.2 Thus, the creative process often draws
upon and re-presents or recapitulates primitive, archaic, infantile material,
particularly so in the case of poets. It is the primitive, unconscious nature of
the emergent fantasies, their lack of ‘reality’, which gives literature much of its
power to move.3 The consciousness that infuses the Dionysiaca has an unusu-
ally free-floating, exposed quality. The central character has an upbringing
characterised by a largely absent father, and mother figures split between the
comforting (Ino, Mystis, Lamides, Rhea, Bacchant nurses) and the threatening
(stepmother Hera), an upbringing likely, as it happens, to foster a sense of dan-
ger about autonomous assertion, and to enhance the appeal of fusion with the
ground or matrix.4 Moreover, this issue, the ambivalence about separation and
individuation, pervades the whole poem. If a fantasy of oral fusion and merger
with some primal mother being in conflict with individual assertiveness,
1 McWilliams (1994) 304. On Dionysus’ troubled relationship with mother-figures and women
in general in Nonnus, see Aringer (2014) 498–501. Aringer uses the archeptypal myth of the
hero’s quest to trace the course of Dionysus’ individuation.
2 As Skura (1981) 65 puts it, the passage from daydream to literature parallels that from egotisti-
cal childishness to emotional maturity as one grapples with the issue of self versus society
and the world.
3 Lucas (1951); Lesser (1957) 17. Crews (1970) 13, writes of the artist ‘as someone who provision-
ally relaxes the censorship of waking life’, and who only half-masters the emergent fantasy,
anxiety and desire. With writers, however, we may be dealing with the persona within the
work rather than with the possibly quite different person of the creator: Lancashire (2010) 3.
4 That is, to particularise the issue for a moment, attracting the attention and ire of Hera versus
seeking an island of security or remaining at the bosom of nurses.

194 Newbold
(that is, a resistance to engulfment, or loss of autonomy and capability),

is indeed the most common fantasy in literature,5 its presence in the poem
should not surprise us, only perhaps its explicitness and salience.
2 Types of Conflict
All humans experience degrees of conflict and ambivalence, and this is evi-
dent in what they create.6 The Dionysiaca is replete with instances and types
of conflict. The poem begins with a life-and-death struggle on a cosmic scale
between heavenly Zeus and reptilian Typhon, and thereby illustrates per-
fectly what so much literature does, namely, reach ‘up’ into the world of social,
intellectual, moral and religious concerns (Zeus) and ‘down’ to the chthonic,
dark, primitive, bodily part of our inner lives (Typhon).7 High-stakes strug-
gles ensue between Zagreus and the Titans; between Dionysus and, amongst
others, Hera, Lycurgus, Deriades and the Indians, Pentheus, the Giants, and
Perseus; between Hera and Zeus, Hera and Semele, Cadmus and a serpent,
Aura and Artemis, to give a few instances. Less than friendly rivalry and com-
petition occurs, for example, between Dionysus and Poseidon, Semele and
Ino, Aphrodite and Athena, contests typically marked by boasting, mockery
and jeers, and a compelling desire to humiliate and surpass. Striving to surpass
though outstanding achievement is a major theme of the work and extends to
gift-giving and benefit bestowal.8 Nonnus adds to this picture his own rivalry
with Homer, and imputed rivalries between Dionysus and Heracles, Demeter,
Apollo. The refuge/exposure dilemma that runs through the poem is sharp-
ened by the nervousness the poet clearly feels as a creator and, in particular,
by his challenge to Homer.9 All creators suffer, to some extent, anxiety and per-
secutory fantasies over how their work will be received by a variety of people.10
A certain amount of aggression by the author is required to overcome the
fear of censure and rejection that can easily lead to stress-induced regression
5 The view of Holland (1968) 39–43, 290.

6 If creators have one feature in common it is the expression of opposites and attempts to
reconcile them, including the polarity between self, and host society and environment.
Resolving paradoxes and antitheses is a well-trod path to creativity. See Rothenberg
(1978); Brenner (1982). Dionysus is, par excellence, a god of androgyny, paradox and ambi-
guity, the unifier of contradictions.
7 A generalised insight from Holland (1968) 310.
8 Winkler (1974) 130–157; Newbold (2001a) and (2010a).
9 See Shorrock (2001) 164–166.
10 Parker (2007).
The Psychology in the Dionysiaca 195
(revisiting the behaviour and thoughts of an earlier developmental stage) and

hiding. Nonnus makes it immediately clear that he is no exception to this inter-
play when, at 1.1 (Εἰπέ, θεά) and following tradition, he invokes the Muse who,
as one scholar puts it, ‘inspires, protects, reassures and in a way takes responsi-
bility for the ambivalence generated by creative work.’11
Such conflicts in Nonnus are obvious enough but present are others, such as
in attitudes to the body, to the sensory world, to sexual activity. There is deep
ambivalence about how to step forth, expose oneself to the world, express
individual identity, pursue fame and destiny. Evident are obsessive urges to
hide and seek secure refuges, to stay within the womb, as it were, and not
to exhibit one-self. Passivity is a feature of many of the characters, including
Dionysus, Zeus and Deriades.12 While aggressive, competitive, exhibitionistic
behaviour is common, it may, in part, be driven by a desire to conceal and
deny doubts and fears, that is, it is hysterical and counter-phobic, protesting
overmuch. Surfaces and multiplicity (the Many), the descent of spirit into the
world, immanence, are celebrated by Nonnus. But this manifestation is also
profoundly distrusted in a world where reality and illusion incessantly chal-
lenge discernment and pose the questions: which is real, and what, if anything,
can be trusted? When metamorphoses occur, how is identity affected? Further,
which mortal or immortal beings, and what behaviour can be relied upon?
What behaviour, therefore, should be expressed and what inhibited?
3 Sexuality and Sensuality
Inevitably, much of the evidence for conflict within the poem centres round the
primary drive of sexuality. Nonnus’ cosmos is strongly sexualised, often in seem-
ingly pathological ways. Lust is ever-present, even amongst plants (3.140–152,
32.93–97). However, images of rampant sexuality can be problematic for
those who have tried and failed to transmute and transcend energy that they
have become alienated from, or have never really accepted. Sexual energy
denied, disowned, repressed but seemingly under control, tends to eventu-
ally erupt in perverse, predatory or immature ways, and can then give the
impression of arrested development in the individual.13 Distrust of sexuality in
11 Parker (2007) 176.

12 See Newbold (2001b) 180 and n. 22, with references.
13 Consider the behaviour of Aura, who, having angrily and self-righteously repudiated an
erotic dream that she had, then slyly scrutinises Artemis’ naked body and shamelessly
fondles her breasts: 48.287–301, 341–350.
196 Newbold
Nonnus, moreover, is often part of a wider distrust of the flesh and the senses.
Insofar as the poem is about the effort to transcend the physical, not in a calm
and measured manner but in a highly impassioned, at times hysterical, man-
ner, its core dramatic struggle lies here. And the conflicts are largely unresolved.
One might expect a poem that appears to be an encomium of the god
Dionysus and is composed in an ornate and exuberant style, to lean heavily
towards celebration of the physical, natural world, a world of richly meaning-
ful shapes and exteriors; a world of endless renewal and cycles that invites
living forms to dance in step with it. In many ways, the poem does this. It is
sensually rich, full of rapid movement, elaborate gesture and awareness of the
potential of the body to communicate theatrically14 and to provide enjoyment
of life: a world of song, music, dance, and frenzy. At least 11 musical instru-
ments are mentioned. Dance is everywhere, even in battle and the womb.15
There is, at times, the rapture of mutual touch (4.143–159) and a longing to
embrace. Eyes stare and roll, hands grope, arms and heads stretch and wave,
bodies modify, adorn and distinguish themselves, tresses are loosened.16 One
of many marks of the appeal of the body is the recurrent image of exposure
when hair or clothing is shaken loose and flows in the wind, sometimes reveal-
ing a naked neck, leg or groin.17 Dionysus’ appointed task is to introduce to
humanity the joys of new dances and the solace offered by wine.18 His reward
for successful task-completion through heroic agency is to ascend to join the
gods in heaven (48.974–978), having overcome many opponents and obstacles.
But, as indicated above, if one starts by examining the phenomena of sexual-
ity and procreation in the poem, conflict and ambivalence are immediately
apparent, and not just because of the eponymous god’s androgyny.19
4 The Power of the Life
True, as a fertility deity, Dionysus celebrates incarnated life and the engen-
dering of life, an interpretation reinforced by the presence of 35 different
14 E.g. 5.140–147, 19.153–157, 198–264.

15 8.27–29, 17.345. See Newbold (1992) esp. 276–279.
16 E.g. 32.11–35, 45.47–49.
17 E.g. 6.16–17, 7.92–93, 20.8–10, 21.77, 45.47–49.
18 7.17–21, 13.1–34, 20.94–97.
19 Nor simply because of his patronage of dance and mime, which leads to drama and
encourages the tragic and comic exploration of conflict and extremes, and how resolu-
tion may be achieved. On Nonnus’ ‘ceaseless ambivalence’, see Lindsay (1965) 369.
epithets for autonomous action, such as self-growing, -moving, -born, -circling,

-spiralling, etc. used 292 times altogether.20 He associates with fertility figures
like nymphs, satyrs, sileni, pans. He wears a garland of chthonic vipers (25.219–
222) and carries a pinecone-topped fennel rod wound with ivy, his thyrsus. His
sensory (dancing, thunderous percussion, chanting, carousing, etc.), chthonic,
serpentine associations are obvious.21 Joyous revelry encourages the removal
of inhibitions and Dionysus disseminates a potion that can increase desire
and opportunities for sexual activity. His attribute of the dappled (ποικίλος)
fawn-skin symbolises variegation and diversity, and Dionysus’ new dances
were about allowing dancers the freedom to dance their own steps. Dances are
widely associated with fertility. The god sires children by Nicaea, Ariadne and
Aura. His mobile host includes lustful nature spirits, and women who are free
from the control of their menfolk and in various stages of exposure, unveiled,
loose-haired or unshod.22
Further, in this fecund Dionysiac world, instances of spontaneous and
irregular generation, such as a tree bringing forth a human (12.55–58), are
common and outnumber regular ones.23 The theme is announced early, the
strange births of Dionysus and Athena (1.4–10). Terms for flowers and genitals
are interchangeable, and semen, serpent’s teeth, urine, and ichor can all mix
fruitfully with ox-hide, earth or water.24 Much life in the poem is generated
either spontaneously or parthenogenetically, or in some unusual, non-coital
manner.25 Almost anything can be imagined as swollen with child and any
contents in a container can be at least a metaphorical child.26 Nonnus employs
9 separate auto-compounds for self-born or self-conceived, 42 instances in
all, some extensively described (41.51–66.). On 11 occasions soil alone sprouts
non-vegetative life.27 Nonnus’ exuberant fantasy projects a multi-nippled
cosmos, where breasts and imbibers of breast-milk abound and where unex-
pected forms of suckling and nurturance occur, such as animals from humans
20 Thirteen are not previously attested. These words also point to the issue of assertion and
independence. See further below, and Lindsay (1965) 377, 388, 455.
21 The full array, from sight to smell, of Nonnus’ rich sensorium, is illustrated by Miguélez
Cavero (2008) 128–138, 266.
22 Ἀκρήδεμνος occurs 25 times, ἄπλοκος, ἄπλεκτος, ἀπλεκής 18 times altogether, ἀσάμβαλος
12 times, but are not only applied to Bacchants.
23 Like so many features of the Dionysiaca, these are often contained in the vast corpus of
mythological material that Nonnus inherited but selected from.
24 On water as a matrix, see Newbold (2001c).
25 A frequent childish misapprehension. See Newbold (1993) 103–105.
26 See Winkler (1974) 70–113 on how almost anything can give birth or impregnate.
27 Winkler (1974) 120–136; Newbold (1993) 90, 102–103.
198 Newbold
( 3.383–389, 10.8–9), a lush world where liquids, especially wine and milk but
also ambrosia, nectar and honey spurt and ejaculate from forms and surfaces,28
and where male, animal, virginal and immortal breasts provide further oppor-
tunity for feeding. Breasts and wombs are fused,29 lactation occurs as irregu-
larly as birth and conception, and the same words can indicate birth, lactation
and ejaculation.30 Breast fixation, whereby breasts can assume a variety of
roles, includes not only nurturance and eroticism, but serves to describe the
geography of Tyre and Beirut (40.320, 41.29–34). Mammary capacities include
offence and defence through serpents, fire, arrows, lightning. Even thought
and emotion (wise, crafty, jealous) are attributed to breasts. No less than
51 different adjectives are applied to the breast. Being able to feed at certain
breasts, such as Dionysus at Rhea’s (9.232–234) and Heracles at Hera’s (40.21),
is a source of prestige.31 No other part of the body in the poem attracts as much
interest or emotional investment.
5 The World of Infancy
Much of the reproductive and sexual fantasy, therefore, is archaic and primi-
tive, as if reproducing childhood explorations and infantile (mis)understand-
ings and perspectives, which include the failure to always distinguish the
genders and their unique roles in procreation and nurturance. Hence the fas-
cination with lactating men (26.51–54), and phallic women, not just female
warriors and hunters but women who, in two cases, bear serpents at the groin-
breast (15.75–86, 35.204–222). Breast fixation adds to the impression of deep
and frequent regression and a swirl of confused notions. Like the mother in
the mind of the infant who imperfectly distinguishes nurse and her body part,
28 22.16–27 is a striking example, and cf. river banks spitting forth roses, Tyrian cloth shoot-
ing forth purple sparks, infants leaping forth from the womb: 5.195, 7.12, 10.171, 40.305.
29 Κόλπος is used to designate both lap and breasts. For the way breasts, wombs and groins
are fused by Nonnus, for a physiological explanation of this, and for its psychological
implications, see Newbold (2000) 15–16, 19, 21.
30 Explosive parturition, moreover, suggests a common infantile belief that confuses it with
defecation. Pre-rational thought tends to blend rather than separate things.
31 Μαζός occurs 121 times, κόλπος 65 times meaning breast or sometimes womb or lap
(excluding 23 times when it means gulf, channel or bay), θηλή 11 times, plus 82 instances
of στέρνον and στήθος which often mean breast rather than chest. Γάλα and γλάγος occur
40 times and cognate adjectives 11. See Newbold (2000) for discussion of this topic and
psychoanalytic references, and for both the profusion and confusion of the activities and
properties of Nonnus’ breasts.
the breast can be good and bad, nurturing and toxic, comforting and danger-
ous, depending on its availability and readiness to gratify the infant’s wishes.
The fixation is partly explained if one accepts that sucking at the breast is the
first, pre-genital pleasure. It is, at any rate, an experience which enhances
the sense of mother-infant oneness and which leads to an intense ambivalence
over asserting duality and self-consciousness.32 Such ambivalence can mani-
fest in, amongst other things, images of the constricting, incorporating figure
of the serpent.33 Extravagant fantasies about breasts and their at times magi-
cal properties is a form of fetishism in Nonnus, displacing upwards from the
real locus of fear and fascination, the genital area, to a substitute symbol or
body part, which can then be focused upon and fantasised about more equa-
bly. Displacement upwards seems evident in the erotic appeal of loose hair and
bare necks.34
To a considerable extent, then, the world of the Dionysiaca is the pre-genital,
oral, sustenance-focused world of the infant. The focus on orality means that
much thought and behaviour is concerned primarily with safety and survival.
Inevitably, this fosters paranoia. Access to the breast is generally easy, and
nurses or surrogate mothers deal with threats. As an adult, Dionysus is protected
and avenged by Athena, Artemis and Bacchant nurses, and comforted and
nursed under the sea by Thetis when routed by Lycurgus.35 Dependency
and comfort prevail, therefore, but there is also a keen sense of the dangers
that lurk in the oral paradise, and the need to forsake that paradise. The myth
of adolescent Icarus, who escaped from the enmeshing material labyrinth and
soared into the air above others and then was swallowed up by the engulfing
sea/matter/mother is emblematic. Temporary success, an act of exhibitionism
and self-will, proved suicidal and ended in enduring failure.36
The Icarian syndrome is associated with fire and water themes. There are
over 1,000 uses of words denoting water in some form in the poem, and 980 for
fire in its different forms. Dionysus is both a protagonist for life-giving water,
and for fire that asserts the power of heaven, immortality and divine identity.
Bathing her new body in purifying fire bestowed immortal and Olympian status
32 See Horowitz (1977) 56.

33 On the serpent’s role as an important locus of concern over identity in Nonnus,
see Newbold (1984) 92–93 and (1998) 8–10.
34 E.g. 34.305–314, 335–336. On fetishism, see the references in Newbold (1998) nn. 7–9, 27,
and the discussion at n. 12.
35 20.307–368, 21.1–185. Cf. 18.169–195.
36 On Icarianism in Nonnus, see Newbold (1985a) esp. 10.
200 Newbold
on Semele.37 Part of the appeal of wine (which is a form of fire-water) is that it

offers oral comfort yet declares independence of the breast.38 The ever-present
dilemma for mortals, the enduring conflict, is that both doing nothing and
doing something may endanger security. Maturation and learning about new
things are both essential and risky. The cases of Actaeon, Semele and Pentheus
are signal warnings about venturing too far. Curiosity that becomes intrusion
into the forbidden, however that is defined, may be deadly. To remain at the
maternal breast, literally or metaphorically, is to court obscurity and oblivion.
Yet to hunt, wrestle, contest, humiliate, flog, seek to surpass, is to court danger
and defeat. Dionysus is driven to ultimate success (13.22–24, 18.217–305) but
many in the poem experience defeat and destruction. Mothers are not always
benign in the Dionysiaca, and fears of threats from this source are transferred
to wicked stepmothers, notably Hera, and from nurturing breasts to danger-
ous ones. Agave, the Nysian women, the Argive women, Aura, Themisto and
Procne kill their children.39
6 Seclusion, Exposure, and Physical Contact
At 9.11, Dionysus is popping his head out (ὑπερκύψαντα) of the womb of Zeus’
thigh. At 22.14–15 a nymph is shyly peeping over (ὑπερκύψασα) foliage, half-
visible (ἡμιφανής), an image of uncertainty immediately followed by comfort-
ing images of milk and breasts. Although the two key indicative words here
do not occur that often (36 times altogether), these images encapsulate the
common motif in Nonnus of the nymph or being wavering between seclusion
and exposure, ‘poised on the verge of an epiphany’.40 Shame-sensitive Thetis
emerging from the sea to dance and then sinking back at the sight of Beroe,
fearing she will be made to feel inferior, is a good example of this uncertainty.41
Spying upon others, even when not deliberately erotic and voyeuristic, makes
the objects of the gaze quasi-exhibitionists, because the viewer unconsciously
identifies with them and feels looked at, so there is an inherent ambivalence.
Voyeurism and exhibitionism are psychoanalytic polarities, an insight which
37 8.413–414. See further, Wiklund (1978); Newbold (2001c) 175–176 and (2006) 1–2, 9.
38 On the supposed superiority of wine over milk, see 16.321–338, 17.78–80, 47.40–42, 55,
78–103. See further below, on fire, water and identity issues.
39 See Newbold (2000) 20–21. On the need for adolescent males to assert independence from
maternal bonds, see Ong (1988).
40 Winkler (1974) 9.
41 41.233–236. Cf. 40.506, 44.12–14, 45.145.
Nonnus captures in his account of Actaeon (5.287–317), which includes

Actaeon having been spied on by Pan while he hunted. The problem of main-
taining privacy is compounded by the several beings with all-seeing eyes, such
as Zeus, Hera, Apollo, Justice, and by insatiate and predatory gazers and peep-
ers who lurk and prowl and who make almost any hideaway or place of sleep
insecure, thereby encouraging paranoia and persecutory fantasies.42 Adding
to the emotional ferment is that feminine shyness and semi-concealment can
enhance erotic appeal.
To review and to foreshadow: the payoffs and penalties of protected infan-
tile orality vie with those of assertive adolescent phallicism: negation of the
self struggles with actualisation of the self. But further: being part of a group
exercise, harmoniously co-operating to achieve some greater end, can be both
comforting and rewarding. However, forsaking communion to make an indi-
vidual mark and to triumph agonistically is also attractive, for it is another
way of feeling intensely alive. The pursuit of this particular sensation (alive-
ness) may be aggressive and involve many different types of contests and
energetic rivalries, such as those between Dionysus and Heracles, Aristaeus,
Perseus. Ruthless, sometimes unscrupulous, competitiveness can also induce
confidence-sapping ambivalence because of the risks involved. Generally,
physical contact, where it occurs in the poem, tends to be rough and violent:
hence rape, binding, beating, and communication with blows, weapons, vitu-
peration. The implications of this will be expanded upon below but, for the
moment, note how Nicaea typifies much of this behaviour. Ascetic, competi-
tive, and scornful of Artemis’ comparatively soft way of being a Beast Mistress,
she did not hunt deer or handle hares, but preferred to challenge bears and to
bridle, whip, and generally lord it over lions.43
7 Shame and Humiliation
Given the narrative’s competitive ethos, instances of feeling ashamed are

inevitable but some cases appear excessive and gratuitous, such as Typhonic
lightning’s shamefaced sparkle, or a laurel tree hiding in shame when struck
by arrows.44 The acute vulnerability to shame and humiliation that Dionysus
and other hysteria-prone characters display causes them to oscillate between
42 See Newbold (2008) 85–87, and cf. the fear of exposure expressed at obsessive length by a
hysterical Hamadryad, 2.94–162.
43 15.180–203. On Aura’s pronounced masculinity, see Schmiel (1993) 473–474.
44 1.304–305, 17.339–342. Cf. 5.111 and see Newbold (1985b) 42.
202 Newbold
hiding and submergence in the group, where they can remain unnoticed and
not subject to exposure and ridicule and also be less exposed to physical dan-
ger, including rape; and stepping forth, and counter-phobically inflicting upon
others shame and humiliation, even destruction, whether physical or psycho-
logical. Shame can be too overwhelming for its sufferers to continue living, as
it is for Aura when it is imposed, through Dionysus, by the affronted Artemis.45
There is the ashamedness that makes one want to hide or disappear,46 to have
the earth swallow one up, even to commit suicide, and there is the counter-
phobic self-glorifying megalomania that includes grandiose fantasies of
unlimited world destruction, ascension, power, success and popularity, and
infliction of shame and inferiority upon others, and unabashed enjoyment in
doing so.47 Feelings of helplessness are thereby denied. Because being exposed
can be such a witheringly shameful experience, akin to the unveiling of a pre-
cious secret, a form of being stripped naked, another counter-phobic response
is to spy on others and unveil their secrets. Grandiosity, spying and displaying
contempt are, then, defence mechanisms which can often disguise and deny
endemic feelings of shame and anxiety. The oscillation between shameful and
shameless may be located in the espied naked or unveiled body, where the
exposed one may be either aware, and thus ashamed, or unaware, and thus
unashamed, of being seen.48 Issues of shame are implicated in the quest for
safe havens (a too safe hiding place may arouse humiliating feelings of being
abandoned and forgotten) versus venturing forth and satisfying curiosity in a
way that may violate the dignity of others. One could regard the poem’s major
theme of masking and deceit as attempts to thwart an unveiling, to retain con-
trol of what is secret and what is presented to scrutiny, and to engage in a form
of spying. Shape-shifting likewise disadvantages the viewer. By shamming, and
by tricking others, one can transfer shame and embarrassment to them. Sham
and shame are etymologically linked.49
45 48.431–434. Cf. the defeated Indian warrior at 23.65–75.

46 Etymologically, there are links between words for shame, hide and wound. See Newbold
(1985b) 30 and (2001b) 174–175. Words for hiding occur 275 times. For a discussion of
hiding in Nonnus, see Newbold (2010b) 89–90.
47 As when Artemis mocks pregnant Aura: 48.749–782. Cf. 33.102–104.
48 For further discussion of the instances of a related issue, being unveiled, loose-haired,
unshod, see Newbold (2008) 84–85, 88–89. Nonnus appears to relish the increased vulner-
ability of this state as well as that of sleepers, and their potential for incurring violence.
49 See the discussion at Newbold (1985b) 40–43.
8 The Transcendent One
Alongside immersion and salvation in the material world (descensionism)

and the struggle for physical survival, otherworldly tendencies are evident
within the poem, features which range from quite strong to quite weak but
which, taken together, suggest an orientation which can activate both repres-
sion and regression.50 Yearning for the transcendent One often manifests as
asceticism and as what has been termed the ideational impulse (in contrast to
the sensate impulse), and is an impulse abundantly present in Late Antiquity.51
Catasterism is an obvious example of otherworldly, ascensionist hopes. A place
in heaven is the lot of Semele, Ariadne, Andromeda, Chalcomede, Phaethon,
Icarius and Erigone, as well as Dionysus.52 A longing to transcend the evanes-
cent and mortal through epitaphs, eponymous entities,53 great deeds, famous
victories and significant benefactions that immortalise, occur throughout the
poem. An interest in the eternal and a challenge to the ravages of time are
evident in the huge vistas of time that are conjured up and conveyed by words
denoting eternal, ageless, everlasting, aeons. Scenes with Aion (7.1–109) and
Astrochiton (40.366–573), and description of a calendar of universal history
(12.29–115) convey a sense of limitless time. One tablet of the calendar was
‘as old as the infinite cosmos, presenting all things in one’ (12.43–44). Short
chronological periods, apart from the marking of sunrise and sunset, are not
bothered with.54 A substantial part of the narrative, about one seventh (3,091
lines out of 21,286, 14.5%), describes heavenly scenes or events, heavenly imag-
inings, fire or water descending from heaven. The Fates and the Tablets of Time
(12.29–115, 41.275–398) lay out the course for humanity over a Great or Cosmic
Year, almost 26,000 solar years. In the realm above resides Harmonia, personi-
fication of divine, cosmic order, along with archetypal spherical, orbital and
spiral movements, patterns and forms, as well as creative activities such as
weaving. Circles and spirals form a prominent motif in the Dionysiaca and
are widely associated with the transcendent and the One.55 To the extent that
archetypes can be reproduced on earth by, for example, skilled artists and
craftsmen, there will be greater harmony on earth but they will always be a
50 For the significance in Nonnus of the cosmic realm, eternal and immutable, see Miguélez
Cavero (2013a).
51 See Sorokin (1957); Newbold (2010b) 83–84 and nn. 9–10.
52 See Newbold (2003) 152–153, on how the prize of immortality can be gained.
53 Such as plants, cities, rivers, objects, e.g. Ampelus, Nicaea, Pithos.
54 See James (1981).
55 See Newbold (1999) 41–45 and (2003) 160–162; Hernández de la Fuente (2011a).
204 Newbold
pale imitation of celestial glory. The goal for mortals must, then, remain access
to the higher realms, to transcend the temporal and transitory and to enter the
eternal and primordial. Winning fame, being honoured and memorialised on
the earthly plane, are less complete victories over time and oblivion.
9 Opposed Tensions
The submergence/withdrawal-advance/assertion tension and the sensory/

descensionist-ascetic/ascensionist tension are not identical but have much
in common, at least as they manifest in Nonnus. In discussing one tension,
we constantly encounter features of the other. Masculinity, assertion, inde-
pendence, for example, can all be represented by images of elevation, such
as Dionysus inflating himself skywards in his duels with Deriades, pirates
and Perseus.56 Terms such as ‘surpass’, ‘excel’ suggest height, ‘submerge’, ‘hide
under’ suggest depth.
While some references to aerial flight are inevitable, their nature and num-
ber, and the strength of the urge to fly or be ascendant,57 combine with other
features of the Icarian syndrome, such as a fascination with fire, which lifts
and rises up, and water, which falls down and engulfs, to further suggest ascen-
sionist drives battling with downward pulls into matter. To some extent, fire-
born Dionysus’ fiery war against the earth- and water-worshipping, earthborn
Indians is a battle of the elements.58 His victory through fire marks the begin-
ning and end of the struggle. Deriades was foolishly confident that his father,
the river Hydaspes, would overcome any fire that Dionysus might deploy.59 In
fact, he was fated to be engulfed in the river (38.69). His attempt to prevail
through water was as vain as earthborn Typhon’s watery efforts to quench the
heavenly fires of Zeus (2.436–520). Dionysus’ growing and clearly demarcated
mastery of fire, evident in his encounters with Pentheus and, finally, with
the earthborn Giants (44.335–356, 48.56–62), is an important ingredient in the
narrative of his ascent to Olympian immortality and the realm of ethereal fire.
56 36.299–309, 40.83, 45.133–136, 47.657–663. Cf. 29.319–322.

57 Some egregious examples: 1.142–144, 2.126–135, 701–702, 6.115–119, 7.219–221, 22.114–117.
This theme and those of eternity and immortality are discussed in Newbold (1996) 2–3.
Aerial flight may be a means of escape, e.g., from confinement or danger, as well as a plea-
surable soaring. See 1.134–135.
58 See, e.g., 27.73–75, 101–104; Newbold (2001c) n. 14.
59 21.223–226, 23.59–79, 25.77–79. Cf. Schmiel (2003) 480–481; Newbold (2006) 15–21;
Miguélez Cavero (2013) 367–371.
10 Sex and Violence
Nonnus appears to strongly endorse the attachment of asexual, mannish,

Amazonian maidens like Nicaea, Aura and Chalcomede to their virginity. Aura,
in particular, sees all sex as disgusting.60 This other-worldly orientation has
other effects on the treatment of sexual activity in Nonnus, which, as we have
seen, is phallic at times but more often oral or quasi-oral. By itself, a strong
association in an author between sex and violence is not evidence of a nega-
tive attitude but it is no advertisement for sex when scenes of tender intimacy
are so few. Nicaea and Aura have to be raped in quasi-necrophiliac fashion by
Dionysus after they are drugged with wine, and in the latter case, bound as well.
Given their resistance to being deflowered, these may seem ‘necessary’ mea-
sures for Dionysus to employ but the sadism of the scenes is striking. Sexual
knowledge is dangerous. A pan witnesses the primal scene between Dionysus
and Nicaea, which is called ‘a forbidden sight’.61 Such a sight is inherently con-
fusing and alarming to immature eyes and ears because of the way pleasure
may appear and sound like pain. Graphic descriptions of serpents issuing from
the breasts/genitals of women and driving off would-be rapists underline the
dangers of sex for predatory males, including being choked.62 There are para-
philias or sexual deviancies in the poem that suggest not only squeamishness
but also fear, even on the part of powerful and experienced males, about sex,
and a desire to experience it in detached, oblique, non-threatening (at least to
one party) ways.63 Zeus appears to impregnate Persephone orally (6.162–164),
a fertilization described metaphorically rather than literally. Semele is also
orally impregnated, but in addition bound with serpent’s coils.64 The shape-
shifting that Zeus engaged in on both occasions may also be seen as another
distancing strategy. Fantasies of non-coital generation, examples of which
have been given earlier, appeal to those uncomfortable with more orthodox
methods of procreation.65
60 For the view that Nonnus projects a very negative attitude to sex, marriage and pregnancy,
and that he privileges virgin birth, see Hadjitoffi (2008).
61 16.309–311. Cf. 5.581–585, 48.770–772, and, by denial, 16.278, 32.76–97, 48.642–644.
62 15.75–86, 35.204–222. Cf. the naked, still seemingly dangerous, body of a slain Bacchante
when an Indian warrior gazes at it with necrophiliac longing: 35.21–78. See Accorinti
(2015) esp. 49–54.
63 The topic is discussed by Newbold (1998).
64 Note the childish belief that kissing can impregnate.
65 Pre-genital fantasies of procreation are evident, for example, in the life and work of nov-
elist and playwright James M. Barrie (1860–1937), a man who had difficulty in accept-
ing adulthood and sexuality. His Peter Pan story in particular projects a yearning for
206 Newbold
11 Voyeurism and Eroticism
Foremost among Nonnus’ paraphilias are fetishism and 23 voyeuristic epi-

sodes, plus 3 cases which can be regarded as a form of voyeurism.66 In these
cases, a degree of sexual satisfaction can be gained and curiosity assuaged
without tactility, through the more remote sensory mode of vision, as if the
reduced immediacy was somehow more acceptable, less reprehensible and
dangerous, although there are instances of voyeurs caught in the act who can,
like Actaeon, suffer terribly. Visual incorporation replaces the sexual act, an
incorporation which is also a form of oral aggression, as we acknowledge when
we use phrases like ‘greedy gazing’ and ‘feast one’s eyes upon’. Such rapes at a
distance67 are, however, inherently predatory and may lead to enforced sex, as
they do with Persephone, Semele and Nicaea. In Nonnus, voyeurism belongs to
the motif of tremulous curiosity, both wanting and not wanting to know (using
‘know’ in both the literal and the biblical sense), partly because the knowing is
so highly eroticised.68 Ambivalent curiosity in general is captured by Nonnus’
use of ἀθήητος (27 occurrences) to mean both unseen and hidden, and unsee-
able and forbidden.69 Voyeurism in Nonnus is an ambivalent interest in geni-
tality, an exploration of dangerous territory, which manifests in fearful prying.
Something in his description of these metaphorical rapes usually prevents a
full disclosure of the ‘secrets of the lap or thighs’,70 as if penetrating that mys-
tery would be too challenging. Only once is this disclosure explicitly permit-
ted but, significantly, only to a serpent who gazed unsleepingly (voraciously)
between the thighs of an unconscious Bacchante (14.363–366). Strikingly, a
glimpse of Aura’s wind-blown thigh renders Dionysus ‘womanish’ (θηλύνετο),
as if emasculating him and threatening him with danger (48.486). As noted
above, issues associated with shame are also strongly present in this activity.
Voyeurs violate the modesty of the espied, aggressively rendering the object
shameful, but they also risk acute shame if detected.
the (supposedly) innocent, pre-sexual world of childhood. For commonality, including

Icarianism, between Barrie, Dionysus and Peter Pan, see Newbold (1996).
66 Discussed at length in Newbold (2008). Shorrock (2014) 318–322 discusses voyeuristic ele-
ments at 47.265–294, when Dionysus encounters sleeping Ariadne.
67 See 7.203, 15.240, 42.43. Significantly, τιταίνω (‘to stretch or strain’) is used 30 times with
ὄμμα (usually singular), as if making it erect. See Winkler (1974) 56–67.
68 Cf. the way the word ὄργια (‘secret rites’), which occurs 30 times, is sometimes eroticised,
e.g. 5.310–311, 433–437.
69 See Newbold (1998) n. 14 and (2008) 71–72, 75–80, 87–88.
70 ὄργια κόλπου, μηροῦ: 7.266, 17.224.
Often in Nonnus, touch, to be acceptable or safe, must seem accidental,

distanced (touching surfaces touched by the beloved), or be unfelt by the
sleeping, drunk or dead recipient.71 Lovesick Dionysus kissed Beroe’s footsteps
and, moving a longing hand near her breast, appears to touch her girdle acci-
dentally (42.65–73). However, when he actually touched her breast, his hand
lost all sensation (νάρκησε, 42.70). Despite their clear erotic appeal for men in
the Dionysiaca, references to breasts tend to induce notions of evasion, anxi-
ety and indirectness.72 Tactile sensation can, however, be eroticised without
reproof when Dionysus allows himself to enjoy the titillating pressure applied
by his wrestling opponent, Ampelus or Pallene (10.343–346, 48.132–136).
12 Repression
What is probably involved in these and other instances is the denial and
repression that distrusters of the physical are very prone to. In repression,
an emotionally charged idea or experience is buried because its presence in
consciousness causes great discomfort and anxiety. Those who, in their prud-
ish asceticism and other-worldly longings, imperfectly integrate their earlier,
very tactile and sensual life as infants, and who develop a deep distrust of the
body, of physical appetites and carnal pleasure, find that the repressed, dis-
owned, alienated part of their life constantly reasserts itself, often in sexually
dysfunctional ways.73 In particular, the anxiety caused by repression can lead
to regressive, pre-genital fixations. The pre-genital sexuality of oral fusion is
then preferred to the abhorred direct sexual expression.74 As it does so, it can
bring with it many immature fantasies, which have the apparent advantage of
71 E.g. 1.347–348, Zeus touching Europa’s breast as if unintentionally; 9.280–282, Apollo
and Ino; 16.265–269, Dionysus and Nicaea; 35.31–35, Indian and Bacchante; 48.621–632,
Dionysus and Aura. A partial example is Aphrodite, disguised as Peisinoe, as her beguiling
words to Harmonia move from distanced, second-hand imagining to highly erotic, tactile
fantasy: 4.143–159.
72 For further discussion and illustration of this point, see Newbold (2000) 17–18.
73 See Holland (1968) 52–53.
74 Horowitz (1979) 68–69. Such repression may be signalled in Nonnus by the apparent pres-
ence of a strong need to contain boiling energies, energies evident in a plethora of vio-
lent, energetic, straining verbs and drive- and sensation-oriented words. Braden (1978)
72, writes, concerning Nonnus, of ‘a prevalent sensation of explosions under a thickly
lacquered surface’. Slater (1968) 236, sees a connection between Nonnus’ baroque, orna-
mental style and a drive to achieve firm, containing surfaces.
208 Newbold
seeming not fully sexual, of being surrogate, less intimate forms of sex. Such
repression would also appeal to the hysteric who is prone to overstimulation.
13 Water and Fire
Ascetic distancing is apparent in some scenes, where entities are of the mate-
rial world but not immersed in it, somehow detached and insulated, part of
what one scholar has described as the poem’s ‘prevalent anaesthesia’.75
A notable aspect of this is the frequent references to people, animals or
vehicles being unwetted by water when in it or crossing atop it, and thus not
being engulfed by it; or being able to go, dryfoot, where once water flowed
(27.182–188). The first crossing of the Hydaspes in Book 23 is a rich source of
these references. The strength of the fantasy is illustrated by the image of the
river Alpheus passing over the sea unwetted and preserving its fiery warmth
(13.323–327), thus not only preserving identity in a medium of dissolution but
proclaiming the power of fire over water.76 The treatment of water by Nonnus
may be part of an apparent desire to stand apart or above, further marks of a
psychology of isolation and striving for reduced stimulation. Despite its fer-
tilising and life-sustaining qualities, which are freely acknowledged, even cel-
ebrated by Nonnus, the negative associations of water outweigh positive ones,
in part, we suggest, because water appears to evoke strongly sensory, regressive,
uterine, identity-dissolving memories, and to be part of a negatively valorised
below-world. Water too can have erotic associations, such as in naked bathing,
where the water serves as a semi-transparent form of clothing for otherwise
naked bathers: their emergence from a watery refuge is a form of undressing.
Naked bathing in the case of Persephone, Semele, Nicaea and Clymene leads
75 Winkler (1974) 68, who also discusses two-dimensional flatness and indifference to spatial
reality in some scenes (37–40). Cf. Agosti (2014a) 154–159 on late antique art’s tendency
to dematerialise objects. There are also, however, scenes of viewing that emphasise the
colour and roundness of people and objects, and descriptions that elevate figures from
the ground and which may become ecphraseis. To repeat: Nonnus’ world is both detached
and participatory, fearing and rejecting the sensory, but also admiring and desiring it.
76 A few other examples of ‘unwettedness’: 1.54, 8.255, 20.158, 40.438, 43.204. There are
53 occurrences of ἄβρεκτος, ἄβροχος, ἀδίαντος. Dry progress on or above water, and the
antagonism between fire and water, are discussed in Newbold (2001c) 170, 174–179. There
is a valuable treatment of fire and water, swamps and death, as well as eroticism and
ambivalence in Nonnus by Fauth (1981) 45–87.
to impregnation.77 Water does not have to be a locus of concern over iden-

tity and maturation. In Claudian, for example, images of water have more to
do with the stability of society and the cosmos. Of course, fire too can have
erotic associations but in Nonnus its ascensionist associations seem to make
it more acceptable. Water in Nonnus both provides life, refuge and covering,
and threatens to engulf. To a degree, it needs to be kept away or below, that
is, repressed. After all, water is a symbol of the unconscious, where forbidden
impulses lurk.
14 Sadism
A negative attitude to the body and the physical world also seems evident in
the frequency of reference to flagellation.78 Not only human and animal bodies
but many surfaces, including water, are whipped, scratched, scored, scarred,
lacerated, cloven by a variety of instruments, including snakes, fingernails,
tails, hooves, some of which can be used to bind as well as beat.79 In Nonnus,
bodies, it seems, need to restrained as well as scourged: hence frequent scenes
of binding and being bound, with ropes, ivy or vines. At times, such references
fit the context of the narrative and may have mythological sanction. Lashing
is natural and conventional when draught animals are driven forward, or Eros
and the Furies are at work, but sometimes the references seem gratuitous or
absurd.80 The punitive sadism of all this aggressive lashing, scoring and bind-
ing is obvious and it can perpetuate itself. Athamas, lashed by Pan, lashes sheep
(10.4–6). Aura beats, is beaten and bound, and then beats and binds.81 There
are also signs of sadism’s psychoanalytic polarity, masochism, and the sexual
satisfaction it, like sadism, can provide, particularly when entities beat them-
selves or appear to invite being beaten.82 Violence, often extreme, pervades the
77 See Newbold (2001c) 171–176 and (2008) 90–91.

78 Μαστίζω occurs 30 times, ἐπιμαστίω 16, μάστιξ 34, μαστίω 10, ἰμάς 22, ἰμάσθλη 44, ἰμάσσω 66:
total 222.
79 Γράφω and compounds occur 50 times, χαράσσω 129. See, e.g., 15.132–150, and the observa-
tions of Schmiel (1998b) 395.
80 E.g. 1.221, Selene beats herself; 43.193–194, the sea flogs the air (cf. 2.274); 43.295–299, one
sea beats another. Cf. 48.303–308.
81 48.311, 328, 458–462, 628–630, 692, 696.
82 Present here may be the regressive desire to be treated like a helpless child. Cf. Lucas
(1951) 72, 84: the beaten child may crave for violence when older, provoking others to
discipline or bind it.
210 Newbold
Dionysiaca but why does so much of it take this particular form? It is hard not
to feel some repression of the body and the physical is at work here.83
15 An Unstable World
A host of words denoting deceit, illusion, fake, counterfeit and illegitimate,

such as μίμημα, νόθος, δόλος, and which occur 659 times, indicates a deep dis-
trust of the empirical world, and the dangers of being misled by it.84 Forms and
surfaces are unstable, unreliable, puzzling, prone to alter shape, as the poet
grapples with the issue of authenticity and genuine identity, such as when a
man, Actaeon, retains human consciousness in animal form. Information and
apparent clues are hard for participants to decipher. When Actaeon’s parents,
Aristaeus and Autonoe, search for the remains of their dismembered son they
see but do not recognise the tell-tale fragments of fawn-skin (5.323–551). Both
mortal and immortal beings are frequently deceitful, untrustworthy, quick to
use disguises. The poem can, therefore, be read as a subversion rather than
celebration of Dionysus and pagan beliefs. His (unsuccessful) wooing of Beroe
in Book 42, for example, is a parade of deceits and secret surveillance. When
even deities seduce and betray, what can one have faith in? As Deriades puts it
when confounded by Dionysus’ constant shapeshifts: ‘Why do you avoid me,
Dionysus? Why trickery (δόλος) instead of combat? Is it from fear of Deriades
that you change into a richly wrought form (πολυδαίδαλον εἶδος)?’ (36.339–341).
Paranoia inevitably pervades the poem.85 The way Pentheus, for example,
expressed his fear of being persecuted by Dionysus made Dionysus feel perse-
cuted (44.202). Paranoid fears are further reasons to hide or remain submerged.
The poem’s key motif of diversity and variegation, τὸ ποικίλον, aids camou-
flage and the concealing of identity.86 By the way it can make surfaces glitter,
dazzle and shimmer, variegation can also make them appear to dissolve into
insubstantiality and thereby challenge discernment. For all the delight, beauty
and creative opportunity offered by the mundane and sensory world, sensory
83 For treatment of the theme of flagellant frenzy and harsh binding, see Newbold (1984)
89–90.
84 See Newbold (2010b) for detailed statistics and extended discussion of the unreliability
and dishonesty that pervades the poem. Also, Shorrock (2011) 122.
85 On paranoid and therefore persecutory fantasies in the Dionysiaca and their relationship
to spying and being spied upon, see Newbold (2010b) 92–94.
86 Words signifying variegation occur 177 times. See Lindsay (1965) 379–397; Fauth (1981) pas-
sim; Paschalis (2014). One of the sub-meanings of ποικίλος is ‘crafty’, another is ‘unstable’.
overload can induce a nausea, suspicion, confusion and immense yearning for
the transcendent beauty and simplicity of the supernal, and for the archetypal
truths that lie above the physical and beyond the veil. Shape-shifting or play-
acting can disadvantage others but also raise issues for the transformer/actor:
what is my real self?
16 Conclusions
To conclude: as we have seen, certain syndromes can issue from two separate
but overlapping drives: (i), the desire to escape from obscurity, whether one
is hidden or embedded in a group or in the environment; and (ii), the desire
to transcend and control the sensory, to avoid being overwhelmed by over-
stimulation. The prominent theme of hiding can be about advantage and sur-
veillance over others, gaining dominance over them, as well as be a security
measure. Distrust of appearances is a path to survival and self-preservation.
The urge to ascend can express both the drive to transcend the physical, and
the drive to assert individuality, even superiority over others.87 Being unwetted
when on or in water is detachment from the physical world but, taken together
with frequent references to scoring, beating and binding forms and surfaces
in general, suggests that it is also part of a drive to proclaim mastery over an
element that can overwhelm, a drive to deny its threat.88 Above-water travel
is a form of aerial flight that transcends the grossly physical, however com-
forting being embedded there might be, and, especially when allied with fire,
triumphs over impermanence and engulfment. Ascension above the chaotic
world, where things are often out of control,89 and where finding secure ref-
uges can be difficult, also offers greater physical survivability. Sexuality in the
Dionysiaca brings into focus two separate responses, curiosity and fascination
with the sensory realm on the one hand, fear and disgust, or at least distaste,
on the other.
Great works of literature often stem from fixations and unresolved conflicts
in the creator. Is there any resolution to the conflicts in the Dionysiaca? Some
resolution to the withdraw-advance dilemma is offered by the idea of tempo-
rary refuge as an opportunity to regenerate and re-emerge, as Dionysus does
87 This is one way to regard the stylite saints. Cross-culturally, the ability to progress upon
water is a mark of sainthood and divinity.
88 Newbold (2001c) 176–179, 183.
89 On the disorder theme in Nonnus, see Braden (1974) 855–856. The prevalence of αὐτο-
compounds may add to this impression.
212 Newbold
when he is chased into the sea by Lycurgus and enjoys a womb-like comfort
and security in his underwater refuge (21.170–184). Nurtured and comforted,
he re-emerges to lead his forces to victory. Regressions to infantilism and
dependence need not be pathological or permanent. They may be responses
to fatigue or stress and they may offer a strategic retreat to regroup and draw
upon fresh reserves: regression in service of the ego. As for the ascensionist/
ideational-descensionist/sensate tension, one could say that both sides are
honoured. However, the strength and nature of the aspiration towards the
One, at times, produces a disowning of the Many and hence a repression that
would probably account for much of the regressive imagery in the Dionysiaca.
Part 3
The Paraphrase of St John’s Gospel
∵
Chapter 10
Nonnus and Biblical Epic

Mary Whitby
1 Introduction
Nonnus is unique among writers of biblical epic on at least two counts: his
Paraphrase is the only epic version of the Gospel of St John and he is the only
author of a biblical epic to have written a major mythological epic as well. It
was once doubted whether one person could have written both the Paraphrase
and the Dionysiaca without undergoing a dramatic ‘conversion’, but current
scholarship stresses the cohabitation and infiltration of Christian and pagan
ideas in the late antique world,1 while intertextual references not only authen-
ticate Nonnus’ authorship but suggest that the poet may have worked con-
temporaneously on the two poems.2 However, variety or variation (poikilia)
is now identified as central to Nonnus’ approach,3 and the Paraphrase differs
fundamentally from the Dionysiaca in tone. Whereas the mythological poem
is humorous, mocking, self-referential, metatextual, the Paraphrase uses the
same verbal range in a sensitive, subtle and sympathetic elaboration of the
mysteries and miracles set out in simple style in the biblical text. There is no
doubt that Nonnus’ choice of John’s Gospel was influenced by the comple-
tion in 428 of Cyril of Alexandria’s commentary on the same text,4 but John’s
1 Bowersock (1990) is fundamental; more recently (e.g.) McLynn (2009), Cribiore (2013), Jones
(2014); on Nonnus: Shorrock (2011) and (2014), Doroszewski (2014b), Spanoudakis (2014b).
2 Golega (1930) is the basic study of the Paraphrase. Vian (1997b) argued from the use of the
term μάρτυς, that the Paraphrase was the earlier work, a view upheld by recent studies of
specific episodes, esp. Spanoudakis (2007) 88, (2013b) 207, (2014a) 47–52. But at some points
the Dionysiaca may have influenced the Paraphrase, e.g. the wedding at Cana in Par. 2: Gigli
Piccardi (2003) 53. Cf. Livrea (1989) 30 ‘i due contemporanei poemi’; Chuvin (2014) 4. Lively
discussion of the problem: Shorrock (2011) 49–52. See also Simelidis in this volume.
3 Programmatic statement, Dion. 1.11–33, discussed (e.g.) Hopkinson (1994c) 10–11; for the
Paraphrase, Shorrock (2011) 73.
4 E.g. Golega (1930) 127–130; Livrea (1989) 25 and (2000) 53; De Stefani (2002) 22–24; Shorrock
(2011) 59–60 with references; Accorinti (2013c) 1125; and especially Spanoudakis (2014a)
18–20, suggesting a possible dating between 428 and 438 for Par.

216 Whitby
a llusive, even mystical, approach, exemplified in his first chapter on the Logos,
would also have been congenial to the author of the Dionysiaca.5
Beyond what can be deduced from the poems, we have virtually no informa-
tion about Nonnus,6 apart from the link to Alexandria suggested by his knowl-
edge of Cyril’s commentary on John. This is confirmed by an epigram alluding
to the Pharos lighthouse (AP 9.198):
Νόννος ἐγὼ· Πανὸς μὲν ἐμὴ πόλις, ἐν Φαρίῃ δέ

ἔγχεϊ φωνήεντι γονὰς ἤμησα Γιγάντων.
Nonnus am I; my city is Pan’s, but in Pharos

with the lance of my voice I mowed down the Giants’ stock.
The last line might naturally be taken as an allusion to the Dionysiaca,7 but the
epigram is transmitted in one branch of the manuscript tradition of
the Paraphrase, and Livrea argued that it includes an allusion to the convo-
cation on Pharos by Ptolemy Philadelphus of the seventy translators of the
Old Testament: the Giants in that context represent heretics.8 This poem,
then, plausibly a book dedication for a combined edition, asserts the unity of
Nonnus’ two works, a point that must inform any analysis of his approach to
biblical epic. The surviving biblical poets of the fourth, fifth and sixth centuries
present a range of motives for writing—educational, devotional, exegetical,
literary embellishment of plain biblical language for a cultivated audience—in
various combinations.9 But Nonnus wrote the Paraphrase for the same audi-
ence as the Dionysiaca, the cultivated intellectuals of Alexandria,10 who would
be sensitive to the scholarship that underlay his elaboration of the Gospel text
and admiring of the dexterity with which Cyrilline exegesis was translated
into epic compound adjectives. Composition in parallel with the Dionysiaca
suggests a further possibility: by his use of overlapping language, Nonnus sets
out to highlight the similarity between many of the Dionysiac and b iblical
stories—the turning of water into wine at Cana and at Lake Astacis in the
5 Cf. Livrea (1989) 31; Livrea (2000) 54–55 discusses the model provided by Neoplatonic
Lives and commentaries; De Stefani (2002) 14–26; Gigli Piccardi (2003) 82–83; Cutino
(2009).
6 Agathias, Hist. 4.23.5 is not helpful. Vian (1976) ix–xviii; Hopkinson (1994c) 33 n. 1.
7 So Vian (1976) lvi–lvii.
8 Livrea (1987) 110–113, (1989) 32–35, (2000) 51–53; cf. Spanoudakis (2014a) 1.
9 Latin poets: Roberts (1985) 67–106; summary, with further bibliography: Whitby (2007)
199; Greek poets: Agosti (2001b). Cf. recently Gärtner (2014).
10 Agosti (2001b) 97–99.
Nonnus And Biblical Epic 217
Dionysiaca,11 the raising of the dead Tylus and the dead Lazarus,12 the entry
of Dionysus into Athens and of Christ into Jerusalem,13 the passion of Icarius
and of Jesus,14 and so on—and hence perhaps to stimulate reflection on the
relationship between pagan and Christian ideology.15 In all these examples, the
more familiar version is the Christian one: to what extent did Nonnus shape
his Dionysiac tales in the light of the miracles of Jesus?16
Why did the ever-ingenious author of the Dionysiaca choose to constrain his
bursting versatility within the confines of the biblical text? This in itself may
be a further sign of Nonnus’ resourcefulness. Paraphrase had its origins in a
school rhetorical exercise:17 was Nonnus attracted by the challenge of accom-
modating to this demanding exercise his exuberant, yet rigorous, style?18 Here
we may recall the rigidity of the metrical scheme of this poet’s hexameters:
Nonnus practised metrical constraint in conjunction with linguistic and rhe-
torical virtuosity, and his paraphrase of the plain words of the Gospel text fur-
ther complicates this.19 In writing the Dionysiaca Nonnus exploited the rich
tradition of epic that stretched back to Homer. In the Paraphrase he began
from the foundational Christian text which is melded with contemporary exe-
gesis, as well as with elements from the Synoptic Gospels,20 all of which are
additionally transposed from prose into verse.
11 Par. 2.1–11 and Dion. 14.411–437; Livrea (2000) 76–92. See also Gerlaud (1994) 19–22;
Gonnelli (2003) 60–61.
12 Dion. 25.451–552; Spanoudakis (2013b).
13 Dion. 47.1–33; Accorinti (2004) 34–36.
14 Dion. 47.1–264; Spanoudakis (2007). See also Accorinti (2015) 67–69 for the Noli me tangere
of Jesus to Mary Magdalene, applied to the dead Bacchante of Dion. 35.51.
15 Gigli Piccardi (2003) 34 stresses that the Dionysiaca presents Dionysiac cult not as anti-
quarian, but as a living religion of salvation. Conversely, Liebeschuetz (1996) argues that
the Dionysiaca is not a religious poem.
16 Gigli Piccardi (2003) 45–60 uses the epigram quoted above as the starting point for a
detailed exploration of the syncretism of Nonnus’ two poems, in which she too argues
that the Christian material influenced Nonnus’ portrayal of Dionysus. Spanoudakis
(2013b) argues similarly for the relationship between the story of Lazarus and that of
Tylus; cf. id. (2009) on Lazarus and Staphylus. See further Shorrock (2011) 49–105.
17 Roberts (1985); Gärtner (2014) 987–990.
18 Spanoudakis (2014a) 68–69 relates Nonnus’ technique to Quintilian’s discussion of
paraphrase.
19 Nonnian metrics: Keydell (1959) I, 35*–42*; Whitby (1994); Agosti/Gonnelli (1995–1996).
Sherry (1991) 79–111 argued that the metre of the Paraphrase is less rigorous than that
of the Dion., but metrical deviations are usually connected with a conscious decision to
retain the biblical model; cf. Sherry (1996).
20 E.g. Greco (2008) 15–28 and (2014) 308–311; Spanoudakis (2014a) 17.
218 Whitby
2 Traditions of Biblical Epic
It has been a long-standing view that Greek biblical epic was catapulted into
existence in the mid-fourth century by the Emperor Julian’s so-called Schools
Edict (June 362), directed against Christian schoolteachers. In response,
Apollinarius of Laodicea, perhaps drawing on materials he had created with
his father, converted much of the Bible into classical metres and forms (includ-
ing Platonic dialogues for the Gospels).21 But none of this work survives, and
the scope and impact of Julian’s edict have very probably been seriously over-
estimated.22 More modest examples of Greek biblical poetry from the mid-
fourth century have now come to light in the short Christian poems of the
Bodmer papyrus, which include the Vision of Dorotheus and paraphrases of
Old Testament episodes, probably intended initially for the author’s imme-
diate Christian community, though with some indications of a wider evan-
gelizing spirit.23 Of the three major extant Greek writers, who cluster in the
mid-fifth century, Nonnus, as we have seen, worked in Alexandria, while the
anonymous author of the Psalm paraphrase was another Egyptian writing
for a patron in Constantinople.24 The Empress Eudocia may have composed
both her (lost) biblical epics on the Octateuch and the prophets Zachariah
and Daniel and her extant biblical centos (which redeploy Homeric lines and
half-lines to narrate biblical stories)25 in Constantinople, but more probably
wrote them in Jerusalem in her later years.26 Despite their proximity in date
and significant linguistic parallels between the two poems of Nonnus and
the Psalm paraphrase,27 the approach of the two works to the biblical text is
quite different: Nonnus greatly expands and elaborates John’s Gospel, whereas
the Psalm paraphrase keeps close to the model, line by line.28 Nonnus is
21 Kaster (1988) 242–243.

22 McLynn (2014) esp. 130 on the Apollinarii; doubts already expressed by Agosti (2001)
67–71.
23 Agosti (2001b) 71–74 and (2009a).
24 Ps.-Ap. proem. 4; Agosti (2001b) 87; Faulkner (2014) 195 n. 3.
25 See further n. 65 below.
26 Photius, Bibl. codd. 183–184 (II, 195–199 Henry), for the biblical epics. Eudocia also wrote
a three-book poem on St Cyprian, partially extant, for which Livrea (1998b) suggested a
dating of 438–439. On dating the centos, see Whitby (2007) 207–209 with bibliography
there cited; Al. Cameron (1982) esp. 254–289, remains full of insights, now updated (2016)
56–80; also Whitby (2013) 207–210.
27 Identified by Golega (1960) 93–119, who argued that the Psalm paraphrast knew the work
of Nonnus. Recent scholars are more equivocal, e.g. De Stefani (2008).
28 However, Faulkner (2014) argues that the two were not so different in the view of late
antique commentators.
distinctive too in his strict metrical refinement, which is not observed in the
Psalm paraphrase or Eudocia’s poem on St Cyprian.29 However, recent scholar-
ship has cogently argued for conscious choice on the part of these Christian
poets, as also in the case of Gregory of Nazianzus at the end of the fourth cen-
tury, to remain outside ‘modern’ trends in metrics.30
Among Latin biblical poets, the earliest was Juvencus, a Spaniard who ren-
dered the Gospels into hexameters in the time of Constantine,31 but his suc-
cessors belong to an Italian or specifically Roman context. The learned Proba
wrote her Virgilian centos probably for a Roman senatorial audience in the
mid-fourth century,32 while the more shadowy Sedulius, although associated
with Greece in a biographical note transmitted with his manuscripts, more
probably wrote his verse Carmen Paschale and its prose paraphrase, the Opus
Paschale, in an Italian milieu in the second quarter of the fifth century.33 And
Arator recited his poem based on the Acts of the Apostles at the church of St
Peter ad Vincula in Rome in 544.34
These Latin writers all focus on the New Testament Gospels and Acts,
although Sedulius in his first book surveys Old Testament evidence for Christ’s
power,35 while the centonists, Proba and Eudocia, begin from the Old Testament
theme of God’s plan.36 Individual psalms, which were of course in verse in
the Hebrew original and were central to Christian worship, also invited poetic
29 Agosti/Gonnelli (1995–1996). Greater awareness of Nonnian metrics is, however, discern-
ible in Eudocia’s apologia for her centos (ibid. 319–320).
30 Agosti/Gonnelli (1995–1996) 405–48; ‘false quantities’ in Gregory: Al. Cameron (2004b)
338–339 = (2016) 171–172; Nonnus and the Psalm paraphrase: De Stefani (2008), emphasiz-
ing the Callimachean metrics of the Psalm paraphrase by contrast with the archaizing
manner of Eudocia. See also Magnelli in this volume.
31 Jerome, On Famous Men 84, quoted by Green (2006) 1. Jerome describes Juvencus’ ren-
dering as ‘almost word for word’ (paene ad verbum): discussion Green (2006) 43–47, cf.
Faulkner (2014) esp. 199 f.
32 A date between 354 and 370 has the strongest scholarly support. Extensive bibliog-
raphy on Proba’s identity and date is captured by Curran (2012) 328; note in particular
Al. Cameron (2011) 327–337, with Kelly (2013a) 32 n. 84. Curran (2012) 330–333 locates
Proba’s audience in the literary salons of Rome, analysed by Al. Cameron (2011) 353–420.
On the Cento of Proba—of which a new edition has recently been published by Lucarini/
Fassina (2015)—and its reception see Schottenius Cullhed (2015).
33 Green (2006) 135–143.
34 Green (2006) 251–252, 391–392; Gärtner (2014) 996–997.
35 1.103–241; cf. Green (2006) 162, 167–169.
36 Homerocentones 1–205 (Schembra 2007a, 5–17); Proba 1–332 (Schenkl 1888, 569–589). The
similar plan supports the view that Eudocia was aware of Proba’s work: Whitby (2013) 209.
220 Whitby
paraphrase.37 And Latin Old Testament paraphrases have fared better than
Greek: we have a substantial, but nevertheless incomplete, Latin Heptateuch,
probably dating from the first part of the fifth century and incorrectly attrib-
uted to Cyprian,38 while the roughly contemporary Alethia of Claudius Marius
Victorinus, also incomplete, dealt with the Genesis story up to the death of
Abraham.39 Finally Avitus of Vienne in the first decade of the sixth century
composed five books in hexameters covering aspects of the Old Testament
story from Genesis to the Exodus from Egypt, envisaged as the archetype for
the Christian Fall and Redemption.40
Below, however, in order to keep Nonnus’ paraphrase centre-stage, I consider
the miracle of the raising of Lazarus, a favourite theme, as also in homilies,41
but for which the only biblical source is the Gospel of John, chapter 11. Four
varied treatments of this episode survive in Juvencus, Sedulius, Eudocia and
Nonnus.
3 John’s Account of the Raising of Lazarus
John’s locates this final miracle of Jesus within the context of the Jews’ grow-
ing hostility: chapter 7 opens with the statement that Jesus walked in Galilee,
because in Judaea the Jews sought to kill him (7:1). The next three chapters
recount a series of confrontations between Jesus and the Jews, whenever he
appeared in Jerusalem, culminating (10:31) in the Jews taking up stones against
him and Jesus’ retreat beyond the Jordan (10:40).42
Lazarus’ illness in Bethany is reported to Jesus in a message from Lazarus’
sisters Mary and Martha (11:1–3). Jesus realizes that Lazarus’ illness is a means
37 Paulinus of Nola (353/355–431) wrote paraphrases of three psalms (Poems 7, 8, 9 on

Psalms 1, 2 and 137 respectively), as well as his Laus Sancti Iohannis which paraphrases
Luke 1: Green (2006) 146–148.
38 Ed. Peiper (1891). The work originally included all the historical books of the Old
Testament: Roberts (1985) 92–96; Green (2006) 151–152.
39 Roberts (1985) 96–99, 102: the fourth and last book is lost, so the work currently ends with
the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah; Gärtner (2014) 995–996.
40 Roberts (1985) 99–104; Gärtner (2014) 996.
41 Baldwin (1996) 93–94, cf. Spanoudakis (2014a) 21–22, also 87–92. Caprara (2000) discusses
a ninth-century epigram on Lazarus that may well draw on Nonnus; see also Spanoudakis
(2014a) 26–28.
42 Carroll and Prickett (1997) 410–413 relate anti-Jewish polemic in John’s Gospel to the
period of conflict between Jews and Christians following the Roman war of 66–70 ad
that destroyed Jewish power in Palestine.
to enable the Son of God to be glorified (11:4) but, despite his love for all three
siblings, lingers two more days (11:5–6), before taking the decision to go, dis-
missing warnings from the disciples (11:7–10). His remark that Lazarus is asleep
is misunderstood by the disciples to mean that he is recovering, until Jesus tells
them bluntly that he is dead (Λάζαρος ἀπέθανεν, 11:14); Jesus says he is glad for
the disciples’ sake that he was not there, so that they may believe, and exhorts
them to go with him (11:11–15). Thomas Didymus urges them to go, so that
they may die with him (11:16). On arriving, Jesus finds that Lazarus has been
buried for four days (11:17). John here notes that Bethany is fifteen stades from
Jerusalem, and that many of the Jews came to comfort Mary and Martha (11:18–
19). Hearing of Jesus’ arrival, Martha runs out to meet him, while Mary remains
in the house (11:20). Martha tells Jesus that Lazarus would not have died had
he been there, but she knows that even now God will grant whatever Jesus
asks (11:21–22). Jesus tells her Lazarus will rise again, and when Martha takes
this as a reference to the resurrection responds, ‘I am the resurrection and the
life’ (11:25–26). Asked whether she believes that anyone who believes in him
will not die, Martha asserts her belief that he is Christ (11:26–27). Martha then
secretly informs Mary, who comes to meet Jesus outside the town; the Jews
who were in the house follow, thinking she is going to Lazarus’ grave (11:28–31).
Mary falls at Jesus’ feet and reiterates Martha’s point that Lazarus would not
have died if Jesus had been there (11:32). Troubled at her weeping and that of
the Jews, Jesus asks where Lazarus has been laid and they invite him to come
(11:33–34). Jesus weeps (ἐδάκρυσεν ὁ Ἰησοῦς, 11:35). Amidst comments from the
Jews on the depth of his emotion and the suggestion that he might have pre-
vented this death (11:36–37), Jesus goes to Lazarus’ tomb in a cave blocked by
a stone (11:38). Jesus orders the stone to be removed, but Martha warns him
that the body will stink after four days (11:39). Jesus reminds her that she must
believe; the stone is taken away: Jesus lifts his eyes to heaven and gives thanks
to God for hearing him and summons Lazarus from the cave (11:40–43). Lazarus
emerges, his hands and feet bound with grave-cloths (κειρίαις) and his face
bound with a napkin (σουδαρίῳ); Jesus orders him to be freed (11:44). Many of
the Jews who witnessed the miracle believed, but others returned and reported
to the Pharisees what Jesus had done (11:45–46).
The chapter concludes with the Jews’ reaction: in a council Caiaphas the
high priest pronounces that Jesus must die and plans are made to kill him
(11:47–53). Jesus leaves with his disciples for Ephraim, close to the desert (11:54).
As the Passover approaches people from the country go to Jerusalem to purify
themselves (11:55); Jesus is sought, and a command given that anyone who
knows where he is should give him up (11:56–57). In chapter 12 Jesus returns
to Bethany for a meal with Lazarus and his sisters; Mary anoints his feet with
222 Whitby
costly spikenard, and is criticized by Judas Iscariot for extravagance (12:1–9).

On the next day Jesus enters Jerusalem on an ass, greeted by the people waving
palms and shouting ‘Hosanna’, acknowledging the miracle of Lazarus (12:12–18).
John’s narrative is remarkable for the initial and concluding emphasis on
Jewish hostility, further reiterated in the course of the narrative (11:8–10, 16,
37) and for Jesus’ portentous pronouncements (4, 9–10, 25–26, 40). The narra-
tive style is simple and direct, supplying essential information about locations
(1, 6, 18, 20, 30) and identity (1), but also foreshadowing (2) Mary’s anointing
Jesus’ feet and wiping them with her hair at his final meal in Bethany (12:3). In
authorial comments John notes Jesus’ love for the three (5)—a point picked up
in the Jews’ comment at 36—, explains the disciples’ misunderstanding (13)
and notes Jesus’ distress when Mary weeps at his feet (33, cf. 38);43 the simplic-
ity of verse 35 ‘Jesus wept’ is especially effective. But the bulk of the narrative
consists of direct speech: thirty of the forty-six verses of the core Lazarus story
include direct speech. The longest exchange is that between Martha and Jesus
at their meeting outside the town (21–27). Jesus has the most direct speech in
the form of pronouncements (4, 11) direct injunctions and questions (7, 34, 39,
43, 44), responses to the disciples (9–10, 14–15) and to the two sisters (23, 25–26,
40), and his prayer to God before he summons Lazarus from the tomb (41–42).
But all the participants in the drama utter some words: the disciples (8, 12, 16),
Martha (21–22, 24, 27–28, 39), Mary (32) and the Jews who watch (31, 36–37)—
except for Lazarus, who strikingly remains silent even after Jesus has given the
order for the stifling grave-clothes to be removed.
4 Lazarus in the Latin Epics: Juvencus and Sedulius
Key features of Juvencus’ handling of the Lazarus story (4.306–402) have been
identified by Roger Green. Juvencus based his Evangeliorum Libri Quattuor
primarily on Matthew, together with Luke, and this is the last of only three pas-
sages which he drew from John, inserting it after Christ’s sayings in Matthew
25 and immediately before the Jewish conspiracy against Jesus (Matthew 26),
the latter as in John.44 Green highlights economy and avoidance of metrical
inelegance as guiding principles for Juvencus:45 the former is manifest in this
passage by the omission of John’s careful topographical details and some of his
43 John uses the rare verb ἐμβριμάομαι (‘be deeply moved’, LSJ, s.v. II) in these two verses. See
Spanoudakis (2014a) 248 on the text of the Gospel at this point.
44 Green (2006) 25–26. Edition of Juvencus: Huemer (1891). On Juvencus see Gärtner (2014)
991–993.
45 Green (2006) 31.
comments on the reactions of the Jews.46 But although more functional direct
speeches are omitted (3, 28, 34, 39), Juvencus carefully retains the conversa-
tions that reflect the warmth of Jesus’ feelings towards Mary and Martha, as
well as Thomas’s concern about the threat from the Jews (16).47
Juvencus, in narrating how the messenger is sent to Jesus, opens (306–307)
with a striking reconfiguration of his model48 that subsumes the first two
verses of John’s narrative:
talia dum loquitur, scissos lacerata capillos

pro fratris morbo iustis soror anxia curis
. . .
While he is speaking such words, her cropped hair rent

his sister distraught with well-founded care at her brother’s sickness
. . .
The passionate (but unnamed) Mary leads off the narrative, her cropped and
dishevelled hair manifesting her frantic anxiety for her sick brother and at the
same time signalling the importance of her (presumably long) hair in her rela-
tionship with Jesus through the act anticipated by John at 11:2 when she wiped
his feet with it.49 Mary’s devotion is presented (310–312) as the key to Jesus’
affection for the family (John 11:5):
nam fuerat mulier meritis accepta benignis, 310

obsequio cuius fratemque domumque merentem
amplexus pleno Christus retinebat amore.
For she was a woman welcomed for her kindly services, 310
through whose devotion Christ50 embraced her brother
and deserving household and held them in the fullness of love.
The choice and position of amplexus (‘embraced’, 312) is particularly effective,

reinforced by the framing of the last phrase with the words pleno . . . amore.
Juvencus thus changes the dynamic of the Gospel story to make Mary central.
46 Green (2006) 36.

47 Green (2006) 83.
48 Green (2006) 31.
49 John 12:3. See Greco (2008) 46–51 on divergences between the Gospels as to the identity of
the woman who performed this act.
50 Christ is the only person named (at 309, 312, 314) in this passage.
224 Whitby
Juvencus’ messenger (313–315) is more graphic than John’s (1:3):
nuntius adveniens perfert, extrema iacere

dilectum Christo iuvenem per tristia morbi
et leti et vitae confinia summa tenentem.51 315
The messenger arriving says that the youth beloved by Christ

is lying in extremity, through the harshness of disease,
grasping the utmost limits of death and life. 315
But Jesus’ speech of response at 317–320 is quite close to its model in John
11:4, as is Jesus’ second exchange with the disciples (John 11:11–15) which fol-
lows immediately (321–330).52 Thomas’s call that they should all go to die with
Lazarus (John 11:16) is clarified by explicit mention of the threat from the Jews
(332), a point raised earlier in the Gospel text by the disciples in general (11.8).
This exemplifies Juvencus’ economy,53 but also his playing down of this theme,
which is mentioned only here—and by the disciple with a reputation for doubt
rather than the narrator.
Juvencus (4.333–334) is succinct in conveying the narrative of John 11:17, that
Jesus arrived to find that Lazarus had been buried for four days, but then elabo-
rates (334–335) alliteratively on the sisters’ grief (John 11:19):
mersas atris de morte tenebris

germanas luctus lacrimosaque tecta tenebant. 335
lamentation and a tearful household

held the sisters submerged in black shadows of death. 335
They are comforted by ‘leading Jews and dear relations’ (Iudaeae gentis pro-
ceres carique propinqui, 337), modifying John’s statement (11:19) which refers
only to ‘many of the Jews’. Martha dramatically runs to meet Jesus, abandoning
the house and her sad sister (338–339) and appeals to him from afar (procul,
51 Huemer (1891) ad loc. suggests that the language of this line draws on Ovid, Met. 7.706
quod teneat lucis, teneat confinia noctis (of Aurora).
52 The first, omitted, conversation (John 11:7–10) relates to the disciples’ anxiety about the
hostility of the Jews. Juvencus 4.329 cernitis absentem longe quod cuncta videre (‘you see
him far away because you will see everything’) seems to correspond to John’s ‘I am glad
for your sake that I was not there, to the intent you may believe’ (11:15). On the Gospel text
used by Juvencus, see Green (2006) 385–390.
53 So Green (2006): n. 45 above.
340). Her speech to Jesus slightly modifies John 11:22 by omitting explicit refer-
ence to God: nam quicquid poscis, certum est tibi posse venire (‘for whatever
you ask, it is certain that it can come to you’, 342). Jesus’ statement ‘I am the
resurrection and the life’ (John 11:25) is rendered more portentous by Juvencus’
introductory Christus item sancto depromit pectore vocem (‘Christ drew forth
a voice from his holy breast’, 348), while the vivid horrida non umquam con-
tinget limina mortis (‘will never touch the horrid thresholds of death’, 353)
renders John’s straightforward ‘He that believeth . . . shall never die’ (11:26).
Martha’s words to her sister Mary at home (John 11:28) are converted into indi-
rect speech, but John’s ‘secretly’ is extended: admonuit tacito designans omnia
nutu (‘she warned, indicating all with silent nod’, 361). Again Juvencus does not
report their words directly (363–364), unlike John (11:31), but direct speech is
resumed with Mary’s lament that Lazarus would not have died had Jesus been
there (John 11:32, cf. 365–368). The narrative of Jesus asking about and being
taken to the tomb (John 11:33–39) proceeds rapidly (369–371), with John’s com-
ments on the Jews (11.36–37) omitted, though Juvencus (370–371) lingers over
the finality of death:
quo condita nuper 370

membra forent animae volucris spoliata calore.
in which, his limbs were 370

recently laid, deprived of the warmth of the winged soul.
But Martha’s voice ‘lashes’ the breezes (at Marthae talis vox verberat auras, 375)
and four lines are given to her warning about the smell of the corpse after four
days (376–379), with three for Jesus’ reply (381–384),54 and a further three for
his appeal to God (387–389, cf. John 11:41–42). The climactic call to Lazarus
gains emphasis from a rare reference to Jesus’ location (390–391), not taken
from John:
tumuli mox limine in ipso 390

restitit adverso conplens cava saxa clamore.55
then on the very threshold of the tomb 390

he stood, filling the hollow rocks with his confronting shout.
54 Again introduced by depromit (‘drew forth’), 380, cf. 348.

55 Huemer (1891) ad loc. notes the linguistic similarity to Aen. 3.566 ter scopuli clamorem
inter cava saxa dedere, describing Scylla and Charybdis.
226 Whitby
John’s ‘Lazarus come forth’ (11:43) is also extended (392–393):
Lazare, sopitis redeuntem suscipe membris

en animam tuque ipse foras te prome sepulchro.
Lazarus, take up, lo, in your sleeping limbs your returning

soul, and you yourself bring yourself forth out from the tomb.
The narrative is then concluded rapidly (394–402), keeping close to the Gospel
text up to verse 46. Here Juvencus does include John’s account (11:45–46) of the
reaction of the Jewish onlookers, denoting the Pharisees as ‘proud’ (superbis,
401), but not otherwise suggesting hostility.
Juvencus, while broadly following the sequence of the Gospel text, com-
pletely changes the tone of John’s account. The constant menacing hostility of
the Jews is replaced by a strongly emotional and dramatic version—signalled
by that initial scissos lacerata capillos—which plays on the warmth of Jesus’
relationship with the family, the terrible grief of the sisters, their vehement
responses, the horror of death, the portentousness of Jesus’ pronouncements.
The effect is achieved by the use of evocative adjectives and forceful verbs,
together with interlocking phrases that enhance the meaning by repetition of
closely similar ideas.56 However, the power of John’s very simple statements—
‘Jesus wept’, ‘Lazarus, come forth’—is sacrificed.
Like Juvencus, Sedulius in his Carmen Paschale drew on all the Gospels,57
but his approach to the Lazarus story is altogether different. Locating it imme-
diately after the healing of a blind man and before Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem,
he deals with it in twenty lines (4.271–290):
Bethaniaeque solum repetens intrarat; ibique

Lazarus occidua tumulatus sorte iacebat
iam quarto sine luce die claususque sepulchri
marmore corruptum tabo exalabat odorem.
flebant germanae, flebant populatio praesens, 275
flebat et Omnipotens, sed corpore, non deitate
exanimos artus illa pro parte dolebat,
qua moriturus erat; lacrimis implevit amicum,
maiestate deum. quid credere, Martha, moraris?
quidve, Maria, gemis? Christum dubitabis, an unum 280
56 Cf. Green (2006) 36–43, esp. 41–43 on Juvencus’ style.

57 Ed. Huemer (1885). Green (2006) 180–183 provides a useful summary of the miracles
described in Books 3–4 and their sources in the Gospels. On Sedulius see Gärtner (2014)
994–995.
possit ab infernis hominem revocare cavernis,

qui dabit innumeras post funera surgere turbas?
ergo ubi clamantis Domini sonuit tuba dicens
‘Lazare, perge foras’: magno concussa pavore
Tartara dissiliunt, herebi patuere recessus, 285
et tremuit letale chaos, mortisque profundae
lex perit, atque anima proprias repente medullas
cernitur ante oculos vivens adstare cadaver.
postque sepulchralem tamquam recreatus honorem
ipse sibi moriens et postumus extat et haeres. 290
He had entered Bethany, seeking again its soil; and there

Lazarus was lying interred through his perishable lot
already on the fourth day without light, and enclosed in the tomb’s
marble exhaled a smell corrupted by putrefaction.
His sisters were weeping, the people present were weeping, 275
even the Almighty was weeping, but with his body not with his Godhead
was he grieving the lifeless limbs, for that part
in which he was destined to die; with tears he satisfied his friend
By the majesty of God. Why do you hesitate, Martha, to believe?
And why, Mary, do you groan? Did you doubt Christ, if he could 280
call back one man from the infernal caverns,
he who will grant that innumerable throngs rise after death?
Therefore when the sounding trumpet of the Lord’s shout called
‘Lazarus, come forth’, struck with great panic
Tartarus leaps apart, the recesses of Erebus lay open 285
and deadly Chaos trembled, and the law of deepest
death perished, and as the breath crept o’er58 its own marrow
is seen before their eyes alive the standing cadaver.
And after the rite of burial, as it were recreated,
himself dying for himself, late-born stands he forth and heir. 290
Circumstantial detail is here minimal: the characters are reduced to Jesus,

Lazarus, Mary and Martha, and the unspecified mourning populatio praesens
(275). Background details like the Jewish threat59 and the disciples’ anxiety are
58 Repente, from repo (‘I creep’) is not usually transitive and the correction repetente is found
in several manuscripts. Van der Laan (1993) 146–147 notes the parallel with Lucan 6.753 et
nova desuetis subrepens vita medullis (‘and new life stealing over the unaccustomed mar-
row’), also in the context of revival of a corpse: see further below.
59 Sedulius reserves his attacks on the Jews for Book 5, which describes Christ’s passion and
resurrection: Green (2006) 203.
228 Whitby
gone. The location is simply the tomb of Lazarus at Bethany, with no dramatic
to and fro. Martha’s concern that the body will smell foul is now presented
as a fact (274), tangible proof that Lazarus is truly dead and decaying. Lines
276–279 on Jesus weeping (John 11:36) linger over the distinction between
the divine and human natures of Christ and his passibility, a topic central to
contemporary Christological disputation.60 Jesus’ conversations with Mary
and Martha are replaced by a tricolon of questions that rise to a climax with
the third on his power to overcome death (279–282). But the simple call to
Lazarus (John 11:43), though heralded by a sonorous introduction, is retained
(283–284).61 The amazing sight of Lazarus emerging in his grave-clothes (John
11:44) is replaced by classical images that dramatize the momentous conquest
of death, culminating in the sight of the corpse standing alive (284–288). The
final couplet (289–290) departs from the Gospel text to reflect on the signifi-
cance of Lazarus’ revival.
The writings of another Spaniard, Prudentius, who was born in 348 and lived
on into the fifth century, are a clear influence on Sedulius.62 There are some
striking linguistic parallels with Prudentius’ account of the Lazarus miracle in
his Apotheosis (742–781), a didactic hexameter poem that drew on the Gospel
stories in arguing against heretical sects and other opponents of the divinity of
Christ. Prudentius opens his version with Jesus’ words procede sepulcro | Lazare
(‘Come forth from the tomb, Lazarus’, 742–743) and proceeds to enquire of
Lazarus what voice it was that stirred him from the dead. Sedulius stays closer
to the Gospel text in rendering Jesus’ words to Lazarus (4.284), but at 288 his
vivid language at the line-end unmistakably draws on Prudentius, Apotheosis
755–756:
nec mora, funereus revolutis rupibus horror 755

evomit exequias gradiente cadavere vivas.
Straightway the stones roll back and the fearsome grave 755
sends forth a living corpse, the dead man walking.63
Sedulius’ choice of the classical terms Tartarus, Erebus and Chaos (285–286)
is also paralleled in Prudentius, both in the Apotheosis where he refers to
Charybdis (747) and Taenarum (749), but also more closely in his lyric Liber
Cathemerinon 9, where, in describing Christ’s miracles, he speaks of his enter-
60 Green (2006) 239–244 argues for a specifically anti-Nestorian stance.

61 Green (2006) 190–191 notes reduction in direct speech as a general characteristic of
Sedulius.
62 Cf. Green (2006) 148–150.
63 Trans. Thomson (1949).
ing Tartarus (71, cf. Sedulius 285) and the law being reversed (lege versa, 75),
which seems to be rephrased by Sedulius in lines 286–287. In the Apotheosis
743–751 Lazarus is questioned, in a similar manner to Sedulius’ questioning of
Mary and Martha (279–282). Finally the issue of fragrance and stench is elabo-
rated by Prudentius who, in contrast to Sedulius (274), urges the sisters to undo
Lazarus’ sweetly spiced gravebands, asserting that there is no stench of bodily
corruption (Apoth. 757–759). Sedulius draws on Prudentius’ polemical and rhe-
torical style as well as his language.
Attention has been drawn by van der Laan to linguistic similarities between
Sedulius’ Lazarus narrative and Lucan’s account of Erichtho’s revivification of
a corpse (6.642–776).64 Sedulius picks up phrases from various parts of Lucan’s
long account, and Lucan’s cadence (6.727) vivo serpente cadaver is linguisti-
cally and rhythmically closer to Sedulius 4.288 vivens adstare cadaver than
is Prudentius, although the context in Lucan is different. By using language
derived from a grisly pagan ritual, Sedulius highlights by contrast the sublimity
of the Christian resurrection.
5 Cento Writers: Proba and Eudocia
Faltonia Betitia Proba did not include John’s Lazarus miracle in her rendition
of the Bible in Virgilian centos.65 Only the last 360 lines of her 694-line poem
deal with material from the Gospels,66 and she does not much draw on John’s
Gospel.67 But Proba’s writing may have inspired the Empress Eudocia, wife
of Theodosius II, who undertook a similar project in Greek in the mid-fifth
century.68 Both were highly connected women and both use the cento form,
previously more often deployed for frivolous poetry,69 for the serious pur-
pose of elevating the biblical story by relating it to the foundational texts of
64 Van der Laan (1993) 145–147.

65 On Proba, see n. 32 above. On the technique of cento writing, which reconfigures lines
and half-lines from Virgil or Homer, see Schnapp (1992); Curran (2012) 325–327; Kelly
(2013a) 31–34.
66 Introduced at 334 by the phrase maius opus moveo (‘This is a greater work I set in motion’,
trans. West 2003), Virgil’s tag that marks his embarkation on the second, Iliadic part of the
Aeneid (7.45): noted by Schnapp (1992) 111 and Curran (2012) 334.
67 Schenkl’s CSEL edition gives source citations. Schnapp (1992) 18 suggested that Proba’s
main source is Matthew, cf. Curran (2012) 333.
68 Schnapp (1992) 119 accepts the dependence of Eudocia on Proba, though he muddles
Eudocia with the earlier Eudoxia, who married the Emperor Arcadius in 395 (PLRE 2.410).
See further Agosti (2001b) 74–85.
69 On late antique secular centos, see McGill (2005).
230 Whitby
classical literature and education.70 But a more tangible link is that a prefatory
dedication to Proba’s poem indicates that a fine calligraphic version of it was
sent to the eastern Emperor Arcadius at some point after his marriage in 395:71
hence we know that Proba’s poem was available at the eastern court around
the beginning of the fifth century. And Eudocia’s centos follow the same plan
as Proba’s in setting material from the Gospels against the background of an
Old Testament sequence delineating God’s plan for man’s salvation.72
Three distinct versions of the Homeric centos survive, respectively 2,354
lines, 1,948 lines and finally 622, 653 and 738 lines for the third and shortest
recension, which itself falls into three distinct ‘redactional states’ in the view of
Rocco Schembra, whose 2007 Corpus Christianorum edition is the first full pub-
lication of all three recensions.73 The current scholarly view is that the longest
version is Eudocia’s, while all the later ones were written with knowledge of
the earlier versions,74 and the three versions of the third redaction by the same
hand.75 Accordingly I here consider the long version, 70 lines in Schembra’s
edition (1236–1306).76
The miracle of Lazarus is placed between the feeding of the five thousand
(John 6:5–14) and the anointing of Jesus in Bethany by Mary, which immedi-
70 Schnapp (1992) explores the dynamics of this relationship; also McGill (2007), Curran
(2012) 333–339, Kelly (2013a) 31–34.
71 Discussion: McGill (2007) with earlier bibliography; Curran (2012) 328–329; Kelly (2013a)
34–35 with n. 95. I now revoke my suggestion (2007, 216) that the Arcadius in question was
a son of Theodosius II and Eudocia.
72 Whitby (2007) 216–217. On the symmetry of the two parts of Proba’s poem, see Schnapp
(1992) 110–112; Curran (2012) 333–334.
73 Schembra (2007a), reviewed at Whitby (2009). Schembra (2006) is an Italian transla-
tion and commentary on the longest version, Schembra (2007b) Italian translation and
commentary on the middle version. Earlier editions: Rey (1998) middle version, with
French translation; Usher (1999) long version; also Usher (1998). I cite total lengths from
Schembra’s 2007 edition; those of Rey and Usher vary slightly.
74 Usher (1999) v, Schembra (2007a) cxxxvii, cf. Whitby (2007) 219 and (2009) 813.
75 Schembra (2007a) clxxxi.
76 Lines 1228–1299 in Usher’s edition. The middle version is of similar length (64 lines) but
differs significantly: see Rey (1998) 372–381, Schembra (2007a) 233–237 with (2007b)
180–185. Christ is presented as Theoclymenus, the mysterious figure who foresees the
bloodbath of the suitors in the second half of the Odyssey, cf. Rey (1998) 197 n. 11 and his
index (540); also Usher (1998) 46. Schembra (2007a) 233 (line 1166) treats this as an epi-
thet rather than a proper name. The three versions of the short recension can be found at
Schembra (2007a) 318–321 (50 lines), 366–369 (44 lines) and 417–420 (46 lines).
ately follows in John’s Gospel too (12:1–9).77 As Schembra notes,78 the centon-
ist, who is of course constrained by the resources at her disposal in the two
Homeric poems, omits two significant elements of John’s version, the opening
sequence (John 11:1–16) in which Jesus debates with the disciples whether to
go into Judaea in view of the hostility of the Jews, and the distinction between
the two sisters of Lazarus, Martha and Mary, who are combined in a single
anonymous female, who speaks ten lines (1243–1253),79 to which Jesus replies
at greater length (1257–1272). The narrative is thus greatly simplified, both
in terms of the location of events and of the personalities involved: the dis-
ciples, as well as the sisters, are entirely eliminated.80 Not only is the context
of Jewish hostility removed, as in Sedulius, but also John’s subtle delineation
of the warm relationship between Jesus and the two sisters of Lazarus, stated
explicitly in the Gospel at 11:5 and depicted through their conversations, which
is also central to Juvencus.
The introductory lines (1236–1240) first link this story to the previous mira-
cle by saying that Jesus remained ‘there’ (ἔνθα),81 eager though he was to move
on, but when the sun rose (1238–1240):
οἷον καὶ τόδ’ ἔρεξε καὶ ἔτλη καρτερὸς ἀνήρ·

ἄνδρα θνητὸν ἐόντα περ εἰς Ἄιδός κεν ἰόντα
αὖθις ἀνεστήσαντο ὑπὸ ζόφου ἠερόεντος.82 1240
Here is the way that strong man acted and the way he endured83
a man even though he was mortal, going to Hades,
he raised up again from under the murky gloom. 1240
77 Lazarus follows the feeding of the five thousand in the middle recension as well, but is
followed by Christ’s entry into Jerusalem. The short versions have different arrangements.
78 Schembra (2006) 344.
79 In the middle version the female speaker is replaced by a male (ἑταῖρος ἀνήρ, 1157).
80 Schembra (2006) 343–344.
81 Schembra (2006) 345–346 discusses the significance of ἔνθα, drawing on material in John’s
account. But to my mind the most natural interpretation is to link lines 1236–1237 with
the end of the preceding narrative of the feeding of the five thousand where the crowd
sleeps when darkness falls (1233–1235). Homeric narrative is regularly punctuated by the
alternation of night and day.
82 See Schembra (2006) 346–347 on textual problems; his text differs from that of Usher
(1999), who used only one late manuscript as the basis of his edition.
83 Here and elsewhere my translations draw on Richmond Lattimore’s translations of the
Homeric poems (Lattimore 1951 and 1965), in this case Od. 4.271.
232 Whitby
The climactic surprise of the Gospel miracle is lost, but the lines indicate the
next theme, since the story is told without using biblical proper names, which
are of course problematical for a cento-writer. The second section of the nar-
rative (1241–1254) contains the eleven-line speech of ‘one of the women, who
knew him well’ (τις ἔειπε γυναικῶν, ἣ σάφα ᾔδη, 1241). Weeping, she reports that
Jesus’ friend is dead (σοι φίλος ὤλεθ’ ἑταῖρος, 1244).84 She expatiates further on
her own grief before clarifying (1247–1249):
καὶ γὰρ ἐμὸς τέθνηκεν ἀδελφέος, οὔ τι κάκιστος,

τέτρατον ἦμαρ ἔην, καὶ τῷ τετέλεστο ἅπαντα,
τύμβος τε στήλη τε· τὸ γὰρ γέρας ἐστὶ θανόντων.
For my brother is dead, who was not in any way wicked,

it was the fourth day, and all was accomplished for him,
the tomb and gravestone: for it is the privilege of the dead.
Lazarus’ sister herself, then, brings the news, and the biblical story is further
telescoped since Jesus learns that Lazarus is already dead, whereas in John he
is first told that Lazarus is sick (11:3), and only on reaching Bethany discovers
that he has been dead for four days (11:17). This information, given in authorial
narrative by John, becomes more emotional in the mouth of the grieving sister.
In the concluding section of her speech (1250–1254), she directly urges Jesus
to raise Lazarus (ὄρνυθι τοῦτον, 1251), asking for pity and pronouncing herself
Jesus’ suppliant (1252). In John’s version it is Mary who falls at Jesus’ feet (11:32),
while this direct appeal goes far beyond the words of Martha to Jesus at John
11:22 ‘For I know, that even now, whatever thou wilt ask of God, God will give
it thee.’85
In the next section (1255–1273), Jesus, struck by grief (1255), makes a long
speech (1257–1272) in which he urges the sister not to grieve and promises to
help. At 1265, with the Homeric formula ὧδε γὰρ ἐξερέω, τὸ δὲ καὶ τετελεσμένον
ἔσται (‘and this also will I tell you and it will be a thing accomplished’, Il. 1.212,
etc.), Jesus bids her stop weeping and declares explicitly that he will save
Lazarus from death (ἐκ θανάτοιο σαώσω, 1272). This presentation differs signifi-
cantly from that of John who reports the sisters’ grief indirectly, by mentioning
84 The whole line is taken from Iliad 17.642, describing the death of Patroclus, also in a
speech (by Ajax). Schembra (2006) 348 notes that Jesus’ affection for Lazarus is men-
tioned by John only in authorial narrative, though four times reiterated (11:3, 5, 11, 36).
85 Cf. Schembra (2006) 347–349 on the fusion of the characters of Mary and Martha in the
Gospel story: it is Mary who is especially close to Jesus, while Martha appeals to Jesus for
help.
that Jews came to comfort them (11:19, 31, 33), while their exchanges with Jesus
reflect their simple faith (11:21–27, 32), and Jesus himself does not show his
grief until he is being taken to Lazarus’ tomb (11:35–36).
The fourth section (1274–1291) narrates the raising of Lazarus, corresponding
to John 11:33–44. Jesus leads on to the tomb and the crowd follow in myriads, ‘as
many as are the leaves and flowers in season’ (1275, based on Il. 2.468 describing
the assembled Achaean army). A subtle adaptation of Odyssey 5.194 (describ-
ing Odysseus and Calypso) introduces an allusion to Christ’s dual nature at
a key moment: 1277 ἷξέν γ’ ἐς σπέος γλαφυρὸν θεὸς ἠδὲ καὶ ἀνήρ (‘he came to
the hollow cavern, God and man’).86 The only two lines of direct speech are
given to Jesus (1281–1282), his command, here spoken from a position close
to Lazarus’ head like a Homeric ghost (1280) that Lazarus rise (ὄρνυθι, μηδ’ ἔτι
κεῖσο, 1281 ~ John 11:43), strengthened by a parenthetical hemistich describing
the onlookers’ awe (σέβας δ’ ἔχεν εἰσορόωντας, 1281). Martha’s concern about the
stench of the corpse (John 11:39–40) is omitted and Lazarus does not appear
in his grave wrappings (John 11:44). Instead attention is focused on the spec-
ulation and amazement of the onlookers (1278, 1281, 1290) and the details of
Lazarus’ physical metamorphosis from a corpse to a living being, which cul-
minate in his leaping across the stone threshold of the tomb to stand in their
midst, before at once turning to follow Jesus (1285–1291).
The final section (1291–1306) is entirely devoted to the response of the
onlookers, which in contrast to the Gospel version (John 11:45–46) is purely
positive—young and old pray with arms outstretched until the sun goes down
(1303–1305), thus framing the miracle within the span of a day (cf. 1237). The
central passage is a long speech (1295–1303) that typifies what each onlooker
said to his neighbour (ὧδε δέ τις εἴπεσκεν ἰδὼν ἐς πλήσιον ἄλλον, 1295), marvel-
ling at the miracle and the divine love that produced it: Schembra observes
that the depiction of the amazement of a ‘chorus’ of onlookers is typical of the
centonist’s technique in other miracles.87 Homer often reports the reaction of
an unnamed observer in this way, but then the practice is rare in epic until
Nonnus, who employs it repeatedly.88 Eudocia is, of course, drawing directly on
Homer, but it is noteworthy that she too chooses this type of speech favoured
by Nonnus.
To sum up: the centos make fundamental changes to the Gospel story of
the raising of Lazarus. John’s short exchanges are replaced by three longer
86 Homer’s initial verb is simply changed from plural to singular, Schembra (2006) 352.
87 Schembra (2006) 354–355.
88 Wifstrand (1933) 144–149; Agosti (2005b) esp. 45–60 (noting its incidence in Ps.-Oppian
and in Latin biblical epic); recent study with intervening bibliography Verhelst (2014b)
37–39, 227–275.
234 Whitby
speeches, by Lazarus’ unnamed sister, by Jesus, who also has two lines of direct
speech when he commands Lazarus to rise up, and by the amazed onlook-
ers. The understated nuances of the Gospel exchanges are replaced by explicit
pronouncements of what will happen and material that is narrated authori-
ally in the Gospel is incorporated into the speeches, which dominate the cento
narrative. The grief of the sister and of Jesus, as well as the amazement created
in the onlookers, are described much more fully than by John.
6 Nonnus
At 188 lines Nonnus’ version in Paraphrase 11 of the Lazarus story of John 11:1–46
is nearly twice as long as its nearest competitor, Juvencus (97 lines).89 Unlike
Juvencus, Nonnus adheres closely to the Gospel text, keeping all the direct
speech and systematically rendering it verse by verse, although John’s verses
30 and 31 are reversed at Par. 11.98–108, probably to render the narrative more
coherent.90 Nonnus also retains the biblical names and even the Hebrew term
‘Rabbi’, used by the disciples in addressing Jesus at John 11:8 (Par. 11.28). But he
freely inserts adjectives and prepositional phrases to enhance vividness and
emotion, elaborating, for example, on the grief brought by Lazarus’ death.91
Nevertheless the simplicity of the Gospel narrative is retained at key moments,
particularly in direct speech. Consequently the narrative pace varies, with the
pronouncements at John 11:12, 23 and 25 each rendered in 1 line,92 and likewise
Jesus’ powerful ‘Lazarus, come forth’ (Λάζαρε, δεῦρο ἔξω, John 11:43 ~ Par. 11.158
89 Spanoudakis (2014a) offers a rich commentary on this book of the Par.
90 Spanoudakis (2014a) 69, rejecting the view that this reflects a difference in Nonnus’ text
of the Gospel. Janssen (1903) attempted to establish the Gospel text used by Nonnus, but
recent critics question whether this is possible, though Nonnus’ version has affinities
with the Syriac recension preserved in Syrus Lewisianus (4th c.): Agosti (2003) 229–239;
91 E.g. Par. 11.64–70, elaborating on John 11:19 on the Jews’ efforts to comfort the grieving
sisters. See also below.
92 John 11:12 κύριε, εἰ κεκοίμηται σωθήσεται ~ Par. 11.43 Λάζαρος εἰ κνώσσει, σόος ἔσσεται; 11:23
ἀναστήσεται ὁ ἀδελφός σου ~ Par. 11.79 γνωτὸς σὸς παλίνορσος ἐγείρεται; John 11:25 ἐγώ εἰμι
ἡ ἀνάστασις καὶ ἡ ζωή ~ Par. 11.84 ζωὴ ἐγὼ γενόμην καὶ ἀνάστασις. But Jesus’ statement to
the disciples ‘Lazarus is dead’ (John 11:14) is considerably expanded: Par. 11.49–50 Λάζαρον
εὔνασε πότμος ὁμοίιος, ἄγριον ἄλλον | ὕπνον ἄγων (‘a common fate has put Lazarus to rest,
bringing another savage sleep’).
ἔξιθι, Λάζαρε, δεῦρο). But the climax of the story, the emergence of Lazarus from
the tomb (John 11:44) is expanded to more than twenty lines (Par. 11.158–180).93
Like Juvencus, Nonnus develops (3–9) the theme of Mary’s close relation-
ship with Jesus and her act of wiping his feet with her hair (John 11:2):
Μαρίη δ’ ἐφατίζετο κείνη

Χριστοῦ καλλιέθειρα θεήδοκος, ἣ πόδας αὐτοῦ
ἀμφοτέρους ἤλειψε μύρου θυόεντος ἐέρσῃ 5
καὶ πλοκάμοις ἀπέμαξε καὶ ἀμβροσίων ἀπὸ ταρσῶν
ἀκροφανὴς ἐδίηνε διάβροχον ἰκμάδι χαίτην,
Χριστοῦ καλλιέθειρα θεήδοκος, ἧς τότε θερμῷ
νουσαλέῳ βαρυγούνος ἱμάσσετο σύγγονος ἀτμῷ.
That Mary was called

God-receiver of Christ, she of the lovely hair, who anointed
both his feet with the dew of fragrant myrrh 5
and wiped it off with her locks and from his immortal toes
her curls protruding94 she wetted her mane with its moisture until it was
soaked,
God-receiver of Christ, she of the lovely hair; at that time with hot
steam of sickness was her kinsman lashed, making him heavy-kneed.
Amidst Nonnus’ abundant adjectives,95 the two key ones describing Mary’s
lovely hair and her receptivity to Jesus are repeated in the half-line that art-
fully frames the description of her act (4, 8).96 The extravagance of her gesture
is suggested by her anointing of both Jesus’ feet (5), which are immortal (6),
while by her act of obeisance in wiping off the ointment with her hair until it
was soaked (7) she literally ‘receives God’ by taking up the myrrh which had
touched his body. This view is expressed in Cyril of Alexandria’s commentary
on John, which Nonnus certainly knew:97 Cyril suggests that Mary was ‘seek-
ing to fasten to herself more really the spiritual blessing which comes from his
93 Cf. De Stefani (2002) 10 for expansion at crucial moments such as this triumph over death.
94 See Spanoudakis (2014a) 153–154 for this interpretation of ἀκροφανής.
95 There are no adjectives in John’s account in 11:2.
96 A different effect, of emotion and urgency, is achieved by the repetition of ‘whom you
love’ (ὃν φιλέεις) at Par. 11.13, 14 from the message of the sisters to Jesus at John 11:3 ‘he
whom thou lovest (ὃν φιλεῖς) is sick.’
97 See n. 4 above. Spanoudakis (2014a) 18–19 notes that Cyril’s commentary on John 11 is lost,
but reconstructed from citations elsewhere.
236 Whitby
holy Flesh’.98 Mary’s prostration and the language of anointing have baptismal
connotations, even though free-flowing female hair is in other contexts associ-
ated with maenadic fury and wantonness.99
In rendering verse 5 of John, describing Jesus’ love for the family, Nonnus
introduces an idea not in the Gospel, that Jesus also appreciated their
hospitality,100 calling the sisters ‘hospitable’ (φιλοξείνους, 19; also 66). Later
Jesus calls Lazarus φίλτατος ἡμείων ξεινηδόκος (‘our beloved receiver of strang-
ers’, 40) and ξεινοδόκον Χριστοῖο τὸ δεύτερον (‘guest-receiver of Christ for the
second time’, 54), the latter in an expansion of John 11:15 in which Nonnus
explicitly states that the disciples will have faith by seeing the dead Lazarus
again touching the table and welcoming Christ.
A similar patterning of cognate compound adjectives reinforces the effect
of Mary’s grief in Nonnus’ expansive rendering of John 11:31–32 (Par. 11.98–117):
Mary is said to be ‘fond of weeping’ (φιλοδάκρυον, 103) and ‘deeply tearful’
(βαρύδακρυς, 109). But her act of obeisance in falling at Jesus’ feet (John 11:32) is
expanded by Nonnus (109–115) to echo his rendering of verse 2 (Mary’s anoint-
ing of Jesus’ feet):
καὶ Μαρίη βαρύδακρυς ὅτε σχεδὸν ἵκετο χώρου,

ᾗχι μένων ποδὸς ἴχνος ἀκαμπέος εἶχεν Ἰησοῦς, 110
αὐτὸν ὅπως ἐνόησεν, ἱμασσομένη φρένα κέντρῷ
πρηνὴς αὐτοκύλιστος ὑπέρ δαπέδοιο πεσοῦσα
πὰρ ποσὶν ἀμβροσίοις ἐπεκέκλιτο. μυρομένη δέ
ἰκμάδι πενθαλέῃ ζαθέους ἐδιήνατο ταρσούς
μῦθον ἐρευγομένη βεβιημένον· 115
And Mary deeply tearful, when she came near the place
where Jesus remained keeping the step of his foot unmoved, 110
when she saw him, her mind lashed by a goad,
face down rolling herself over falling on the ground
she rested at his immortal feet. And melting into tears,
with the moisture of grief she wetted his holy toes
blurting out a forced word. 115
98 Trans. Randell (1885) 110; Cyr. In Jo. II, 263.24–25 Pusey ζητοῦσα τὴν ἐκ τῆς ἁγίας σαρκὸς
πνευματικὴν εὐλογίαν προσηλῶσαι πρὸς ἑαυτὴν γνησιώτερον (corrected from γνησιέστερον,
which I take to be a mistake in Pusey’s edition).
99 Spanoudakis (2014a) 74, 150–151, following Greco (2008). Nonnus’ ἀκροφανής (‘her curls
protruding’, 7) interpolates a more modest picture.
100 For this theme, see Spanoudakis (2014a) 167. It links the Lazarus story with Callimachus’
Hecale: id. (2009).
The overlap of vocabulary between lines 113–114 and 6–7 is surely deliberate,101
while the verb ‘lash’ (ἱμάζομαι), at the same position in the line, denotes first
Lazarus’ violent pain (9) then Mary’s violent emotion (111). But the decorous
‘with curls protruding’ (ἀκροφανής, 7) is in this passage replaced by the passion-
ate ‘face down, rolling herself over’ (πρηνὴς αὐτοκύλιστος, 112). Cyril comments
here that Jesus did not talk with Mary as he had with Martha (John 11:23–27),
not wishing to reprove one ‘in an agony of mourning’ and ‘intoxicated by grief’,
but was himself moved and succumbed to tears.102 Nonnus’ vivid account of
Mary’s anguish similarly anticipates Jesus’ emotional response.
In describing the moment when Lazarus emerges from the tomb (John
11:44 ~ Par. 11.158–180), Nonnus first dwells (158–165) on the impact of Christ’s
call on the dead man:
‘ἔξιθι, Λάζαρε, δεῦρο.’ λιποφθόγγοιο δέ νεκροῦ

ἄπνοον ἐψύχωσε δέμας νεκυοσσόος ἠχώ·
ἄπνοον ἄνδρα κάλεσσε, καὶ ἔτρεχε νεκρὸς ὁδίτης 160
στείχων αὐτοκέλευθος ὁμοπλέκτῳ χθόνα ταρσῷ·
ἄπνοον ἄνδρα κάλεσσε, καὶ ἐν φθιμένοισιν ἀκούσας
ἐξ Ἄιδος νόστησε φυγὰς νέκυς ὄψιμον ἄλλην
ἀθρήσας μετὰ τέρμα βίου παλινάγρετον ἀρχήν
θαμβαλέην. 165
‘Come forth, Lazarus, hither’. The corpse-saving sound revitalized

the unbreathing body of the voiceless corpse;
the unbreathing man he called, and the wayfaring corpse ran 160
treading the earth travelling his own path with foot together bound;
the unbreathing man he called and hearing among the dead
from Hades came home the fugitive corpse, seeing
after the term of life another late beginning, taken back,
marvellous. 165
With characteristic adjectival accumulation, Nonnus dwells on the way in

which Christ’s voice reaches Lazarus’ voiceless and lifeless body (captured
in thrice-reiterated ‘unbreathing’, ἄπνοον, 159, 160, 162) enabling it to run,
even with his feet still bound by grave-cloths, the compound αὐτοκέλευθος
101 6 ἀμβροσίων ἀπὸ ταρσῶν, cf. 113 πὰρ ποσὶν ἀμβροσίοις; 7 ἐδίηνε, cf. 114 ζαθέους ἐδιήνατο
ταρσούς; 7, 114 ἰκμάδι.
102 Randell (1885) 121. Shorrock (2011) 98–105 discusses resonances between this passage and
Dionysus weeping at the death of Ampelus: note especially Dion. 12.171 with Accorinti
(2013c) 1120; Spanoudakis (2014a) 250–251.
238 Whitby
(‘travelling his own path’, 161) recalling αὐτοκύλιστος (‘rolling herself over’, 112)
of Mary’s collapse at Christ’s feet. And as in the passage describing Mary’s
anointing of Christ, an initial half-line is repeated (160, 162, cf. 4, 8), in this case
to highlight the miracle (θαμβαλέην, 165) of a corpse in Hades returning for a
second term of life. Cyril too, commenting on this verse, describes Lazarus as
running, ‘without any hindrance to running being caused by the bonds’.103
Nonnus next describes all-conquering Hades vainly seeking the uncon-
quered corpse by the waters of Lethe (165–166), with a powerful juxtaposition
of cognate compound adjectives to capture the significance of this defeat of
undefeatable death:
Ἀίδης δὲ μάτην παρὰ γείτονι Λήθῃ 165

πανδαμάτωρ ἀδάμαστον ἐδίζετο νεκρὸν ἀλήτην.
Hades in vain beside neighbouring Lethe, 165

all-conquering one, the unconquered vagabond corpse he sought.
Several lines (167–173) expansively depict the corpse rushing forward tightly
bound and blinded by grave clothes, sweating. But Nonnus retains John’s two
terms for the grave-wrappings, and even glosses the second as a Syriac word.104
Jesus then commands that Lazarus be freed (175):
λύσατέ μοι καὶ κοῦφον ἐάσατε νεκρὸν ὁδεύειν.
Loose him, I say, and let the corpse travel nimbly.
where the verb λύσατε (‘loose him’) is taken from John 11:44. Nonnus’ adhe-
sion to the Gospel account and retention of key words and phrases from the
simple language of the Gospel in combination with his own virtuosic linguistic
ingenuity are his distinctive contribution to biblical paraphrase.105 As Livrea
103 Randell (1885) 130. John 11:44 has plain ἐξῆλθεν (‘came out’).
104 John 11:44 κειρίαις (‘grave-clothes’), cf. Par. 11.170 κερείαις, repeated at 177 δεσμὰ κερείης,
but only here in Nonnus, and in general rare and found only in late texts (see LSJ, s.v.).
And John 11:44 σουδαρίῳ (‘napkin’), cf. Par. 11.173 σουδάριον. The latter, a loanword in Greek
through Aramaic, derives from the Latin sudo (‘I sweat’), and Nonnus (11.171) indeed
describes the warm sweat on Lazarus’ hidden face: see further Spanoudakis (2014a) 303.
The term, and the derivation are repeated at Par. 20.30, again taken from the biblical text
(John. 20:7), where it describes the grave-clothes that had wrapped Christ’s body found by
the disciples lying in his empty tomb.
105 The conversations of the Paraphrase contrast starkly with the long monologues of the
Dionysiaca. On exegesis, see Cutino (2009).
remarked, adjectives (often proleptic) and adjectival phrases, sometimes reit-

erated in parallel expressions or repeated in slightly variant form, are ‘the load-
bearing structure of Nonnus’ discourse.’106
7 Conclusions
By focusing on a single episode I offer an impressionistic rather than a complete

account of Nonnus’ relationship to other biblical epics, but this approach illus-
trates the range of possible interfaces with a single biblical episode. Sedulius
and Eudocia move furthest from the biblical prototype, each for their own rea-
sons greatly simplifying. Sedulius has no interest in the intricacies of the bibli-
cal narrative, nor in its conversations, retaining only Christ’s call to Lazarus to
emerge; the theme of weeping prompts allusion to the two natures of Christ
and apostrophe of the two sisters for their doubt, but the poet is chiefly con-
cerned to evoke the final magnificence and drama of Hell bursting open and
the dead Lazarus standing alive. Eudocia by contrast opens with a plain state-
ment of the miracle, replaces conversational interaction with longer speeches
and centres much of her narrative on the response of onlookers, although she
too dwells on the moment and process of Lazarus’ revivification.
Juvencus and Nonnus are much closer to John: both emphasize the emo-
tional bonds between Jesus and Lazarus’ family, both in different ways play
on the motif of Mary’s hair and the vehemence of the sisters’ grief, both fol-
low the structure of the Gospel narrative. But Nonnus is both fuller and truer
to the Gospel text, in particular retaining its simplicity at crucial moments,
while at the same time reinforcing key points and emotions by verbal pattern-
ing and repetition, often involving neologisms, in a characteristically inventive
use of language.107 And Nonnus’ rendering is complicated by its resonances
with Cyril of Alexandria’s commentary on John’s Gospel, as well as with the
Tylus episode in Dionysiaca 25, the latter apparently drawing on his Lazarus
narrative, for example in the two sisters of Tylus, one of them called Morie, a
name close to the Maria of the Gospel.108
106 ‘La struttura portante del discorso nonniano’ (Livrea 2000, 100). Livrea (2000) 97 considers
adjectives the most prominent feature of Nonnus’ paraphrastic style.
107 Cf. Hilhorst (1993), who, however, argues that Juvencus is more subtle and more visual
than Nonnus.
108 Shorrock (2011) 97–105; Spanoudakis (2013b). Accorinti (2015) discusses the centrality of
themes of death and resurrection in Nonnus and contemporaries such as Theodoret of
Cyrus. I would like to thank Domenico Accorinti for his patience, encouragement and
meticulous editorial work.
Chapter 11
Approaching the ‘Spiritual Gospel’: Nonnus as

Interpreter of John
Roberta Franchi
We may therefore make bold to say that the Gospels are the first fruits of
all the Scriptures, but that of the Gospels that of John is the first fruits. No
one can apprehend the meaning of it except he have lain on Jesus’ breast
and received from Jesus Mary to be his mother also.
Origen, Commentary on the Gospel of John 1.6
(ANF IX, 300)
∵
1 ‘In the Beginning was . . .’
In the first part of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s Faust, considered by many
to be one of the most famous and widely read works of German literature, the
reader cannot remain completely indifferent to one of the most fascinating
scenes of the whole tragic play, when the protagonist, in his quest for the light
of Revelation—which, according to him, shines in no other writings as signifi-
cantly as in the New Testament—begins immediately an accurate translation
of the Gospel of John:
Geschrieben steht: ‘Im Anfang war das Wort!’

Hier stock’ ich schon! Wer hilft mir weiter fort? 1225
Ich kann das Wort so hoch unmöglich schätzen,
Ich muß es anders übersetzen,
Wenn ich vom Geiste recht erleuchtet bin.
Geschrieben steht: Im Anfang war der Sinn.
Bedenke wohl die erste Zeile, 1230
Daß deine Feder sich nicht übereile!
Ist es der Sinn, der alles wirkt und schafft?
Es sollte stehn: Im Anfang war die Kraft!
Doch, auch indem ich dieses niederschreibe,

Approaching the ‘ Spiritual Gospel ’ 241
Schon warnt mich was, daß ich dabei nicht bleibe. 1235
Mir hilft der Geist! Auf einmal seh’ ich Rat
Und schreibe getrost: Im Anfang war die Tat!1
As soon as Faust opens the Gospel to translate the first words, he runs into a seri-
ous difficulty: how to translate the incipit of John’s Gospel (‘In the beginning was
the Word’), without misunderstanding the deep and true meaning of its con-
text? How is it possible to focus on such a sophisticated concept for human com-
prehension by using only a simple written expression? In Faust’s view a doubt
immediately arises: is it true that everything was accomplished by God through
his word? Or should we think that everything was created by God through his
thought, or even better, through his divine power? None of these words sounds
appropriate in Faust’s perspective and his last translation suggests: ‘In the begin-
ning was the Deed’. The crucial issue, posed by him, derives from the Greek word
λόγος, used for the indwelling logic, or rational order of things, but it also refers
to the figure of Wisdom from the Hebrew scriptures. The prologue of John deals
with three different ways of understanding the power of God’s ‘Word’: creation,
incarnation, and the communication of the ‘good news’ of the Gospel (1:1–14).
To find in any other Western European language a possible term, able to trans-
late the Greek word λόγος, is extremely difficult. The richness of its meaning and
its semantic spectrum are so wide as to leave disoriented even a qualified scholar
who possesses a high level of competence in the ancient Greek language. As we
can note, for everyone who begins a translation from the Greek, the term λόγος
represents one of the most complicated and serious problems to be dealt with.
Faust’s solutions are neither appropriate nor useful for the translation of the
Greek word: each of the four words chosen by him (‘Word’, ‘Thought’, ‘Power’,
‘Deed’) has a vague point in common with λόγος, and none of them covers all its
semantic ground. The final choice seems to be a free and personal translation
of the general meaning of the Johannine text, far from a precise interpretation.
The German word Tat appears as a reflection of Faust’s ideals and expectations,
rather than the result of a highly ponderating analysis of the Greek term, derived
from the study of its meaning within the Johannine context.
What is interesting about Faust’s episode is that in his difficulty he walks
scholars through a reading of the Fourth Gospel, provoking in them the same
deep disorientation he feels. Why does this happen? The scholar who decides
to approach the Fourth Gospel will be not completely satisfied if he does not
first choose to engage with the cultural, literary, social and historical back-
ground in which the Gospel of John was composed. The interpretation of its
words or concepts must be based on a critical and doctrinal exegesis, where
1 I quote from the edition by Trunz (1999).

242 Franchi
the exposition or explanation of the Johannine text derives from a careful and
objective analysis.2 Approaching the Fourth Gospel thus implies the adoption
of a historical-critical interpretation, and a hermeneutical method that tries
to discover the genuine meaning of the sacred text. Interpreting the Gospel is
both an epistemological reflection and a hermeneutical art. As an epistemo-
logical reflection, it investigates the biblical text and its language, offering new
ways of understanding its deep meaning; as a hermeneutical art it allows to
establish a valid exegetical method.3 Such an interpretive strategy was largely
operating when the fifth-century Greek poet of Panopolis, Nonnus, decided to
paraphrase in hexameter verses the Fourth Gospel, whose theological nature
was perfectly grasped by him, suggesting a creative personality who captured
many of the doctrinal issues debated at that time.
2 Understanding the Context of the Fourth Gospel
Among the four Gospels, why did Nonnus choose John for his paraphrase? To
give a proper answer to this question, we have to take into account the cultural
and religious milieu at that time, as well as the nature of John’s Gospel, dif-
ferent from the other three in the New Testament. Already by the third cen-
tury, the Fourth Gospel was called the ‘spiritual Gospel’ (evangelium spiritale),
because it narrates the story of Jesus in a symbolic way that differs from the
Synoptics.4 In keeping with a doctrinal approach based on a rich system of
metaphors and allusions, of great relevance is the symbolism of John’s Gospel,
as the prologue clearly demonstrates. Here, the Johannine Logos is an eternal
divine Person, through whom in the beginning everything was created, and he
is identified with the eternal Son of God who, incarnate in Christ, is described
as the ‘light of men’ (1:14). The author of the Fourth Gospel suggests that his
readers are familiar with this concept of the divine Logos, a concept which
is of Greek origin. Greek philosophers, believing that the universe was intel-
ligible and rational, employed the term λόγος to denote the rational principle
by which it was governed; in ancient Greek thought Logos is the dynamic rea-
son or the providentially working power which organizes the material world.
Probably influenced by Greek philosophy, Jewish authors developed a similar
conception of the divine Wisdom. The author of the Fourth Gospel, conscious
2 The process of exegesis implies a series of elements, 1) observation: what does the passage
express? 2) interpretation: what does the passage mean? 3) correlation: how does the
passage relate to the rest of the Holy Scriptures?
3 See Ashton (1991) 3–43.
4 Clem. Al. in Eus. H.E. 6.14.7; cf. also Or. Jo. 1.4.6.23. See Smith (1980).
of the consequences that his proclamation brought with it, seems to adopt
Greek pagan concepts as a tool for communicating Christ as the Logos to a
Christianized Gentile audience.5
It is worth noting that in the third and fourth centuries John’s Gospel
generated significant interest in Neoplatonic circles. Eusebius of Caesarea
quotes a passage by Amelius, where the disciple of Plotinus expresses his spe-
cial appreciation of the Logos with which the Gospel of John is opened, and
deals with the World Soul, a divine component of the Neoplatonic hierarchy
of hypostases.6 Instead, according to Augustine of Hippo, a Platonicus hoped
that Christians inscribed in gold in all of the churches the first sentences of
the Johannine prologue.7 Thus, the Johannine Logos was able to capture the
attention of one who, like Nonnus, was still immersed in the Hellenistic world,
but also influenced by the philosophical and theosophical debates of the time
and by theologians such as Cyril of Alexandria, bishop active in the doctri-
nal and Christological controversies of the fifth century, who published his
Commentary on the Gospel of John in 425–428.8
Nonnus’ great strength as an exegete of the Fourth Gospel lies in his textual
criticism and interpretation, where his competence in dealing with the Holy
Scriptures, as well as with ancient Christian literature, is matched by his selec-
tion and deep analysis of images and vocabulary employed both before him
and during his own time. Nonnus’ acquaintance with the history of the Bible
and biblical texts is thorough and his exegetical method accurate, so that his
Paraphrase can give us considerable help in understanding the eclectic and
spiritual background of the fifth century. From Golega onwards, it has been
demonstrated that Cyril’s influence is pervasive in the Paraphrase, to the point
of reproducing directly his prosaic vocabulary or drawing inspiration from
it.9 From Cyril Nonnus takes a symbolic exegesis combined with an orthodox
Christology, which underlines the divinity of the Son of God,10 as well as some
particular exegetical interpretations centered on the guilt of the Jews. They
are as a group portrayed as hostile to Christ, hated by Christians, unfaithful,
and misapprehending of Christ’s true nature.11 The leader of the high priests,
5 Philipps (2006) 73–142.

6 Eus. P.E. 11.19.1–4. Cf. also Dörrie (1972) 75–87; Hernández de la Fuente (2014a) 240.
7 Aug. Civ. Dei 10.29. Cf. also Gigli Piccardi (2003) 80.
8 Mahé (1907). That Nonnus follows Cyril’s Commentary on the Gospel of John may represent
a terminus post quem about the composition of the Paraphrase. See Livrea (2000) 53.
9 The only treatment of Nonnus and Cyril’s Commentary on the Gospel of John still remains
Golega (1930) 127–130. Cf. also Livrea (2000) 52–53; Spanoudakis (2014a) 18–19.
10 Meunier (1997). On Nonnus’ Christology see Sieber in this volume.
11 Caprara (1999).
244 Franchi
Caiaphas, is depicted like the vile suitor Ctesippus (cf. Hom. Od. 20.287–288),
with the same negative qualities of the Jews: he is a lawless minister of the Law,
living in human ignorance far from divine knowledge (Par. 11.199–203).12
If Cyril of Alexandria is the main doctrinal and conceptual Christian source,
Nonnus’ Paraphrase is not only confined to this text, but it also encompasses the
other commentaries on the Gospel of John written by Theodore of Mopsuestia,
John Chrysostom and Origen. Although the lack of the integral text of some
commentaries does not allow us to comprehend perfectly Nonnus’ depen-
dence, in several chapters expressions or contents allude to this theological
literature. In a few cases, the reader can also note Nonnus’ knowledge of less
widespread commentaries, surviving now in fragments, such as Theodore of
Heraclea and Ammonius of Alexandria.13 Not only ancient Christian literature,
but also the Septuagint and references to the other three Gospels are involved in
the framework of the Paraphrase, revealing the great erudition of Nonnus, who
departs consciously from classical literature. The poet of Panopolis versifies the
Fourth Gospel, adopting forms and models from the classical background—
such as Homeric adjectivation and phrases, echoes from tragedy, and
Neoplatonic concepts—but without disregarding the deep theological
and exegetical issues arising from the Gospel. Reflecting the complex
background of the Fourth Gospel, Nonnus’ poem suggests a more sophisti-
cated engagement with the Greek poetic tradition than merely the selection
of unusual language. Apart from Nonnus’ interest in recherché vocabulary and
expression, his baroque versification, based primarily on the amplificatio of
the Gospel, involves much interpretation, so that the Paraphrase shows what
a biblical account looks like from a classical perspective.14 In such a way his
poem, despite its peculiar exclusiveness, did not remain unaffected by the
fusion of Greek and Christian cultures which took place in Late Antiquity.
This innovative poetical approach can be immediately perceived upon
reading the first verses of the Paraphrase (1.1–5):
Ἄχρονος ἦν, ἀκίχητος, ἐν ἀρρήτῳ λόγος ἀρχῇ,

ἰσοφυὴς γενετῆρος ὁμήλικος υἱὸς ἀμήτωρ,
καὶ λόγος αὐτοφύτοιο θεοῦ φάος, ἐκ φάεος φῶς·
πατρὸς ἔην ἀμέριστος, ἀτέρμονι σύνθρονος ἕδρη·
καὶ θεὸς ὑψιγένεθλος ἔην λόγος. 5
12 Preller (1918) 62–66; Spanoudakis (2014a) 80–81.

13 Spanoudakis (2014a) 18–22.
14 Smolak (1984); Livrea (2000) 92–105; Spanoudakis (2014a) 5–18.
Timeless was the Logos, unattainable, in the ineffable beginning, of equal

nature to the coeval begetter, a motherless son, and the Logos was a god
of self-created god, from light to light; from the father he was indivisible
and shares his throne in the boundless abode. And god born on high was
the Logos.15
John 1:1 Ἐν ἀρχῇ ἦν ὁ λόγος, καὶ ὁ λόγος ἦν πρὸς τὸν θεόν, καὶ θεὸς ἦν ὁ λόγος.
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God and was truly
God.
The versification of only one Johannine pericope occupies five verses, enriched
by a particular care of formal and technical details in order to express the
concept of Logos. The first verse of the Paraphrase opens with two adjectives
formed by privative alpha, ἄχρονος (‘timeless’) and ἀκίχητος (‘unattainable’),
adopting the constant alliteration of the sound alpha to express the eternity
of the Logos,16 while the Greek word ἀρχή (‘beginning’) concludes the verse.
Neither the Father, nor the Logos, nor the Spirit can have a beginning, a princi-
pium; the Logos, being the eternal God, is without beginning, ‘startless’. Cyril of
Alexandria explicitly states: ‘No beginning that is the least bit temporal can be
applied to the Only Begotten because he is before all time and has his existence
before the ages. . . . Therefore, since the Son is older than even the ages them-
selves, he will elude any notion that he came to be in time. Through all time,
he “was” in his Father as in a source’.17 It is evident that the Logos of which
Nonnus is speaking is that which was from the beginning and was eternally
in the Father with its two natures. In Christ, the Word made flesh, there is a
human nature united to the divine one in the person of the Logos, and he has
15 For references to Nonnus’ Dionysiaca I rely on the Budé edition (Vian et al. 1976–2006);
for the Paraphrase, on recent critical editions where available (Par. 1: De Stefani 2002;
Par. 2: Livrea 2000; Par. 4: Caprara 2005; Par. 5: Agosti 2003; Par. 6: Franchi 2013; Par. 11:
Spanoudakis 2014a; Par. 13: Greco 2004; Par. 18: Livrea 1989; Par. 20: Accorinti 1996), oth-
erwise on Scheindler’s one (1881a). As for commentaries on Nonnus’ Dionysiaca, I quote
the Budé edition and the Italian edition by Gigli Piccardi (2003), Gonnelli (2003), Agosti
(2004c), and Accorinti (2004). The English translations of the Paraphrase are taken from
Sherry (1991).
16 The last verse of the Paraphrase also ends with the alliteration of the sound alpha: 21.143
ἔλπομαι ἀγλαόμορφον ἀτέρμονα κόσμον ἀεῖραι.
17 Cyr. In Jo. Ι, 18.2–16 Pusey; trans. Maxwell in Maxwell/Elowsky (2013). On this concept
cf. Jouassard (1956).
246 Franchi
his beginning in the ‘fullness of time’ (Gal 4:4).18 Choosing to adopt the tradi-
tional imagerie of the Son σύνθρονος (‘sharing the throne’, 4), Nonnus tries to
express the divinity and unity of the Logos with his Father.19
At the same time the poet adopts expressions recalling the Nicene-
Constantinopolitan Creed,20 while terms related to the doctrine of the Council
of Chalcedon, condemned in some Oriental regions of the Empire, are absent;
this aspect may represent a possible terminus ante quem about the composi-
tion of the Paraphrase.21 The reason for such theological additions by Nonnus
may be explained by the necessity of clarifying, from the beginning of his
poem, his own position about serious doctrinal issues debated at that time
concerning the nature of the Son and his relation with the Father, as well as
the mystery of the incarnation. Nonnus wants to operate within the context
of the orthodox faith—explicitly evoked at v. 19 (ὀρθὴν πίστιν ἔχοιεν, ἄτερμονα
μητέρα κόσμου)—enriching it with expressions taken from Cyril of Alexandria
or Christian poetry and exegesis.22
This theological background is also filtered through a Neoplatonic view: the
adjective ἀμέριστος (‘indivisible’, 4) evokes the indivisible union of the Father
and the Son, the unity of divinity.23 In Neoplatonic thought the intelligible
world is marked by the absence of μερισμός.24 The One, the fundamental prin-
ciple in Plotinus’ philosophy, transcends the universe; it is the first hypostasis
of being, prior to any plurality, opposition and multiplicity.25 Greek philoso-
phy, as represented by Nonnus’ Paraphrase, exhibits a thoroughgoing eclec-
ticism combined with a religious syncretism and a transition to m ysticism.
During Nonnus’ time, philosophical thought had compromised with mysti-
cism, while eclecticism, both in philosophy and religion, was the order of the
day.26 The boundaries between theology and philosophy are not so perfectly
divided, both in contemporary theological writings and in Nonnus, so that the
alta doctrina of his poem is also enriched by ‘universal truths’ taken from the
philosophical background. As Spanoudakis has pointedly illustrated, some
18 Barrett (1978) 149–170.

19 For more details see De Stefani (2002) 103–110.
20 For instance, see the use of ἰσοφυής (2), σύνθρονος (4), ὑψιγένεθλος (5). See Golega (1930)
106–110.
21 Livrea (2000) 53; De Stefani (2002) 14 n. 45.
22 De Stefani (2002) 14–21.
23 In a similar way the mystery of the Trinity is mentioned by Syn. H. 1.215–218, 2.120–122. For
the employment of ἄμεριστος to denote the Son cf. Athenag. Leg. 18.2; Cyr. In Jo. Ι, 44.15
Pusey; Clem. Al. Strom. 7.2.5.5.
24 Plot. 4.2.1.
25 Wallis (1995) 1–15; Remes (2008) 35–76; Hernández de la Fuente (2014a) 230–234, 250.
26 I borrow this expression from Barrett (1978) 34.
sources categorized under ‘philosophy’ would fall under ‘theology’ and vice
versa.27
We must keep in mind that many poets of Late Antiquity also had a
Neoplatonic background, which is evident in their vocabulary as well as in
their allegorical language: this is the case of Nonnus, Christodorus, and many
others.28 The doctrine that the Neoplatonists had learned from their teachers,
as well as that of other philosophies, was ‘independent’ and ‘neutral’. In pri-
mis it was neither in favour of nor in contrast to the Christian tradition; about
some issues it could suggest highly convincing solutions, about others it could
propose theories not easily compatible with Christian theology. For such doc-
trines to be integrated into a Christian background, they needed to undertake
the slow and laborious work of criticism and adaptation.29 In the fifth century
this work was already well underway. On the one hand, the Neoplatonic doc-
trine of Iamblichus in Alexandria and that one of the Neoplatonic Academy in
Athens, based on an allegorical interpretation of poetry, led to a sort of spiri-
tualization of Homer, with the subsequent consideration of his texts as sacred
texts. On the other hand, Christian poetry, animated by a spirit of imitatio/
aemulatio, decided to re-elaborate and re-interpret the Homeric language and
its concepts in a Christian key in order to realize a poetry useful for the divulga-
tion of Christian doctrine, able to interact not only with a Christian audience,
but also with a pagan one that was not very inclined to accept the humble
genus of the Holy Scriptures.30 Biblical poetry adopts the Homeric or the
Virgilian langue with the purpose of preserving the great cultural and poeti-
cal thesaurus of the ancient world, now obliged to interact with the spread of
Christianity across the entire Graeco-Roman world and beyond.31
Taking all of this into account, the Fourth Gospel represents a perfect tool
for Nonnus, who aims to preserve the heritage of the ancient Greek paideia,
which was taking on some traits of the Greek god Dionysus, whose cult was
still active at the time. The main symbol of this god, the vine, implied salvific
expectations. It was connected to a modus vivendi free from pain and marked
by Bacchic rituals to remove inhibitions and to liberate the individual in
order to achieve a sense of freedom: in Late Antiquity Dionysus is the god par
excellence, the most famous alter Christus.32 This purpose emerges constantly

28 On the ‘Nonnian school’ see Miguélez Cavero (2008) 3–35; De Stefani (2014b) 375–383.
29 Geffcken (1920) 221–224.
30 Marrou (1965) 451–471; Agosti (2005a) and (2009a) 332–333.
31 Al. Cameron (2007). Cf. also Nazzaro (2001).
32 Bowersock (1990) 41–53; Gigli Piccardi (2003) 80; Hernández de la Fuente (2014a) 234–235.
See also the general study by Nilsson (1957).
248 Franchi
in several chapters of the Paraphrase. John is the only writer to describe the
transformation of water into wine at the Marriage at Cana in chapter 2, a
miracle attested in several cultures and also in the Greek world,33 as well as
the imagery of Jesus as the true vine in chapter 15, both evoking the world of
Dionysus.
3 Between Symbolic and Theological Exegesis
The simple Johannine account of the Marriage at Cana is transformed by

Nonnus into a great first miracle performed by Jesus, rich in Dionysiac imag-
ery. After an elaborate description of the beginning of a new day, in keeping
with the exegesis of Cyril of Alexandria, Nonnus draws our attention to the
absence of joy at this wedding table because of the lack of wine (Par. 2.1–16).
While John does not offer a precise description of this wine, Nonnus gives
great prominence to the nature of this substance: it is ‘fragrant’ (θυώδης, 12),
‘unmixed’ (φιλάκρητος, 14), ‘sweet’ (ἡδύς, 20), and also ‘sweet-tasting’ (ἡδύποτος,
12). On account of the high demand for this drink, the wine jars supplied for
the celebration run dry, so that the wedding table is lacking in the spirit of
Dionysus: there is an ἡμιτελὴς μέθη (‘partial inebriation’, 17) and the table is
ἀβάκχευτος (‘not initiated in Bacchic orgies’, 15).34 The term ἀβάκχευτος, which
is attested only in this chapter of the Paraphrase, is clearly connected to a
Bacchic allure, and it seems to express the idea of being excluded from par-
ticipating in what is truly divine.35 The mention of the Passover as ‘mysteries’
(ὄργια, 23) also suggests such a relation with the world of Dionysus; it is worth
noting that at Dion. 13.7 Zeus also portrays Dionysiac ritual practice in terms
of ‘mysteries’.36
Following the suggestion of the Virgin Mary, Jesus decides to remedy the
lack of wine (Par. 2.35–38):
ἄφνω δ’ ἔπλετο θαῦμα, καὶ εἰς χύσιν αἴθοπος οἴνου 35

χιονέην ἤμειψε φυὴν ἑτερόχροον ὕδωρ
χεύματι φοινίσσοντι, καὶ ὑδροδόκου διὰ κόλπου
ὕδατος ἀκρήτοιο φιλεύιος ἔπνεεν αὔρη.
33 Livrea (2000) 76–82.

34 Shorrock (2011) 59–63.
35 Shorrock (2011) 64 and Doroszewski (2014b) 288–291.
36 Shorrock (2011) 76.
Suddenly a miracle happened, and into a flowing of ruddy wine the versi-
colored water changed its snowy nature with a reddening stream. Then
through the water-containing hollow the evoe-loving breeze of unmixed
water blew.
John 2:7 Λέγει αὐτοῖς ὁ Ἰησοῦς· γεμίσατε τὰς ὑδρίας ὕδατος. καὶ ἐγέμισαν
αὐτὰς ἕως ἄνω.
And Jesus says to them: ‘Fill the jars with water.’ And they filled the jars to
the top.
Differently from John, who does not mention the modality of the miracle,
Nonnus with an extended narration represents the miracle in fieri, in keep-
ing with his poikilia, and happening im zeitlosen ‘Plötzlich’: the miracle, in fact,
happens ἄφνω (‘immediately’, 35).37 This transformation is expressed in the
climax of ὕδωρ, that first changes color (36), then smells (38), and at the end
is sweet like wine (νήδυμον ὕδωρ, 41).38 Water and wine have been closely con-
nected by Nonnus, so that by means of some denotata one might also sug-
gest an overlap. The smell of the wine provokes a sort of Bacchic status, as
revealed by the Dionysiac adjective φιλεύιος (‘loving cries euoi’, 38). According
to Doroszewski, Nonnus is using Dionysiac imagery to allude to the process of
approaching God.39 Probably, to this correct interpretation we may add that in
Nonnus, like in Philo of Alexandria (cf. Her. 183), the ‘unmixed water’ (38) may
evoke a state of ‘unmixed wisdom’: wisdom, revealed in ecstasy, has nothing to
do with human knowledge that can be learned, because wisdom is a proficiens
gnosis of secret mysteries offered by God, the only one in whom it is possible
to find unsurpassed and infinite knowledge.
It is clear that Nonnus, focusing on the power of wine in the Marriage at
Cana, had also intended to create a connection with the Dionysiac world
when we read in Dionysiaca 14 of the transformation of the Lake Astacis into
wine in order to drug and defeat the enemies of Dionysus. Just a few striking
parallels: the visual aspect of the transformation of water is restituted at Dion.
14.413 χιονέην ἤμειψε φυὴν ξανθόχροον ὕδωρ (‘the water changed its snow-white
form to red’), and in the same way Nonnus describes the change of water to
red wine at Par. 2.36 χιονέην ἤμειψε φυὴν ἑτερόχροον ὕδωρ (‘the versicolored
water changed its snowy nature’). Great emphasis is put on the fragrance of the
37 On this aspect cf. Beierwaltes (1981) 224–225.

38 Livrea (2000) 205–207.
39 Doroszewski (2014b) 291.
250 Franchi
wine of Lake Astacis, carried by the breezes, at Dion. 14.416 ἔπνεον ἀρτιχύτοιο
μέθης εὐώδεες αὖραι (‘the breezes blew, fragrant with the newly-poured wine’),
and the same fragrance emanates from the wine at Par. 2.38 ὕδατος ἀκρήτοιο
φιλεύιος ἔπνεεν αὔρη (‘the evoe-loving breeze of unmixed water blew’), where
this breeze evokes the sacred Πνεῦμα.40
In the Dionysiaca the transformation of water into wine is not confined
to the episode of Lake Astacis, but encompasses at least other two episodes,
where wine produces remarkable effects on two virgins: in Book 16 it is used to
drug the virgin huntress Nicaea, as well as in Book 48 to drug the virgin hunt-
ress Aura. Both these huntresses are virgins, seduced by Dionysus by means
of wine.41 Wine, divinity, and virginity are also the three main themes, upon
which the framework of the Marriage at Cana is developed. Apart from the
complex interaction of imagery from Christian and classical traditions, the
symbolic content is meaningful. The Virgin Mary is introduced into the nar-
rative of the wedding shortly before her words to Christ, when she invites him
to change water into wine. It is Mary who directs attention to the Son (Par.
2.18–24), provoking the first sign (πρωτοφανὲς θαῦμα, 2.55). She plays a key role
in the production of that substance, wine, that in the story of the Dionysiaca
produces the loss of virginity of Nicaea and Aura.42 However, there is a dif-
ferent Stimmung: the wine of the Dionysiaca is a symbol of drunkenness and
deception, used to conquer the resistance of the two virgin huntresses who are
raped by Dionysus, or in general of other protagonists and enemies, without
any salvific vision of Dionysism; in the Paraphrase, wine is presented as having
symbolic value, ἀντίτυπος of the blood of Christ, the instrument of his passion
and resurrection.43 The heady wine and the loss of virginity, with the conse-
quence of pregnancy and then motherhood, are narrated in the Dionysiaca;
the wine as a symbol of the blood of Christ, belonging to revelation and the
divine project of salvation in close connection with Mary, virgin and mother at
the same time, is illustrated by the Paraphrase.44 The response of Aura on first
encountering the substance that is water transformed into wine at Dion. 48.602
is worth noting: ‘what is this miracle?’ (τί τὸ θαῦμα;).
The world of Late Antiquity is rich in descriptions of miracles performed by
the pagan gods and the θεῖοι ἄνδρες, where miracles are seen as mirabilia, the
40 For further details cf. Shorrock (2011) 68.

41 Cf. Dion. 16.250–301, 48.630–661; see also Shorrock (2011) 63, 69. In the Dionysiaca wine
plays a central role. The relationship between the Icarius episode and the wedding at
Cana is discussed by Spanoudakis (2007).
42 On the relation of these nymphs with virginity see Hadjittofi (2008).
43 See Par. 2.50–54; 13.111–112; cf. also Livrea (2000) 86.
44 Franchi (2012) 141–146. Both Nicaea and Aura do not preserve their status as virgins.
supernatural origins of which are exceptional and unexpected.45 Among the

four Gospels, John gives great prominence to the concept of σημεῖον (‘sign’),
to describe Christ’s miracles, presented as σημεῖα, because they are the con-
crete manifestation of the divine power.46 From this perspective it is relevant
that Nonnus, conscious of the importance of the Greek term σημεῖον, decides
to render it with θαῦμα, used in the Dionysiaca for the Dionysiac miracles.47
The echoes are striking: at Par. 7.19 Christ’s brothers urge him ‘to show (δεῖξον)
his diverse miracles (ποικίλα θαύματα) for the world to see’; at Dion. 45.324
‘Dionysus revealed (ἐδείκνυε) his diverse miracles (θαύματα ποικίλα) to all the
people’.
Many miracles, worked by Christ to reveal the φανέρωσις of his divinity,
find correspondence in the pagan world: miracles of healings are attributed
to Asclepius and Isis, while miracles of resurrection, like that of Lazarus in
John 11, are worked by Apollonius of Tyana, Asclepius, Isis and Osiris. Nonnus’
Paraphrase does not fail to attribute to Christ traits or epithets evoking the
pagan gods, creating a Kontrastimitation.48 Nonnus views miracles as mani-
festations of power and thus as legitimizing credentials for the Revealer,
understood as a θεὸς ἀνήρ (Par. 1.39).49 According to the second-century pagan
philosopher Celsus, who attacked several doctrinal concepts of Christianity,
the Christian miracles are improbable and scarcely attested, and, even if they
were genuine or if they had occurred, they could hardly offset the miracles of
the pagan world, e.g., the healings of Asclepius.50 Thus, miracles are a fertile
ground upon which to discuss the contested dominance of the gods of pagan-
ism, the θεῖοι ἄνδρες and the θεὸς ἀνήρ of Christianity, namely Christ,51 so that
one question cannot fail to resonate: who is the true holy man?
This problem of ‘authenticity’ evokes Par. 15.1, focused on John’s vine meta-
phor, namely Christ’s declaration, ‘I am the true vine’ (15:1). The rich foliage
of the vine is one of the best-attested motifs in late antique art and the Greek
city of Panopolis was also famed for its weaving and tapestries, where the most
prominent themes are Dionysus, scenes from his mythology, and images of
grapes, lions, ivy, and vine.52 The symbolism of the vine is a Christian symbol,
45 Cracco Ruggini (1981); Fowden (1982).

46 Riga (1963); Scognamiglio (1974); de Jonge (1978); Schnackenburg (1985–1986) I, 344–356.
47 Livrea (2000) 230–231. Cf. Par. 2.55, 6.4, 53, 110, 7.118, 10.145; Dion. 22.55.
48 Kuiper (1918) 225–270; Thraede (1962) 1039–1042; Accorinti (1995); Agosti (2003) 77, 90–94,
102–107. For instance, at Par. 5.46 the iunctura ἰητὴρ νούσου, describing Christ, is generally
used for Asclepius. See Agosti (2003) 394–396.
49 Bieler (1935–1936) II, 73–74; Agosti (2003) 542–543.
50 Or. Cels. 3.24–25.
51 Becker (1969–1970); Theissen (1983) 293.
52 See Kristensen in this volume.
252 Franchi
too. Taking into account that the vine is the source of life and sustenance for
the branches, and the branches must abide in the vine to bear fruit, in the
Fourth Gospel the concept of the mystical union of the believers with Christ
and among each other is symbolized by the vine and its branches (15:1–6).
Christ presenting himself as the true vine invites his disciples to remain in him
(15:4) just as he remains in the Father.53 Henry Maguire has paid attention to
an ancient inscription of the Chrysopolitissa Basilica in Cyprus that quotes the
pericope of John 15:1 along with an artistic representation of the branches of
the vine, rich in bunches.54 It seems that Christians warned of the danger of
this symbolic overlap. It is worth noting that in the Codex Theodosianus a law
against pagans, dated to the end of the fourth century, strictly forbids the use
of wine in pagan rituals.55
Keeping these considerations in mind, it is not insignificant that Nonnus
in his versification at Par. 15.1 prefers to avoid any mention of the authentic-
ity of the vine: παλιναυξέι κόσμῳ | ζωῆς ἄμπελός εἰμι (‘I am the vine of life for
the regrowing world’). An implicit allusion to Dionysus was obvious for any
reader of that time. Nonnus, in fact, prefers to focus on the concept of regen-
eration in connection with the symbolism of the vine as the tree of life, an
exegetical interpretation well attested in the Christian Alexandrian tradition,56
and able to find correspondence in the Dionysiac imagery of the vine, evoked
in the Dionysiaca to express the same concepts of regeneration, rebirth, and
resurrection.57 From the Apologetics of the second century onwards, Christian
writers are aware of similarities between Dionysus and Christ (e.g., death and
resurrection, the symbolism of the vine), and for that reason they try to dis-
tance the pagan god from Christ. In contrast to the false myths of Greek reli-
gion, Justin the Martyr does not accept the interpretation of the coming of the
Messiah in close connection with Dionysus, sent like Christ by his father and
elevated to heaven after suffering for his followers. The further discussions of
Clement of Alexandria clearly summarize the persistence of this issue when he
tries to contrast the Dionysiac mysteries with the true ‘word and mystery of the
word’.58 At Par. 15.1, by omitting any mention of Christ’s authenticity, Nonnus
53 Schnackenburg (1985–1986) III, 118–123; Shorrock (2011) 55–56.

54 Maguire (1993) 131–160.
55 Cod. Theod. 16.10.12. Cf. also Gigli Piccardi (2003) 80.
56 Didym. Ps. 1.3 (PG 39.1157C); Cyr. In Jo. ΙI, 535.3–5 Pusey. On this symbolism cf. Daniélou
(1961) 33–48.
57 Gigli Piccardi (2003) 81–82; Shorrock (2011) 75.
58 Just. 1 Apol. 54; Dial. 69; Clem. Al. Protr. 12.119.1 on which cf. Riedweg (1986) 148–158. See
also Doroszewski (2014b) 289–291; Hernández de la Fuente (2014a) 240–241.
seems not to offer a decisive answer to the question of who would be the true
or the false god of the vine: Christ or Dionysus?
Scholars of the Fourth Gospel have investigated the function of the symbol
as a fundamental element of mediation between God and men, between the
mystery and human beings. John makes use of a variety of symbols that fre-
quently occur in important passages.59 Like his Vorlage, Nonnus employs the
Johannine symbolism that includes light, water, bread, and wine, and also the
oppositions of ‘light and darkness’, ‘day and night’, and ‘sight and blindness’,
introducing in such a way the reader to the complex pattern of John’s theology;60
for instance, the night by which Nicodemus comes to Christ is a symbol of the
night of his spiritual ignorance (Par. 3.3–5). Also in the Paraphrase, Nonnus’
symbolism leads the reader into the mystery of the transcendent, rendering
it present in an allusive way, and simultaneously revealing what it really signi-
fies. A good example is offered by the description of the lanterns of the armies
in the garden of Gethsemane, where Nonnus with extraordinary competence
does not follow his Vorlage, and prefers to insert an elaborate ekphrasis, rich
in doctrinal and symbolic implications (18.16–24). In keeping with the well-
established relationship between microcosm and macrocosm, the lights of the
lanterns evoke the stars in the sky (ἀστερόεν μίμημα, 21) that must give honour
to Christ. The imagerie of the Christus triumphans over his enemies and over
the wordly power, represented by Pilatus, is the framework upon which the
Greek poet of Panopolis has composed this canto.61 In such a way, he captures
images vividly and in an original and symbolic way, while weaving together an
intricate combination of profound doctrinal thought.62
When John mentions the φῶς ἀληθινόν, ἄρτος ἀληθινός, ἄμπελος ἀληθινή (1:9,
6:32, 15:1), he is using a set of symbola to describe, in contrast to the false real-
ity, the true one, namely Christ.63 Still dealing with the issues of authenticity
and truth, it is remarkable that in other contexts of the Paraphrase Nonnus has
understood the relevance of the concept of truth (ἀλήθεια). Choosing to adopt
the Homeric adjective ἐτήτυμος (‘true’) employed in contexts of the authen-
ticity of a discourse (cf. Hom. Il. 22.438; Od. 23.62), the poet of Panopolis has
59 Dodd (1970) 133–143; Koester (2003); Zimmermann (2006).

60 See, for instance, Par. 3.99–102, 9.6–7, 72. Cf. Gigli Piccardi (1987b); Accorinti (1996)
193–194; Franchi (2013) 359–360; Ypsilanti (2014) 130–137.
61 Livrea (1989) 48–52, 118.
62 Apart from the representation of the lanterns in Gethsemane, Kuiper (1918) 252–253
noted the following as significant moments of Nonnus’ creative originality: the miracle of
wine at the wedding at Cana in John 2; Jesus crossing the sea in John 6; the healing of the
man born blind in John 9; the raising of Lazarus in John 11.
63 Dodd (1970) 170–178.
254 Franchi
respected the theological idea at the basis of his Vorlage, as is revealed by the
expression ἐτήτυμα πάντα at Par. 3.107 to connote divine revelation.64 If the
Paraphrase does not fail to mention Christ and the declaration of authenticity
of some elements connected to him, in the Dionysiaca the adjective ἐτήτυμος is
attested in only three cases.65 This rare use testifies to the way that the vocabu-
lary, adopted in the Paraphrase to denote the Christian truth, is completely
rejected in the Dionysiaca, where truth appears as an alien body because the
essence of the Dionysiac world is constituted by a changeable, inconstant, and
vibrant reality. Dionysus is the god who breaks boundaries because he is like
and unlike, comic and tragic, saviour and destroyer: he is the πολύμορφος θεός
(‘polymorphous god’), the perfect emblem of Late Antiquity.66 Not truth, but
metamorphosis, in close connection with the principle of poikilia upon which
the framework of the Dionysiaca is based, is the main distinctive characteristic
of the Dionysiac world. 67
Although Nonnus was immersed in this polymorphic and changeable atmo-
sphere, he was able to grasp the Christian message and its doctrine. At Par.
18.175–181, during the interrogation between Pilatus and Christ, the Roman
magistrate asks Christ: ‘Are you the king of the Jews?’ Christ answers: ‘I have
come into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who is of the truth
hears my voice’. After hearing Christ’s response, Πιλάτος θάμβησε (‘Pilatus was
astounded’)—which Nonnus adds at v. 180—and then he wonders: ‘What
is truth?’ In Pilatus’ reaction, we cannot merely recognize the opposition
between the Welt der Tatsachen and the Welt der Wahrheiten, but the θάμβος
of an individual who was influenced by one of the most complicated con-
cepts and greatest secrets in human thought: truth.68 If the concept of truth
64 See, for instance, Par. 1.24 (~ τὸ φῶς τὸ ἀληθινόν), 3.53, 137, 4.6, 5.136, 6.164. Cf. also Caprara
(2008) 59–66; Franchi (2013) 425–426.
65 Cf. Dion. 37.238, 47.257, 548.
66 Gigli Piccardi (1985) 181 n. 163 and (2003) 47–48, 74–79; Shorrock (2011) 116–123. According
to this perspective, it is worth noting the prologue of the Dionysiaca, where Nonnus asso-
ciates the principle of poikilia with the object of his poem, Dionysus. At Dion. 1.15 Nonnus
consciously evokes Proteus (ποικίλον εἶδος ἔχων), because he will sing a ‘multiform hymn’
(ὅτι ποικίλον ὕμνον ἀράσσω). In such a way, the variety of the style, language, and liter-
ary genre finds correspondence in a divinity, whose main distinctive characteristics are
metamorphosis and an illusional realm. See Fauth (1981) 189–190; Agosti (1996) 169–172.
We must keep in mind that Christ is also represented as πολύμορφος in the Paraphrase. See
Livrea (1989) 35 and (2000) 54 n. 30.
67 Transformation is an aspect of Nonnian poikilia, which appears in close connection with
Dionysiac shape-shifting. See the general study by Fauth (1981); cf. also Paschalis (2014)
101–103.
68 Livrea (1989) 198–199.
is the element that provides a remarkable discrimen between Skepticism and

Christianity,69 other issues also engage with Christian interpretations.
4 Seeing and Believing: Coming to Faith
The Leitmotiv of ‘belief’ is displayed throughout the narrative of the Fourth

Gospel, where such a strong proclamation of intent highlights John’s purpose.
By mentioning the signs and miracles that pointed to Christ’s authenticity, and
the glory of his death and resurrection, John clarifies his doctrinal intention:
‘Therefore many other signs Jesus also performed in the presence of the dis-
ciples, which are not written in this book; but these have been written so that
you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God; and that believing you
may have life in his name’ (20:30–31). The purpose for the reader is to believe;
the fruit of belief is eternal life.70
In Nonnus’ view men are called ‘children of God’, not ab initio on the basis of
their human nature, but they must become τέκνα θεοῦ, showing to be ἀπλανέες,
to have a θυμὸς ἔμφρων without a νόος ἀλήτης. At Par. 1.31–34, within a broader
versification than his Vorlage, Nonnus clearly points out this aspect:71
ὅσοι δέ μιν ἔμφρονι θυμῷ

ἀπλανέες δέξαντο καὶ οὐ νόον εἶχον ἀλήτην,
οὐρανίην πάντεσσι μίαν δωρήσατο τιμήν
τέκνα θεοῦ γενετῆρος ἀειζώοντος ἀκούειν.
[A]ll who with sensible mind without error received him and did not
have an erring mind, to all of them he granted a heavenly honor, to be
called children of god, the ever-living begetter.
John 1:12 ὅσοι δὲ ἔλαβον αὐτόν, ἔδωκεν αὐτοῖς ἐξουσίαν τέκνα θεοῦ γενέσθαι.
Those who accepted him, he gave them the right to be the children of
God.
69 Gnilka (1990); Gigli Piccardi (2003) 83.

70 Cf. Cullmann (1950). The term ‘sign’ is employed in John to describe Christ’s miracles (e.g.,
2:11). It is relevant that discussions about or requests for ‘signs’ (cf. 2:18, 6:30) come up
when Jesus has provided the kind of sign that has been requested.
71 Franchi (2013) 129–130.
256 Franchi
Now, if we also draw attention to the text at Par. 3.83–85, we shall note that,
only after abandoning the μετάτροπον ἦθος (‘variable character’), an expression
used in the Dionysiaca to connote this metamorphosis,72 man can choose to be
guided by the Son, through a free act of faith:
ὄφρα μιν ὃς δέξοιτο μετάτροπον ἦθος ἀμείψας,

πίστιν ἐς ἀστυφέλικτον ἑκούσιον αὐχένα κάμπτων,73
ζωῆς οὐρανίης αἰώνιον εἰς χορὸν ἔλθῃ. 85
In order that whoever should receive him, since he changed his variable
character and bows his willing neck toward unshakeable faith, may come
to the eternal chorus of heavenly life.
This interpretation finds correspondence at Par. 17.64–69, where Nonnus,

following his Vorlage, does not fail to emphasize again the importance of
abandoning a faithless frenzy (λύσσα ἄπιστος) to embrace the correct faith
(ὀρθὴ πίστις), able to create a mystical union with God:
ὅσσοι λύσσαν ἄπιστον ἀπορρίψαντες ἀήταις

ὀρθὴν πίστιν ἔχουσιν ἐμῶν διὰ μῦθον ἑταίρων, 65
πάντες ἓν ὄφρα πέλοιεν ὁμόζυγες, οἷά περ ἡμεῖς
σύζυγες ἓν μόνον ἐσμὲν ἐν ἀλλήλοισιν ἐόντες, 74
ὡς ἐν ἐμοὶ τελέθεις, καὶ ἐγώ, πάτερ, ἔν σοι ὑπάρχω,
σύζυγες ἀλλήλοισιν ἀρηρότες, ὄφρα καὶ αὐτοί
ἡμῖν πάντες ἔωσιν ὁμόζυγες ἐκγεγαῶτες.
[A]bout all those who, having cast faithless frenzy out to the winds, hold
correct faith because of the expressions of my comrades, in order that all
be co-yoked as one, such as we are one alone, being yoked in one other, as
you are in me, and I, father, exist in you, joined yoked to each other, in
order that all of them also be born co-yoked with us.
As is well known, in John’s Gospel mutuality and unity are emphasized by the
symbolism of indwelling, a key concept in mystical experiences, specifically
72 Cf. Dion. 4.280, 26.4, 31.132, 36.294, 42.124. See also Livrea (2000) 264–265; Agosti (2003)
458–459; Franchi (2013) 492.
73 As for this iunctura cf. Dion. 12.20, 22.73, 36.432. It also recurs in Gregory of Nazianzus’
Carmina to express ‘subjection and humility’ (Simelidis 2009, 208–209). Cf. also Ath. Exp.
Ps. 45 (PG 27.216.27–28); Chrys. In 1 Cor. hom. 3.1 (PG 61.22.54–55).
employed to describe the union with God.74 Following his Vorlage, Nonnus
focuses his attention on how an intimate and mystical relationship is char-
acterized by unity and mutuality, both the unio mystica and the communio
mystica. Nevertheless, the question is not only of a mystical experience of
‘remaining’ with Christ; rather for the believer and the disciples, it would mean
‘to remain faithful’. The disciples and the believers are exhorted to be faithful to
the commandments so as to remain in Christ, just as he himself has observed
the commands of God. But in Nonnus’ interpretation there is something
more. Considering that terms such as λύσσα75 and μετάτροπος are connected
to Dionysiac imagery, while the ὀρθὴ πίστις or πίστις ἀστυφέλικτος clearly refer
to Christianity,76 should we think of an invitation to abandon paganism and
Dionysus (the false God, one might say) in favour of Christianity and Christ?
This interpretation seems to be confirmed by the dialogue between Christ and
the Samaritan woman, where Christ points out that only those who are initi-
ated by the Holy Spirit (ἀληθέες . . . μύσται, Par. 4.111) are able to venerate God
by means of a true adoration (ἀληθείῃ καὶ πνεύματι, 114).77 The Spirit is active
in both the proclamation and the reception of truth. By describing Jewish cel-
ebrations as orgiastic rites involving animal sacrifices, frenzy, and sacrifices on
altars (Par. 4.85–109), in Nonnus’ view the arid Jewish rites will be replaced with
those practiced in Jerusalem μυστιπόλος.78 At Par. 6.193–196, in e xplanation
for the rejection of Christ’s message by many, Nonnus, following his Vorlage,
records that it is the Spirit who gives life, while the flesh profits nothing.79 This
reference to the Spirit as life-giver goes back to John 3:34, where the Holy Spirit
is portrayed as an essential trait to Jesus’ ministry of proclamation, and to John
3:5–8, in which Jesus mentions the Spirit as the source of s piritual birth. Thus
it becomes evident that the Spirit’s work acts on both aspects of theological
epistemology: proclamation and reception. The term ‘spirit’ may be employed
to denote God’s animating force, but it also occurs to describe the Spirit who
74 Heise (1967); Dodd (1970) 187–200. See also Par. 6.165–168, on which cf. Franchi (2013) 134,
462–463.
75 The term λύσσα is constantly used in the Paraphrase to refer to those who do not believe
in Jesus (1.30–31, on which cf. De Stefani 2002, 129, and 2.114, 3.91, 5.173, 7.26, 17.64), to the
Jews (10.109, 117), to the Pharisees (4.10), to Judas (13.10, 124). See also Livrea (1989) 166 and
(2000) 305–306; Agosti (2003) 486; Caprara (2005) 150.
76 See also Theos. Tub. Epit. 1–2 (Beatrice 2001, 3), with the mention of the ὀρθὴ πίστις, and
Agath. Hist. 1.2.17.8, where ὀρθοτάτῃ δόξῃ, or δόξης ὀρθῆς in 5.6.289.6 demonstrate the faith
of the author, apart from his classical vocabulary. Cf. Av./Al. Cameron (1964) 320. Instead,
on the ὀρθὴ πίστις as ὀρθόδοξος πίστις cf. Fournet (1999) II, 489; Agosti (2003) 46 n. 35.
77 Caprara (2005) 22–23.
78 Caprara (2005) 17–28; Doroszewski (2014b) 301; Spanoudakis (2014a) 31.
79 Franchi (2013) 142–143.
258 Franchi
will produce God’s eschatological blessings. The Old Testament maintains that
a time will come when God pours out his Spirit on all mankind (Jl 2:28). This
pouring out of the Spirit implies a transformation that involves a cleansing
from sin and a renewal of God’s covenant with his people, as well as a restora-
tion of God’s blessings and righteousness (Is 32:15–20, 44:3; Ezek 36:29).80 In
light of such considerations, the use of πνεῦμα in Nonnus appears in close con-
nection with the Old Testament predictions of the Spirit’s work in salvation.
As Spanoudakis rightly points out, spiritualization, granted by the infusion of
philosophical truth, is an essential element of most texts composed in the fifth
century and also of the Paraphrase, which comes to spiritualize the ‘spiritual
Gospel’.81
The Fourth Gospel criticizes transitory faith in 2:23–25, 3:12 and 6:66, and
the parable of the vine and branches (15:1–11) is a strong warning against
such a transitory faith.82 Nonnus’ Paraphrase recognizes the tension of ‘faith
responses’ and tries not only to discover this dynamic in the narrative, but also
to investigate the function of this frequent usage. He devotes several verses to
sketching the issues of faith in John’s Gospel, including a discussion of ‘super-
ficial faith’ versus ‘authentic faith’. If the Dionysiac world is characterized by
instability and change, the world of Christ in the Paraphrase is based on sta-
bility, firm belief, and solid faith. The truth of Christianity is interpreted not
as something to be contemplated or theorized, but as something to be done,
practiced. It is a truth which is not merely to be sought and found, but to be
pursued, made true, verified and tested in truthfulness. The variety of interpre-
tation, which is characteristic of Nonnus’ understanding of ἀλήθεια, seems to
continue with a growing emphasis on the intellectual side, which is inclined to
identify ἀλήθεια in terms of orthodox Christian faith.
Mystic symbolism and sacramental acts are also the language of mystery
religions. They share the conviction that deliverance and salvation are the aim
of all human existence on earth; moreover, the present and future salvation is
generally understood as immortality, or as the union with the transcendent
deity.83 Most of the key concepts which belong to the vocabulary of mystery
cults, including knowledge, light, life, and fullness, are also used in the Fourth
Gospel, but they are employed to describe the mystery of the identity of Christ,
as well as his plan of salvation.84 The initiation is into the life of Christ. This
80 McCabe (1999) 89–90; cf. also Barrett (1978) 202–219.

81 Spanoudakis (2014a) 31.
82 Tenney (1948) 32.
83 Burkert (2003) 19–55.
84 Barrett (1978) 80–85.
concept is expressed in the Lazarus miracle, where the Nonnian Christ at Par.
11.84–87 (~ John 11:25–26) claims:
ζωὴ ἐγὼ γενόμην καὶ ἀνάστασις· ὃς δέ κεν ἀνήρ

εἰς ἐμὲ πιστεύσειε, καὶ εἰ νέκυς ἄπνοος εἴη, 85
αὖτις ἀναζήσειε· καὶ ὃς φρεσὶ πίστιν ἀέξει,
οὐ θνήσκει βροτὸς οὗτος, ἕως ἔτι φαίνεται αἰών.
I am the life and the resurrection. Whichever man believes in me, even if
he be an inanimate corpse, shall live again. And whoever increases faith
in his mind, this mortal shall not die, as long as Aeon is still manifest.
Eternal life, resurrection, and faith are three concepts strictly intertwined.85
We must keep in mind that the concepts of death and rebirth also play a cen-
tral role in the Dionysiaca, because Dionysus is another god of resurrection,
worshipped in mystery religions.86 This concept is developed by Nonnus in the
Dionysiaca by means of several mythical narrations that open up paths into the
initiation of the Dionysiac mysteries, where Dionysus’ life appears as a gradual
instruction of what is necessary to acquire the status of divinity. In such a way
the initiated could see the possibility of obtaining an eternal life enlivened
by the joy of the banquet and wine.87 But there is a difference: in Christianity
there is a personal relationship between Christ and the believer through faith.
The promises of Christ to enlighten the believer, to allay his thirst with ‘living
water’, to satiate his hunger with the ‘bread of life’, and to sustain him as the
vine sustains the branch might all be construed as descriptions of the mystical
and fideistic relations between God and the believer.
It is important to note how often in John’s Gospel believing is connected to
seeing.88 In keeping with John, as well as the aesthetic trends of late antique
literature,89 in the Paraphrase, in order to become a believer, it is necessary to
see with own eyes the miracles of Christ, an aspect evoked on several occasions
85 Spanoudakis (2014a) 40, 223–225.

86 Very important is Ampelus’ episode (Book 12) with the discourse of Atropus (142–171),
mentioned again in the long monologue of Dionysus (207–289). See Gigli Piccardi (2003)
732–746; cf. also Otlewska-Jung (2014) 84–92.
87 Merkelbach (1988); Velasco López (1992); Gigli Piccardi (2003) 70–74.
88 Although in John ‘sight’ becomes metaphorical for ‘insight’ or faith (cf. John 9:39–41),
the metaphor also indicates the literal meaning of ‘sight’ as physically seeing. This is pre-
cisely the point: when one sees a sign, one must see, or better, understand its meaning. Cf.
Barrett (1978) 75–78. But the meaning of the sign depends on both the realization and the
nature of the sign. See Cullmann (1950) 52–61; Phillips (1957).
89 Charlet (1988); Gualandri (1994); Nelson (2000) 143–168.
260 Franchi
with deeper implications on the level of content.90 For instance, in his verses
on the Lazarus miracle, Nonnus claims: 11.50–53 (~ John 11:15) χαίρω δὲ δι’ ὑμέας,
ὡς ἐνὶ χώρῳ | οὐ γενόμην, ὅτε κεῖνος ὁμίλεε γείτονι πότμῳ, | ὄφρα κε πίστιν ἔχοιτε
νέκυν μετὰ πότμον ὁδίτην | δερκόμενοι ζώοντα (‘I rejoice for you that I was not in
the place when he met his neighboring fate, that you should have faith seeing
the travelling corpse after fate still living, again touching the table a second
time, the guest-receiver of Christ’).91 Instead, those who are not looking with
their eyes at the shining light live in the darkness, like blind men (Par. 9.177–
180). According to this perspective, considering that in the Paraphrase the trait
d’union between being persuaded and believing is constantly preserved so that
only an individual who has been previously persuaded is able to believe,92 the
text at Par. 3.157–160 is worth noting. Here, we read that only a man who has
accepted the witness of the divine world of God can profess that God alone is
true:
ὃς δέ οἱ ἀνήρ
μάρτυρα μῦθον ἔδεκτο θεηγόρον ἀνθερεῶνος,
ἀψευδὴς βροτὸς οὗτος ἑῷ σφρηγίσσατο μύθῳ,
ὅττι θεὸς πέλε μοῦνος ἐτήτυμος· 160
But whichever man has received from him the witnessing god-speaking
expression of his throat, this unlying mortal is sealed by his own expres-
sion, that god alone is true.
John 3:33 ὁ λαβὼν αὐτοῦ τὴν μαρτυρίαν ἐσφράγισεν ὅτι ὁ θεὸς ἀληθής ἐστιν.
The person who accepts his testimony has vouched that God is truthful.
With respect to the way in which this pericope of the Gospel has been para-
phrased, the addition of μόνος in close connection with ἐτήτυμος (160) to ren-
der the concept of ἀλήθεια seems to focus on the fact that Christ is the true
God. Another relevant mention occurs at Par. 6.115–118 in the context of the
discourse of Capharnaum. Christ exhorts the crowd to pay attention not to
the perishable banquet, but to the eternal one, offered only by the Son of God, the
giver of eternal life:93
90 Agosti (2003) 167–168 and (2014a) 141–166; Spanoudakis (2014a) 52–68. Cf. also Roberts
(1989) 66–121.
91 Spanoudakis (2014a) 40, 197–198.
92 See Par. 8.78–81; cf. also Caprara (2005) 214 (on Par. 4.97).
93 Franchi (2013) 405–409.
ἀνύσσατε μᾶλλον ἐκείνην 115

εἰλαπίνην μίμνουσαν ἀειζώοιο τραπέζης,
ἣν μόνος ἀνθρώποιο φερέσβιος υἱὸς ὀπάσσει,
τοῦτον ὅτι σφρήγιζε πατὴρ θεός.
[P]repare that more abiding feast of the everliving table, which only the
life-bringing son of man bestows, because god the father has designated
him.
John 6:27 . . . ἀλλὰ τὴν βρῶσιν τὴν μένουσαν εἰς ζωὴν αἰώνιον, ἣν ὁ υἱὸς τοῦ
ἀνθρώπου ὑμῖν δώσει· τοῦτον γὰρ ὁ πατὴρ ἐσφράγισεν ὁ θεός.
. . . But for food that abides, resulting in eternal life, which the Son of Man
will give you. For him God the Father has sealed.
That eternal life is also a key element in the Paraphrase is demonstrated in

several contexts. In the scene of the Samaritan woman at the well, Nonnus
specifies that the ὕδωρ of that source produces the living water and not a
terrestrial water (Par. 4.68–69), so that the believer is purified by the divine
energy derived from that living water (Par. 7.146–148). The gift of eternal life,
mentioned by Christ himself in his prayer of glorification (Par. 17.6–7), is the
right reward for those who believe in God (Par. 20.143–144).94
In some passages John maintains that many disciples come ‘to believe’ but,
when confronted with the further claims of Christ, are revealed to be ‘children
of the devil’ (8:44): they are not truly disciples and they have no interest in true
worship. In the sixth chapter, soon after the discourse at Capharnaum, many
disciples abandon Jesus, presenting themselves as not true disciples (6:66).95
In the Paraphrase, by seeing the moving away of the disciples, described by
denotata expressing their wandering from the correct way (Par. 6.206–211),
that is to say from the Christian faith, Jesus submits a question to the oth-
ers, the Apostles (212–214). He asks if they also want to go with those who are
unfaithful (μέτηλυς λαός, 211). To this question responds Peter, the faithful dis-
ciple whose relevant role is also underlined by the Paraphrase. His confession
arises from the situation, but at the same time is seen as a confession that,
transcending the real situation, becomes a universal and unique expression
of faith. None is superior to Christ (φέρτερος, 216), because he is the source
of eternal life. If the other disciples have been inconstant in their faith and
94 Dodd (1970) 144–150; Franchi (2013) 407.

95 Schlier (1971) 118–123.
262 Franchi
dominated by different thoughts which have led them to err, the Apostles have
believed without any hesitation in Christ, the ‘Holy One of God’ (218–220):96
καὶ προτέρων δεδαῶτες ἀσιγήτων ἀπὸ βίβλων

ἀπλανέες πιθόμεσθα μιῇ καὶ ὁμόφρονι βουλῇ,
ὅττι θεοῦ σὺ πέλεις ἅγιος μόνος. 220
[S]ince we have learned from the previous unsilent books, we unerringly

believe with a single and unanimous will that you alone are the holy one
of god.
John 6:69 καὶ ἡμεῖς πεπιστεύκαμεν καὶ ἐγνώκαμεν ὅτι σὺ εἶ ὁ ἅγιος τοῦ θεοῦ.
And we have believed and have come to know that you are the Holy One
of God.
Metaphorically and symbolically, Dionysus and Christ are strictly connected,

but the Christian God possesses a unique characteristic: the coexistence of
two different natures, the divine one and the human one, as we read at Par.
3.69 where Christ is defined as ἀνθρώπου μόνος υἱός.97 Treating the similarities
between Neoplatonism and Christianity, Augustine of Hippo had already men-
tioned the main element of distinction, absent in the libri Platonicorum: the
incarnation.98 Keeping in mind this articulated framework, some questions
arise: how should we interpret correctly the meaning of μόνος in these
contexts? Should we think that among the gods of paganism Christ is the only
and true God?
As we can see, the ἀσίγητοι books (Par. 6.218) are the prophetic books of
the Old Testament, whose prophecies have proclaimed the coming of Christ;
they are the true oracles in contrast to the false ones of the pagan world.99 It
is important to remember that in the fourth century, in the course of either
condemning the oracles or enlisting them for the Christian cause, many
oracular statements are quoted by Christian authors, deriving from dif-
ferent oracular sanctuaries, and taken from a variety of sources. Christian
writers reuse the pagan oracles within a Christian context, to show that the
96 Joubert (1968); Franchi (2013) 142–144.

97 For more details cf. Spanoudakis (2014a) 165–166.
98 Aug. Conf. 7.9.14.
99 Nonnus uses the same adjective to connote the Castalian font of Delphi at Dion. 13.133–134
ἀσιγήτοιο δὲ πηγῆς | Κασταλίης λάλον οἶδμα σοφῷ πάφλαζε ῥεέθρῳ. Cf. Agosti (2004c) 22–32.
Christian doctrine has been already prophesied.100 In the Paraphrase the Holy
Scriptures are viewed as written oracles (θέσφατα μύθων), speaking with the
sound of an immortal trumpet to give testimony (μαρτυρία) of the Son of God
(Par. 5.154–159), on whom the θεῖος ἀνὴρ ἔγραψεν ἐτήτυμος (‘the divine man
wrote truthfully’, 179).101 A true seeing is followed by believing and witness-
ing. If the Gospel has been written by a truthful witness and the Spirit of truth
has a hand in it and leads one into it, its μαρτυρία is source of truth,102 but
where this truth comes from is unclear. One answer might be from the God
of truth. Once again we are dealing with the issues of authenticity and truth.
As in John, whose main purpose is to compel the reader to believe in God, the
last decision is up to the reader of the Nonnian poem, who engages with that
ὀρθὴ πίστις, presented at the beginning of the Paraphrase as ἀτέρμων μήτηρ of
the κόσμος ἀλήτης (‘boundless mother’ of the ‘erring world’, 1.19, 29). In keeping
with the understanding that miracles and signs reveal the character of God and
manifest God’s activity at work in the world through Christ, faith may be defined
as faithfulness in trusting God. Faith appears as one of the main concepts in the
Paraphrase, to the point that a fideistic pathos pervades the Nonnian poem.103
5 Concluding Remarks
Faced with such a number of allusions, one may raise a legitimate question
about the reason for this σύγκρισις between Dionysus and Christ in Nonnus’
Paraphrase.104 While the Christianization of Dionysus was the main pur-
pose of Nonnus’ Dionysiaca,105 the attribution of Dionysiac imagery to Christ
demonstrates that, when the poet decided to write the Paraphrase, the
Dionysiaca was already in progress; at that time, having at his disposal the main
conceptual and literary background, Nonnus could transfer language from the
one sphere to the other. These observations have lent authority to the con-
clusion reached by Francis Vian about the chronology of both these writings.
In an effort to advance the current understanding of Nonnus’ work, Vian has
argued that the Greek poet of Panopolis, while working on the Paraphrase, was
100 Sardella (1986); Beatrice (1995); Busine (2005) 360–431. For a general study cf. Nieto Ibáñez
(2010).
101 Agosti (2003) 144, 526, 545–549 and (2004c) 29.
102 On this concept see Vian (1997b); cf. also Gigli Piccardi (2003) 56–57.
103 De Stefani (2002) 13; Franchi (2013) 411–412.
104 Willers (1992).
105 Gigli Piccardi (2003) 82. For an overview of different interpretations of Nonnus’ poem see
the first chapter by Accorinti in this volume.
264 Franchi
also writing short sections or epyllions, inserted later on into the Dionysiaca.
This ancient epic poem, the longest surviving composition in Greek literature,
would be a Lebenswerk, composed in the last years of Nonnus’ life, to narrate all
of classical mythology through the myths of Dionysus.106 Instead, by choosing
to engage with the Greek poetic tradition, the Paraphrase might be read and
understood by everyone who was willing to approach Christian doctrine, pos-
sessing a basic knowledge of Christianity not superior to that of a pagan in Late
Antiquity, who had to face the growth of Christianity. If this reader, after read-
ing the Paraphrase, felt the desire to enter a church and take part in Christian
rituals and sacraments simply to see, would thanks to this spiritual experience
have been able to re-read Nonnus’ Paraphrase and find more than what he
would have discovered after his first reading. The composition of these two
works perfectly represents the world of Late Antiquity, where it is not possible
to divide classical and Christian literature.107 The Paraphrase may well prove to
be the keystone of an arch which, supported by recent studies, is trying to hold
together. If we can understand how it came to be and what it means, we shall
know what Christianity really was in Late Antiquity. Not until we comprehend
the Dionysiaca and the Paraphrase as a whole shall we be in a position to solve
the ‘Nonnian question’.108
Within this work of σύγκρισις we have to place the audience of the Paraphrase,
constituted not only by Christians, but also by pagan intellectuals still numer-
ous in late antique Egypt, whose language and education had to adapt as part
of a complex process of cultural rapprochement.109 This pagan audience was
still immersed in the classical paideia, which was and would be the main
education of both Christians and pagans, but which now had to broaden its
horizons without disregarding the ὀρθὴ πίστις, proclaimed by Christianity.
Such an invitation seems to be hidden in Christ’s words at Par. 6.151–153:
οὐδὲ καὶ αὐτός

ἀνέρας ἐρχομένους νεοπειθέας ἐκτὸς ἐλάσσω,
ἀλλὰ νόῳ χαίροντι δεδέξομαι.
But I will not drive away men who come newly-believing, but I shall wel-
come them with rejoicing mind.
John 6:37 καὶ τὸν ἐρχόμενον πρὸς ἐμὲ οὐ μὴ ἐκβάλω ἔξω.
106 Vian (1997b) 160.

107 Shorrock (2011) 119–123.
108 Livrea (1989) 19–35 and (2000) 39–76; Gigli Piccardi (2003) 45–60.
109 Agosti (2003) 95–102 and (2009a) 324–333.
And the one who comes to me, I would certainly not drive away.
Christ is ready to accept with joy those neophytes (νεοπειθέας, 152) who will
adhere to the Christian faith.110 The Nonnian addition, absent in the Vorlage,
sounds very interesting if compared to the context of late antique Egypt, where
the adoption of Christianity was not immediate; paganism was still deeply
rooted, and even the city of Panopolis was a combat zone where conflicts
occurred throughout the fifth century.111 Thus, it seems correct to assume that
the audience of the Paraphrase included both Christians and pagans, for whom
the expression of Christian cultural heritage in Greek poetic forms enacted a
two-sided process of cultural integration and interrogation. What does it mean
to interpret the Gospel from a classical perspective in the fifth century? What
does it mean to be a pagan or a Christian in Late Antiquity? What is truth?
What is the ὀρθὴ πίστις and implications does it have? The quest will be illu-
minated by bringing the literary, historical and doctrinal issues raised above to
the interpretation of Nonnus’ poem.
The nature of the relationship between the original text and a paraphrase
may give reason for controversial debate. Especially in the case of poetry,
arguably the most complex literary art, the question arises what a paraphrase
can or ought to be: a reproduction of the original simply rendered in a dif-
ferent stylistic language?112 Nonnus’ Paraphrase is much more than this. It is
an interpretation of a basic text of Christianity that leads to another original
composition claiming artistic, aesthetic, and exegetical autonomy. To interpret
a text is to attempt to recover or perhaps discover its meaning in keeping with
its own literary and historical background. As Spanoudakis has noted, a para-
phrase of a holy text can be an interpretative tool, since it rewrites the sacred
text, suggesting its proper understanding.113
As we have seen, Nonnus’ Paraphrase is, of course, a personal interpretation
of John’s Gospel, but also a conscious reappropriation of this text, sustained
in that self-criticism precisely by approaching the Gospel in an exegetical and
poetic way.114 If we want to understand Nonnus’ interpretation of the Fourth
110 Franchi (2013) 168, 442–443.

111 Rémondon (1952) 63–78; Bagnall (1993) 261–288; Frankfurter (2000b) and (2007). See also
the chapters by Dijkstra and van Minnen in this volume.
112 Roberts (1989) 38–65. See also Whitby in this volume.
114 By keeping in mind this context, I do not agree with what Fee (1971) 167–168 thinks about
the significance of Nonnus’ Paraphrase: it is true that Nonnus’ text cannot be used as
primary source to understand the Fourth Gospel because it is a metrical paraphrase, but
in most cases the Paraphrase, intertwined with the Dionysiaca, is able to offer a deeper
overview of some doctrinal interpretations in Late Antiquity.
266 Franchi
Gospel, we have to investigate the meaningful relationship between text and

context. Not only is it impossible to interpret an individual passage without
reference to the Paraphrase as a whole, but the Paraphrase itself could not be
understood without reference to the living tradition of the Church’s faith and
life. Sometimes when reading the Paraphrase it seems that, while there are
reasonable interpretations, there can never be a sole, definitive interpretation:
this is also part of the greatness of Nonnus’ poem.
As one of his era’s greatest interpreters of the Gospel, Nonnus, living in a
pagan world, was able to see clearly that pagans needed to be initiated into
reading practices that enabled them to receive the Gospel as their own. He saw
in John a mentor and precursor, finding in his text a rich source of image and
metaphor. Simultaneously aimed at literary erudition and doctrinal exegesis,
Nonnus’ interpretation of the Fourth Gospel is poetic in character. He inter-
preted the Gospel neither as a historian nor as a systematic theologian, but as
a poet of Late Antiquity who aimed to discover correspondences between the
classical world and the Christian one. According to him the Holy Scriptures
also possess an oracular function not less than that of the pagan oracles: they
are the written μαρτυρία, or better, the written λόγος, giving mysteriously coded
testimony to the coming into the world of the ‘Holy One of God’: the Λόγος par
excellence.
Chapter 12
Nonnus’ Paraphrastic Technique: A Case Study of

Self-Recognition in John 9
1 Introduction
In Late Antiquity the Gospel of John became an active site for exegetical
and literary experimentation.1 The Paraphrase of the Gospel of John executed
by the poet Nonnus of Panopolis in the middle of the fifth century is one of
the premier examples of this literary interest in the Gospel and is certainly
the most elevated in terms of its Greek style. Nonnus paraphrased the prose
Gospel of John, made up of 21 books, into 3,660 hexameter lines. This chapter
will discuss Nonnus’ Paraphrase in general terms but will use the example of
John 9 (the story of ‘the man born blind’) as a case study for considering
Nonnus’ paraphrastic technique. The appendix at the end of this chapter con-
tains both the biblical text of John 9 and Nonnus’ verses, arranged in parallel
columns. It is designed to visually depict the extent of Nonnus’ ornamenta-
tion of the Gospel text. Nonnus’ Paraphrase for John 9 is roughly 4.5× longer
than the New Testament text (188 lines compared to 41 verses). This level of
‘close elaboration’ has been directly related to the so-called ‘jeweled style’ of
late antique literature.2 The present chapter will argue that, in addition to his
influential style and aesthetic sensibilities, scholars should take seriously
Nonnus’ theological and liturgical context in assessing the goal and achieve-
ment of this incredible work of literary art.
Nonnus’ mode of elaboration in the Paraphrase has never been the object
of a full-scale published study. In his 1991 Columbia Ph.D. thesis, Lee Sherry
put forward certain forceful (though idiosyncratic) views on the authorship
of the poem.3 He argued that the Paraphrase was not by Nonnus at all but
was by one of his students and, more bizarrely, that it was a cento of Nonnus’
1 On the popularity of the Gospel of John in Late Antiquity, see Wiles (1960).
2 On the concept of the jeweled style in late antique poetry, see Roberts (1985) and (1989). On
the textual concept of close elaboration applied to Nonnus, see Johnson (2006) 67–112.
3 Sherry (1991). See also the thesaurus on the Paraphrase by Coulie/Sherry (1995), on which see
the review by Accorinti (1999).

268 Johnson
own Dionysiaca. By making the Paraphrase epigonal to the Dionysiaca,

Sherry removed the Paraphrase from the conversation about Nonnus’ poetic
technique while at the same time casting the Dionysiaca in a more singular,
anomalous light. The Dionysiaca is the single longest surviving Greek epic from
Antiquity (48 books, 21,286 lines) and the poem for which Nonnus remains
best known among modern classicists.
Numerous scholars have written in opposition to Sherry’s thesis.4 It has
been repeatedly posited and to many minds confirmed that Nonnus was work-
ing on both the Paraphrase and the Dionysiaca simultaneously. Indeed, many
Nonnian scholars are now of the opinion that he finished the Paraphrase first.5
Such arguments proceed primarily by means of close attention to numerous
allusions and other stylistic affinities between the poems. These connections
have been carefully collected and analyzed in the series of commentaries,
produced under the leadership of Enrico Livrea, that when completed will
effectively comprise a new critical edition of the Paraphrase. Livrea initi-
ated the series with his own edition and commentary on John 18 in 1989 (over
100 years after the standard Teubner edition of the Paraphrase by August
Scheindler).6 Thus far, new editions of eight books (out of twenty-one) have
appeared, the most recent in 2014.7 This editorial work on the Paraphrase
was initiated near the end of the new nineteen-volume Budé edition of the
Dionysiaca, an edition which was completed under the editorship of Francis
Vian in 2006.8 The editors of individual volumes of the Budé edition were
by and large sensitive to issues of composition in the two poems and often
take note of the resonance between them in their own volumes. Likewise, the
recent Italian translation of the Dionysiaca was prepared on the basis of
the new Budé edition and by many of the same scholars doing editions of the
books of the Paraphrase.9 Thus, the synergistic work on Nonnus over the past
few decades has generated a consensus, which would now be very difficult to
refute, that Nonnus was the author of both poems and most likely finished the
Paraphrase first. Regardless of the order in which he wrote them, there are so
4 To cite two prominent scholars: Livrea (1987) and (2003); Whitby (2007).
5 Vian (1976) xvi–xviii and (1997b). Cf. Al. Cameron (2000) 179–180.
6 Scheindler (1881a).
7 Livrea (1989) = John 18; Accorinti (1996) = 20; Livrea (2000) = 2; De Stefani (2002) = 1; Agosti
(2003) = 5; Greco (2004) = 13; Caprara (2005) = 4; Franchi (2013) = 6; Spanoudakis (2014a) = 11.
8 Vian et al. (1976–2006), followed by an index volume (Vian/Fayant 2006).
9 Gigli Piccardi (2003); Gonnelli (2003); Agosti (2004c); Accorinti (2004). Vol. 3 of this Italian
translation and commentary was prepared by Gianfranco Agosti (Dionysiaca 25–39), who
also edited Book 5 of the Paraphrase (Agosti 2003); vol. 4 was prepared by Domenico
Accorinti (Dionysiaca 40–48), who also edited Book 20 of the Paraphrase (Accorinti 1996).
Nonnus ’ Paraphrastic Technique 269
many notable echoes between the poems that the scope for further work on
their intertextuality is huge.10 The firm incorporation of the Paraphrase into
the Nonnian corpus, along with the abandonment of various theories of reli-
gious conversion on the part of the author, has inaugurated a new era in the
study of these poems. Alongside the breaking down of traditional categories
for assessing the late Roman world—namely pagan and Christian, or classical
and religious—Nonnus has become a poster-child of new thinking about the
intersection of Christianity and high literary art in Late Antiquity.
Theologically speaking, Nonnus’ Paraphrase shows a strong awareness
of the value of John’s Gospel for the Christian doctrine of the incarnation,
which fits his cultural and chronological context, writing, according to most
accounts, within a decade or so of either side of the Council of Chalcedon
in 451.11 Nonnus worked from Cyril of Alexandria’s Commentary on John (425–
428), which thus provides a terminus post quem for the Paraphrase.12 Some of
this Christological awareness appears in the Dionysiaca as well, and cogent
arguments have been made that Nonnus’ Dionysus was designed to prefigure
the Christ of the Paraphrase—not that Dionysus is simply an alter Christus
character, but that the mythical, even cosmological, roles of the two figures
are intertwined throughout the poems and that Dionysus’ perambulations
10 For intertextuality in Nonnus, especially between the Dionysiaca and other poems, see
Shorrock (2001). On the thought world of Nonnus as revealed in his connections to the
reception of the classical world in Late Antiquity, see Chuvin (1991); Agosti (2010b), (2011–
2012), (2013a), (2014a), and (2014b).
11 Alan Cameron and Leslie MacCoull both argue for a post-451 date (Al. Cameron 2000, 182;
MacCoull 2007, 7). On Nonnus’ Christology see Sieber in this volume.
12 Golega (1930) 127–130. On the date of Cyril’s Commentary on John, see Mahé (1907): it is
entirely possible that Nonnus heard Cyril of Alexandria viva voce (Spanoudakis 2014a, 18).
The theory that Nonnus the poet was none other than bishop Nonnus of Edessa, attendee
of the Council of Chalcedon (Livrea 1987 and 2003) has not won wide acceptance
(Al. Cameron 2000; Accorinti 2013c, 1110–1111 and the first chapter by the same author in
this volume). A terminus ante quem seems to be Cyrus of Panopolis’ knowledge of the
poem in the same generation (c. 460): Al. Cameron (1982) 237–239; Tissoni 2008 (78–79).
But Pamprepius of Panopolis (440–484) also seems to know the Paraphrase and it may be
imitated by the Metaphrasis Psalmorum attributed to Apollinarius (c. 460; ed. Ludwich
1912; cf. Golega 1960), which would imply an earlier date of composition: see Accorinti
(2013c) 1109. A terminus post quem for the Dionysiaca (which may or may not be helpful
for a relative date of the Paraphrase) is the publication in c. 438 of Proclus’ Commentary
on the Timaeus, which it knows: Tissoni (1998) 13; Accorinti (2003b) 205. So, when taken
together, the data allow one to triangulate the composition of the Paraphrase between
440 and 460 or, most conservatively, between 430 and 465.
270 Johnson
throughout the eastern Mediterranean and India are meant structurally to

prepare the way for the message of the Gospel.13
Furthermore, in terms of local influence, attention has been drawn to cer-
tain readings of John which may suggest Nonnus was familiar with the Sahidic
Coptic translation.14 If true, then arguments about the liturgical context of his
poetry become more trenchant, and it may prove enlightening to place the
Paraphrase alongside the hymns of Romanos the Melode in the sixth century,
even if their prosody does not invite comparison. Regardless of whether indig-
enous Coptic elements can be delineated in his poems,15 the important work
done on the biblical imagination of late antique poets, particularly in Greek
and Syriac, might be applied to Nonnus with great benefit.16 Indeed, with all
of this in mind, it is an easy claim to make that, regardless of the merits of any
single interpretation, we have only begun to scratch the surface of Nonnian
poetics. This is particularly true given the serious attention now being paid to
the Paraphrase.17
2 Technique and Self-Recognition
My goal for the rest of this chapter will be to demonstrate, through the exam-
ple of John 9, precisely how Nonnus expands the Gospel text into an epic
poem. This expansion occurs on multiple levels, but I will be concentrating
on two: the lexical and the theological. Of course, these two cannot be neatly
separated in a literary work of the caliber of the Paraphrase, and many other
important levels of paraphrase could be the focus of this chapter, such as
sound effects, the visual collocation of words, paradox, and dramatization
and gesture.18 Nevertheless, the lexical and theological components of the
13 Spanoudakis (2007); Miguélez Cavero (2013a). See also Spanoudakis (2014a) 4: ‘The
Paraphrasis and the Dionysiaca of Nonnus of Panopolis are two parts of a great cultural
project which aims at recounting the history of the world. The perspective is essentially
Christian. The plan is historically conscious and is conceived sub specie aeternitatis.’ On
the larger coherence of the two poems when read together, see Agosti (2001b).
14 MacCoull (2003) and (2007).
15 See Agosti in this volume.
16 Roberts (1985) and (1989); Faulkner (2014). On the biblical imagination in Syriac poetry,
see Murray (2004); and on dialogue poems, see Brock (1987) and Av. Cameron (1991b).
17 No doubt even bolder claims about the interrelationship of the poems will be made, espe-
cially as the poetic options available in Late Antiquity come into clearer focus. See Whitby
(1994) and (2006); Agosti/Gonnelli (1995–1996); and now the masterful survey article by
Gianfranco Agosti on Greek poetry in Late Antiquity (Agosti 2012).
18 On paraphrase as a literary style, see now Spanoudakis (2014a) 68–73.
paraphrast’s technique are arguably two of the most important. Both belong, in
one sense or another, to the concept of immutatio (= ἐναλλαγή, ‘substitution’),
one of the four main principles of paraphrase according to ancient rhetori-
cal theory: adiectio, detractio, transmutatio (μετάθεσις), immutatio (ἐναλλαγή).19
The rhetorical principle of immutatio is the substitution of one word with sev-
eral, both at the micro and the macro scale.20 The micro scale is exemplified in
the aforementioned expansion of John 9 from 41 biblical verses into 188 lines
of hexameter poetry.21 It is also a part of what has been evocatively described
as the ‘usurpation’ of Homeric language for the purpose of bringing the Gospel
of John to life, word by word.22 The macro scale of immutatio can be found
in the unfolding analysis of biblical metaphors (as in Ephrem) or character
dramatization (as in Romanos), but also in conceptual or theological expan-
sion (as in Cyril of Alexandria). Nonnus belongs firmly among the exegetical
pantheon of Late Antiquity because his poem represents one of the most sus-
tained interpretative works on the Gospel of John from the period.23 Less often
recognized by historians of interpretation, however, is that Nonnus accom-
plishes this sustained exegesis through adhering closely to rhetorical expecta-
tions for his chosen genre of paraphrase. Literary paraphrase in the period was
fundamentally an exercise (a γύμνασμα or exercitatio) even though the qual-
ity of Nonnus’ Paraphrase far outstrips the schoolroom.24 Theological ideas in
Nonnus’ Paraphrase are expressed precisely through his learned immutatio,
whereby Nonnus takes a single verse in John and reads it through the lens of
fifth-century Christology and exegesis.
The motif of self-recognition plays an important role in the Paraphrase in a
number of scenes that are quintessentially Johannine: for example, Nicodemus’
conversion in John 3, the Samaritan woman at the well in John 4, and the man
born blind in John 9. Likewise, recognition scenes in John, which I will argue
are related to the self, are consistently embroidered by Nonnus for dramatic
19 Miguélez Cavero (2008) 309–310; Spanoudakis (2014a) 69; and, fundamentally, Quintilian,
IO 1.9.2 and 10.5.8.
21 I call this basic expansion ‘the lexical level’ even though in some few cases Nonnus’ dic-
tion is revealed through abbreviation.
22 Usurpation: Agosti (2011). See Spanoudakis (2014a) 7.
23 Wiles (1960). Like other inventive poets from the period, Nonnus deftly weaves elements
from the Synoptic Gospels into his retelling of John: Preller (1918) 159–161; Golega (1930)
131–138; Spanoudakis (2014a) 17. For Jacob of Serugh’s willingness to do this with the Sinful
Woman story from Luke 7, see Johnson (2013). It is important to recognize that Christian
poets (liturgical or not) were not bound to lectionary readings but could free-associate
from other parts of the Bible as their poetic and theological vision led them.
272 Johnson
effect: the post-resurrection appearances to Mary Magdalene and Thomas

in John 20 are two of the more elaborate in the Paraphrase in terms of their
epic diction and length. Moreover, in terms of the macro level of expansion,
Nonnus clearly theologizes the concepts of the self and recognition through-
out his Paraphrase. To quote a recent view on this subject, ‘The Paraphrasis
fundamentally spiritualizes the Spiritual Gospel’.25
Before considering examples of Nonnus’ paraphrastic technique, I offer
here a brief summary of the story of John 9.26 Jesus comes upon a man blind
from birth and his disciples ask him who sinned, the man or his parents, that
he should be born blind. Jesus says neither sinned and proceeds to heal the
man born blind by spitting on the ground and smearing the resulting mud over
his eyes. He then tells the man to go wash his eyes in the pool of Siloam, and
after doing so, the man is miraculously able to see. The man is then questioned
by neighbors and brought before the Pharisees, who berate him in a hostile
manner with further questions about Jesus. This inquisition then extends to
his parents, who decline to answer out of fear, and point their fingers at their
son, saying that he can answer for himself. In response to another round of
questions the man boldly claims to believe Jesus was sent from God and in
return is chastised by the Jews and cast out of the synagogue. The scene then
shifts to Jesus hearing about this and seeking out the man. Jesus himself
then questions the man and reveals to him that he is the Son of Man. The man
born blind responds to this revelation by worshipping Jesus. Some onlooking
Pharisees ask Jesus mockingly if they are blind. Jesus responds by saying, ‘If
you were blind, you would have no guilt; but now that you say, “We see,” your
guilt remains.’
This passage in the original contains several elements that Nonnus acknowl-
edges as crucial to the scene by highlighting them in his Paraphrase. I will
limit my analysis to three categories: 1) the numerous metaphorical uses of
light, dark, sight, and blindness; 2) the matrix of themes of self-knowledge,
recognition, and identity-revelation; and 3) the extensive dialogue, in direct
speech, throughout the chapter.
25 Spanoudakis (2014a) 31. See also Franchi in this volume.

26 John 9 does not yet have a new published edition among the Italian volumes, so I am mak-
ing use of Scheindler’s Teubner edition (1881a). However, an Italian dissertation which
I have not been able to consult, was produced on this book: Serra (1997). The eleventh-
century Laurentian MS of the Paraphrase, the earliest and best witness, is only extant up
to Par. 8.113 and thus does not include Book 9. For a recent description of the other wit-
nesses, see Spanoudakis (2014a) 107–113 and De Stefani in this volume.
3 Light/Dark
The language of darkness and light begins with a mini-ekphrasis on the image
of the blind man’s face in lines 4–9:
ὅστις ἔην περίφοιτος ἀφωτίστοιο προσώπου

συμφερτήν, ἀμέριστον ἔχων ἀχάρακτον ὀπωπήν, 5
ἣν φύσις οὐκ ἐτύπωσε· λιποβλεφάροιο δὲ κύκλου
οἰδαλέον ξένον ὄμμα γενεθλιὰς εἶχεν ὀμίχλη.
καὶ βρέφος οὔποτε τοῖον ἀνόμματον ἥλικι κόσμῳ
ἡνίοχος βιότοιο φυτοσπόρος ἤγαγεν αἰών.
The man was homeless and in his unenlightened visage

He had undivided, unmarked eyesockets 5
Which nature did not stamp. A circle with no center,
A haze had possessed the swollen, alien eye from birth.
So sightless an infant in the present universe of creation
The charioteer, the generative Aion, had never before brought forth.
Nonnus highlights vividly at the very beginning the plight of the blind man
and he tries to evoke, wherever possible, the radical change in him.27 Likewise
at line 14, the blind man’s troglodyte existence is emphasized with the phrase
ἀλαώπιδι ὄρφνῃ (‘eyeless darkness’) a typically Nonnian personification which
is paired with the same word from line 7 ὀμίχλη (‘mist, fog, haze’) in the
Dionysiaca (25.282).
Jesus’ self-declaration that he is the Light of the World in John 9:5 (φῶς εἰμι
τοῦ κόσμου)—probably the most famous phrase from this chapter, echoing
the metaphysical prologue of John 1—is rephrased by Nonnus with typical
embroidery in lines 23–24 εἰμὶ δὲ κόσμου | φέγγος ἐγὼ ζοφόεντος (‘I am the Light
in a darkened world’).
When Jesus smears the mud onto the blind man’s eye-sockets, there is
another mini-description of the man’s face (lines 27–34):
καὶ χθονίῳ κενεῶνι πεφυρμένον ἀφρὸν ἑλίσσων

πτύσματι πηλὸν ἔτευξε φαεσφόρον· ἰκμαλέον δέ
ἀνδρὸς ἐπιχρίσας λιποφεγγέι πηλὸν ὀπωπῇ
ἀνέρος ἔπλασεν ὄμμα, τὸ μὴ φύσις εὗρεν ὀπάσσαι, 30
27 Spanoudakis (2014a) 35, with reference to Lazarus in Paraphrase 11: ‘Gradual restoration of
life fascinates N.’s mind.’
274 Johnson
ἀνέρος ἔπλασεν ὄμμα, καὶ ἀγλήνοιο προσώπου

γράψας δίπτυχα κύκλα μέσην ἐχάραξεν ὀπωπήν,
ὀφθαλμοὺς τελέων νεοτευχέας ἠθάδι πηλῷ
ἐκ χοὸς ἀνδρογόνοιο.
Rolling the foam mixed in the hollow earth

He produced light-bringing clay with the spit. The moist
Clay he smeared on the light-less eyes.
He formed one eye for the man, which nature was not able to offer; 30
He formed another eye for the man, and upon the sightless face
He inscribed double circles and stamped the middle of the eyeball,
Completing the newly-wrought eyes with common clay
From the man-creating soil.
In these verses, the clay is ‘light-bringing’ (φαεσφόρος) in the same way that
the soil is ‘man-creating’ (ἀνδρογόνος): the gift of sight is rhetorically paralleled
with the creation of humanity. In other words, sight and the light on which it
depends is life itself, a statement which parallels the imagery from the pro-
logue of the Gospel (John 1:4): ‘In him was life, and the life was the light of
men.’ Paradoxically, the dark clay produced from Jesus’ spit is not occluding.
Moreover, the same epithet ‘light-bearing’ (φαεσφόρον) is used in line 39 to
describe the water which washes the clay off. Thus, in the hands of Jesus both
πηλός (‘clay’) and ὕδωρ (‘water’) are instruments of φάος (‘light’) and of cre-
ation. While this unmistakable pottery imagery is also present in the Vorlage,
Nonnus has not only acknowledged it but has intensified the verbal relation-
ship of these material elements for his poetic vision.
Further along in the narrative, the man born blind is questioned by the Jews
about the miracle. His response to their inquiries about Jesus and the claim
that he was a sinner because he had broken the Sabbath is, in the original text,
both theological and juridical, asking in retort how any sinner could accom-
plish such miracles. In Nonnus this retort becomes a much more elaborate
meditation on light (lines 154–158):
ἐξότε ποικιλόμορφος ἀέξετο παντρόφος αἰών,

τηλίκος οὔποτε μῦθος ἀκούεται, ὅττι λαχόντι 155
ὄμμα πολυκλήιστον ἀφωτίστοιο προσώπου
ἀνέρι τις πόρε φέγγος, ὃν ἀρτιτόκου διὰ κόλπου
εἰσέτι τυφλὸν ἐόντα μογοστόκος ἔδρακεν ἠώς.
From the time that the multi-shaped and all-nourishing Aion began to
increase,
Never has so so great a story been heard: that to a man saddled 155
With tightly shut eyes upon his darkened face
Someone offered light, [the same] blind man upon whom
the birth-panged dawn looked from the newly opened womb.
Again the revelation of light is equated with generation and birth, and once
again the classical or philosophical circumlocution for the Creator (‘Aion’)
is invoked alongside a raw physical description of childbirth. Note here how
‘dawn’ in line 158 is both a slightly awkward addition of the language of light
into the birth narrative and yet also linked to physical birth through the adjec-
tive μογοστόκος (‘birth-panged’).
In the last section, when Jesus is interacting directly with the man, after he
has been questioned, the man worships Jesus. In Nonnus (line 174) he falls at
Jesus’ feet and ‘embraces the gleaming soles of his well-sewn sandals’ (φαιδρὰ
πολυρραφέων προσπτύξατο ταρσὰ πεδίλων). Here the language of dawn and sun-
light is invoked once again, in a more metaphorical or theological sense than
the literal description of a child emerging from the womb we saw above. Jesus
describes his ministry with a double purpose (lines 177–180):
ὄφρα καὶ αὐτοί

οἱ πάρος οὐχ ὁρόωντες ἀθηήτου φάος ἠοῦς
τυφλοὶ ἀναβλέψωσιν ἐσαθρήσαντες ὀπωπαῖς,
ὀξυφαεῖς δὲ γένοιντο λιπαυγέες. 180
. . . [I came], first, so that those

Who before did not see the light of the unbeheld dawn,
The blind, might regain their sight and gaze upon it with their eyes;
Second, [so that] those who are keen-sighted become
deserted by light. 180
Here, in the conclusion of chapter 9, both in the original and in Nonnus’

Paraphrase, the light and dark imagery is firmly linked with salvation and the
divine mission on earth through Christ. Salvation is essentially revelation, and
that revelation in Nonnus’ vision is both creation and illumination.
4 Knowledge and Recognition
As we have already seen with respect to the light/dark imagery, Nonnus is

highly attuned to the language of gnosis throughout chapter 9. He weaves the
punchline of the chapter—that is, Jesus’ assertion that he has come to give
276 Johnson
sight to the blind, and to make blind those who have sight—throughout his
whole rendering of the poem, building to the crescendo of Jesus’ self-revelation
to the man in the conclusion of the scene. In response to the Jews questioning
him, the man born blind says, in lines 147–148, ‘This is an exceedingly marvel-
ous thing, that this man should be unknown to you, even though he opened
my eyes!’ (τοῦτο γάρ ἐστι τὸ θαῦμα πολὺ πλέον, ὅττι περ ὑμῖν | οὗτος ἔην ἄγνωστος,
ἐμὰς δ’ ὤιξεν ὀπωπάς). In comparison to the Gospel text, the emphasis here is
on the relationship between the man’s blindness, now become sight, and the
spiritual blindness, or ignorance, of the Jews. This connection is not made in
the original text until the end of the chapter, but Nonnus has brought it for-
ward as part of a larger, sustained conceit of knowledge of the self in light of
knowledge of who Jesus is. There is more mystery in the original—a type of
whodunnit structure—but Nonnus, by bringing the punchline forward, gives
himself more space to play out the metaphors and imagery.
Even after sparring with the Pharisees over his healing and asserting twice
that Jesus is a divine agent, the man born blind does not come to true self-
recognition until confronted again by the incarnate Jesus. This is true in both
versions. However, as expected, Nonnus pushes the moment of revelation to
an extreme. I have already mentioned the man’s embracing of the ‘gleaming
soles’ of Jesus’ sandals. Here, the emphasis on the man’s awakening into light,
the dawning of his self-knowledge, is further reinforced by its negative image,
that is, in Jesus’ criticism of the Jews (lines 184–188):
εἰ ζόφος ὑμετέρης περιδέδρομε φέγγος ὀπωπῆς,

ὑμέας ἀμπλακίης ἀδαήμονας ἔννεπον εἶναι· 185
νῦν δὲ φόως ὁρόωντες ἀλήμονές ἐστε καὶ ὑμεῖς·
τυφλοὶ δ’ ἐστὲ νόῳ βλεφάρων πλέον· οἷσι γὰρ ἀνδρῶν
ἀμπλακίαι μίμνουσι, μάτην ὁρόωσιν ὀπωπαῖς.
If darkness engulfed the light of your eyes,

I would have said that you were ignorant of sin. 185
But now, even though you yourselves can see, you stumble about.
You are blind in mind even while full of eyes; those men for whom
Faults remain vainly use their eyes to see.
Interestingly, in this scene Nonnus does not give Jesus the theologically rich
title from the Gospel that makes John 9 such a big reveal: Son of Man. Instead
of Jesus saying to the man born blind, ‘Do you believe in the Son of Man?’, he
says, in lines 167–168, ‘Do you believe and honor the son of the heavenly king?’
(σὺ πείθεαι υἷα γεραίρων | οὐρανίου βασιλῆος;). This is much less theologically rich
than the original, at least in the terms the Gospel (and the New Testament in
general) sets for Jesus’ self-identification. Perhaps we may attribute this effect
to Nonnus’ decision to place the revelation earlier in the chapter. He then, in
these later verses, extends the cosmological significance of Jesus’ authority
over the physical world. ‘Heavenly king’ here certainly has more of the ring
of the ‘generative Aion’ (a favorite phrase of Nonnus) than ‘Son of Man’ from
John 9.
5 Dialogue
As already noted, Nonnus makes extensive use of the quoted dialogue of his
Vorlage, not turning it into reported speech but maintaining and expanding
the direct quotes of the actors. Nonnus also acknowledges the forensic quality
of the original—‘who sinned?’, ‘where is this man?’, ‘who is he, Lord, that I may
believe in him?’—and intensifies the interrogations of the man, both by the
Jews and by Jesus at the end of the chapter.
The chapter is replete with quotation, but one example stands out. The
scene where the parents of the man are questioned by the Jews is given more
attention by Nonnus. He clearly feels he has to offer some assessment of their
actions. Nonnus adds a great deal of material to the original scene. First he says
that the people who witnessed the man’s new sight ‘would not have believed’
(οὐκ ἐπίθησαν, 90) the man alone unless his ‘knowledgeable’ (ἐπισταμένους, 93)
parents had been questioned too. Nonnus says in line 99, ‘The guileful parents
wove their story’ (μῦθον ὑποκλέπτοντες ἐμυθήσαντο τοκῆες), and their story, as
in John, is simply ‘We don’t know. Ask him!’ Nonnus’ interpretation of this
response is interesting because he condemns the fact that they were hiding
real knowledge of the nature of their son’s healing. They refused to make pub-
lic the logical connection between his blindness as a newborn and his present
sightedness. He associates their deception specifically with their undue rever-
ence of the Jews, and in this he again anticipates Jesus’ own comments on
self-knowledge and blindness in the concluding scene. Nonnus says in lines
112–117:
τοῖα φόβῳ δολόεντες ἐπεφθέγξαντο τοκῆες

τάρβος Ἰουδαίων πεφυλαγμένοι. αἰνομανεῖς γάρ
Χριστοῦ ζῆλον ἔχοντες ἀμιμήτων χάριν ἔργων
συνθεσίην κήρυξαν ὅλῳ πειθήμονι λαῷ, 115
ὄφρα μιν ὃς δέξοιτο νόῳ καὶ Χριστὸν ἐνίψῃ,
μὴ ζαθέου ψαύσειε θεοκλήτοιο μελάθρου.
278 Johnson
The parents deceitfully spoke such words in fear,

Having in mind their fear of the Jews. For out of their minds
They [i.e. the Jews] envied Christ his inimitable deeds,
And they announced their injunction to the whole of the
obedient laity 115
That anyone who should accept him in their mind and call him Christ
Must not come into contact with the sacred, divinely-chosen building
[the Temple?].
Nonnus underscores this deceit when he says that the father of the man was
intentionally distancing himself from the vision that the onlookers beheld
when they saw that his son could now see (lines 122–124).
καὶ γενέτης ἀλαοῖο κεράσσατο θαύματι φωνήν

γλώσσῃ κρυπταδίῃ, μὴ δήιος ἐσμὸς ἀκούσῃ
παιδὸς ἰδὼν νέον ὄμμα βοογλήνοιο προσώπου.
The father of the blind man mixed his voice with amazement
In equivocal/clandestine language, lest the swarm become hostile in
hearing [his story]
When they saw the new eyeballs on his son’s ox-eyed face.
The dialogue that was expanded by Nonnus and highlighted by him, in this
scene of the interrogation of the parents, is used here as evidence against
them. Nonnus says that their deceitful speech deliberately obfuscated what
could plainly be seen in their son, that he was once malformed and incomplete
and now was almost a caricature of a fully formed human with his ‘ox-eyed’
(βοόγληνος) visage. The themes of light/dark and seeing/blindness are com-
bined with recognition, but here with a new conceit of the equivocating or
deceitful voice of the parents, and all of this is illustrated through a dossier of
dialogue back and forth between the parents and their interrogators.
6 Conclusions
The concepts of blindness and self-recognition offer a means of investigating

not only Nonnus’ poetic skill at verse metaphrasis but also his sensitivity to
poetic and theological topoi of his own day. Primary among these in Nonnus
are the reality of the incarnation and the status of humanity in the sight of
God. While I did not identify in chapter 9 any clear allusions to specific theo-
logical texts from the fifth century, I have tried to highlight how Nonnus tell-
ingly weaves the theological punchline or conclusion from John into the rest
of the chapter from the beginning. This proleptic structure has the effect of
putting Jesus’ self-revelation front and center throughout the miracle story.
Each narrative choice seems to enhance the fundamental claim that Jesus has
come to bring sight to the blind and blindness to the sighted. Blindness is used,
I would argue, as a pure metaphor for ‘lost to self’. Despite the mini-ekphrasis
of the blind man’s face there is no meditation at all on ‘living as a blind man’.
Recovery of sight, however, is equated with creation, salvation, and the resto-
ration of selfhood. The comparison made between the blind man’s malformed
face and the gleam of the sunlight is much starker than in the original text.
Likewise, the physical descriptions of Jesus smearing his eyes with the mud,
along with the man washing the same mud off in the the pool of Siloam, are
clearly meant to evoke God’s shaping of protean matter.
Chapter 9 may also offer evidence that Nonnus was acquainted with con-
temporary Neoplatonic themes and was attempting to incorporate them into
a Christian matrix. Such have been highlighted by Claudio De Stefani above all
for, as one might expect, Book 1 of the Paraphrase, but even still it is interesting
to see the themes continue through the rest of the work.28 The concepts of rec-
ognition and revelation depend upon the metaphors of light/dark and sight/
blindness but are embroidered here with language of knowledge, mind, and
perception, suggesting there is a larger framework of gnosis in Nonnus’ vision
into which one might be able to profitably fit chapter 9.
Nonnus’ choice to highlight the dramatic tension of the dialogue when he
could easily have turned it into reported speech is, I would argue, a signal in the
direction of contemporary patterns of dramatic and liturgical performance:
this in a text that is normally seen as a product of rhetorical excess and poetic
bravado, independent of ‘real’ trends in late antique poetic performance.29
While the quoted dialogue is obviously present in the original text, it is nev-
ertheless reminiscent of Greek and Syriac poetry from Nonnus’ own day.
Nonnus’ titanic effect on all classicizing Greek poetry after him has also been
re-affirmed in a number of recent studies, but there has thus far been very little
work on how the Paraphrase might be read alongside religious or liturgical
poetry from the fifth and sixth centuries. The language of the Paraphrase can
28 De Stefani (2002); Spanoudakis (2014a) 30–37. See also, more generally, Shorrock (2011).
29 Cf. Miguélez Cavero (2010) on the use of public rhetorical genres in the Dionysiaca.
280 Johnson
be difficult and off-putting, but the tools are now present to better incorporate
Nonnus into the larger literary history of Late Antiquity.
Finally, it is worth acknowledging that Nonnus’ Paraphrase can live hap-
pily along side the numerous other paraphrases in prose and verse from Late
Antiquity and Byzantium.30 In addition to the well-known prose paraphrase of
the Acts of Paul and Thekla from around 470—the Life and Miracles of Thekla
(Dagron 1978)—there exists from the fifth-century alone the lesser-known
verse Psalm Paraphrase by Ps.-Apollinarius and, by the Empress Eudocia,
the verse Martyrdom of St Cyprian, paraphrases of Zachariah, Daniel, and
the Octateuch, and the playful Homeric centos, which bear a cognitive rela-
tionship to paraphrase.31 One might also cite the legacy of Josephus’ Jewish
Antiquities and the targum tradition as vibrant Jewish parallels within the
larger ‘rewritten Bible’ phenomenon.32 One must take this larger movement of
literary paraphrase into account in order to understand Nonnus’ Paraphrase as
part of a literary historical canvas. It is not enough to view him as the poet of
the Dionysiaca ‘classicizing’ the Gospel of John, nor is it sufficient to trace par-
allels in Cyril of Alexandria in an effort to uncover his Christological proclivi-
ties. Nonnus was working within genre expectations with regard to paraphrase
as an elevated mode of expression in the fifth century. In this chapter I have
attempted to show how Nonnus went about that task on a detailed level while
drawing attention to his changes to the biblical story as evidence of his par-
ticular theological and artistic goals. The Paraphrase of Nonnus of Panopolis
is an audacious work in which a poet of considerable skill kneaded and rolled
the holy words of scripture into a completely new confection. On one hand,
this new work rests comfortably among other late antique artisans’ attempts
at reworking the Bible but, at the same time, the Paraphrase continues today
to stand out among its peers in the delicacy of its language and the power of
its expression.
30 For a more thorough survey and argument for treating all of the paraphrases together, see
Johnson (2006) 67–112.
31 On all of these texts, see Agosti (2012) for description, contextualization, and critical
texts. For the Psalm Paraphrase, see now Faulkner (2014); and for Eudocia in particular,
see Usher (1998) and Sowers (2008).
32 Johnson (2006) 78–86.
Appendix
Νόννου Πανοπολίτου Εὐαγγέλιον κατὰ Ἰωάννην,

Μεταβολὴ τοῦ κατὰ Ἰωάννην Κεφ. Ι
ἁγίου εὐαγγελίου Nestle-Aland28
Κεφ. Ι
Scheindler (1881a)
Παραστείχων δὲ κελεύθου 1. Καὶ παράγων εἶδεν

ἥμενον ἄνδρα νόησε, τὸν ἐκ κόλποιο τεκούσης ἄνθρωπον τυφλὸν ἐκ γενετῆς.
τυφλὸν ἔτι σπαίροντα λεχωίδες ἔδρακον ὧραι,
ὅστις ἔην περίφοιτος ἀφωτίστοιο προσώπου
συμφερτήν, ἀμέριστον ἔχων ἀχάρακτον
ὀπωπήν,5
ἣν φύσις οὐκ ἐτύπωσε· λιποβλεφάροιο δὲ κύκλου
οἰδαλέον ξένον ὄμμα γενεθλιὰς εἶχεν ὀμίχλη.
καὶ βρέφος οὔποτε τοῖον ἀνόμματον ἥλικι κόσμῳ
ἡνίοχος βιότοιο φυτοσπόρος ἤγαγεν αἰών.
Ἰησοῦν δ’ ἐρέεινεν ὁμόστολος ἐσμὸς ἑταίρων· 10 2. καὶ ἠρώτησαν αὐτὸν οἱ
ῥαββίν, ἀνειρομένοισι, τίς ἤλιτεν, εἰπὲ μαθηταῖς· μαθηταὶ αὐτοῦ λέγοντες·
οὗτος ἀλιτραίνων θεὸν ἤκαχεν ἠὲ τοκῆες, ῥαββί, τίς ἥμαρτεν, οὗτος ἢ οἱ
εἰσόκε μιν δασπλῆτες ἐμαιώσαντο λοχεῖαι γονεῖς αὐτοῦ, ἵνα τυφλὸς
μητέρος ἐκ λαγόνων ἀλαώπιδι σύγχρονον ὄρφνῃ; γεννηθῇ;
Ἰησοῦς δ’ ἐδίδαξεν ἀληθέι μάρτυρι φωνῇ· 15 3. ἀπεκρίθη Ἰησοῦς· οὔτε
οὗτος ἀτασθαλέων οὐκ ἤλιτεν οὐδὲ τοκῆες, οὗτος ἥμαρτεν οὔτε οἱ γονεῖς
ἀλλὰ λάχεν τόδε πῆμα θεήλατον, ὄφρα δι’ αὐτοῦ αὐτοῦ, ἀλλ’ ἵνα φανερωθῇ τὰ
ἔργα θεοῦ γενετῆρος ἀλεξικάκοιο φανείη. ἔργα τοῦ θεοῦ ἐν αὐτῷ.
ἡμέας ὑψίστοιο πέλει χρέος ἔργα τελέσσαι, 4. ἡμᾶς δεῖ ἐργάζεσθαι τὰ
ἔργα θεοῦ ζώοντος, ἕως ἔτι φαίνεται ἠώς· 20 ἔργα τοῦ πέμψαντός με ἕως
νὺξ δνοφερὴ μετὰ βαιὸν ἐλεύσεται· ἐρχομένην δέ ἡμέρα ἐστίν· ἔρχεται νὺξ ὅτε
οὔτις ἀνὴρ κατὰ νύκτα δυνήσεται ἔργον ὑφαίνειν. οὐδεὶς δύναται ἐργάζεσθαι.
ῥέξω δ’, εἰσόκεν ἦμαρ ἀέξεται· εἰμὶ δὲ κόσμου 5. ὅταν ἐν τῷ κόσμῳ ὦ, φῶς
φέγγος ἐγὼ ζοφόεντος, ἕως ἔτι κόσμον ὁδεύω. εἰμι τοῦ κόσμου.
εἶπεν ἄναξ καὶ θεῖον ὑπὸ στόμα διψάδι γαίῃ 25 6. Ταῦτα εἰπὼν ἔπτυσεν
λυσίπονον, πάλλευκον ἀπέπτυεν ἀφρὸν ὀδόντων. χαμαὶ καὶ ἐποίησεν πηλὸν ἐκ
καὶ χθονίῳ κενεῶνι πεφυρμένον ἀφρὸν ἑλίσσων τοῦ πτύσματος, καὶ ἐπέχρισεν
282 Johnson
(cont.)

Κεφ. Ι
Scheindler (1881a)
πτύσματι πηλὸν ἔτευξε φαεσφόρον· ἰκμαλέον δέ αὐτοῦ τὸν πηλὸν ἐπὶ τοὺς
ἀνδρὸς ἐπιχρίσας λιποφεγγέι πηλὸν ὀπωπῇ ὀφθαλμοὺς
ἀνέρος ἔπλασεν ὄμμα, τὸ μὴ φύσις εὗρεν
ὀπάσσαι,30
ἀνέρος ἔπλασεν ὄμμα, καὶ ἀγλήνοιο προσώπου
γράψας δίπτυχα κύκλα μέσην ἐχάραξεν ὀπωπήν,
ὀφθαλμοὺς τελέων νεοτευχέας ἠθάδι πηλῷ
ἐκ χοὸς ἀνδρογόνοιο. καὶ ἔννεπε θέσπιδι φωνῇ· 7. καὶ εἶπεν αὐτῷ· ὕπαγε
ἔρχεό μοι καὶ νίπτε τεὸν ῥέθος, ᾗχι Σιλωάμ 35 νίψαι εἰς τὴν κολυμβήθραν
πηγῆς ἀγχιπόροιο ῥέει πανδήμιον ὕδωρ, τοῦ Σιλωάμ (ὃ ἑρμηνεύεται
ὕδωρ στελλομένοιο προώνυμον ἐκ σέο πομπῆς. ἀπεσταλμένος). ἀπῆλθεν οὖν
Χριστὸς ἔφη, καὶ τυφλὸς ἐπείγετο καὶ παρὰ πηγῇ καὶ ἐνίψατο, καὶ ἦλθεν
χερσὶ βαθυνομένῃσι φαεσφόρον ἤφυσεν ὕδωρ, βλέπων.
ὕδασι πηγαίοισι λιπόσκια φάεα νίπτων. 40
σμήξας δ’ ἀρτιτύπου τροχοειδέα κύκλον ὀπωπῆς
ἐξαπίνης φάος ἔσχε, τὸ μὴ φύσις οἶδεν ὀπάσσαι,
ἀθρήσας φαέθοντος ἀήθεος ὄψιμον αἴγλην.
νίψατο καὶ πάλιν ἦλθε καὶ ἵστατο πάντα δοκεύων.
καί μιν ἐσαθρήσαντες ἐπήλυδες ἄνδρες
ὁδῖται45 8. Οἱ οὖν γείτονες καὶ οἱ
μαρμαρυγὴν πέμποντα νεογλήνοιο προσώπου θεωροῦντες αὐτὸν τὸ
γείτονες ἐφθέγγοντο καὶ ἀνέρες ἴδμονες ἄλλοι· πρότερον ὅτι προσαίτης ἦν
οὐ πέλεν οὗτος ἐκεῖνος ἐν ἄστεϊ τυφλὸς ὁδίτης, ἔλεγον· οὐχ οὗτός ἐστιν ὁ
ὃς πάρος αἰτίζεσκεν ἐθήμονα χεῖρα τιταίνων καθήμενος καὶ προσαιτῶν;
δεξιτερὴν προβλῆτα παρερχομένοισιν
ὁδίταις;50
ἄλλοι δ’ ἀντιάχησαν ἀμοιβαίῳ τινὶ μύθῳ· 9. ἄλλοι ἔλεγον ὅτι οὗτός
οὐ πέλεν, οὐ πέλεν οὗτος, ἔοικε δὲ μοῦνον ἐκείνῳ· ἐστιν· ἄλλοι ἔλεγον, οὐχί,
κεῖνος ἀνὴρ ἀγόρευεν· ἐγὼ πέλον. εἰσαΐων δέ ἀλλὰ ὅμοιος αὐτῷ ἐστιν.
λαὸς Ἰουδαίων φιλοπευθέα ῥήξατο φωνήν· ἐκεῖνος ἔλεγεν ὅτι ἐγώ εἰμι.
10. ἔλεγον οὖν αὐτῷ· πῶς

Κεφ. Ι
Scheindler (1881a)
πῶς δὲ τεαὶ προβλῆτες ἀνωίχθησαν ὀπωπαί; 55 [οὖν] ἠνεῴχθησάν σου οἱ

Ἑβραίοις δ’ ἀγόρευε θεῷ πεφιλημένος ἀνήρ· ὀφθαλμοί; 11. ἀπεκρίθη
κεῖνος ἀνήρ, ὃς Χριστὸς ἀκούεται, ὅντινα λαοί ἐκεῖνος· ὁ ἄνθρωπος ὁ
Ἰησοῦν καλέουσιν, ἐμὰς ὤϊξεν ὀπωπάς· λεγόμενος Ἰησοῦς πηλὸν
χείλεσι γὰρ σοφὸν ἀφρὸν ἀνήρυγεν· ἐν δαπέδῳ δέ ἐποίησεν καὶ ἐπέχρισέν μου
ἀκροτάτοις ὀνύχεσσι πολύστροφον ἰκμάδα τοὺς ὀφθαλμοὺς καὶ εἶπέν μοι
πάλλων,60 ὅτι ὕπαγε εἰς τὸν Σιλωὰμ καὶ
πτύσματι πηλὸν ἔτευξεν, ἐμὰς δ’ ἔχρισεν ὀπωπάς νίψαι· ἀπελθὼν οὖν καὶ
καί με μολεῖν ἐκέλευσεν, ὅπῃ ῥόος ἐστὶ Σιλωάμ· νιψάμενος ἀνέβλεψα.
πηγῆς ἐγγὺς ἵκανον, ἀλεξικάκῳ δὲ ῥεέθρῳ
νιψάμενος σκιεροῖο περίτροχον ὄμματος ἰλύν
ἐξαπίνης φάος εἶδον, ὃ μὴ πάρος εἶχον
ὀπωπαί.65
Ἑβραῖοι δ’ ἐρέεινον ἀναιδέες ἄφρονι μύθῳ· 12. καὶ εἶπαν αὐτῷ· ποῦ ἐστιν
πῆ πέλε, πῆ πέλε κεῖνος; ὃ δ’ ἴαχεν ἔμφρονι μύθῳ· ἐκεῖνος; λέγει· οὐκ οἶδα.
ἀγνώσσω, πόθι κεῖνος. ἐπεσσεύοντο δὲ λαοί 13. Ἄγουσιν αὐτὸν πρὸς τοὺς
τόν ποτε τυφλὸν ἄγοντες ἐς ἀντιθέους ἱερῆας. Φαρισαίους τόν ποτε τυφλόν.
ἑβδομάτη δ’ ἄπρηκτος ἔην τότε θέσκελος 14. ἦν δὲ σάββατον ἐν ᾗ
ἠώς,70 ἡμέρᾳ τὸν πηλὸν ἐποίησεν ὁ
τῇ ἔνι πηλὸν ἔτευξε καὶ ἔπλασε φέγγος ὀπωπαῖς Ἰησοῦς καὶ ἀνέῳξεν αὐτοῦ
Χριστὸς ἀπὸ βλεφάρων ἐλάσας ἀλαωπὸν τοὺς ὀφθαλμούς.
ὀμίχλην.
καί μιν ἀνείρετο λαὸς ἀπιστοτάτων Φαρισαίων, 15. πάλιν οὖν ἠρώτων αὐτὸν
πῶς βλεφάρων λάχε φέγγος; ὁ δὲ θρασὺς ἴαχεν καὶ οἱ Φαρισαῖοι πῶς
ἀνήρ· ἀνέβλεψεν. ὁ δὲ εἶπεν αὐτοῖς·
θέσκελον ἡμετέραις ἐπεθήκατο πηλὸν πηλὸν ἐπέθηκέν μου ἐπὶ τοὺς
ὀπωπαῖς,75 ὀφθαλμούς, καὶ ἐνιψάμην, καὶ
βλέπω.
284 Johnson
(cont.)

Κεφ. Ι
Scheindler (1881a)
ὀφθαλμοὺς δ’ ἐχάραξεν· ἐγὼ δ’ ὑπὸ γείτονι πηγῇ

ὕδατι πηλὸν ἔνιψα καὶ ἵσταμαι ἄρτι δοκεύων.
καὶ φθονεροί τινες εἶπον ἀσιγήτων Φαρισαίων· 16. ἔλεγον οὖν ἐκ τῶν
οὐ θεόθεν πέλεν οὗτος, ὃς ἱερὰ θεσμὰ πατήσας Φαρισαίων τινές· οὐκ ἔστιν
οὐ δρόμον ἀπρήκτοιο φυλάσσεται ἕβδομον οὗτος παρὰ θεοῦ ὁ ἄνθρωπος,
ἠοῦς.80 ὅτι τὸ σάββατον οὐ τηρεῖ.
ἄλλοι δ’ ἀντιάχησαν ὁμοφθόγγων ἀπὸ λαιμῶν· ἄλλοι [δὲ] ἔλεγον· πῶς
πῶς δύναται τάδε πάντα πολύτροπα θαύματα δύναται ἄνθρωπος ἁμαρτωλὸς
τεύχειν τοιαῦτα σημεῖα ποιεῖν; καὶ
θνητὸς ἀνὴρ καὶ ἀλιτρός; ἁμιλλητῆρι δὲ λαῷ σχίσμα ἦν ἐν αὐτοῖς.
διχθὰ μεριζομένῳ διδυμόθροος ἔβρεμεν ἠχώ·
καὶ πολὺς ἀμφήριστος ἔην κλόνος. ἀνδρὶ δὲ
τυφλῷ85 17. λέγουσιν οὖν τῷ τυφλῷ
πάντες ἐμυθήσαντο· σὺ δὲ φρεσὶν εἵνεκα κείνου πάλιν· τί σὺ λέγεις περὶ αὐτοῦ,
ποίην μῆτιν ἔχεις; τίνα μοι, τίνα μῆτιν ἐνίψεις; ὅτι ἠνέῳξέν σου τοὺς
ἀρτιφαὴς δ’ ἀδόνητος ἀνὴρ πειθήμονι μύθῳ ὀφθαλμούς; ὁ δὲ εἶπεν ὅτι
ἔννεπε τολμήεις· ὅτι θέσκελός ἐστι προφήτης. προφήτης ἐστίν.
λαοὶ δ’ οὐκ ἐπίθησαν ἀληθέι φωτὸς ἰωῇ, 90 18. Οὐκ ἐπίστευσαν οὖν οἱ
ὅς ποτε τυφλὸς ἔην καὶ ἐδέξατο φέγγος ὀπωπῆς, Ἰουδαῖοι περὶ αὐτοῦ ὅτι ἦν
εἰ μὴ πρῶτα κάλεσσαν ἀπειθέες ἀρχιερῆες τυφλὸς καὶ ἀνέβλεψεν, ἕως
ἀνδρὸς ἀναβλέψαντος ἐπισταμένους γενετῆρας. ὅτου ἐφώνησαν τοὺς γονεῖς
ἀμφοτέρους δ’ εἴροντο βαρυζήλῳ τινὶ μύθῳ· αὐτοῦ τοῦ ἀναβλέψαντος 19.
ὑμείων πάις οὗτος, ὃν ἐφθέγξαντο πολῖται 95 καὶ ἠρώτησαν αὐτοὺς
ἐκ λαγόνων ὅτι τυφλὸς ἀνεβλάστησε τεκούσης; λέγοντες· οὗτός ἐστιν ὁ υἱὸς
καὶ πόθεν ὀψιτέλεστον ἐδέξατο φέγγος ὀπωπῆς ὑμῶν, ὃν ὑμεῖς λέγετε ὅτι
καὶ φόβον ὠδίνοντες ἐχέφρονες ἠπεροπῆες τυφλὸς ἐγεννήθη; πῶς οὖν
μῦθον ὑποκλέπτοντες ἐμυθήσαντο τοκῆες· βλέπει ἄρτι; 20. ἀπεκρίθησαν
ἴδμεν, ὅτι βροτὸς οὗτος, ὃς ἔλλαχεν ὄμματος οὖν οἱ γονεῖς αὐτοῦ καὶ εἶπαν·
αἴγλην,100 οἴδαμεν ὅτι οὗτός ἐστιν ὁ υἱὸς
ἡμῶν καὶ ὅτι τυφλὸς ἐγεννήθη·

Κεφ. Ι
Scheindler (1881a)
ἡμείων πέλε κοῦρος ἐτήτυμος, ἀλλὰ καὶ αὐτοί

ἴδμεν, ἑῆς ἀπὸ μητρὸς ὅτι βρέφος εἰς φάος
ἕρπων
τυφλὸς ἔην ἀγάλακτος, ἔτι πνείων τοκετοῖο.
πῶς δέ οἱ ἀμφιτρῆτες ἀνωίχθησαν ὀπωπαί 21. πῶς δὲ νῦν βλέπει οὐκ
καὶ τίς ἀφωτίστων βλεφάρων ἐκέδασσεν οἴδαμεν, ἢ τίς ἤνοιξεν αὐτοῦ
ὀμίχλην,105 τοὺς ὀφθαλμοὺς ἡμεῖς οὐκ
ἡμεῖς οὐκ ἐδάημεν ἀμεμφέες· ἀγχιφανῆ δέ οἴδαμεν· αὐτὸν ἐρωτήσατε,
ἴδμονα κοῦρον ἔρεσθε, τὰ μὴ δεδάασι τοκῆες· ἡλικίαν ἔχει, αὐτὸς περὶ
οὐ πέλε νήπιος οὗτος ἔχων παιδήιον ἥβην· ἑαυτοῦ λαλήσει.
οὐ φθογγῆς ἑτέρης ἐπιδεύεται. ἀμφὶ ἕθεν γάρ
ἀρτιθαλὴς νέος οὗτος ἀληθέα μῦθον ἐνίψει, 110
πιστῆς μέτρα τέλεια φέρων παλιναυξέος ἥβης.
τοῖα φόβῳ δολόεντες ἐπεφθέγξαντο τοκῆες 22. ταῦτα εἶπαν οἱ γονεῖς αὐτοῦ
τάρβος Ἰουδαίων πεφυλαγμένοι. αἰνομανεῖς γάρ ὅτι ἐφοβοῦντο τοὺς Ἰουδαίους·
Χριστοῦ ζῆλον ἔχοντες ἀμιμήτων χάριν ἔργων ἤδη γὰρ συνετέθειντο οἱ
συνθεσίην κήρυξαν ὅλῳ πειθήμονι λαῷ, 115 Ἰουδαῖοι ἵνα ἐάν τις αὐτὸν
ὄφρα μιν ὃς δέξοιτο νόῳ καὶ Χριστὸν ἐνίψῃ, ὁμολογήσῃ χριστόν,
μὴ ζαθέου ψαύσειε θεοκλήτοιο μελάθρου. ἀποσυνάγωγος γένηται.
οὗ χάριν Ἑβραίοισιν ἐμυθήσαντο τοκῆες· 23. διὰ τοῦτο οἱ γονεῖς αὐτοῦ
ἴδμονα κοῦρον ἔρεσθε καὶ οὐ χρέος ἐστὶ τοκήων· εἶπαν ὅτι ἡλικίαν ἔχει, αὐτὸν
ὑμῖν δ’ εἰρομένοισι δυνήσεται οὗτος ἐνίψαι 120 ἐπερωτήσατε.
ἄρτια μέτρα φέρουσαν ἔχων περιμήκετον ἥβην·
καὶ γενέτης ἀλαοῖο κεράσσατο θαύματι φωνήν
γλώσσῃ κρυπταδίῃ, μὴ δήιος ἐσμὸς ἀκούσῃ
παιδὸς ἰδὼν νέον ὄμμα βοογλήνοιο προσώπου.
ἀνέρα δ’, ὃς περίφοιτος ἔην ἀλαωπὸς ὁδίτης,125 24. Ἐφώνησαν οὖν τὸν
ζηλομανεῖς καλέσαντες ἐπέφραδον ἀρχιερῆες, ἄνθρωπον ἐκ δευτέρου ὃς ἦν
δός, τέκος, ὑψιμέδοντι θεῷ χάριν, ὅς σε σαώσας τυφλὸς καὶ εἶπαν αὐτῷ· δὸς
ὀφθαλμῶν πόρε φέγγος· ὁ δὲ βροτός, ὃν σὺ δόξαν τῷ θεῷ· ἡμεῖς οἴδαμεν
γεραίρεις, ὅτι οὗτος ὁ ἄνθρωπος
ἁμαρτωλός ἐστιν.
286 Johnson
(cont.)

Κεφ. Ι
Scheindler (1881a)
οὗτος ἀλιτροσύνῃσι πέλει μεμελημένος ἀνήρ.

Ἑβραίοις δ’ ἀγόρευεν ἀνὴρ θρασύς· οὐ μὲν
ἀνέγνων,130 25. ἀπεκρίθη οὖν ἐκεῖνος· εἰ
εἰ πέλεν οὗτος ἀλιτρὸς ἐτήτυμον· οἶδα δὲ θυμῷ ἁμαρτωλός ἐστιν οὐκ οἶδα· ἓν
ἓν μόνον ἀτρεκέως, λοχίης ὅτι σύντροφος ἠοῦς οἶδα, ὅτι τυφλὸς ὢν ἄρτι
τυφλὸς ἐγὼ βλάστησα καὶ ἵσταμαι ἄρτι βλέπω.
δοκεύων.
καὶ χορὸς Ἑβραίων φιλοπευθέα ῥήξατο φωνήν· 26. εἶπον οὖν αὐτῷ· τί
εἰπέ, τί σοι ποίησεν ἑῷ τεχνήμονι πηλῷ; 135 ἐποίησέν σοι; πῶς ἤνοιξέν σου
πῶς δὲ τεὴν ζοφόεσσαν ἀπημάλδυνεν ὀμίχλην; τοὺς ὀφθαλμούς;
καί σφιν ἀνὴρ ἀδόνητος ἐλεύθερον ἴαχε 27. ἀπεκρίθη αὐτοῖς· εἶπον
φωνήν ὑμῖν ἤδη καὶ οὐκ ἠκούσατε· τί
ἄλλοτε μῦθον ἔλεξα, καὶ οὐκ ἠκούσατε φωνῆς, πάλιν θέλετε ἀκούειν; μὴ καὶ
τίπτε παλιμπετέες μενεαίνετε τοῦτον ἀκοῦσαι; ὑμεῖς θέλετε αὐτοῦ μαθηταὶ
μὴ θεὸς ὑμείων δονέει νόον, ὄφρα καὶ αὐτοί 140 γενέσθαι;
Χριστοῦ θεσπεσίοιο νόθοι γίνησθε μαθηταί;
οἱ δέ μιν ἀντιπόροισιν ἐνείκεον αὐτίκα μύθοις· 28. καὶ ἐλοιδόρησαν αὐτὸν
αὐτὸς λυσινόμοιο πέλεις κείνοιο μαθητής. καὶ εἶπον· σὺ μαθητὴς εἶ
ἡμεῖς γὰρ προτέροιο θεουδέος ἐσμὲν ἑταῖροι ἐκείνου, ἡμεῖς δὲ τοῦ
θεσμοτόκου Μωσῆος ὑποδρηστῆρες ἰωῆς. 145 Μωϋσέως ἐσμὲν μαθηταί·
<lacunam indicavit Koechly> 29. ἡμεῖς οἴδαμεν ὅτι Μωϋσεῖ
τοῦτον δ’ οὐκ ἐδάημεν. ἀνὴρ δ’ ἠμείβετο μύθῳ· λελάληκεν ὁ θεός, τοῦτον δὲ
τοῦτο γάρ ἐστι τὸ θαῦμα πολὺ πλέον, ὅττι οὐκ οἴδαμεν πόθεν ἐστίν.
περ ὑμῖν 30. ἀπεκρίθη ὁ ἄνθρωπος καὶ
οὗτος ἔην ἄγνωστος, ἐμὰς δ’ ὤιξεν ὀπωπάς. εἶπεν αὐτοῖς· ἐν τούτῳ γὰρ τὸ
ἴδμεν, ὅτι ξύμπαντα πατὴρ θεὸς ἡνιοχεύων θαυμαστόν ἐστιν ὅτι ὑμεῖς οὐκ
ἀνδρὸς ἀλιτρονόοιο βοὴν οὐκ οἶδεν ἀκούειν. 150 οἴδατε πόθεν ἐστίν, καὶ
εἰ δὲ θεουδείῃσιν ἀνὴρ μεμελημένος εἴη ἤνοιξέν μου τοὺς ὀφθαλμούς.
καὶ καθαραῖς πραπίδεσσι θεοῦ τελέσειεν 31. οἴδαμεν ὅτι ἁμαρτωλῶν ὁ
ἐφετμάς, θεὸς οὐκ ἀκούει, ἀλλ’ ἐάν τις

Κεφ. Ι
Scheindler (1881a)
τούτου λισσομένοιο θεὸς ταχυεργὸς ἀκούει. θεοσεβὴς ᾖ καὶ τὸ θέλημα

ἐξότε ποικιλόμορφος ἀέξετο παντρόφος αἰών, αὐτοῦ ποιῇ τούτου ἀκούει.
τηλίκος οὔποτε μῦθος ἀκούεται, ὅττι 32. ἐκ τοῦ αἰῶνος οὐκ
λαχόντι155 ἠκούσθη ὅτι ἤνοιξέν τις
ὄμμα πολυκλήιστον ἀφωτίστοιο προσώπου ὀφθαλμοὺς τυφλοῦ
ἀνέρι τις πόρε φέγγος, ὃν ἀρτιτόκου διὰ κόλπου γεγεννημένου·
εἰσέτι τυφλὸν ἐόντα μογοστόκος ἔδρακεν ἠώς.
εἰ μὴ ἔην βροτὸς οὗτος ἐπουρανίου βασιλῆος, 33. εἰ μὴ ἦν οὗτος παρὰ θεοῦ,
τηλίκον οὔποτε θαῦμα δυνήσατο μοῦνος οὐκ ἠδύνατο ποιεῖν οὐδέν.
ἀνύσσαι.160
καί μιν μυστιπόλοι φθονερῇ στυφέλιξαν ἰωῇ· 34. ἀπεκρίθησαν καὶ εἶπαν
σύγγονος ἀμπλακίῃσιν ἐμαιώθης ὅλος ἀνήρ, αὐτῷ· ἐν ἁμαρτίαις σὺ
καὶ σὺ σοφοὺς ἱερῆας, ἐπεσβόλε, ταῦτα ἐγεννήθης ὅλος, καὶ σὺ
διδάσκεις; διδάσκεις ἡμᾶς; καὶ ἐξέβαλον
καί μιν ὁμοκλήσαντες ἀπήλασαν ἔκτοθι νηοῦ. αὐτὸν ἔξω.
Ἰησοῦς δ’ ἀίεσκε δαήμονι τυφλὸν ἀκουῇ, 165 35. Ἤκουσεν Ἰησοῦς ὅτι
ὅττι μιν ἐκτὸς ἔλασσαν ἀγήνορες ἀρχιερῆες· ἐξέβαλον αὐτὸν ἔξω καὶ
εὗρε δέ μιν καὶ ἔειπε· σὺ πείθεαι υἷα γεραίρων εὑρὼν αὐτὸν εἶπεν· σὺ
οὐρανίου βασιλῆος; ἀνὴρ δ’ ἠρεύγετο φωνήν· πιστεύεις εἰς τὸν υἱὸν τοῦ
κοίρανε, τίς πέλεν οὗτος, ὃν ἔννεπες, ὄφρα ἀνθρώπου;
γεραίρω; 36. ἀπεκρίθη ἐκεῖνος καὶ
Ἰησοῦς δ’ ἀπάμειπτο· καὶ ἔδρακες αὐτὸν εἶπεν· καὶ τίς ἐστιν, κύριε, ἵνα
ὀπωπῇ,170 πιστεύσω εἰς αὐτόν; 37. εἶπεν
καί σοι ὁ νῦν λαλέων αὐτὸς πέλεν. εἶπε καὶ αὐτῷ ὁ Ἰησοῦς· καὶ ἑώρακας
αὐτός· αὐτὸν καὶ ὁ λαλῶν μετὰ σοῦ
κοίρανε, πιστεύω· κεφαλὴν δ’ ἐπὶ γαῖαν ἐρείσας ἐκεῖνός ἐστιν. 38. ὁ δὲ ἔφη·
καὶ ποσὶν ἀμβροσίοις κυρτούμενον αὐχένα πιστεύω, κύριε· καὶ
κάμπτων προσεκύνησεν αὐτῷ.
φαιδρὰ πολυρραφέων προσπτύξατο ταρσὰ
πεδίλων.
288 Johnson
(cont.)

Κεφ. Ι
Scheindler (1881a)
Ἰησοῦς δ’ ἀπάμειπτο σαόφρονα μῦθον

ἀκούων·175 39. Καὶ εἶπεν ὁ Ἰησοῦς· εἰς
εἰς κρίμα τοῦτον ἵκανον ἐς ἄφρονα κόσμον κρίμα ἐγὼ εἰς τὸν κόσμον
ἀλήτην, τοῦτον ἦλθον, ἵνα οἱ μὴ
εἰς κρίμα δισσὸν ἔβην ἑτερότροπον, ὄφρα καὶ βλέποντες βλέπωσιν καὶ οἱ
αὐτοί βλέποντες τυφλοὶ γένωνται.
οἱ πάρος οὐχ ὁρόωντες ἀθηήτου φάος ἠοῦς
τυφλοὶ ἀναβλέψωσιν ἐσαθρήσαντες ὀπωπαῖς,
ὀξυφαεῖς δὲ γένοιντο λιπαυγέες. ἀγχιπόρων
δέ180 40. ἤκουσαν ἐκ τῶν
Χριστῷ λαὸς ἔειπεν ἐφεσπομένων Φαρισαίων, Φαρισαίων ταῦτα οἱ μετ’
μὴ σφαλεροῖς βλεφάροις ἀλαοὶ γενόμεσθα καὶ αὐτοῦ ὄντες, καὶ εἶπον αὐτῷ·
ἡμεῖς; μὴ καὶ ἡμεῖς τυφλοί ἐσμεν;
Ἰησοῦς δ’ ὀάριζεν ἀπειθέα λαὸν ἐλέγχων· 41. εἶπεν αὐτοῖς ὁ Ἰησοῦς·
εἰ ζόφος ὑμετέρης περιδέδρομε φέγγος ὀπωπῆς, εἰ τυφλοὶ ἦτε, οὐκ ἂν εἴχετε
ὑμέας ἀμπλακίης ἀδαήμονας ἔννεπον εἶναι· 185 ἁμαρτίαν· νῦν δὲ λέγετε ὅτι
νῦν δὲ φόως ὁρόωντες ἀλήμονές ἐστε καὶ ὑμεῖς· βλέπομεν, ἡ ἁμαρτία ὑμῶν
τυφλοὶ δ’ ἐστὲ νόῳ βλεφάρων πλέον· οἷσι γὰρ μένει.
ἀνδρῶν
ἀμπλακίαι μίμνουσι, μάτην ὁρόωσιν ὀπωπαῖς.
CHAPTER 13
Nonnus and Christian Literature

Christos Simelidis
Recent work on Nonnus’ Paraphrasis of John’s Gospel has shown the emphasis
given by Nonnus to the exegetical side of his Paraphrasis, which, in the words
of Gianfranco Agosti, is ‘più vicina all’esegesi che alla parafrasi stricto sensu’.1
Though relying heavily on Cyril of Alexandria’s Commentary on John, Nonnus
nonetheless made use of a larger number of exegetical sources.2 This is hardly
surprising for the poet of the Dionysiaca, who ‘in his mythological learning and
countless allusions to earlier poetry is a true successor to Hellenistic writers of
the Callimachean school’.3 His theological scholarship could not but be of the
same level.
In the first part of this chapter, I concentrate on four notoriously difficult
passages of John’s Gospel and their handling by the poet of the Paraphrasis.
Nonnus is not only aware of contemporary debates, but he treats patristic exe-
gesis with a critical mind and in some cases he would seem to offer some rather
original exegetical solutions, although it is difficult to know insofar as not all
of Nonnus’ sources have survived. Whether Nonnus was a Christian bishop
or not,4 his theological expertise was impressive. For the Gospel’s exegesis
he must have drawn on a variety of patristic works, other than commentar-
ies. The most interesting points for the understanding of a difficult passage
may emerge not from the actual commentaries, but from patristic writings of
other kinds which may refer to the same passage.5 It would also be expected
for a scholar of Nonnus’ learning to have read much more Christian literature
than is concretely traceable in his works. Good indications of this are noted
in recent commentaries on the Paraphrasis: for example, in his rendering of
healing miracles, Nonnus was influenced by contemporary forms of Christian
1 Agosti (2003) 111. For exegesis in the Paraphrasis, see the relevant introductory sections in the
editions (with commentaries) published so far; for example, on Par. 13 see Greco (2004) 15–28.
2 See, for example, Livrea (1989) 154 (on Par. 18.92); Agosti (2003) 53, 295 (on Par. 5.6) and 372
(on Par. 5.34).
3 Hopkinson (2012).
4 See Livrea (2003); cf. the first chapter by Accorinti in this volume.
5 As was concluded by Ramelli (2008) 119 n. 22, following her long discussion of patristic exege-
sis for John 2:4.

290 Simelidis
healing, while for topographical details of the Holy Land he may have drawn
on pilgrims’ reports.6
In the second part of this chapter I discuss Nonnus and Gregory of
Nazianzus. Nonnus appreciated Gregory’s verse and he seems to have used it
as a major source of language and inspiration. Even Nonnus’ use of μάρτυς/
μαρτυρέω/μαρτυρίη or the famous line (Dion. 12.171) Βάκχος ἄναξ δάκρυσε,
βροτῶν ἵνα δάκρυα λύσῃ (‘Lord Bacchus has wept tears that he may wipe away
man’s tears’) may owe something to Gregory. But could Gregory have been
influential for Nonnus in any other respect? I suggest that the metrical liber-
ties of the Paraphrasis may also owe something to Gregory of Nazianzus and
they may be better understood as a sign of maturity (and not the opposite, as
has been argued).
1 Nonnus and Patristic Literature
At John 4:43–45 we read that Jesus, after the two days he spent in Samaria,
arrived in Galilee:
Μετὰ δὲ τὰς δύο ἡμέρας ἐξῆλθεν ἐκεῖθεν εἰς τὴν Γαλιλαίαν· αὐτὸς γὰρ Ἰησοῦς
ἐμαρτύρησεν ὅτι προφήτης ἐν τῇ ἰδίᾳ πατρίδι τιμὴν οὐκ ἔχει. ὅτε οὖν ἦλθεν εἰς
τὴν Γαλιλαίαν, ἐδέξαντο αὐτὸν οἱ Γαλιλαῖοι πάντα ἑωρακότες ὅσα ἐποίησεν ἐν
Ἱεροσολύμοις ἐν τῇ ἑορτῇ.
After the two days he went forth from there into Galilee. For Jesus him-
self testified that a prophet has no honour in his own country. When he
arrived in Galilee, the Galileans welcomed him, having seen all the things
that he did in Jerusalem at the feast.
In these lines there seems to be a contradiction between the proverb stated by

Jesus in v. 44 (‘a prophet has no honour in his own country’) and his reception
by the Galileans in v. 45. Origen, who explicitly regards this as an anacoluthon
(πάνυ ἀνακόλουθος ἡ λέξις φαίνεται), argues that by ‘his own country’ Jesus did
not refer to Galilee, but to Judaea, which he had earlier left (John 4:3) to go to
Samaria.7 John Chrysostom also wonders about the presence of the proverb
6 See Agosti (2003) 37–131 and Franchi (2013) 67–72, respectively.

7 See Commentarii in evangelium Joannis 13.364–368 (Blanc 1975, 236–238). A similar view,
referring to Judaea as Jesus’ country, was also taken by Theodore of Mopsuestia. See Conti/
Elowsky (2010) 44.
Nonnus and Christian Literature 291
here and thinks this is said because Jesus did not go to Capernaum, which he
believes should be taken here as his homeland.8 Cyril also feels the need to
explain the proverb and says that the reason for this remark is that, when Jesus
entered Galilee, he passed by Nazareth without stopping.9 Nonnus deals with
this ‘notorius crux’10 by adding a verse between verses 43 and 44 of the Gospel,
to say (4.196): μούνην δ’ οὐκ ἐπάτησεν ἑὴν ζηλήμονα πάτρην (‘and only his own
jealous homeland he did not visit’). This addition smoothes the transition from
v. 43 to v. 44. Nonnus does not name Jesus’ homeland (as Judaea or Capernaum
or Nazareth) and thus there is no reason to believe that he wanted to follow
the specific view of one of the above-mentioned commentators.11 However, it
is worth considering some hypotheses made by Origen: if, he says, Jesus’ home-
land was Samaria and he had suffered dishonour there, and for this reason
he did not stay for more than two days, then the proverb could make sense.
Origen goes on as follows:
Ἀλλὰ καὶ εἰ ἐγέγραπτο· μετὰ δὲ τὰς δύο ἡμέρας ἐξῆλθεν εἰς τὴν Γαλιλαίαν, ἀλλ’
οὐκ ἐγένετο ἐν τῇ ἰδίᾳ πατρίδι· ‘αὐτὸς γὰρ Ἰησοῦς ἐμαρτύρησεν ὅτι προφήτης ἐν
τῇ ἰδίᾳ πατρίδι τιμὴν οὐκ ἔχει’, καὶ οὕτως χώραν τὸ λεγόμενον εἶχεν ἄν.12
If it had also been written: ‘after the two days, he went into Galilee, but
did not go to his own homeland; ‘for Jesus himself testified that a prophet
has no honour in his own country’, in this case as well the proverb would
have a place.
Nonnus’ additional verse corresponds to the above-cited phrase (in italics) by

Origen. Origen’s hypothesis is applied by Nonnus in his Paraphrasis, which
may well depend on Origen here, although Nonnus does not go as far as adopt-
ing Origen’s theory in detail.
8 See In Jo. hom. 35.1–2 (PG 59.200).

9 In Jo. I, 299–300 Pusey.
10 Brown (1966–1970) I, 186.
11 Pace Caprara (2005) 288–289, who thinks that for this line Nonnus depends on Cyril.
Nonnus could well have followed one of these views in detail and named Jesus’ home-
land, as he named the high priest (ἀρχιερεύς) who addresses Jesus at John 18:19 as Annas
(thus following Chrysostom) and not Caiaphas, according to Cyril. See Livrea (1989)
154 (on Par. 18.92).
12 Commentarii in evangelium Joannis 13.366 (Blanc 1975, 236).
292 Simelidis
At John 3:8, as Jesus attempts to explain to Nicodemus that no one could

tell how the Spirit would operate in a person’s life, he evokes the motion of the
wind:
τὸ πνεῦμα ὅπου θέλει πνεῖ καὶ τὴν φωνὴν αὐτοῦ ἀκούεις, ἀλλ’ οὐκ οἶδας πόθεν
ἔρχεται καὶ ποῦ ὑπάγει· οὕτως ἐστὶν πᾶς ὁ γεγεννημένος ἐκ τοῦ πνεύματος.
The wind blows where it wants and you hear the sound of it, but you do
not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone
who is born of the Spirit.
But πνεῦμα, used in Greek for both the wind and the spirit (or breath), allows
for more interpretations (in its first instance at 3:8). Chrysostom and Cyril
understood the word here as referring to the wind.13 But it seems Chrysostom
also addresses critics of this view: ‘he does not say “it blows where it wants” as
if the wind had any choice, but he simply indicates that its natural motion is
powerful and cannot be hindered’. His friend Theodore of Mopsuestia does not
just disagree, but is amazed at how some take πνεῦμα here as meaning ‘wind’:
‘It is amazing that some think this is said about the wind. How could the words,
it blows where it chooses, be applied to the wind, which has no will and is moved
by an irrational force?’14 He goes on to say that people know the directions of
the winds and give them names accordingly. So Theodore has a strong view
that πνεῦμα here is the Holy Spirit. The same view was taken earlier by Origen
and later by Maximus the Confessor, who confirms that this was a matter of
debate.15 Where does Nonnus stand on this debate? He seems to combine the
two interpretations (3.41–45):
πνεῦμα παλινδίνητον ἀθηήτῳ τινὶ παλμῷ

οἶδε περιπνείειν, ὅθι βούλεται· ἀγχιφανῆ δέ
φωνῆς ἠερίης θεοδινέα βόμβον ἀκούεις,
οὔασιν ὑμετέροις πεφορημένον· ἀλλὰ δαῆναι
οὐ δύνασαι βλεφάροις, πόθεν ἔρχεται ἢ πόθι βαίνει· 45
13 Cyril in both his commentary on John and his commentary on the Prophets; see Pusey
(1872) I, 220 (τὸ πνεῦμα τουτὶ τὸ ἐγκόσμιόν τε καὶ ἐναέριον) and (1868) I, 452 (τουτὶ τὸ ἐν ἀέρι
τε καὶ ἐγκόσμιον), respectively. Chrysostom in both his commentary on John (hom. 26.1)
and his commentary on 1 Corinthians (hom. 29.4); see PG 59.154 and 61.246 (εἰ καὶ περὶ τοῦ
ἀνέμου εἴρηται).
14 In Jo. fr. 21 Devreesse. Cf. Conti/Elowsky (2010) 32.
15 For Origen see fr. 37 (cf. fr. 123) Preuschen. For Maximus see Qu. 188 Declerck.
Τhe ever-whirling spirit blows about rapidly and invisibly wherever it

wants; you hear closely its airy booming sound, divinely moved, as it falls
on your ears. But you cannot feel with your eyes where it comes from or
where it goes.
The epithet ἡερίης clearly suggests the wind (thus following Chrysostom and
Cyril), while θεοδινής, a word found only in the Paraphrasis,16 points to the
interpretation of Origen and Theodore of Mopsuestia. Perhaps Nonnus antici-
pates the view of C.K. Barrett: ‘Each of these translations [sc. wind or Spirit]
taken by itself is wrong; the point of John’s Greek is that it means both, and the
double meaning cannot be simply reproduced in English. The Spirit, like the
wind, is entirely beyond both the control and the comprehension of man: It
breathes into this world from another.’17
At the wedding in Cana, when Jesus’ mother points out the fact that there
is no wine, Jesus takes her remark as a request to work a miracle and responds
with the following enigmatic words: τί ἐμοὶ καὶ σοί, γύναι; οὔπω ἥκει ἡ ὥρα μου
(John 2:4). The question has been understood by some ancient and most
modern scholars as a reproach to Mary and a wish by Jesus to stand at some
distance from her. Most modern translations read: ‘Woman, what have you to
do with me? My hour has not yet come.’ However, Ilaria Ramelli has recently
argued in favour of a different interpretation of this phrase at John 2:4: ‘What
does this [i.e. the lack of wine] matter to me and you?’ With this meaning Jesus
wants to distance himself from the situation, not from his mother. Patristic
commentators are not always entirely clear about the way they understood
this particular phrase.18 There is no doubt that this was a controversial phrase,
which seems to have been exploited by critics of Christianity. How is Christ
16 On the other three instances of this word, see De Stefani (2002) 169–170 (on Par. 1.93);
Caprara (2005) 199 (on Par. 4.67); Franchi (2013) 379 (on Par. 6.81).
17 Barrett (1978) 211. Cutino (2009) 234 thinks that Nonnus agrees here with Cyril, but if
Nonnus wanted to follow Cyril he would not have added θεοδινέα.
18 See Ramelli (2008) 119–133. In my view the interpretation offered by Gregory of Nyssa
(discussed by Ramelli) and Theodore of Mopsuestia, who understand the question as a
reproach to Mary (‘Why do you bother me?’), but also take οὔπω ἥκει ἡ ὥρα μου as a rhe-
torical question (‘has my hour not come yet?’ or ‘am I not grown up enough to decide
for myself?’), makes better sense with what follows. In Theodore of Mopsuestia’s words,
‘if the words, My hour has not yet come, had been spoken in a definite or imperative sense,
as some have thought, as if he refused to perform the deed, his mother would have given
up and would not have ordered the servants to obey him.’ For Gregory of Nyssa see In
Illud: Tunc et Ipse Filius 8.19–26 Downing; for Theodore of Mopsuestia’s Commentary on
the Gospel of John see Conti/Elowsky (2010) 26–27. It is significant that this interpretation
294 Simelidis
sinless, if he rebuked his mother in this way, asks one of Ps.-Justin’s Quaestiones
et Responsiones ad Orthodoxos, probably from early fifth-century Syria.19 The
response is the first clear attestation of the translation endorsed by Ramelli:
there is no rebuke here, but the phrase in question means: ‘It is not we who
ought to take care of the wine.’20 Nonnus’ paraphrase (2.21) should also be
considered in this context, because it has an interesting feature, noticed by
Friedrich Blass.21 It replaces ‘and’ by ‘or’: τί μοι, γύναι, ἠέ σοι αὐτῇ;22 This very
slight alteration is highly significant for the meaning of the phrase, which
would now be: ‘What is that to me or to you?’23 Blass prefers this meaning, but
he is concerned with the absence of this reading (ἤ) from the Gospel’s manu-
script transmission. He focuses on the textual criticism of John’s Gospel and
tries to establish whether Nonnus preserves evidence for ancient variant read-
ings. However, there should be no doubt that Nonnus’ rendering here simply
reflects his own understanding of 2:4, but also his awareness that John’s expres-
sion could be understood in at least two ways. With the removal of ‘and’, the
other interpretation (‘What have you to do with me?’), which Nonnus certainly
knew, becomes impossible. What is also important for the argument of this
chapter is that Nonnus’ familiarity with this particular problem does not seem
(as far as we can tell) to be due to his usual patristic sources for John’s exegesis.
Nonnus must have drawn on Christian writings of various kinds, not just com-
mentaries on the Gospel of John.
is supported by the Arabic Diatessaron, where οὔπω ἥκει ἡ ὥρα μου is a question. See Hill
(1894) 60 and Knabenbauer (1898) 118.
19 Papadoyannakis (2008) 115. For this question as possible criticism (for example,
by Porphyry) against Christians, see von Harnack (1916) 80.
20 Ramelli (2008) 131. See PG 6.1388–1389 (ed. by the Benedictine monk Prudentius
Maranus). The work has also been edited by Otto (1881) 2–246, again as a pseudonymous
work of Justin, and by Papadopoulos-Kerameus (1895), where however it is falsely attrib-
uted to Theodoret. The early twelfth-century Byzantine theologian Euthymius Zigabenus
(PG 129.1148C) should be added to the testimony for this interpretation offered by Ramelli.
See Knabenbauer (1898) 119 and Livrea (2000) 185.
21 Blass (1898) 238. Cf. Blass/Debrunner (1961) 157 (§ 299.3) and Livrea (2000) 185–186.
22 Blass (1898) 238 n. 1 explains why one should not conjecture ἠδέ for ἠέ: ἠδέ does not occur
in Nonnus and would also be incompatible with αὐτῇ. The other cases mentioned by Blass
where Nonnus renders καί with ἤ are due to textual variants or have absolutely no conse-
quence to the meaning of the Gospel text.
23 Cf. τί μοι (with the Loeb translation) at, for example, Dion. 8.300 ἀλλὰ τί μοι βοέοιο γάμου
τύπος ἢ νιφετοῖο; (‘But what have I to do with wedlock in shape of a bull or a shower?’) and
48.897 τί μοι κακὰ θηλυτεράων; (‘what have I to do with the sorrows of women?’).
When Jesus is asked by the Jews who he is at John 8:25, he responds: τὴν ἀρχὴν
ὅ τι καὶ λαλῶ ὑμῖν (edited with either ὅ τι and a full stop or ὅτι and a question
mark).24 This is another difficult sentence which has puzzled readers and com-
mentators.25 In this case, the Greek fathers, including Chrysostom, Cyril and
Theodore of Mopsuestia, share the same view and understand the sentence as
meaning: ‘Why do I speak to you at all?’ (τὴν ἀρχὴν ὅτι καὶ λαλῶ ὑμῖν;).26 Christ
treats the Jews’ question as scornful and provocative and refuses to answer
it. Nonnus’ paraphrase shows a very different understanding of the sentence
(8.61–62): ὅττι περ ὑμῖν | ἐξ ἀρχῆς ὀάριζον (‘[sc. I am] just what I told you from
the beginning’). It is only Nonnus who offers this interpretation, which has
been accepted by most scholars since the Renaissance. It is worth citing John
Maldonatus (1534–1583): ‘Ego et verissimum, et simplicissimum sensum esse
arbitror, quem Nonnus poëta tribus expressit versibus, et multi ante me docti
et Catholici interpretes approbavere’.27 Chrys Caragounis has recently stud-
ied the passage in detail and proposed this translation (without considering
Nonnus).28 This is not the place to discuss the two interpretations in detail.29
It may suffice to say that they both have advantages and disadvantages, but
they offer clever and competent interpretations of a difficult text, which may
in fact be corrupt. In the margin of P.Bodm. 2 (𝔓66, copied around 200) there
is an addition of two words at the beginning of this sentence, which looks like
a conjecture by the o riginal scribe or the first corrector: εἶπον ὑμῖν τὴν ἀρχὴν ὅ
τι καὶ λαλῶ ὑμῖν (‘I told you at the beginning what I am also telling you now’).
24 See Metzger (1994) 191, although Nestle-Aland28 prints ὅ τι with a question mark.
25 See Caragounis (2007).
26 Chrysostom, In Jo. hom. 53.1 (PG 59.293) paraphrases the sentence as follows: τοῦ ὅλως
ἀκούειν τῶν λόγων τῶν παρ’ ἐμοῦ ἀνάξιοί ἐστε, μήτι γε καὶ μαθεῖν, ὅστις ἐγώ εἰμι (‘You are not
worthy to hear my words at all, let alone to learn who I am’); for Cyril see Pusey (1872) II,
23: ἔδει γάρ με, φησίν, οὐχ ὑμῖν ὅλως προσλαλῆσαι κατὰ τὴν ἀρχήν (‘I should not at all, he says,
have conversed with you from the beginning’); for Theodore of Mopsuestia see Conti/
Elowsky (2010) 79. Later Byzantine theologians, for example Theophylact of Ohrid (PG
124.20B) and Euthymius Zigabenus (PG 129.1288C–D), follow the same interpretation and
do not record any other views. For a linguistic parallel see Ps.-Clem. hom. 6.11 (perhaps
from the fourth century) εἰ μὴ παρακολουθεῖς οἷς λέγω, τί καὶ τὴν ἀρχὴν διαλέγομαι; (‘If you
do not follow what I am saying, why should I speak at all?’).
27 Maldonado (1844) 168.
28 Caragounis (2007) confirms that τὴν ἀρχήν can be interpreted as ἐξ ἀρχῆς and that the
present indicative (λαλῶ) ‘can be used of an action that began at some point in the past
and continues in the present.’
29 For criticism of the patristic interpretation, which has also been accepted by many schol-
ars and translators, see Caragounis (2007) 141.
296 Simelidis
This suggests an understanding of the sentence very similar to Nonnus’ ren-

dering.30 But there is no way to establish whether Nonnus was helped by a
different text or follows a source unknown to us (Origen is not available for this
passage) or offers an original idea of his own. In any case, Nonnus’ impressive
rendering of such a difficult passage confirms not only his linguistic expertise,
but also his comprehensive understanding of John’s Gospel and its ideas.
In the four passages discussed above, Nonnus shows awareness of serious
exegetical problems in John’s Gospel and deals with them in a critical way.31 In
one case (John 4:43–45) he depends on patristic exegesis (Origen, Chrysostom
and Cyril), which is unanimous but exhibits a slight variation in detail. Nonnus
does not follow in detail any of these three fathers, although he seems to have
versified a phrase from Origen. In the second case (John 3:8), Nonnus appar-
ently combines two different interpretations, one by Origen and Theodore of
Mopsuestia and another by Chrysostom and Cyril. This combination appears
to have a striking similarity with the opinion of C.K. Barrett. In the third (John
2:4), he depends on patristic interpretation, which however does not come
from the known commentaries on John. Here, his textual solution to the prob-
lem is really impressive. In the fourth passage (8:25), Nonnus appears to offer
an original interpretation of his own, which has impressed scholars and is
often considered the best solution to the problem. It seems that Nonnus was
fully aware of the problems and he carefully considered a wide range of mate-
rial before making his own decision. Thus, to take another example from the
fourth Gospel, I have no doubt that Nonnus was aware that the punctuation
at John 1: 3–4 was related to a dispute concerning the origin and nature of the
Holy Spirit. In this passage, a full stop is placed either before or after ὃ γέγονεν:
πάντα δι’ αὐτοῦ ἐγένετο, καὶ χωρὶς αὐτοῦ ἐγένετο οὐδὲ ἕν ὃ γέγονεν. ἐν αὐτῷ
ζωὴ ἦν.
30 Cf. Sakkos (1969) 32. What is also intriguing is that 𝔓66 has a unique variant in the next
sentence and this variant (ἔχων for ἔχω) is also supported by Nonnus: John 8:26 πολλὰ ἔχω
περὶ ὑμῶν λαλεῖν καὶ κρίνειν (‘I have much to say about you and much to condemn’) ~ Par.
8.62 ἔχων νήριθμα δικάζειν καὶ λαλέειν. See Smothers (1958) 111–115. Of course in a case like
this we should not consider ἔχων in Nonnus’ copy of the Gospel as anything more than a
mere possibility.
31 It is not true that the Paraphrasis is written ‘in strictly Cyrillian terms’ (Livrea 2003, 454).
This over-emphasis on Cyril’s presence in the Paraphrasis has perhaps led scholars to
quick conclusions on specific passages (see my notes 11 and 17 above).
All things came into being through him, and without him nothing was
made that has been made. In him was life.32
Arians and Macedonian heretics had pointed to this passage, punctuated

before ὃ γέγονεν, to claim that the Holy Spirit is to be regarded as one of the
created things. In my view, Nonnus was aware of this and this was the reason
why he consciously did not follow Origen and Cyril in taking ὃ γέγονεν with
v. 4, but followed instead Chrysostom and Theodore of Mopsuestia in taking
these words with v. 3.33 Chrysostom and Theodore both refer to the danger of
the opposite view, which they assign to heretics. ‘Contra Alexandrinos cum
Antiochenis’, declares Baumgarten-Crusius for Nonnus’ standing in this case,34
but I hope that the above has already shown that we should not limit Nonnus’
sources in any way. On this particular passage, Nonnus’ view could also have
been informed by Gregory of Nazianzus, who in his theological oration on the
Holy Spirit (or. 31.12 Gallay) considers ὃ γέγονεν a vital part of v. 3:
καὶ μὴν οὐδὲ ἐκεῖνο φοβηθήσομαι ‘τὸ πάντα διὰ τοῦ Υἱοῦ γεγονέναι’ λέγεσθαι,
ὡς ἑνὸς τῶν πάντων ὄντος καὶ τοῦ ἁγίου Πνεύματος. ‘Πάντα γὰρ ὅσα γέγονεν’,
εἴρηται, οὐχ ἁπλῶς ‘ἅπαντα’· οὐδὲ γὰρ ὁ Πατήρ, οὐδ’ ὅσα μὴ γέγονεν. Δείξας
οὖν ὅτι γέγονε, καὶ τότε τῷ Υἱῷ δός, καὶ τοῖς κτίσμασι συναρίθμησον. Ἕως δ’
ἂν μὴ τοῦτο δεικνύῃς, οὐδὲν τῷ περιληπτικῷ βοηθῇ πρὸς ἀσέβειαν. Εἰ μὲν γὰρ
γέγονε, διὰ Χριστοῦ πάντως· οὐδὲ αὐτὸς ἀρνήσομαι. Εἰ δὲ οὐ γέγονε, πῶς ἢ τῶν
πάντων ἕν, ἢ διὰ Χριστοῦ;
So I will not be alarmed by the argument that ‘all things’ are said to ‘have
been made by the Son’, as if the Holy Spirit also were one of these things.
For it says ‘all things that were made’, and not simply ‘all things’. For the
Father was not, nor were any of the things that were not made. Prove first
that the Spirit was made, and then give Him to the Son, and number Him
among the creatures; but as long as you cannot prove this, you will gain
32 Nestle-Aland28 punctuate before ὃ γέγονεν, but see Metzger (1994) 167–168.
33 Cf., however, De Stefani (2002) 112: ‘È difficile dire se in questo luogo discusso Nonno
segua in modo pedissequo l’interpunzione del suo testo giovanneo (il Tischendorf 741,
inserisce il Panopolitano tra i testimoni che recano pausa dopo γέγονεν) o se il testo della
Parafrasi non rappresenti invece una scelta esegetica, frutto di una meditata lettura dei
commentari, soprattuto di quello del Crisostomo.’
34 Baumgarten-Crusius (1836) 201. Cf. Grillmeier/Hainthaler (1996) 97–98 on the paraphrase
of John 1:14, which ‘sounds more Antiochene than Alexandrian’ and would have been read
by Cyril ‘only with a shaking of the head’.
298 Simelidis
nothing for your impiety from this comprehensive phrase. For if He was
made, it was certainly through Christ; I myself would not deny that. But if
He was not made, how can He be either one of the all, or through Christ?35
Nonnus must have been familiar with Gregory’s orations, whether or not he
is responsible for the mythological scholia on four orations that survive.36
Gregory’s passage also confirms, once again, a debate, of which Nonnus was
certainly aware. To return to Baumgarten-Crusius’ statement, the few cases
discussed in this chapter indicate that there were disagreements among the
Alexandrian and the Antiochene theologians. Perhaps this is the case with
this last example as well. In its treatment of John 1:3–4, De Trinitate, a fourth-
century work of Alexandrian theology which is ascribed to Didymus the Blind,
appears to ignore the view of the Alexandrians.37 These were heated debates
in which able scholars would have often formed strong personal views. Nonnus
was one of them. With his Paraphrasis he enters seriously and actively into
these debates.
2 Nonnus and Gregory of Nazianzus
Arthur Ludwich38 and Joseph Golega39 first argued that Nonnus borrows
from Gregory of Nazianzus and offered several convincing examples. Gennaro
D’Ippolito discussed this issue in detail and offered more examples.40 The
recent commentaries on Gregory and Nonnus have revealed even more exam-
ples. Several secure examples leave no doubt that Gregory was a model and a
source for Nonnus. This means that a great number of other similarities could
also be due to Gregory’s influence, even if there are additional earlier sources
for the same similarities. Even in cases where Nonnus had in mind a source
35 Translation adapted from Browne/Swallow (1984).

36 On this possibility see Accorinti (2013c) 1111 (with bibliography) and the first chapter by
the same author in this volume.
37 De Trinitate I, 15.13–18 (Honscheid 1975, 50). De Trinitate ignores ὃ γέγονεν and the resulting
interpretation of the passage is far from Origen and Cyril. In fact Cohee (1995) has argued
that ὃ γέγονεν was a gloss added to the text. The author of De Trinitate seems to treat it as
such. For the authorship of this work see Heron (1989) 178: ‘The De Trinitate seems beyond
all reasonable doubt to date from late fourth-century Alexandria. If Didymus is not the
author, it is hard to imagine who else could have been.’
38 Ludwich (1887) 233–236.
39 Golega (1966) 9–11.
40 D’Ippolito (1994). Cf. Simelidis (2009) 60 (with n. 138).
common to him and Gregory, the fact that he met the same word or phrase in
Gregory as well would have had an impact. For example, for οἷα νόος πτερόεις
(‘like a winged mind’) at Par. 6.82 there are earlier sources than Gregory,41
including a similar expression in Homer and elsewhere: Pind. Isthm. fr. 1a 6–7
Maehler νόῳ | πτε[ρ]οε[ and Triph. 373 πτερόεντος . . . νόοιο. Still Nonnus’ phrase
may owe something to Gregory’s carm. 1.2.36.[520]2842 νόον πτερόεντα and
2.2.4.69 Moroni πτερόεντι νόῳ (= ΑP 8.91).43 The frequency of some expressions
in Gregory is likely to have made an impression upon Nonnus, even when these
expressions also occur elsewhere. For example, ἦμαρ ἐπ’ ἦμαρ (Dion. 42.175)
occurs earlier once in Theocritus (11.69 ἆμαρ ἐπ’ ἆμαρ), once in Oppian, four
times in Gregory and twice in the Palatine Anthology (once in Palladas); its
metrical sedes in Nonnus coincides only with Theocritus and two of the cases
in Gregory. Generally, Nonnus seems to have been inspired by Gregory’s inno-
vative use of words and phrases, often adapted to suit Gregory’s Christian or
autobiographical context. I offer some more examples below, mostly taken
from recent commentaries on Gregory and Nonnus. They include examples
of single words, expressions related to Christian notions, combinations of
verbs and nouns, unique forms and expressions that occur at the same metri-
cal sedes, and, finally, some similarities of language and thought. We should
not forget that there is always the possibility that both authors drew on lost
Hellenistic and classical works. But the amount and type of evidence is such
that Gregory’s position as a source for Nonnus cannot be challenged. It suffices
to say that, for example, in Claudio De Stefani’s commentary on Paraphrasis 1
there is hardly a page with no reference to Gregory.
Examples of single words which seem to indicate a knowledge of Gregory
by Nonnus44 include ἀρτιφαής (in the meaning of ‘newly shining’)45 and
αὐτοκέλευστος, which is used by Nonnus both in the classical sense of the
word (‘self-bidden’, i.e. ‘unbidden’) and its different use by Gregory, where
it means ‘self-determined’.46 The use of βαθύκολπος in the meaning of ‘very
deep’ (instead of the earlier meaning ‘deep-bosomed’) only occurs in Gregory
41 See Moroni (2006) 116–117 and Franchi (2013) 379–380.

42 The number in square brackets in references to Gregory’s poems indicates the column in
Migne, PG 37. If a poem is available in a modern edition, a reference to the edition is given
instead, the first time I refer to it.
43 Cf. also carm. 1.2.1.[522]6 πρὸς Θεὸν ὑψιμέδοντα νόου πτερὸν ἔνθεν ἀείρων.
44 On single words see also Golega (1966) 10 n. 1 and D’Ippolito (1994) 208.
45 See Sykes’ comment in Moreschini (1997) 192.
46 See Sykes’ comment in Moreschini (1997) 120 and Agosti (2003) 406.
300 Simelidis
before Nonnus.47 The use of the word ἀσήμαντος in the sense of not simply
‘unguided’, but also ‘unmarked’ or ‘unsealed’ (in association with the seal of
baptism), occurs only at Par. 1.110 and carm. 2.1.19.66 Simelidis.48 Nonnus’ use
of ἐρεύγεσθαι (‘blurt out’) seems also to have been influenced by Gregory.49
ἀλιτρόβιος (‘living wickedly’) is found twice in Nonnus, in both Par. 15.73 and
Dion. 12.72 and once in Gregory (2.1.28.[1288]12).50
Words and expressions related to Christian notions include πνεύματος αἴγλη
(‘the radiance of the Spirit’), at Par. 7.149–150 and carm. 2.1.19.56. ἀμπλακίη is
used (like ἁμαρτία) of sin in Christian contexts; it occurs more than 18 times in
Nonnus’ Paraphrasis and is also found 20 times in Gregory. Similarly, μυστιπόλος
(‘solemnizing mysteries’) in a Christian context occurs in the Paraphrasis and
Gregory.51 ὑψίθρονος (‘enthroned on high’) is used twice by Pindar (of one of
the Nereids and of the Fate Clotho) and is then found seven times in Gregory’s
Carmina, applied mainly to God, Christ, officers and bishops, followed by
three times in Nonnus’ Par. in contexts similar to Gregory’s.52 The expres-
sion ζωὴ ἀθάνατος (‘immortal life’), twice in the Paraphrasis, occurs earlier in
Greek poetry at carm. 2.1.13.[1231]45.53 θεήμαχος (‘fighting against God’) occurs
28× Dion.; 3× Par.; once in Greg. Naz. (only once earlier, in Flavius Josephus).
οὐρεσίφοιτος (‘frequenting mountains’), used of John the Baptist at Par. 1.14 and
5.128 was earlier used by Gregory on the ascetic life (1.2.17.43 Simelidis).54 The
use of θυηπόλος (‘performing sacrifices’) on Christian priests might also have
been inspired by Gregory.55
Combinations of verbs and nouns that occur only in Nonnus and Gregory
are also suggestive. In addition to the cases noticed by Golega and D’Ippolito,
the Homeric βοηθόον with ὀπάζω (‘grant an assistant’) at Par. 6.169 occurs
elsewhere only in Gregory.56 The same applies to ἀέξω with χόλος (‘increase the
47 See Sykes’ comment in Moreschini (1997) 132.

48 Cf. De Stefani (2002) 180 and Simelidis (2009) 204.
49 See De Stefani (2002) 228 and Simelidis (2009) 176–177.
50 See Knecht (1972) 132–133. Cf. also Gregory’s οἰόβιος (‘living alone’, of ascetics), κοσμόβιος
(‘one who dwells in this world’).
51 See Agosti (2003) 426 (on Par. 5.68).
52 See Simelidis (2009) 235.
53 See Agosti (2003) 482 (on Par. 5.114).
54 Cf. also οὐρεσιφοίτης passim in Dion. See De Stefani (2002) 118–119 and Agosti (2003)
496–497.
55 Cf. Livrea (1989) 154 (on Par. 18.91); Sundermann (1991) 78 (on 1.2.1.316) and Caprara (2005)
227 (on Par. 4.110).
56 See Simelidis (2009) 204 (on carm. 2.1.19.65).
wrath’) at Dion. 8.104 and 26.154.57 Also, δινεύειν with πούς/ἴχνιον is only found
at carm. 1.2.2.[605]343 πόδα δινεύειν and Dion. 15.67 ἴχνια (= πόδας) δινεύοντες . . .
ἀμφὶ χορείην (‘twirling their steps for the dance’); in Homer and Apollonius of
Rhodes δινεύειν is intransitive.58
Similar unique forms or expressions that occur at the same metrical sedes
are also significant. For example, καθύπερθεν ἀερθείς (‘having been lifted
above’) is found twice in Gregory and καθύπερθεν ἀείρας once in the Par., always
at the end of the verse.59 ποιμενίην σύριγγα (‘shepherd’s pipe’), found twice in
Gregory’s poems at the beginning of the verse, is the source of ποιμενίῃ σύριγγι,
found three times in the Dion. at the same metrical sedes.60 ἄφρονι θυμῷ
(‘crazed spirit’) occurs only at Par. 5.57 and carm. 2.1.1.434 Tuilier/Bady,61 while
οὔ ποτε λήξω (‘I will never cease’) twice in the Dion. and once in Gregory, always
at the end of the verse. οὐ μετὰ δὴν (‘not long after’) occurs only at Dion. 27.306
and carm. 1.2.2.[590]148, at the beginning of the line.62 Dion. 37.404 ῥυπόωσι
χιτῶνες (‘dirty coats’) seems inspired by carm. 1.2.2.[601]299 ῥυπόωσι χιτῶσιν
(the form ῥυπόωσι occurs in no other authors, while ῥυπόωσαν is found twice
in Gregory and at Dion. 3.91, at the same metrical sedes). Some rare expres-
sions, which are found in a few additional authors, are placed by Nonnus in
the metrical sedes where only Gregory uses them. For example, μοῦνος ἐγώ is
found at Callimachus, ep. 29.4 Pfeiffer, Batrachomyomachia 110 and three times
in Gregory’s poems; only in Gregory is it found (in all three times) at the begin-
ning of the hexameter, where it is also placed by Nonnus seven times (6 times
in Dion. and once in the Par.).63
There are also cases of similar language and thought which prove that
Gregory was a major source of inspiration for Nonnus. In the last years of his
life, Gregory considered himself ‘a breathing corpse’: on four occasions he uses
the phrase νεκρὸς ἔμπνοος or νέκυς ἔμπνοος, with the latter occurring also twice
in Dion.64 For Dion. 16.293 νυχίοις ἐρέθιζεν ὀνείροις (‘provoked in dreams of the
night’) cf. carm. 2.1.1.290 οἵ με καὶ ἐννυχίοισι κακοῖς ἐρέθουσιν ὀνείροις, while for
Dion. 15.96 ἠματίοις δ’ ὀάριζε νοοπλανέεσσιν ὀνείροις (‘was raving in daydreams
which distract the mind’) cf. carm. 2.1.32.12 Simelidis ψεύστῃσι καὶ ἠματίοισιν
57 See Tringali (2011) 322–323 (on carm. 2.2.3.326).

58 See Zehles/Zamora (1996) 153.
59 Cf. Simelidis (2009) 226.
60 See Simelidis (2009) 204 (on carm. 2.1.19.65).
61 See Agosti (2003) 411.
62 See Zehles/Zamora (1996) 97.
64 See Simelidis (2009) 211–212.
302 Simelidis
ὀνείροις.65 πλούτῳ κομόων (‘pluming himself on wealth’) at Dion. 2.687

(= 26.169) κομόωντα βαθυπλούτοισι μετάλλοις recalls carm. 2.2.4.121 καὶ πλούτῳ
κομόωντα καὶ αἵματι καὶ πραπίδεσσιν.66 For Dion. 20.373 ὥς κεν ἀεθλεύσοιμι cf.
three similar beginnings, only in Gregory: ὥς κεν ἀεθλεύσαντι, ὥς κεν ἀεθλεύσας,
ὥς κεν ἀεθλήσας. ὀστέα μοῦνα (‘only bones’) at Dion. 5.472 occurs earlier three
times in Gregory. Nonnus’ ἐν ἠέρι ταρσὸν ἑλίσσων (‘swinging his feet around the
air’), twice in the Dion. at the end of the verse, could have been inspired by
καὶ ἠέρι ταρσόν ἰέντα at 2.2.3.93 Tringali.67 For Dion. 18.17 ἄναξ μειλίξατο (‘speak
soothing words’), and also 9.57 θεὸς μειλίξατο, cf. 2.2.3.121 Ἄναξ μειλίσσετ’.68
Dion. 20.59 σκεδάσασα . . . ἐνυώ (‘scattered the assault’) recalls ἐκέδασσε Ἐνυώ
at carm. 2.2.3.232.69 ἀπείρων with χείρ only at Dion. 2.512 χεῖρας ἀπείρονας (‘end-
less hands’) and 2.2.3.247 μεγάλῃ καὶ ἀπείρονι χειρί.70 The end of Par. 18.178 καὶ
πᾶς, ὃς προβέβουλεν ἀληθείης ζυγὸν ἕλκειν (‘whoever chooses to bear the yoke of
truth’), corresponding to John 18:37 καὶ πᾶς ὁ ὢν ἐκ τῆς ἀληθείας, is modelled on
carm. 1.2.2.[615]444 ἀτιμίης ζυγὸν ἕλκων and 470 ζυγὸν ἕλκειν.71
Perhaps even more significant are cases where Nonnus builds a line or two
in a way that clearly recalls Gregory as a model. For example, De Stefani has
noticed the following case:
Par. 1.32 ἀπλανέες δέξαντο καὶ οὐ νόον εἶχον ἀλήτην

2.1.85.[1432]7 μηκέτι πλάζεο, θυμέ, νόου στροφάλιγξιν ἀλήτου.72
Ludwich has also offered an example (Par. 1.91–92 ~ carm. 1.2.1.321–322),73 and
Sundermann noticed more, interestingly also from carm. 1.2.1:
Par. 9.104–105 πῶς δέ οἱ ἀμφιτρῆτες ἀνωίχθησαν ὀπωπαί

καὶ τίς ἀφωτίστων βλεφάρων ἐκέδασσεν ὀμίχλην
1.2.1.[561]523–524 εἰ γάρ τοι καὶ μικρὸν ἀποσκεδάσειας ὀπωπῆς
ἢ λήμην ῥυπόωσαν, ἀπ’ αὔγεος ἢ σύ γ’ ὁμίχλην
65 See Simelidis (2009) 228–229.

67 Cf. Tringali (2011) 148.
68 Cf. Tringali (2011) 172.
69 See Tringali (2011) 250.
70 Cf. Tringali (2011) 265.
71 See Livrea (1989) 197.
72 See De Stefani (2002) 131.
73 See Ludwich (1887) 233–234 and D’Ippolito (1994) 204.
Dion. 42.47–48 οὐδέ οἱ εἰσορόωντι κόρος πέλεν· ἱσταμένην γάρ

παρθένον ὅσσον ὄπωπε, τόσον πλέον ἤθελε λεύσσειν.
1.2.1.[564]563–564 ὅσσον τις ποθέει, καὶ δέρκεται· ὅσσον ὄπωπεν,
τόσσον καὶ ποθέει· κύκλος ἀνελίσσεται ἐσθλός.
Such examples indicate careful study of Gregory’s poems by Nonnus and leave
no doubt that Gregory’s verse had a major impact on Nonnus, in terms of
versification and vocabulary. These three examples from carm. 1.2.1, entitled
παρθενίης ἔπαινος (‘A praise of virginity’), in 732 hexameters,74 give more weight
to the rest of the similarities noticed by Sundermann (who only worked on
lines 215–732 of the poem).75 It is worth citing a selection of what I consider
significant cases (an asterisk indicates same metrical sedes):
1.2.1.216 μύστιδες ~ Dion. 46.172*, Par. 12.6; 1.2.1.223 δεσμὰ βίοιο ~ Dion. 37.4
βίου βροτέου γαιήια δεσμά; 1.2.1.232 ὅσαι λάχον ~ Dion. 26.295* ὅσοι λάχον;
1.2.1.241 φοίνιξι πόθου νόμος ~ Dion. 3.143* φοίνικι πόθον; 1.2.1.245 ὡς ἐνέπουσι
~ Dion. 13.349*, 18.25; 1.2.1.249 σοφίην ἐδίδαξε φίλην ~ Dion. 12.397* Μαιονίην
τ’ ἐδίδαξεν ἑήν; 1.2.1.223 γαῖαν καὶ πόντον ~ Dion. 41.397* γαῖαν ὁμοῦ καὶ
πόντον; 1.2.1.199, 260, 332 νόσφι γάμου ~ Dion. 42.375*, 48.835* (this expres-
sion occurs nowhere else); 1.2.1.265 ἐλαφρίζουσιν ἀνίας ~ Dion. 29.317*
ἐλαφρίζειεν ἀνίην;76 1.2.1.284 χατέουσιν ἀρωγῆς ~ Dion. 29.246 χατέουσαν
ἀρηγόνος (cf. also 33.368 χατέεις . . . ἀρηγόνος); 1.2.1.293 ἀμειδέες ~ Dion.
15.407*; 1.2.1.297–299 οὐχ ὅτι μοῦνον | . . . ἀλλ’ ὅτι καί ~ Dion. 44.228–229
οὐχ ὅτι μοῦνον . . . | ἀλλ’ ὅτι καί; 1.2.1.223 ἀεθλοφόροι, βασιλῆες ~ Dion. 37.611*
ἀεθλοφόρου βασιλῆος; 1.2.1.306–307 νόον δ’ ἔπλησεν ἔρωτος | θειοτέρου ~
Dion. 8.71–72 Ὅττι χαμαιγενέεσσιν ὁμιλήσας ὑμεναίοις | αἰθέρα ποικιλόνωτον
ἑῶν ἔπλησεν ἐρώτων; 1.2.1.346 φοινίσσουσα παρήιον αἵματι ~ Dion. 5.376–
377 παρειάς | αἵματι φοινίξασα; 1.2.1.347 κεφαλῆς ἐρύουσα σίγα κρύπτοιτο
καλύπτρην ~ Dion. 6.6 Καὶ κεφαλῆς γονόεσσαν ἀπεσφήκωσε καλύπτρην;
1.2.1.357 ἠματίοις τε πόνοις νυχίῃσί τ’ ἀοιδαῖς ~ Dion. 20.246 ἠματίοις
ταλάροισι καὶ ἐννυχίοις ὑμεναίοις; 1.2.1.358 καὶ εὐαγέεσσι καθαρμοῖς ~ Par.
11.226* ζαθέοισι καθαρμοῖς; 1.2.1.359 καὶ νείκεα μύθων ~ Dion. 3.184* καὶ
νείκεα λαῶν; 1.2.1.381 μύθον ἀοσσητῆρα ~ Par. 8.48* μῦθον ἁμιλλητῆρα;
1.2.1.389 καὶ ἐχέφρονα μῦθον (cf. 89 καὶ ἐχέφρονα μύστην) ~ Dion. 44.245* καὶ
ἐχέφρονα βουλήν; 1.2.1.450 οὐρανόθεν χθόνα πᾶσαν ~ Dion. 38.419–420 χθόνα
74 It is ‘a hexameter panegyric in the high style following all the rules of the genre—but on
virginity’ (Al. Cameron 2004b, 349).
75 See Sundermann (1991). The text of 1.2.1.215–732 is in PG 37.538–578.
76 See also Agosti (2003) 348–349 and Moroni (2006) 98.
304 Simelidis
πᾶσαν . . . | οὐρανόθεν; 1.2.1.454–455 φονῆας | Χριστοῦ ~ Par. 19.86 Χριστοῖο . . .
φονῆες; 1.2.1.488–489 Πέτρου, | πέτρης ἀρραγέος ~ Par. 1.166–167* Πέτρου,
| πίστιος ἀρραγέος (cf. Dion. 40.533 ἐπ’ ἀρραγέεσσι δὲ πέτραις);77 1.2.1.505
αὐτόμαται δὲ λίθων στροφάλιγγες ~ Dion. 33.325* αὐτομάτῃ στροφάλιγγι;
1.2.1.397 ἡμιτελὴς γάρ ~ Dion. 17.134*, 315* ἡμιτελὴς γάρ (nowhere else in
Greek verse); 1.2.1.517 τοκέεσσιν ὁμοίιος ~ Dion. 20.80* τεκέεσσιν ὁμοίιος;
1.2.1.666 δεσμὸν ἔρωτος ~ Dion. 33.251 δεσμὸν ἔρωτος; 1.2.1.592 υἱήεσσι occurs
nowhere else before Dion. 26.256.
Obviously, Gregory’s Praise of virginity was in Nonnus’ mind during the compo-
sition of both the Dionysiaca and the Paraphrasis.
Gregory seems also to have inspired the use of μάρτυς/μαρτυρέω/μαρτυρίη on
some occasions in Nonnus. In his detailed study of this case, Vian (1997) argues
that the ‘strong’ use of the words in the Paraphrasis (related to the extensive use
of these words in John’s Gospel) could not derive from their ‘weak’ use in the
Dionysiaca, which as a result must have been composed after the Paraphrasis.
However, there are two problems with this view. First, it closely associates
Nonnus’ study of John’s Gospel and other Christian literature (which, inspired
by John, could also make significant use of these words) with his project of the
Paraphrasis. However, Nonnus, whether he was always Christian or not, could
have always been learned in Christian scholarship. Allusive Christian images
and notions, Johannine concepts and Gregorian vocabulary in the Dionysiaca,
indicate Nonnus’ familiarity with Christian literature and theology, and not
necessarily that the composition of the Paraphrasis was earlier. Second, Vian
did not consider Gregory’s use of μάρτυς/μαρτυρέω/μαρτυρίη. Indeed, Gregory
could have been an additional source for Nonnus’ use of these words. To take
Vian’s example, singled out by Alan Cameron as particularly suggestive, the
phrases μάρτυς ἀληθείης (‘witness of truth’) and μάρτυς ἐτητυμίης78 could also
have been inspired by Gregory’s ἄριστε . . . μαρτύρων τῆς ἀληθείας (at or. 25.1.22
Mossay, on a Christian philosopher) and μάρτυρες ἀτρεκίης (AP 8.118.6, on
the holy martyrs).79 John’s Gospel is certainly behind Nonnus’ extensive use
of these terms in the Paraphrasis, but it seems it was not his only source of
77 See also De Stefani (2002) 213.

78 Al. Cameron (2000) 180. The phrases occur three times in the Paraphrasis (18.177, 20.138,
21.140), where they refer to Jesus or the author of the Gospel, and once in the Dionysiaca
(37.270), where μάρτυς ἀληθείης is used of an umpire in a chariot race.
79 Cf. also Gregory’s carm. 2.1.11.63–64 (on his mother testifying on the truth of what he
wrote earlier about his parents) αὐτὴν ἐπάξομ’, ὧνπερ εἶπον, μάρτυρα, | ἐμὴν τεκοῦσαν,
τῆς ἀληθείας στόμα.
inspiration. And, in my view, the composition of the Paraphrasis should not be

considered a prerequisite for the ‘weak’ use of these terms in the Dionysiaca.
Christian literature, with which Nonnus must have always been familiar, makes
abundant use of these terms. To add a few other examples from Gregory’s
poems, for Par. 5.71 *ἀμὴν ἐπιμάρτυρον ἔστω (‘amen, let it be testified’) cf. Θεὸς δ’
ἐπιμάρτυρος ἔστω (twice in Gregory, 1.2.2.[610]410 and 2.2.4.181) and for Par. 8x
*μάρτυρι μύθῳ cf. 2.1.11.1527 Tuilier/Bady τοῦτο μαρτύρει, λόγε; 2.1.11.558–561 τὸν
λόγον | ἔχητε τοῦτον, . . . μαρτυρίαν δὲ τοῖς φίλοις | ὧν ἠδικήμεθ’ οὐδὲν ἠδικηκότες
(‘you may have this account . . . as a testimony to my friends of the ways I
was mistreated although I had done nothing wrong’) and 1.1.1.18 Moreschini
μάρτυρε μύθων (‘witnesses of [divine] sayings’, on Moses and Isaiah).80 Nonnus’
use of the word in the Paraphrasis is still very extensive and rich in variety of
forms. But two fundamental claims by Vian and Cameron, namely that these
words were ‘never common in earlier poetry of any kind and date’ and that
‘Nonnus’ original inspiration was undoubtedly the Gospel he was paraphras-
ing’81 should be modified to take into account Gregory’s use of the word in his
Christian poetic contexts.82
Similarly, the line which always seems ‘to leap out of its context in the
“pagan” Dionysiaca (12.171)’: Βάκχος ἄναξ δάκρυσε, βροτῶν ἵνα δάκρυα λύσῃ (‘Lord
Bacchus has wept tears that he may wipe away man’s tears’), apart from Cyril’s
commentary of John’s Gospel,83 occurs also in one of Gregory’s theological
orations (or. 29.20 Gallay): (sc. Jesus) δακρύει, ἀλλὰ παύει δάκρυον.84 According
to Cameron, this line confirms that Nonnus first did his research (and compo-
sition) of the Paraphrasis and then wrote the Dionysiaca:
It is not easy to believe that a man who so obviously preferred spending

his leisure hours reading the poets and mythographers found either time
or motive to wade through this [i.e. Cyril’s commentary] immensely long,
difficult, and highly polemical work in twelve books.85
80 Cf. also Gregory’s or. 24.7 Mossay λόγοι μάρτυρες.

81 Al. Cameron (2000) 179–180.
82 For other uses of this word in Gregory’s poems see, for example, 1.2.1.[552]397 μάρτυς ἐμῶν
ἐπέων καὶ σὸς πόθος; 2.2.1.[1470]260 μάρτυσι σωφροσύνης; 1.1.15.[477]9–10; 1.2.24.[806]227.
83 See Al. Cameron (2000) 180–181 (and 2011, 700–701), who attributes this parallel to Golega
(1930) 79. Cyril’s line is δακρύει δὲ ὁ Κύριος, . . . , ἵνα ἡμῶν περιστείλῃ τὸ δάκρυον.
84 Cyril has ἵνα, but Gregory’s παύει corresponds better to Nonnus’ λύσῃ. For ἵνα cf. Greg. Naz.
or. 37.2 Moreschini: (sc. Jesus) τάχα καὶ δακρύει ἵνα τὸ δάκρυον ἐπαινετὸν ἀπεργάσηται.
85 Al. Cameron (2000) 181.
306 Simelidis
However, it turns out that Cyril was not Nonnus’ only possible source for this
idea and, more significantly, it seems that Nonnus must have also spent his
leisure hours reading Christian literature, including the Bible and various
patristic texts. In my view, Nonnus was genuinely interested in Christian theol-
ogy and exegesis and his reading and learning went far beyond the time and
requirements of his Paraphrasis of John’s Gospel.
Given Nonnus’ undoubtedly significant debt to the poetry of Gregory of
Nazianzus, I am tempted to wonder whether he could have been influenced
by Gregory’s verse in any respect other than vocabulary and verse construc-
tion. For example, could Gregory’s metrical practice have encouraged Nonnus
to take more liberties in the Paraphrasis (compared to his—earlier?—practice
in the Dionysiaca)? Gregory of Nazianzus’ ‘imperfect’ metrical practice was
conscious and deliberate86 and this may be a better way to understand the
liberties of the Paraphrasis as well, instead of placing its composition at an ear-
lier period, when Nonnus’ metrical technique might not have been fully devel-
oped.87 There are cases of false quantities or hiatus in the Paraphrasis which
could have been easily avoided by Nonnus.88 With the Dionysiaca Nonnus
proved his ability at metrical perfection, but (later?), in his Christian poem, he
gave priority to the content or simply wanted to make a statement that in this
case perfection in meter was not necessary and meter would give way to the
(Christian) content. Like Gregory, Nonnus might have felt that metrical perfec-
tion would not (or should not) matter for a Christian poet and his audience.
Or, like Gregory, Nonnus perhaps came to realize that there was little point in
striving for metrical perfection in an age where quantitative versification was a
purely artificial practice.89 I would see a deliberate metrical imperfection and
86 Cf. Al. Cameron (2004b) 338–339: ‘[G]iven the fact that in everything but prosody Gregory
shows considerable technical competence, his “false” quantities (a characterization that
reveals our own classicizing perspective) are not really likely to be the result of ignorance.
The explanation of this paradox is surely that he deliberately ignored classical quantities
when it suited him. . . . Within the parameters of his classicizing, Gregory was (I suggest)
making a half-hearted attempt to come to terms with the pronunciation of his own day,
anticipating the Byzantine doctrine of dichrona.’
87 As suggested by Vian (1997b) 157–158 and Al. Cameron (2001) 180.
88 Maas (1962) 14: ‘[I]n his paraphrase of St. John’s Gospel the subject-matter forces him
to commit several false quantities (e.g. Νῐκόδημος and also κρί̅σιος, for which there is no
excuse)’. For a case of hiatus that could not occur in the Dionysiaca, see Par. 13.123 ἢ ἵνα
τι πτωχοῖσι (corresponding to the Gospel’s ἢ τοῖς πτωχοῖς ἵνα τι), on which cf. Agosti in
Agosti/Gonnelli (1995–1996) 350.
89 Cf. Dihle (1994) 606–607: ‘As some remarks by Gregory prove, these slight variations from
tradition [i.e. Gregory’s occasional non-poetic words or phrases and his sloppiness in
flexibility on his part as a sign of maturity, perhaps a feature of Nonnus’ ‘late

style’,90 and I would like to close this chapter with a quotation by Sir Edmund
Gosse (on Robert Louis Stevenson):
He had mastered his manner and, as one may say, learned his trade, in the
exercise of criticism and the reflective parts of literature, before he sur-
rendered himself to that powerful creative impulse which had long been
tempting him, so that when, in mature life, he essayed the portraiture
of invented character, he came to it unhampered by any imperfection of
language.91
As suggested by Mary Whitby, we are justified in wondering if Nonnus com-

posed the Dionysiaca to limber up for this more challenging task of the
Paraphrasis.92
metrical composition] were conscious, as well as presumably intentional. In any case,

his technique helped him to deal with a great variety of themes, and in spite of its ties to
very old conventions at odds with contemporary linguistic reality, to make his poetry the
vehicle of a living expression of current thoughts and feelings. . . . it is certainly legitimate
to see Gregory as the herald of a different age, with other demands on, and other pos-
sibilities for, poetry.’
90 A term illustrated and defined in the twentieth century by Adorno (2002), in an essay
originally published in 1937, and Said (2006). I would not make an attempt to apply Said’s
modern definitions to ancient authors. However, the notion that works from an artist’s
late years might have stylistic differences from his earlier works and that late works might
have unusual features and might not be as harmonious as expected is very interesting.
I would like to thank Martha Vassiliadi for drawing my attention to Said’s book.
91 Gosse (1902–1903) 859.
92 Whitby (2004) 360.
CHAPTER 14
Nonnus’ Christology
Fabian Sieber
1 Introduction
Since 16th-century European humanist research into Nonnus, the question of

his Christology in the Paraphrase remains contested.1 While the reasons for
this situation are certainly as manifold as the readers of Nonnus and while
the difficulties might be caused at least to some extent by the poetic form of
the Paraphrase, one has to call to mind here the historical tension between
emerging Nonnus research and a simultaneously emerging confessionalism.
It is striking to see that the term ‘Christology’ itself is a rather young lexeme,
dating back only to the 17th century,2 during the time when the content of
Nonnus’ Paraphrase began to garner attention. While the debates of the past
might be not valid in the eyes of much present research, they are particularly
pertinent to Nonnus research.3 Inquiring into the Christological implications
of the Paraphrase of the Gospel of John renders the danger of ahistorical con-
clusions, which are neither fruitful regarding Nonnus research nor theological
research. To avoid such confessional reductionism as much as possible one has
to keep in mind the specific differences between dogmatic thought and bibli-
cal speech.
The Vorlage of the Paraphrase is first and foremost the Gospel of John.
However, as a narrative about life, death and resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth,
the Christ of the kerygma, the Gospel could be interpreted as an example of
1 The battle was fought on different levels: when Melanchthon (1527) edited the Paraphrase
of the Gospel of John, it was to demonstrate the legitimacy of translating the Bible. Vice
versa Abram (1623) was reclaiming Nonnus to be a ‘catholic’ author by identifying him to be
one and the same with Nonnus, bishop of Edessa (cf. the first chapter by Accorinti in this
volume). In the times of evolving confessionalism it was Daniel Heinsius who condemned
Nonnus for his ‘Arianism’, but Caspar Ursinus tried to defend Nonnus of Heinsius’ critique,
see Tissoni in this volume. For the reception of the Dionysiaca in 15th-century Italy see Lind
(1978) 160–161; Agosti (1999); Tissoni in this volume. I would like to thank Samuel Pomeroy of
the Faculty of Theology and Religious Studies of KU Leuven for his thorough edits and sug-
gestions for this article.
2 See Meisner (1624).
3 Grillmeier/Hainthaler (1996) 92–99.

Nonnus ’ Christology 309
Theologia mythica. Accordingly, the Gospel of John is not as much a system-

atic demonstratio fidei as it is an epic story.4 In the Gospel, it is written ‘that
you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that
through believing you may have life in his name’ (John 20:31). Thus the purpose
of the Gospel is ‘Christological’, for it is all about Jesus, the Messiah, the Son of
God. At the same moment, however, to speak of Jesus is not an end in itself. To
speak of Jesus is to speak of soteriology.5 To achieve this, the Gospel provides
a collection of similes, miracle stories and speeches, somehow attributed or
related to Jesus.
In this respect the proliferation of different research theories claiming to
have found a definite hermeneutical key to the Gospel text is hardly surpris-
ing.6 The author of the Paraphrase proves himself to be deeply committed to
biblical thought, for at least he is not altering the form of narrative theology he
found in his Vorlage, but rather he is only rendering its literary form.7 In this
perspective it seems more appropriate to ask first whether the Paraphrase is a
reliable interpretation of the Gospel. The question of its proposed Christology
is only to be answered in a second step.
Unfortunately, this research perspective has not found a broad resonance to
date: the Paraphrase is analysed regarding theological questions,8 whereby the
work is rarely devoted to Christological questions.9 Under these conditions,
it is quite clear that this present study can provide nothing more than a first
orientation.
4 Referring to the Gospel stories as a narrative meanwhile became an established research

perspective. For an analysis of the Gospel of John from the perspective of narrative exegesis,
see for example Culpepper (1983).
5 See Theobald (2009) 47 ff.
6 It seems more appropriate to speak of a ‘Christology of Icons’ (Zimmermann 2004, 91–237) or
a ‘Christology of Aspects’ (Theobald 2009, 45–70).
7 Even in applying a Greek form to the Gospel text, it seems that the Paraphrast is close to its
Vorlage. After all, there are echoes of Greek literary form—namely Greek tragedy—to be
found in the Gospel of John already, for a recent overview, see Brant (2004). When transform-
ing the Gospel into an Epic the author of the Paraphrase only had to stress these aspects
of Greek literary tradition already present in the text. On biblical epic, see the chapter by
Whitby in this volume.
8 Thanks to the project initiated by Enrico Livrea to create a new edition of the Paraphrase
of the Gospel of John (Livrea 1989 and 2000; Accorinti 1996; De Stefani 2002; Agosti 2003;
Greco 2004; Caprara 2005; Franchi 2013), a growing interest in the Paraphrase can be noticed.
However, the main focus is still placed upon relating the Paraphrase to the Dionysiaca, see,
for example, Shorrock (2011) 49–78.
9 However, see Doroszewski (2009–2012), (2014a), and (2014b); Franchi (2013) 57–190.
310 Sieber
The most appropriate procedure to deal with the topic is to analyse key pas-
sages of the Gospel of John as expressed in its new epic cloak of the Paraphrase.
In this manner, it will be possible to track the extent to which the Paraphrase
adequately interprets the Gospel, as well as the resulting Christology. Three
thematic complexes must be distinguished in this trajectory.
(1) Just as the Prologue of the Gospel is a meditation on the divine Logos,
so too the beginning of the Paraphrase reflects upon the Logos. While the
Prologue is by far the only passage in the Gospel in which a reference to the
Logos Christology can be found,10 the Paraphrase alludes to the concept at sev-
eral additional points.
(2) A second Christological concept to be found in the Gospel and applied
in the Paraphrase relates to the concept of envoy. It is present in those passages
in which Jesus identifies God as his Father who sent him. Furthermore, the
envoy concept is present in the ‘I AM’ statements, as well as passages in which
Jesus speaks or acts with authority.
(3) A third dimension is evoked by the use of majestic titles.11 By calling
Jesus as king, for example, he is not only claimed to be a king, but by such
indeed he is a king of the kerygma. In the Paraphrase, however, even the term
θεός is used as an honorific to address Christ. The Christological dimension of
this naming is quite obvious. The only question that remains is what kind of
Christology is propagated in this context. To answer this question, it will be
helpful to contextualize from a trinitarian perspective and take into account
some passages of pneumatological importance.
2 The Logos Complex
At least regarding the Gospel of John,12 to start with the Gospel is to start with
the Logos complex. As is generally acknowledged, John gives the most radical
start of all the four canonical Gospels by situating the starting point of the
Gospel narrative as concomitant with the beginning of creation (1:1):
Ἐν ἀρχῇ ἦν ὁ λόγος, καὶ ὁ λόγος ἦν πρὸς τὸν θεόν, καὶ θεὸς ἦν ὁ λόγος.
10 For an overview of the Christological terminology used in the Gospel of John, see Belle
(2005).
11 For the Christological value of titles in the Gospel of John, see Popp (2001); Belle (2005).
12 Greek quotations of the Gospel of John are based upon Nestle-Aland28. The English trans-
lation is based upon NRSV, occasionally modified.
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the
Word was God.
The Paraphrase13 elucidates this by adapting the opening verses with flexibil-
ity, albeit precise form (1.1–5):
Ἄχρονος ἦν, ἀκίχητος, ἐν ἀρρήτῳ λόγος ἀρχῇ,

ἰσοφυὴς γενετῆρος ὁμήλικος υἱὸς ἀμήτωρ,
καὶ λόγος αὐτοφύτοιο θεοῦ γόνος,14 ἐκ φάεος φῶς·
πατρὸς ἔην ἀμέριστος, ἀτέρμονι σύνθρονος ἕδρῃ·
καὶ θεὸς ὑψιγένεθλος ἔην λόγος. 5
Timeless was the Logos, unattainable, in the ineffable beginning, of equal

nature to the coeval begetter, a motherless son, and the Logos was a god
of self-created god, from light a light.
The poetic extensions of the Vorlage are not only creative renderings but also
careful imitations. The first words of the Gospel are invoked, although the
order is changed to ἦν – ἐν – λόγος – ἀρχῇ. This amplifies Ἄχρονος – ἀκίχητος
and ἀρρήτῳ by forming an alliteration with ἀρχῇ, which stresses the original
phrasing. However, when the Paraphrase only duplicates its Vorlage, it only
proves the lasting authority of the biblical tradition. Accordingly, while the
Paraphrase renders the Gospel narrative in epic form, it remains a biblical epic,
devoted to elucidating the Jewish-Christian literary tradition.
Under these conditions it seems inadequate to interpret the verse as a dog-
matic statement. Joseph Golega first interpreted the Paraphrase this way, argu-
ing that Nonnus alludes to the Nicene Creed. In this reading, ἰσοφυής, found
in Par. 1.2, is interchangeable with the Nicene ὁμοούσιος, while Nonnus’ ἐκ
φάεος φῶς (3) would be synonymous to φῶς ἐκ φωτός.15 Despite being plau-
sible, such an interpretation is misleading in that it gives a dogmatic-historical
texture where it is clear that—more precisely—the Paraphrase alludes to
John 1:1. Golega’s observation is important only in as far as it points to the divin-
ity of the Logos. While neither the Gospel nor the Paraphrase are interested
13 Greek quotations of the Paraphrase of the Gospel of John are based upon Scheindler
(1881a). The English translation is based upon Sherry (1991).
14 De Stefani (2002) reads φάος (Gerhard) instead of Koechly’s conjecture γόνος (codd. φῶς),
accepted by Scheindler (1881a).
15 Golega (1930) 106, 110. See also De Stefani (2002) 14–21 (with further information and addi-
tional literature).
312 Sieber
in p ortraying the Logos as an orthodox figure, in both texts he is described as

divine (θεὸς ὑψιγένεθλος, Par. 1.5).16 Indeed both ἰσοφυής (2) as well as ἐκ φάεος
φῶς (3) seize on the theme of the Gospel’s Vorlage by accentuating the com-
parison between Logos and God.
The first lines of the Paraphrase expand upon this comparison with recourse
to the terms of Father and Son. For example, when the Logos is addressed to
be a υἱὸς ἀμήτωρ (2), he is consequently related to a πατρός (4), a γενετῆρος
ὁμήλικος (2). In the Gospel, such a quasi-trinitarian language cannot be found.
There, the Logos might be set in relation to God and defined to be God himself,
but a Father-Son terminology is not present. From this perspective, it seems
quite clear that the Paraphrase might pick up on the thematic focus, expressed
in the Johannine understanding of the relation between Logos and God.
Certainly, this reformulation is not a revolution in patristic exegesis on the
Prologue of John,17 but it is an interpretation of the Gospel text that raises some
questions, particularly concerning Father-Son terminology and the dependent
relationship between Logos-Son and God the Father. Such a dependency is not
contradicted by the use of ἰσοφυής to express the divine character of the Logos:
Origen suggested such a distinction between ὁ λόγος, who is defined to be a
θεός, and God himself, who is addressed in conjunction with a noun marker.18
Thus, he puts the Logos in a relational framework to God the Father. The Logos
is subsequently not only confessed to be God, but also an independent person
in relation to God (ὁ θεός).
While it remains a matter of debate whether the Paraphrase should be
read in this way, it is significant to note at this juncture that in the Paraphrase,
the Father-Son terminology does not limit the scope of the Logos complex—
rather, it amplifies the Logos concept. While in the Gospel reference to the
Logos is only made in the Prologue, in the Paraphrase the use of Logos termi-
nology can be found at several occasions throughout the text.19 However, it is
striking to observe that the Logos concept—not unlike the Prologue—is often
evoked in connection to a Father-Son terminology. This situation illustrates
the need to comprehend the ‘Christology’ established in the Paraphrase of the
Gospel of John as an example of religious pluralism: several concepts are used
simultaneously and equitably to explain the mystery of Christ.
16 The phrasing reminds of the concept of θεὸς ὕψιστος as it was in common use in Late
Antiquity, see Mitchell (1999) and (2010); Brenk (2014) 79–80.
17 An overview of patristic exegesis on the Prologue of John is provided by Edwards (2004)
15–25 and Elowsky (2006) 1–57.
18 See Brox (1993).
19 An analysis is given by Rotondo (2008) and (2012).
A perfect example for this connection of complementary concepts can be

found in Par. 5.71–78 (~ John 5:19–20):
Ἰησοῦς δ’ ἀγόρευεν· ἀμὴν ἐπιμάρτυρον ἔστω·

οὐδὲν ἑῇ ἰότητι δυνήσεται υἱὸς ἀνύσσαι,
εἰ μὴ ἐσαθρήσειεν ἑὸν τελέοντα τοκῆα·
ἔργα γὰρ εἰν ἑνὶ πάντα πατὴρ ἐμὸς ὁππόσα ῥέζει,
ταῦτα θεὸν γενέτην μιμούμενος υἱὸς ἀνύσσει· 75
υἱέα γὰρ φιλέει γενέτης ἑόν· ὅσσα δὲ τεύχει,
παιδὶ φίλῳ δείκνυσι καὶ εἰσέτι μείζονα δείξει,
ὄφρα κε θαμβήσητε τελειοτέρων χάριν ἔργων·
Jesus harangued, ‘Amen, let this stand as a witness. The son can accom-
plish nothing of his own volition, unless the gaze upon his parent while
bringing it about. Each and every deed my father does, the son, by imitat-
ing god the begetter, will finish them. For the begetter loves his own son.
All the things he fashions, he points out to his dear child, and will show
him still greater things, in order that you be amazed because of the more
perfect deeds.’
While in the Gospel text the monologic response of Jesus starts with a doubled
Amen-acclamation, the Paraphrase renders the second Amen into ἐπιμάρτυρον
ἔστω (71). This is certainly a possible reformulation, stressing the acclamatory
character of the double Amen saying. However, it is important to note that in
this way Nonnus qualifies Jesus’ response as an oral witness. The divine Word
coins his own words to emphasize his authority.20 While Jesus underlines the
differences between Father and Son, the Son is said to be of inferior power,
given that he is only able to act as long as he is θεὸν γενέτην μιμούμενος (75).
Another example of this exegetical style is in Par. 8.1–36. In a first instance,
Jesus is said (1) to have continued to speak with his λαοσσόον αὐδήν (‘people-
saving voice’). At the same moment the Jews are portrayed (7) to speak with
a θυιάδι φωνῇ (‘Bacchic voice’) only, while Jesus is said (10) to utter a γλώσσης
ἀενάοιο θεόρρυτον ὄμβρον (‘a storm flowing from god of his ever-flowing tongue’).
If his mission is questioned by ‘the Jews’ (15–16), it is only for their judging him
βροτοειδέα μορφήν | ἀνδρομέην κατὰ σάρκα, although they do so with a νήιδι μύθῳ
(‘You, looking upon my mortal human form, judge me according to the flesh,
20 In Par. 5.89 the double Amen saying of the Vorlage is rendered into μάρτυρον ἐμπεδόμυθον
ἀμήν, ἀμήν. Accordingly, the double Amen saying is repeated, although at the same
moment the Paraphrase provides a cross-reference, thus linking both passages.
314 Sieber
with unknowing expression’).21 At the same moment, holy writ is used by Jesus
and said (22) to be a θεογλώσσῳ . . . βίβλῳ (‘In your laws it has been engraved in
the god-tongued sensible book’).
All these characterisations give a clear reference to the Logos complex. In
this instance, the statements are not integrated in a context of a double Amen
saying, but in an ‘I AM’ saying. On this occasion, Jesus identifies himself (2) to
be φάος κόσμοιο λιπαυγέος (‘the light of the world that has deserted the light’).
When he is consequently accused of giving a false testimony about himself, he
justifies himself by calling his Father for witness. When asked by the Jews who
his Father is, he replies (28–29) by identifying himself to be the παῖδα μολόντα
of the πέμψαντα τοκῆα (‘You do not know either of us because of disobedient
will, neither me, the child who has come, nor the parent who sent me’).
Accordingly, once more the son is identified in a way to be of inferior power
to God the Father. He is sent by the Father as a messenger of the divine. Being
the divine Logos, he is not unlike a human being a subject to the will of God.
Thus, there are indeed several concepts used simultaneously and equitably to
explain the mystery of Christ. It is a situation that should be interpreted in
terms of a religious pluralism present in the Gospel of John.
3 The Father-Son Complex
The points at which Nonnus conjoins the Logos Complex to the Father-Son
relation afford unique instances to analyse the Father-Son more carefully. John
10:24–30 is a key passage in this regard:
ἐκύκλωσαν οὖν αὐτὸν οἱ Ἰουδαῖοι καὶ ἔλεγον αὐτῷ· ἕως πότε τὴν ψυχὴν ἡμῶν
αἴρεις; εἰ σὺ εἶ ὁ χριστός, εἰπὲ ἡμῖν παρρησίᾳ. ἀπεκρίθη αὐτοῖς ὁ Ἰησοῦς· εἶπον
ὑμῖν καὶ οὐ πιστεύετε· τὰ ἔργα ἃ ἐγὼ ποιῶ ἐν τῷ ὀνόματι τοῦ πατρός μου ταῦτα
μαρτυρεῖ περὶ ἐμοῦ· ἀλλὰ ὑμεῖς οὐ πιστεύετε, ὅτι οὐκ ἐστὲ ἐκ τῶν προβάτων
τῶν ἐμῶν. . . . ὁ πατήρ μου ὃ δέδωκέν μοι πάντων μεῖζόν ἐστιν, καὶ οὐδεὶς δύνα-
ται ἁρπάζειν ἐκ τῆς χειρὸς τοῦ πατρός. ἐγὼ καὶ ὁ πατὴρ ἕν ἐσμεν.
So the Jews gathered around him and said to him: ‘How long will you keep
us in suspense? If you are the Messiah, tell us plainly.’ Jesus answered,
‘I have told you, and you do not believe. The works that I do in my Father’s
name testify to me; but you do not believe, because you do not belong to
21 The emphasis is mine here and in all quotations from Sherry (1991) in this paper.
my sheep. . . . What my Father has given me is greater than all else, and
no one can snatch it out of the Father’s hand. The Father and I are one.’
Questioned by the Jews to confess whether or not he is the Messiah, Jesus pro-
claims indeed to be the Christ. To legitimate his claim, he not only calls God
to be his Father, but also points to the deeds he did in the name of his Father.
His confession culminates in the profession of unity between Father and Son.
The Paraphrase (10.84–107) gives more weight to specific differences
between Father and Son, while at the same moment it is quite precise in reca-
pitulating the core issues of the Vorlage. The text runs:
αἰνομανεῖς δέ
Ἑβραῖοι στεφανηδὸν ὁμόζυγες εἰν ἑνὶ χώρῳ 85
Χριστὸν ἐκυκλώσαντο καὶ ἔννεπον ἄφρονι μύθῳ·
ἡμείων τέο μέχρις ὑποκλέπτεις φρένα μύθοις;
εἰ σὺ Χριστὸς ἵκανες ἐτήτυμος, ἀμφαδὸν ἡμῖν
ἀγρομένοις ἀγόρευε· τί καὶ τεὸν οὔνομα κεύθεις;
Ἰησοῦς δ’ ἅμα πᾶσιν ἀνίαχε· πολλάκις ὑμῖν, 90
πολλάκις αὐτὸς ἔλεξα, καὶ οὐ πιστεύετε μύθῳ·
ἔργα, τάπερ τελέω καλέων πατρώιον ἀλκήν,
μάρτυρα ταῦτα πέλει καὶ φθέγγεται ἔμφρονι σιγῇ
θηητὸν μερόπεσσι λάλον τύπον· ἀλλά που ὑμεῖς
ἐν βλεφάροις δέρκεσθε καὶ οὐ πείθεσθε μενοιναῖς; 95
οὐ γὰρ ἐμῶν ὀίων ταχυπειθέος ἐστὲ γενέθλης.
. . .
οὐδέ τις ἁρπάξειεν ἐμὴν πινυτόφρονα ποίμνην
χειρὸς ἀφ’ ἡμετέρης, γενέτης ἐμὸς ὅττι νομεύειν
ὅς μοι πώεα δῶκεν ὑπέρτερος ἔπλετο πάντων. 105
αὐτὸς ἐγὼ μεδέων τε πατὴρ ἐμὸς ἓν γένος ἐσμέν,
ἔμφυτον, αὐτόπρεμνον, ὅθεν φυτὰ μυρία κόσμου.
The terribly mad Hebrews circled around Christ in one place, joined
together like a wreath and addressed him with a senseless expression,
‘For how long will you steal into our minds with expressions? If you
have come as the true Christ, then publicly harangue it to us who are
assembled. Why do you conceal your name too?’ Jesus shouted at all of
them together, ‘Many times, many times I myself have told you, and you
did not believe in my report. The work which I accomplish by calling
on my hereditary strength, these are witnessing works and speak out in
sensible silence like wondrous images speaking to mortal men. But you
316 Sieber
see with your eyes and do not trust your intentions. For not do you belong
to the quick-believing brood of my sheep. . . . Nor could anyone snatch
my wise-minded drove from our hand, because my begetter who granted
me to tend the flocks is superior to all. I myself and my ruling father are
one family, innate, self-rooted, whence come all the countless beings of
the world.’
When in Par. 10.92–93 the works Jesus did are referred to as a μάρτυρα,22
the same idea occurs in John 10:25. Here, Jesus declares that the works he does
in the name of the Father would μαρτυρεῖ on him. Nonnus thereby uses the
same idea with the same terminology. When in Par. 10.104 Jesus declares that
no one could snatch what his Father has given to him χειρὸς ἀφ’ ἡμετέρης, it
places a very strong emphasis on the unity between Father and Son, quite com-
parable to the statement of John 10:30. However, the Paraphrase modifies this
point, taking into account the stronger position attributed to the Father. It is
not Jesus—by his own will or his own power—who is able to act, but only the
Father who empowers Jesus to do his signs. It might be impossible to snatch
what Jesus received from his Father’s hands, albeit only because his Father is
ὑπέρτερος . . . πάντων (105). The unity Jesus claims is only in regard to ἓν γένος
(106). Finally, both of them are said to be ἔμφυτον as well as αὐτόπρεμνον (107).
Once more, the unity evoked in the Paraphrase is nuanced. While it might
be possible to call Father and Son unified, they far from being indistinguish-
able. Nonetheless, it is unclear whether the distinction is based upon a differ-
ence in quality or solely in degree.
4 Christological Titles: Θεός
Nevertheless, it would be a misconception to call Paraphrase’s Christology one

of subordination. As previously mentioned, the Gospel much more propagates
a religious pluralism than a demonstratio fidei based upon dogmatic terms.
Dependence is clear, but Nonnus also transposes the Logos-Son concept into a
doxological context: he is divine Lord and Saviour at the very same time. In the
Gospel of John, the most common honorific addresses are Κύριος and Χριστός.23
By both titles, Jesus is invoked to be not only a prophet or a somehow holy
22 For the use of μάρτυς in Nonnus, see Vian (1997b).

23 See Belle (2005) 457–458.
man, but a true ruler of physical and spiritual realities. The Paraphrase adopts
these titles,24 but at the same moment very much stresses the divine aspects.
This appears more clearly in the use of θεός as a Christological title. In the
Gospel, the use of this specific honorific is limited to John 1:1, 18 and 20:28. In
this way, it is comparable to the use of ὁ λόγος as a Christological title, which
can only be found in John 1:1, 14. However, in the Paraphrase, not only the use
of the Logos complex is amplified, but also the use of θεός as a core charac-
teristic of Christ. In a first instance, the use of θεός as found in the Gospel is
adapted in the Paraphrase by specific addenda. The reference made in John 1:1,
as already mentioned, is transformed into θεὸς ὑψιγένεθλος (Par. 1.5) to stress
the transcendent dimension of the Logos. The expression μονογενὴς θεός—as
to be found in John 1:18—is transposed as θεὸν αὐτογένεθλον (Par. 1.55).
Finally, the Paraphrase deals creatively with the Vorlage. The confession of
Thomas in John 20:28 ὁ κύριός μου καὶ ὁ θεός μου (‘My Lord and my God!’) is
rendered (Par. 20.131) into κοίρανος ἡμέτερος καὶ ἐμὸς θεός (‘Our lord and my
god’), arguing for the objective character of the kingship of Jesus. The confes-
sion subsequently means to address Christ as God. Again, this decision could
be read as an attempt at making a distinction between God the Father and
God the Son. While the divineness of the Father is a quasi-objective reality,
the equal divineness of the Son might be a legitimate confession, but nothing
more. Concerning this point, the evidence indicates that Nonnus constructs a
difference in quality between God the Father and God the Son.
However, the situation becomes more complex when considering those
passages of the Paraphrase in which Jesus is addressed as God. Such a use is
already implied in Par. 1.39–40. At this point (John 1:14), the Gospel is not very
specific about the divine dimension of the incarnate Logos, when stating:
Καὶ ὁ λόγος σὰρξ ἐγένετο καὶ ἐσκήνωσεν ἐν ἡμῖν, καὶ ἐθεασάμεθα τὴν δόξαν
αὐτοῦ, δόξαν ὡς μονογενοῦς παρὰ πατρός, πλήρης χάριτος καὶ ἀληθείας.
And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have beheld his
glory, the glory as of a Father’s only Son, full of grace and truth.
However, the Paraphrase places a clear focus (1.39–45) on the human-divine

nature of the incarnate Logos:
καὶ λόγος αὐτοτέλεστος ἐσαρκώθη, θεὸς ἀνήρ

ὀψίγονος προγένεθλος, ἐν ἀρρήτῳ τινὶ θεσμῷ 40
24 In the Paraphrase, an equivalent title used is ἄναξ.

318 Sieber
ξυνώσας ζαθέην βροτοειδέι σύζυγα μορφήν.

καὶ θεὸς οἶκον ἔναιε σὺν ἀνδράσι, καὶ κλέος αὐτοῦ
εἴδομεν ἀνδρομέοισιν ἐν ὄμμασιν, οἷά τε τιμήν
υἱοῦ μουνογόνοιο παρ’ ὑψίστοιο τοκῆος·
καὶ χάριτος πέπληθε καὶ ἀτρεκίης γενετῆρος. 45
And the self-perfected Logos became flesh, a god, a man, the one born of
late, the other earlier born, and in an ineffable manner he has made the
holy co-yoked form common with a mortal-like one. And god kept his
home among men, and his renown we saw with human eyes, such as the
honor of an only-begotten son from a most high parent. He has become
full of both the grace and certitude of the begetter.
When calling the Logos to be a θεὸς ἀνήρ (39), it is no longer about the Logos
who became flesh, but rather about the Logos who became man while still
being God. The divine aspect is even stressed at l. 42 when it is no longer the
Logos who dwelt on earth, but simply θεός who kept his home among men.
This wording clearly indicates that when defining the Logos to become a θεὸς
ἀνήρ, the new dimension invoked in the Paraphrase is the divine aspect, which
at this point is not present in the Gospel text.
The same emphasis can be observed in Par. 1.157. In the Gospel text
(John 1:41), the newly appointed apostle Andrew explains to his brother Simon
to have found the Messiah ὅ ἐστιν μεθερμηνευόμενον χριστός. The Paraphrase is
more elaborate about the nature of this Μεσσίαν σοφόν (Par. 1.157).25 In translat-
ing the title (157–158), an explanation is given: σύγγονε, Μεσσίαν σοφὸν εὕρομεν,
ὃς θεὸς ἀνήρ | Χριστὸς Ἰουδαίοισιν ἀκούεται Ἑλλάδι φωνῇ (‘Kinsman, we have
found the wise Messiah, who is called by the Jews in the Greek tongue Christ,
a god man’). Accordingly, the human-divine character of Christ the Messiah is
stressed and again the new dimension invoked in the Paraphrase refers to the
divine nature of the human Messiah. In this regard, θεός is a Christological title
used to address Jesus. Corresponding references can be found on several occa-
sions throughout the text of the Paraphrase. A first instance is given in Par.
1.151. While the Gospel text (John 1:40) is completely indifferent about the con-
text—simply stating that Andrew found his brother Simon—the Paraphrase
(1.148–151) is much more elaborate:
25 The title ‘wise Messiah’ contains a hidden reference to the Logos complex, given that
divine wisdom, with recourse to Prov 8:22–31, is always associated to the Logos of the
Gospel of John.
καί τις ἔην, ὃς ἵκανεν ἔσω θεοδέγμονος αὐλῆς,

Ἀνδρείας, μερόπων ἁλιεὺς μετὰ πόντιον ἄγρην,
ἰχθυβόλου Σίμωνος ἀδελφεός, εἷς δέ τις αὐτῶν, 150
οὓς θεὸς ἐξείνισσεν·
And one of them who came within the god-receiving court was Andrew,
a fisher of men after a catch of the sea, brother of Simon, a net-fisherman.
Now he was one of them whom Christ entertained.
The context developed here is an imaginative exegesis of the Gospel Vorlage.

However, above all, it is striking to observe that Jesus is referred to as θεός (151)
and the house in which he hosted his disciples is described as a θεοδέγμονος
αὐλῆς (148). Thus, it is another instance in which the Messiah is referenced as
divine.
Another reference can be found in Par. 3.112. While in the Gospel text
(John 3:22) it was simply Ἰησοῦς καὶ οἱ μαθηταί (‘Jesus and his disciples’) who
went to Galilee to stay there and baptise, in the Paraphrase it runs: καὶ θεὸς . . .
σὺν ἀντιθέοισι μαθηταῖς (‘And god . . . along with his god-like disciples’). Par. 4.82 is
the same: while the Gospel text (John 4:17) states λέγει αὐτῇ ὁ Ἰησοῦς (‘Jesus said
to her’), in the Paraphrase it is θεὸς δ’ ἤλεγξε γυναῖκα (‘God rebuked the woman’).
The next reference for our purposes here is given at Par. 20.72. When the res-
urrected one appears to Mary Magdalene, she wants to hold him (John 20:17).
However, λέγει αὐτῇ Ἰησοῦς (‘Jesus said to her’) not to do so. The Paraphrase at
this point (20.72–74) reads again: θεὸς δ’ ἀνέκοψε γυναῖκα | δεξιτερὴν μέλλουσαν
ἐς ἄμβροτον εἷμα πελάσσαι | καὶ οἱ μῦθον ἔλεξεν (‘God cut the woman off who was
about to bring her right hand to the immortal garment, and said an expres-
sion to her’). A final reference is to be found in Par. 21.107, 116. It is in the con-
text of the commission of Peter (John 21:17) that Jesus speaks to Peter: λέγει
αὐτῷ [ὁ Ἰησοῦς]· Βόσκε τὰ πρόβατά μου (‘Jesus said to him, “Feed my sheep” ’).
In the Paraphrase (21.107–108), the narrator is once more addressed to be God:
θεὸς δ’ ἀντίαχε μύθῳ· | οὐρανίῃ ποίμαινε καλαύροπι μῆλα καὶ ἄρνας (‘God shouted
with an expression in return, “Shepherd with a heavenly crook my sheep and
lambs” ’). When Peter is called to succeed him, the Gospel (John 21:19) runs: καὶ
τοῦτο εἰπὼν λέγει αὐτῷ· ἀκολούθει μοι (‘After this he said to him, “Follow me” ’).
In the Paraphrase (21.116–118) it is Christ—who is God—who speaks: καὶ σοφίης
πλήθοντι θεὸς πάλιν ἔννεπε Πέτρῳ· | ἄρνας ἐμὰς ποίμαινε σαόφρονας ἄνθεσι βίβλων.
| καί οἱ Χριστὸς ἔλεξεν· ἐφέσπεο (‘And god again addressed Peter who was full of
wisdom, “Shepherd my prudent lambs with blossomings of books.” And Christ
said to him, “Follow me” ’). Here, the speaker is first said to be God, then Christ,
thus indicating that the titles Christ and God are meant to be interchangeable.
320 Sieber
Christ is God and all distinctions made between Father and Son are only meant
to be on the level of an inner-trinitarian perspective. However, from a human
perspective, Christ is God.
Nonnus’ carefully applied diction must be read in the wider context of his
Paraphrase, in which θεός does not signify a divine being, as a divine man
(θεῖος ἀνήρ)26 functioning as an intermediary between God and Man. Indeed,
the Paraphrase makes a clear distinction between Jesus addressed as God and
other saintly beings, said to be divine.27 While only Christ is addressed to be
θεός, the term θεῖος is a more open concept used to address John the Baptist as
well as Jacob and Moses. However, it is never referred to Christ. Accordingly,
the concept of θεῖος ἀνήρ as present in the Paraphrase serves to hint at the truly
divine nature of Christ.
First and foremost, it is John the Baptist who is introduced to be a θεῖος
ἀνήρ.28 Apart from his person, it is only Jacob the Patriarch,29 Moses30 and the
Messiah as foretold by the Old Testament.31 It is surprising to see that it is espe-
cially this last reference—addressing the Messiah to be θεῖος—that can illus-
trate the inappropriateness of the term in a Christological context, especially
in perspective of the Paraphrase. The naming occurs in context of John 4:25.
It is the Samaritan woman, responding to Jesus:
λέγει αὐτῷ ἡ γυνή· οἶδα ὅτι Μεσσίας ἔρχεται, ὁ λεγόμενος χριστός·
The woman said to him, ‘I know that Messiah is coming’ (who is called
Christ).
The Paraphrase (4.122–127) is much more detailed about the woman and her
reply. It runs:
εἶπε, καὶ ἀγνώσσουσα γυνὴ μαντώδεϊ φωνῇ

Χριστῷ Χριστὸν ἔλεξεν, ἀοσσητῆρα δὲ κόσμου
ὀψὲ μολεῖν ἀγόρευε, τὸν ἐγγύθεν εἶχε μολόντα·
κοίρανε, θεσμοφόρων πατέρων ἐδάημεν ἀκουῇ, 125
26 For the use of θεῖος ἀνήρ as a Christian concept, see Du Toit (1997).
27 Comparable to the distinction between ὁ θεός and θεός made by Origen, see Brox (1993).
28 As a θεῖος ἀνήρ he is adressed in Par. 1.129 and 3.125; θεῖος Ἰωάννης he is called in Par. 1.16
and 3.116.
29 Par. 4.17 calls him θεῖος Ἰακώβ.
30 As John the Baptist he is addressed as a θεῖος ἀνήρ (Par. 5.179).
31 See Par. 4.126.
Μεσσίας ὅτι θεῖος ἐλεύσεται, ὅντινα λαοί

Χριστὸν ἐφημίξαντο·
He spoke, and the ignorant woman in a seer-like voice spoke to Christ

about Christ, then she harangued that the helper of the world would
come at late, and near her she had him who had already come, ‘Lord, we
know by the hearsay of [our] law-bearing fathers that the divine Messiah
will come, whom the people call Christ.’
The context of the statement could not be more explicit: the woman is intro-
duced to be ἀγνώσσουσα (122) to speak to Jesus in a μαντώδεϊ φωνῇ; there-
fore, it is only pretentious for it implies that she might teach Christ (Χριστῷ
Χριστὸν ἔλεξεν, 123), while she is unable to recognize him who is close to her.
Consequently, when defining the Messiah to be θεῖος she does not refer to
Jesus, neither is she admitting a personal conviction; rather, she is only sum-
marising what she heard from the θεσμοφόρων πατέρων (125). For Nonnus, θεῖος
is supposed to be an inappropriate term to refer to the reality of Christ.
5 Christology in Context: Pneumatology
Nonetheless, the actual complexity of the terminology used in the Paraphrase

is not yet described properly. For this purpose, one also has to take into account
other deities to be found in the Paraphrase. While mythological characters are
important to Nonnus—whether Aion, the Horae, Hades or Lethe32—more per-
tinent for our purposes are his references to the Holy Spirit. The point is that
not only are Father and Son referred to as God, but also the Spirit. However, the
terminology here is complex and ambiguous.
For example, consider Par. 4.119–121, which refers to John 4:24, where Jesus
teaches the Samaritan woman about the liturgy to come:
πνεῦμα ὁ θεός, καὶ τοὺς προσκυνοῦντας αὐτὸν ἐν πνεύματι καὶ ἀληθείᾳ δεῖ
προσκυνεῖν.
God is spirit, and those who worship him must worship in spirit and truth.
32 Golega (1930) 63–66.

322 Sieber
The axiomatic passage was the object of much debate in fourth-century con-
troversies over the divinity of the Holy Spirit.33 Nonnus participates in this dis-
cussion by rendering the Vorlage as follows:
πνεῦμα θεὸς νημερτές, ὅθεν χρέος ἀνέρας ἕλκει

ἀτρεκίην καὶ πνεῦμα μιῇ κεράσαντας ἐρωῇ 120
ἀενάου κόσμοιο θεὸν γενετῆρα γεραίρειν.
God is the unerring spirit from where a need draws men who have mixed
certitude and spirit in one impulse to honor god the begetter of the ever-
flowing world.
Placing the πνεῦμα and θεός in parallel construction lucidly accomplishes his
point. It is not the only passage in which the Paraphrase refers to the Spirit, and
Nonnus is equivocal about the Spirit’s relation to God. However, he is consis-
tent in terms of expressing the Spirit’s dependence on God.
In Par. 1.116, for example, it is the πνεῦμα θεοῦ who descends from heaven
at the baptism of Jesus. Indeed, πνεῦμα θεοῦ can be found in various instances
throughout the text.34 The significance of these locutions must be stressed,
given that they do not correspond to identifications in the Gospel. Joseph
Golega has offered an interpretation of these instances in which Nonnus
clearly demonstrates his particular interest in maintaining the divinity of the
Spirit. Golega argues that they are best understood in terms of the history of
dogma, the Paraphrase propagating a Pro-Nicene trinitarian theology in which
the Spirit originates from the Father alone.35 The Spirit would be πνεῦμα θεός
only in as far as he is πνεῦμα θεοῦ. To provide evidence for his interpretation,
Golega referred to Par. 11.121, 14.61–67, 15.105–108, 16.25–26, and 16.43–49. In
each instance, Golega insists that the πνεῦμα is dependent on God the Father.
For example, he is πνεῦμα θεοῦ γενετῆρος (‘the spirit of god the begetter’, 14.67),
πνεῦμα θεοῦ νοεροῖο . . . γενετῆρος (‘the . . . spirit of the intellectual god the beget-
ter’, 15.106) and πνεῦμα θεοῦ ζώοντος (‘the spirit of the living god’, 16.26).
With exception of Par. 15.106, these addenda are not rooted in the Gospel
text. Indeed, the context of these statements would give reason to expect a
more Christocentric perspective. The Paraphrase is aware of this situation. In
15.105–108 as in 16.23–27 it is Jesus who promises to his disciples to send the
Spirit who κηρύξειε παρ’ ἀνδράσι (‘should herald . . . among men’, 15.108) about
33 For an overview, see Grillmeier/Hainthaler (2013) 359–367.

34 Apart from Par. 1.116, see 1.123, 14.67, 15.106 and 16.26.
35 Golega (1930) 112–115.
the Son. In 16.27, it is the Son again who states that μετὰ γαῖαν ἀπ’ αἰθέρος αὐτὸς
ἰάλλω (‘onto earth from the aether I myself will hurl him [the Spirit]’). However,
by far the most striking phrasing is to be found in Par. 16.43–49:
οὗτος ἰὼν παρὰ πατρὸς ἀνυψώσει με γεραίρων,

ὅττι κεν ἡμετέροιο δεδεγμένος ἐκ γενετῆρος
ὑμῖν συμμιγέεσσι προώρια θέσφατα φαίνει, 45
ὅσσα περ ἔσσεται ὔμμι. καὶ ἀρχεγόνῳ τινὶ θεσμῷ
κλῆρος ἐμὸς πέλε πάντα, πατὴρ ἐμὸς ὅσσα κομίζει·
οὗ χάριν ὔμμιν ἔειπον, ὅτι ζαθέοιο τοκῆος
δέγμενος ἡμετέροιο προαγγέλλει τέλος ἔργων.
This one going from the father will exalt me by honoring me, because
receiving from our begetter the premature prophecies he will disclose to
all of you mixed together all that will be for you. And by an ancient-born
decree my lot is everything, as much as my father acquires. Wherefore, I said
to you that receiving from our holy parent he predicts the result of deeds.
While the Paraphrase clearly indicates that the Spirit derives from the Father,
in the Gospel it is precisely the other way round. As Golega points out,36 John’s
Gospel depicts the Spirit arising from the Son: ἐκ τοῦ ἐμοῦ refers to Jesus (16:14).
It is clear that the Paraphrase inverts the Gospel to propagate a unique theo-
logical view: for Nonnus, the divinity of the Holy Spirit (4.119–121) is expressed
in his dependency on the Father. The Spirit is thereby analogous in nature to
the Logos-Son. As we have seen, the Son is God insofar as he is dependent on
the Father. The Spirit may be sent by the Son instead of the Father, but the Son
also comes as a messenger of the divine and as a supporter to the alien world.
For this reason, Golega insists upon the context of the ‘dogmenhistorisches
Rätsel’,37 primarily the context of the filioque controversy. The closest link to
the phrase is a remark of Photius of Constantinople (c. 810–c. 893).38 While
Golega’s inquiry is justified,39 the problem of Nonnus’ provenance alleviates
the need to solve it. More fundamental is the question of whether Nonnus’
36 Golega (1930) 113.

37 Golega (1930) 112.
38 Golega (1930) 113.
39 The problem even becomes enriched when taken into account a phrasing like ἔργα,
τάπερ τελέω καλέων πατρώιον ἀλκήν, | μάρτυρα ταῦτα πέλει καὶ φθέγγεται ἔμφρονι σιγῇ |
θηητὸν μερόπεσσι λάλον τύπον (‘The works which I accomplish by calling on my heredi-
tary strength, these are witnessing works and speak out in sensible silence like wondrous
324 Sieber
poetic doxological and Christological expansions reflect a ‘dogmatic’ inter-

est or the process creative activity born out of an interest to harmonise the
Gospel text.
After all, figures on all sides of the filioque controversy appealed to the Bible
to prove the authenticity of their theological position, with the Gospel of John
being prominent among their proof texts. To prove that the Spirit originates
from the Father alone, it is possible to refer to John 15:26, stating that the Spirit
παρὰ τοῦ πατρὸς ἐκπορεύεται (‘comes from the Father’). However, to show that
the Spirit also derives from the Son, it is possible to refer to the aforemen-
tioned John 16:14–15 (~ Par. 16.43–49). Consequently, by inverting the meaning
of the Gospel text, the Paraphrase seems to sympathize with opponents of the
filioque while at the same time harmonising the Gospel with its fragments of
pronounced Christology. In this way, he is not far from the methodology of the
Gospel writer himself: by inverting John’s doxological appellations of Christ
and interrelating various Christological concepts, Nonnus expresses the same
basic attitude to biblical traditions.
6 Conclusions
Amidst these problems, some tentative conclusions are possible. The

Paraphrase was primarily interested in poetic and theological expansions and
interrelations of biblical literature concerned with the Messiah and the Word.
While Nonnus’ text might be epic in form, it is clearly linked to its specific
Vorlage regarding both its genre and content. Indeed, it is striking to observe
how deeply committed to biblical thought the Paraphrase is. Nonetheless,
the Paraphrase does not simply reproduce and recapitulate the text. Nonnus
creatively renders the Gospel text into something new: a coherent mosaic of
Johannine Christological concepts. Father and Son, Logos and God are evoked
as complementary concepts, adequate to express the reality of Christ only as
long as they are used reciprocally. Unfortunately, this approach is not very help-
ful to clarify questions raised from a dogmatic interest. One could argue that
it is due to this mythic or narrative character that the legacy of biblical epic
was doubted and the relevance of the Paraphrase was questioned.40 However,
image speaking to mortal men’, Par. 10.92–94), which could easily be interpreted as a
statement in the context of controversy on iconoclasm.
40 See the summarizing characterisation provided by Grillmeier/Hainthaler (1996) 99: ‘But
one can scarcely avoid the impression that the religious power of the gospel is scattered
in an enchanting verbosity.’
at the same time, it is evident that the plot of the Paraphrase is completely
focused on Jesus, who is portrayed to be the Christ of the kerygma. In this way,
Nonnus combines a theologically dense argument with a literarily rich narra-
tive exposition.
The structure of this narrative Christology is easily comprehensible. It
begins with the transcendent nature of the Logos in the Prologue: the origin of
Christ is the sphere of God, for the same Christ who became flesh is the divine
Logos incarnated. This aspect is reiterated when Nonnus addresses Jesus as
θεός. The Paraphrase also accounts for his human character. When sketching
a dependent relationship between Father and Logos-Son, the Paraphrase does
not propagate a doctrine of subordination but rather the non-divine character
of the Logos-Son by implementing a difference between God the Father and
his Son. The human-divine character of the incarnated Logos-Son is perhaps
best expressed when referring to the Logos as a θεὸς ἀνήρ (1.39, 157).41
Moreover, the very same idea is also present when portraying the Holy
Spirit’s origins in the Father alone. This statement stresses the divinity of the
Father alone, thereby giving reference to the monotheistic confession of the
Jewish-Christian tradition that there are no other gods before God (cf. 1 Cor
8:6). To hint to the fact that the Spirit originates in the Father is to point towards
introducing a difference between the Father and the Spirit that parallels the
dependent relationship between the Father and his Logos-Son. However, while
such conclusions may be warranted in part, committing to a full-scale inter-
pretation of these statements would be to contextualize the Paraphrase within
the background of the filioque controversy. Nonetheless, as we have seen, the
evidence for an earlier provenance of the Paraphrase cautions such a move.
Therefore, at this stage in our knowledge of the Paraphrase, it is more fittingly
seen as a trial to harmonize the Gospel text with a concomitant confessional
hypertext that draws the reader to observe the identity between the Father,
Son and Holy Spirit. While Jesus is portrayed as the Christ and as God, the final
decision concerning whether he is indeed God remains to the readers.
Once more, this confessional dimension of the text is especially present in
those passages addressing Jesus as God. One only has to remember Thomas’
cry of astonishment κοίρανος ἡμέτερος καὶ ἐμὸς θεός (‘Our lord and my god’,
Par. 20.131). Once again, the Paraphrase here inverts the meaning found in
the Gospel. In John 20:28, both parts of the statement are clearly marked as a
41 Therefore, it is a little ambiguous to point to the ‘Affektlosigkeit Christi’ (Bogner 1934,
332). Regarding his divine nature, Jesus indeed might be ἀπαθής; however, regarding his
human nature, he is not. Therefore, he is able to feel tired, for example, see Par. 4.20–21
(quoted by Bogner 1934, 320 n. 30).
326 Sieber
c onfession, for Thomas simply states: ὁ κύριός μου καὶ ὁ θεός μου (‘My Lord and
my God!’). The Paraphrase aims to objectivize the confession of Thomas. While
it might be on the level of a personal conviction to call Jesus a God, it is implied
to be common place to call him ‘Lord’. Accordingly, the Paraphrase introduces
an astonishing division. By addressing Jesus as God throughout the text, the
Paraphrase leaves no doubt concerning whether or not it shares Thomas’ con-
fession, although how Jesus is equivocated with God remains unclear at this
very specific point. In a certain way, this situation is highly symptomatic for the
Christology as propagated in the Paraphrase.
CHAPTER 15
The Mystery Terminology in Nonnus’ Paraphrase

Filip Doroszewski
1 Preliminary Notes
The issue of the mystery terminology in ancient Greek literature is neither new
nor neglected. Nevertheless, the fact that the figurative use of the mystery terms
in antiquity was a literary device that enjoyed great popularity and occurred in
a variety of contexts makes the issue noteworthy. There are still many texts in
which the role of mystery terminology, although prominent, has not received
sufficient attention. This is particularly true of Nonnus’ Paraphrase of St John’s
Gospel, one of the most intriguing poems of Late Antiquity. The present chap-
ter, therefore, will discuss the place occupied by the mystery terminology in
this biblical epic.1 Naturally enough, one can hardly address this issue without
explaining what the mystery terminology actually is. That, in turn, is intrinsi-
cally linked to the more general question of the ancient mystery cults.2 Due to
the limited size of this chapter, however, the latter subject will be outlined only
very briefly. The introduction will also include a concise and selective overview
of the historical development of the mystery metaphor in antiquity as well as
the status quaestionis of research done to date on the mystery terminology in
the Paraphrase. Thus, the reader will be provided with an essential background
necessary to understand the phenomenon discussed in the subsequent parts
of the chapter.
2 Historical Development
The ancient mystery cults were secret religious rites to which only the initiated
were admitted. Two of them are especially important for our understanding of
1 Most of the issues discussed in the analytical part of the chapter were already addressed by
the author in two papers: Doroszewski (2014b) and (forthcoming). This may result in a simi-
lar or even identical form of certain paragraphs, sentences and expressions that can be found
in the two papers and the present chapter. I would like to express my gratitude to Domenico
Accorinti for having invited me to contribute to this volume, and to Kurt Nelson for his care-
ful reading and suggestions.
2 See now Bremmer (2014).

328 Doroszewski
the meaning given by Nonnus to the mystery terminology in his Paraphrase, as

well for our understanding of the Graeco-Roman mystery metaphor in general.
First, the Eleusinian mysteries, had a decisive influence on the development of
the mystery metaphor in antiquity, a development that was largely the result
of Plato’s writings. The other cult is that of Dionysus. As we will see, the expres-
sive power of its imagery turned out to be the perfect complement to Plato’s
picture of philosophical ‘mysteries’. The Dionysiac imagery also occupies an
important place in Nonnus’ biblical poem. For these reasons, the two cults will
now be briefly discussed.
The oldest and the most respected among ancient mystery cults was
Mysteria, a festival held annually in Eleusis. Its name quite early became a
generic term for all of the secret initiatory cults in the Graeco-Roman world.3
As has been established at least from the beginning of the sixth century, the
Eleusinian mysteries were celebrated in remembrance of Demeter’s quest for
Kore abducted to the underworld by Hades.4 The earliest extant version of this
myth was narrated in the Homeric Hymn to Demeter, a poem directly bound up
with the Mysteria.5 The rites that promised initiates happiness on earth and
a better afterlife6 consisted of two stages of initiation: myesis and epopteia.7
The initiation rite was preceded by the four-day celebrations in Athens that
included an ablution in the sea, sacrificing a piglet as well as ritual fasting, and
ended with a great procession of the initiands to the Eleusinian Telesterion,
the great hall where the mysteries were performed.8 There, the candidates
accompanied by the mystagogoi, who were the initiates acting as their private
sponsors, and led by the hereditary priests, that is by the hierophantes (‘he
who makes holy things visible’), the hierokeryx (‘herald of the sacred’) and the
dadouchos (‘torchbearer’), underwent the rites of initiation.9 Because of their
secrecy, the sequence of the rites can be reconstructed only hypothetically.
The initiands ended their fasting with drinking the kykeon, a drink of barley
and mint.10 They also had to pull certain sacred objects out of a ritual chest
(kiste) and, after having done some work, put them back.11 A rite in which the
3 This is first attested by Hdt. 2.51 who calls the Samothracian cult not only ὄργια but also
μυστήρια.
4 Burkert (1987) 2; Sourvinou-Inwood (2003) 26–27; Bremmer (2014) 1–20.
5 Foley (1994) 97.
6 See HHom. Dem. 480–482.
7 See Burkert (1983) 265 n. 1 where many references to ancient sources are provided.
8 Burkert (1983) 256–264, 277–280.
9 Burkert (1983) 275 and (1987) 37.
10 Burkert (1983) 274–275 and (1987) 94.
11 Burkert (1987) 94.
The Mystery Terminology in Nonnus ’ Paraphrase 329
veiled initiate sat in silence on a stool covered with a ram’s fleece while under-
going purification, was also a part of the initiation.12 The central moments of
the ritual were marked by the sudden passage from the darkness veiling the
Telesterion into the blinding light radiating from the Anaktoron, a small room
inside the hall, when its door was suddenly open.13 The sources tell us of the
hierophant evoking Kore at a sound of a gong, showing to the gathered initi-
ates both reunited goddesses, as well as displaying in complete silence an ear
of wheat.14 The initiates experienced a beatific vision called epopteia, the same
as name given to the second stage of the Eleusinian initiation.
Unlike the Eleusinian Mysteria, the Dionysiac mysteries had many forms
and were never bound up with a one specific place.15 At least at the early stage
of their development, these mysteries were propagated by wandering priests
who dealt with both private persons as well as well-organized cultic groups
frequently referred to as thiasoi.16 The relationships between these groups
and Orphic beliefs are still much debated.17 The myth of Dionysus Chthonius,
in which the god, born of Zeus and Persephone, was torn into pieces by the
Titans in his childhood and then was born again by Semele who ate his heart,
seems central to the mysteries.18 The objects used by Titans to trick Dionysus
in the myth occur in his mysteries as cultic requisites.19 The mysteries, often
called orgia, were secret and ecstatic—cathartic dance to the music of tym-
pana (‘hand drums’) and krotala (‘cymbals’) formed their integral part.20 It is
well attested that the initiates hoped for a better afterlife.21 Our knowledge of
the Dionysiac mystery rites comes chiefly from the iconographical evidence.
They show us such scenes as teaching the initiate, covering his head with a
veil, purifying him with the light of a torch and, above all, displaying to him
an erected phallus within the winnowing basket called liknon.22 We can also
12 Burkert (1983) 266–268; Riedweg (1987) 144, 161–162, 168.

13 Burkert (1983) 276–277.
14 Burkert (1983) 288–291 and (1987) 91; Riedweg (1987) 55.
15 Burkert (1987) 5; Graf/Johnston (2013) 141. See now Bremmer (2014) 100–109.
16 Burkert (1987) 34–35, 41–45; Graf/Johnston (2013) 143–145.
17 Graf/Johnston (2013) 142–143. See also Bernabé/García Gasco in this volume.
18 Burkert (1987) 73; Graf/Johnston (2013) 151–152.
19 Burkert (1987) 100 and n. 66.
20 Burkert (1987) 22–23; Motte/Pirenne-Delforge (1992) 128–130; Graf/Johnston (2013)
146, 148.
21 Graf/Johnston (2013) 4–5, 140, 145, 157–166.
22 Burkert (1987) 34; Graf/Johnston (2013) 148.
330 Doroszewski
observe scenes of ecstatic dance, sacrificing and pouring libations as well as

mixing wine in the crater.23
3 Mystery Terminology
This short description of the ancient mystery cults can help us to better
understand not only their general idea, but also the notion of the mystery ter-
minology. We can explain the mystery terminology as a set of words that in
antiquity related to various aspects of mystery cults, ranging from very general
terms describing the mysteries as a whole, to the proper names of individual
rites, cultic roles, cult items, etc. The majority of the most typical terms come
from two roots. The first one is μυ-, like e.g. μυστήρια (‘mysteries’), μυεῖν (‘to
initiate’), μύησις (‘initiation’) and μύστης (‘initiate’).24 The other is τελ-, with
τελετή (‘rite, initiation’) to be mentioned at the first place, but also present in
many other words bound up with the verb τελεῖν (‘to perform, celebrate, initi-
ate’), like e.g. ἀτελής (‘uninitiated’), τελεστής (‘initiating priest’) or τελεστήριον
(‘place of initiation’).25 Another family of words, important in the context of
the Dionysiac mysteries, comes from the root βάκχ- that occurs in Dionysus’
epithet Βάκχος (cf. Lat. Bacchus), as well as in words like βάκχη (‘Bacchante’),
βακχεία (‘Bacchic frenzy’) and βακχεύειν (‘to celebrate the Bacchic mysteries’).26
Another term essential in the latter context is also ὄργια ‘(Bacchic) rites’ which
stems from the root ϝεργ-.27 Derivatives from all of the above-mentioned roots
occur in Nonnus’ Paraphrase.
An important and immutable feature of the mystery terminology was its
ambiguity. The semantic field of the mystery terms was always broader than
their usage in the context of mystery cults. However, its relationship with those
cults, the content of which was kept secret from uninitiated, made this termi-
nology a common metaphor for all kinds of secrets and hidden knowledge. The
Platonic dialogues played a decisive role in the development of the mystery
metaphor. Plato, drawing on Eleusinian mystery terminology and motifs, por-
trayed philosophy as the privilege of those seeking knowledge that would
enable the soul to gradually rise above the material world and to contemplate
23 Graf/Johnston (2013) 148–150.

24 Burkert (1987) 8–10; Riedweg (1987) xii.
25 Waanders (1983) 17, 156–159, 164–165, 171–173; Burkert (1987) 8–10; Riedweg (1987) xii;
Schuddeboom (2009) 120–123, 199, 224–225.
26 Burkert (1987) 22, 112; Jiménez San Cristóbal (2009) 46–47; Santamaría (2013).
27 Motte/Pirenne-Delforge (1992) 128–130; Schuddeboom (2009) 183–184, 199, 227–230.
the divine.28 The contemplation itself is described as an ecstatic experience,

especially since Plato uses here the vocabulary relating to Bacchic frenzy.29
Through Plato’s followers, his metaphor spread to the Neoplatonic thought,
Hellenized Judaism as well as to Christian writings, and became fundamental
in portraying man’s spiritual way towards unity with the divine in antiquity.
Given the Egyptian background of Nonnus’ poems,30 it is particularly inter-
esting to see how the mystery metaphor was used in the Alexandrian milieu,
especially by Christian authors. The first known synthesis of Platonic and bib-
lical thought occurred in the writings of Philo of Alexandria, a Jewish thinker
who effectively applied Plato’s metaphor of philosophical mysteries to exegesis
of the Old Testament. Philo speaks of an esoteric knowledge, gnosis, which
is hidden in the Bible, and of a need to keep it secret from those who are not
ready to acquire it.31 In Philo’s writings, a true Jew becomes a philosopher who
passes through the successive stages of initiation into the actual meaning of
the Scriptures and, finally, becomes able to contemplate God.32 As in Plato’s
dialogues, this contemplation involves a feeling of ecstasy as if in Bacchic
frenzy.33 A central role in the whole process is occupied by the mystagogues,
those who initiate into gnosis, i.e. the God himself, but also the prophets and
exegetes.34 It is worth noting that the mystery terminology in Philo’s writings
has a positive meaning only when it is used figuratively—the pagan mystery
cults, just as it is in the Septuagint on which the Alexandrian comments, are
always held in contempt.35
The Platonic tradition as well as the Philonic model of biblical allegoresis
met the Pauline mystery in the apologetics of a major figure of the Alexandrian
Church, Clement.36 Much like Philo, he speaks of the scriptural ‘mysteries’
that are incomprehensible without special instruction and accessible to the
initiated only.37 A truly mature Christian, whom Clement calls gnostic, has not
only faith, but also is introduced to gnosis, the ‘sacred mysteries’ of Scriptures.38
The intellectual and spiritual ascent to perfect cognition of God is shown as a
28 Des Places (1981) 87, 91; Riedweg (1987) 21–29, 37–39, 42–44, 68.
29 Riedweg (1987) 39–40, 44, 67.
30 Gigli Piccardi (1998); Miguélez Cavero (2008) 15–16. See also van Minnen in this volume.
31 Nikiprowetzky (1977) 21; Riedweg (1987) 111–112, 114; Mazzanti (2003) 128.
32 Nikiprowetzky (1977) 20–21, 25; Mazzanti (2003) 124, 126–127.
33 Nikiprowetzky (1977) 23, 26, 32 n. 132; Riedweg (1987) 113.
34 Nikiprowetzky (1977) 19–20; Riedweg (1987) 109–110, 114; Mazzanti (2003) 128.
35 Nikiprowetzky (1977) 17–18, 23; Riedweg (1987) 115; Mazzanti (2003) 121–122.
36 Riedweg (1987) 117; Bouyer (1990) 138.
37 E.g. the OT passages that forerun Jesus Christ, see Riedweg (1987) 133–137.
38 Hamilton (1977) 486; Riedweg (1987) 137–139; Bouyer (1990) 140–141.
332 Doroszewski
gradual initiation process conducted by Christ the Mystagogue and by those

to whom his teaching was handed down, orally and secretly, in a direct chain
from the apostles.39 In order to portray this process, Clement adopts the meta-
phor of the three Eleusinian stages of initiation: purification, receiving hidden
knowledge, and the beatific vision.40 The vision, epopteia, takes place when
the gnostic, whose soul is pure enough, experiences the highest ontological
truth by contemplating God.41 Dionysiac terminology and imagery occupy a
special place in Clement’s writings. Although all kinds of pagan mystery cults,
and especially the Dionysiac, come under Clement’s harsh criticism, the apolo-
gist simultaneously adapts the vocabulary of Bacchic mysteries to the needs
of Christian catechesis.42 However, importantly in this case, he owes his main
inspiration not to the actual Dionysiac cult, but to the literary sources—the
Platonic tradition and Euripides’ Bacchae.43 Moreover, Clement draws on the
Bacchic imagery only when he speaks of the Christian doctrine, and never of
the Christian celebrations.44
Clement’s conceptions were continued and developed by Origen who, even
if did not refer to the mystery imagery as much as Clement,45 clearly spoke of
the levels of initiation into the scriptural ‘mysteries’. He views these as entirely
centred on the mystery of Christ as seen by St Paul.46 For Origen, Christ is
a teacher and a mystagogue who leads the Christian from mere faith to the
excellence of true gnosis. The mystery terminology also served Origen as a
link between the classical and the Christian paideia, and was aimed at point-
ing out to pagan auditory the existence of various stages of initiation within
Christianity.47 It is notable that Origen’s application of the mystery imagery to
the Church’s eschatological union with Christ prepared the way for applying
this imagery to the sacraments in the following centuries, which were under-
stood as direct communing with the Saviour.48
The elements characteristic of Clement’s and Origen’s exegesis, that is,
the focus on the mystery of Christ, the biblical gnosis portrayed as an initia-
tion into the scriptural mysteries, the divine illumination coming from the
39 Hamilton (1977) 486; Riedweg (1987) 137–140.

40 Hamilton (1977) 486; Riedweg (1987) 141–143.
41 Riedweg (1987) 145–147; Bouyer (1990) 144.
42 Riedweg (1987) 148–158; Jourdan (2006) 267–271; Massa (2014) 157–201.
43 Hamilton (1977) 485–486; Jourdan (2006) 274–275.
44 Hamilton (1977) 486–487. However, see also Riedweg (1987) 156–157, 159.
45 Bouyer (1990) 149.
46 Bouyer (1990) 149–150, 154–155.
47 Hamilton (1977) 488–489.
48 Bouyer (1990) 155.
Scriptures, can also be easily traced in the teaching of another important

Alexandrian churchman, Cyril,49 whose writings had a significant influence on
the theological content of Nonnus’ Paraphrase.50 As a man of his times, Cyril
of Alexandria applied the mystery terminology and imagery not only to the
scriptural exegesis but also to the Christian sacraments.51 At the same time, he
naturally gave the mystery vocabulary a negative connotation while speaking
of the pagan mystery cults, just as his predecessors did.
4 Nonnus’ Paraphrase
The issue of the mystery terminology in the Paraphrase was occasionally

addressed in an en passant manner over the past decades, but has never been
examined in greater detail. As a starting point for a brief overview of the
research conducted to date, it should be stressed that the mythological ref-
erences and allusions to pagan cults present in the poem, which were recog-
nized for a long time now, are not seen by modern scholars as an expression
of Nonnus’ pagan inclinations, as they had been in the past.52 Still, except
for this common belief, the interpretation of the above-mentioned refer-
ences and allusions has gradually changed. At the beginning of the twentieth
century Koenraad Kuiper argued that Nonnus’ use of the pagan motifs was
mainly aimed at opposing Jesus to such deities as Dionysus, Serapis and Isis
as well as proving his superiority over them.53 Conversely, Joseph Golega sug-
gested that the poet’s main reference point was the Fourth Gospel and the
patristic commentaries, and that the ‘pagan’ elements should be rather con-
sidered as typical of the late antique poetic diction.54 A half century later,
Henryk Wójtowicz, while accepting Golega’s views on the pagan motifs in the
Paraphrase, paid more attention than his compatriot to the religious vocabu-
lary of pagan origin occurring in the poem and emphasized that it not only
does not bear any actual cultic meaning but also that it is always adapted by
49 Margerie (1980) 401–403; Boulnois (1994) 435 n. 488, 453–454 n. 29.
50 Golega (1930) 127–130; Livrea (1989) 30 n. 29; Grillmeier/Hainthaler (1996) 95–99.
51 Bouyer (1990) 170 and, on the general trend, 164–167.
52 Heinsius (1627) 982, 996 (I give the page numbers of the Aristarchus Sacer according to
the text offered in PG 43.941–1228).
53 Kuiper (1918) 250, 253, 256, etc.
54 Golega (1930) 62–88. For his refutation of Kuiper’s arguments, see 82–88. See also
Spanoudakis in this volume.
334 Doroszewski
Nonnus to suit perfectly the message of John’s Gospel.55 In this context, Francis
Vian’s remarks concerning the Paraphrase, which were made at the very end
of his classic essay on the vocabulary of pagan cults in Nonnus’ poems, must
be found more conservative as the author limited himself to the conclusion
that in most cases this vocabulary was nothing more than rhetorical ornament
and, as such, it bore no allusions to pagan cult.56 A series of interesting obser-
vations on the mystery terminology were made at the turn of the past cen-
tury by Italian scholars. In her paper on the picture of Jews in Nonnus’ biblical
poem, Mariangela Caprara effectively challenged Vian’s view of the mystery
vocabulary used tritely in the Paraphrase. She drew attention to the fact that
this vocabulary was adapted to Christian purposes long before Nonnus’ times.
Therefore, Caprara suggested that Nonnus intentionally used the mystery ter-
minology in order to show the spiritual supremacy of the Christian cult over
the Jewish religious practices.57 Similarly, in his commentary on the second
book of the poem, Enrico Livrea pointed out that this terminology was used by
Christian writers in both positive and negative way, and proposed a hypothesis
that the mystery terms occurring in description of the Jewish Passover served
Nonnus to oppose it to the ‘true’ Christian Passover.58 The most recent years
have brought new publications that deal to various degrees with the issue
in question. Robert Shorrock, while analyzing the Dionysiac imagery in the
Paraphrase, suggested that Nonnus intentionally does not ‘provide us with any
neat conclusions about the relationships between Classical tradition and the
Christian world’ because he seeks to preserve the experience of his poetry as
ambivalent and intoxicating.59 In her commentary on the sixth book of the
Paraphrase, Roberta Franchi60 mentioned the negative meaning of the mys-
tery terms in Nonnus’ description of the Jewish Passover. A commentary on
Book 11 by Konstantinos Spanoudakis highlighted the presence of the mystic
and theurgist motifs in the scene of Lazarus’ resurrection.61 Finally, a paper
by the author of the present chapter addressed the question of a double role
played by the Dionysiac terminology in the poem. The paper concluded that
55 Wójtowicz (1980) 131–141.

56 Vian (1988b) 408–409.
57 Caprara (1999) 200–202. The theses of this paper were later repeated in an expanded form
in Caprara (2005) 15–18, see also 216–217, 223–224, 227, 228, 292.
58 Livrea (2000) 303–304.
59 Shorrock (2011) 78.
60 Franchi (2013) 290–291.
the references to Bacchic rites are, on the one hand, a metaphor of approach-
ing God, and, on the other, a means to deprecate the Judaic cult.62
Among the passages of the Paraphrase in which Nonnus uses the mystery
terminology two are of key importance to our understanding of the role played
by this vocabulary in the poem. In most cases, the other occurrences can be
easily interpreted against the background of these two passages, of which the
first consists of the lines referring to the lack and the miraculous appearance
of wine at the marriage at Cana, and the other is that part of the conversation
between Jesus and the Samaritan woman which concerns the proper place of
worship. In the following part of the chapter both passages will be examined
in terms of the mystery vocabulary and imagery, starting with the Cana epi-
sode. In each case, the analysis will also include references to other passages in
which the use of mystery terminology can be related to one of these two.
5 The Marriage at Cana
The miracle of turning water into wine performed at the Marriage at Cana of
Galilee (John 2:1–11) occupies a prominent place in the narrative of the Fourth
Gospel, as it is the first of the seven signs worked by Jesus.63 The change of
water for Jewish ceremonial washing into an excellent wine reveals, straight
at the beginning of the Gospel, one of its central themes, that is the complete
transformation of the old order engendered by the coming of Christ.64 The
manner in which Nonnus renders this Johannine episode reflects its promi-
nent place in the Gospel both in terms of the poetical form as well as of the
in-depth exegesis. While the form stands out from the rest of the poem in its
intense Dionysiac colouring,65 the content attracts reader’s attention with ref-
erences to a long intellectual tradition of employing the imagery of Dionysiac
mysteries portraying man’s efforts to come closer to the divine.
We will focus on two particular moments of the Cana episode: the running
out of wine and the miracle itself. When paraphrasing John 2:3 ‘When the wine
gave out, the mother of Jesus said to him, “They have no wine” ’,66 Nonnus elab-
orates on it in the following nine hexameters (Par. 2.12–20):
62 Doroszewski (2014b) 301.

63 Brown (1966–1970) I, 101.
64 Brown (1966–1970) I, 104.
65 Kuiper (1918) 247; Golega (1930) 62; Livrea (2000) 84; Shorrock (2011) 57.
66 All biblical quotations are from NRSV, sometimes adapted.
336 Doroszewski
οἴνου δ’ ἡδυπότοιο θυώδεες ἀμφιφορῆες

πάντες ἐγυμνώθησαν ἐπασσυτέροισι κυπέλλοις
πινομένου, στυγνοὶ δὲ φιλακρήτῳ παρὰ παστῷ
οἰνοχόοι δρηστῆρες ἀβακχεύτοιο τραπέζης 15
ἀβρέκτοις παλάμῃσι μάτην ἥπτοντο κυπέλλων.
ἡμιτελῆ δὲ γάμοιο μέθην καὶ ἄοινον ὀπώρην
Χριστῷ καὶ δεδαῶτι συνέστιος ἔννεπε μήτηρ·
χρηίζει γάμος οὗτος ἀλεξικάκου σέο φωνῆς·
οὐ γὰρ ἐυρραθάμιγγος ἔχει χύσιν ἡδέος οἴνου. 20
All the fragrant amphorae were stripped of sweet-tasting wine, drunk cup
after cup, one after another. And distraught, the wine-pouring ministers
of the un-Bacchic table in vain grasped the cups with unwetted hands
at the banquet of neat wine. His mother, a fellow-banqueter, addressed
Christ, who already knew that the drunkenness of the conjugal union
was half-done and the fruit of the vine was wineless, ‘This conjugal union
needs your evil-averting voice because it does not have the flowing of
bubbly sweet wine.’67
It has been proved in many ways that the Nonnian amplificatio is seldom, if
ever, purely ornamental. On the contrary, the highly elaborate form usually
goes hand in hand with an exegetical approach to the paraphrased text. Surely,
this is also the case of Par. 2.12–20 in which Nonnus goes into much greater
detail than the terse report provided by John 2:3. It is particularly interesting
to see the relatively rare adjective ἀβάκχευτος (‘uninitiated in Bacchic orgies,
un-Bacchic’), an unicum in the Paraphrase, applied to the wedding table.68
Since the context makes it hardly interpretable as a reference to any form of
the actual Dionysiac cult, the adjective could be simply explained as relating
to the joyless atmosphere among the wedding guests, or to the lack of wine at
the table.69 Yet, a quick examination of the figurative use of the term outside
Nonnus puts a completely different perspective on its meaning in Par. 2.15.
The first Christian author known to us to use the term was, not surpris-
ingly, Clement of Alexandria. In his Stromateis 4.25.162.3, Clement quoted lines
470–472 from Euripides’ Bacchae and put them into Christ’s mouth (Euripides’
67 The Greek text of the Par. is cited according to Scheindler (1881a). All translations of the
Par. are cited from Sherry (1991), often adapted.
68 On ἀβάκχευτος see Livrea (2000) 177.
69 Thus Lampe, s.v. (‘without wine’) and Vian (1990) 345 (on Dion. 29.226: ‘table “privée de
vin” ’).
text in italics): ‘The Saviour Himself, then, plainly initiates us into the myster-
ies (μυσταγωγεῖ), according to the words of the tragedy: Seeing those who see,
he also gives the orgies (ὄργια). And if you ask, These orgies, what is their nature?
You will hear again: It is forbidden to mortals uninitiated in the Bacchic rites
(ἀβακχεύτοισιν) to know.’70 The quotations incorporated in Clement’s passage
come from the dialogue of Dionysus and king Pentheus,71 in which the cap-
tured god refuses to reveal the secrets of his rites. Thus, Bacchic ὄργια (‘orgies’)
become an allusion to Christ’s teachings and the ἀβάκχευτοι stand for those not
yet acquainted with them. According to the same figurative manner of speak-
ing, Christ’s followers can be logically compared to the Dionysiac celebrants.
As we have seen, within the Judeo-Christian tradition of Alexandria the
Bacchic metaphor can be traced back to Philo, who, in turn, drew his inspira-
tion from Plato. In Neoplatonic thought, Bacchic frenzy stood for a state of
perfection of the human soul.72 A particularly good example can be seen in
a passage from Julian the Apostate’s oration to the cynic Herakleios, in which
the term ἀβάκχευτος is used. After having explained the allegorical meaning of
the myth of Dionysus, Julian says: ‘I do indeed implore him [sc. Dionysus] to
inspire my mind and yours with his own sacred frenzy (ἐκβακχεῦσαι) for the
true knowledge of the gods, so that we may not by remaining too long unin-
spired (ἀβάκχευτοι) by him have to suffer the fate of Pentheus . . . For he in
whom the abundance of life has not been perfected by the essential nature of
Dionysus . . . he I say who has not been perfected by means of the Bacchic and
divine frenzy (βακχείας) for the god, runs the risk that his life may . . . come to
naught.’73
Like Clement, Julian clearly refers here to that passage of Euripides’ Bacchae,
in which Pentheus is classified by Dionysus as ἀβάκχευτος. It suggests not only
the popularity of the passage in antiquity, but also the fact that it has become
a literary topos employed to portray the obstacles to communion with divinity.
Evidence of this is also provided by Nonnus’ contemporary, Theodoret, bishop
of Cyrus. Theodoret, when explaining the essential role of faith in the process
of being ‘initiated’ into divine truth (Cur. 1.86), quotes line 472 of Euripides’
Bacchae, the very same one which Clement puts into Christ’s mouth: ‘it is for-
bidden to mortals uninitiated in the Bacchic rites (ἀβακχεύτοισιν) to know’.74
70 Trans. Wilson (1867). See Massa (2014) 184–189.

71 Eur. Bacch. 451–518.
72 Van den Berg (2001) 219–220.
73 Jul. or. 7.222a–b. Trans. Cave Wright (1913).
74 Trans. Wilson (1867).
338 Doroszewski
Livrea rightly underlines that in the Cana episode Nonnus focuses exclu-
sively on the symbolic and theological meaning of wine.75 Given the evidence
provided by Clement, Julian and Theodoret, it seems obvious that the expres-
sion ἀβάκχευτος τράπεζα (‘un-Bacchic table’, 15) can be interpreted not only
in terms of the actual lack of wine or joy but specifically in terms of lack of
Christ’s wine with its heavy theological load outlined by Livrea. Seen from this
perspective, the passage of Par. 2.12–20 reveals the limited extent to which
the followers of Judaism participate in the reality of salvation. The phrase
φιλάκρητος παστός (‘bridal chamber that loves neat wine’, 14) highlights the
deep longing for all that is symbolized by the wine of Christ the Bridegroom.76
At the same time, the wine of the Old Covenant turns out to be insufficient and
fails when needed most. Nonnus emphasizes the infertility of the Vineyard of
Israel with the expression ἄοινος ὀπώρη (‘wineless grape harvest’, 17). As a result,
the sense of union with God is only partial, as it can be inferred from the words
ἡμιτελὴς γάμοιο μέθη (‘half-done inebriation of the wedding’, 17).77 That, in turn,
makes the figurative sense of Mary’s words οὐ γὰρ . . . ἔχει χύσιν . . . οἴνου (‘for
[sc. the conjugal union] has no flow of wine’, 20) even more obvious. Nonnus
leaves the reader with little room for doubt that only Jesus can make God’s
Vineyard fertile again.
The themes that emerge from Par. 2.12–20 recur in lines 35–38 when the
miraculous transformation of water into wine happens. The passage is all the
more noteworthy in that it is no longer a retelling. In fact, the poet describes
the moments passed over in silence by the Evangelist:
ἄφνω δ’ ἔπλετο θαῦμα, καὶ εἰς χύσιν αἴθοπος οἴνου 35

χιονέην ἤμειψε φυὴν ἑτερόχροον ὕδωρ
χεύματι φοινίσσοντι, καὶ ὑδροδόκου διὰ κόλπου
ὕδατος ἀκρήτοιο φιλεύιος ἔπνεεν αὔρη.
Suddenly a miracle happened, and into a flowing of ruddy wine the ver-
sicoloured water changed its snowy nature with a reddening stream.
Then through the water-containing hollow the evoe-loving breeze of
unmixed water blew.
75 Livrea (2000) 86.

76 See Caprara (2005) 324. On the relation between the term παστός and Christ the
Bridegroom, see Cyr. In Jo. I, 207–208 Pusey and Lane (1988) 109.
77 Cf. Livrea (2000) 178–181.
The new wine made out of water is significantly called ἄκρητον ὕδωρ (‘unmixed
water’, 38). This figurative expression78 not only alludes to the point of depar-
ture and the final result of the miracle, that is, to water (ὕδωρ) and to the neat
wine (ἄκρητος) made out of it, but also makes it perfectly clear that Christ’s wine
meets the expectations of the guests, since the bridal chamber is described as
φιλ-άκρητος (‘fond of strong wine’, 14). The parallel between ἄκρητον ὕδωρ and
φιλάκρητος is particularly striking as the word ἄκρατος/ἄκρητος, although being
a common term denoting wine in Greek literature, in Nonnus’ poetry can be
found only in the passage relating to the Marriage at Cana. But this is not the
only way in which lines 12–20 and 35–38 are interrelated. The loaded rifle that
Nonnus puts on the stage in the former passage fires in the latter when the
scent of the newly-made wine is described with an ultra-Dionysiac79 adjective
φιλεύιος (‘loving cries euoi!’). There is an obvious interplay between the two
scenes: until the miracle happens, the wedding table remains un-Bacchic, but
as soon as the new wine of Christ appears, its smell alone provokes B acchic
cries.80 And if we go a little further, to Par. 2.62, we will see that the miracle
made the marriage, which previously was suffering from ἡμιτελὴς μέθη (‘half-
done inebriation’), enjoy an abundance of wine and turned it to μεθυσφαλεῖς
ὑμέναιοι (‘falling-down-drunk wedding rites’).81
With the miracle, the wedding’s sadness turns into sudden exhilaration. And
as the fact of being uninitiated into Bacchic orgies was the reason for sadness,
so the exhilaration takes on a flavour of Bacchic ecstasy. But the neat wine
comes from Jesus and not from Dionysus. A striking parallel to Par. 2.35–38
can be seen in Philo’s De vita contemplativa 85, in which the Therapeutae
are portrayed as celebrating καθάπερ ἐν ταῖς βακχείαις ἀκράτου σπάσαντες τοῦ
θεοφιλοῦς (‘like persons in the bacchanalian revels, drinking the pure wine of
the love of God’82). The meaning of Bacchic ecstasy in Nonnus’ lines is not less
figurative. As ἔπνεεν (38), a form of the verb πνέω (‘blow’), possibly suggests,
this is πνεῦμα, the Holy Spirit, which fills the wedding guests and inspires them
to utter Bacchic-like cries over the newly-made, strong wine.83 By drinking this
wine, which we now understand as God’s instrument for drawing people closer
78 Livrea (2000) 210.

79 So Wójtowicz (1980) 137, 272. See also Livrea (2000) 210–211; Shorrock (2011) 68–69.
80 Cf. Dion. 16.354, 19.301, 27.179, 35.356 where the water turned to wine by Dionysus is called
εὔιον ὕδωρ, see Livrea (2000) 211.
81 Cf. Livrea (2000) 241.
82 Trans. Yonge (1993).
83 Livrea (2000) 211.
340 Doroszewski
to Him, the guests may finally get fully intoxicated, and thus participate in His
mysteries fuller than ever before.
Another passage of the Paraphrase in which the Bacchic imagery occurs in
a similar context corresponds to John 7:45–49 where the guards sent to capture
Jesus fail and receive a sharp reprimand. Nonnus’ rendition of the lines (Par.
7.172–182) reads:
καὶ πινυτοὶ νόστησαν ἐς ἀντιθέους ἱερῆας

θαμβαλέοι θεράποντες· ἐμυθήσαντο δὲ κεῖνοι·
τίπτε μιν οὐ κομίσασθε; καὶ ἔννεπον ἔμφρονι μύθῳ
ἀπλανέες δασπλῆτος ὑποδρηστῆρες ἀνάγκης· 175
οὐχ οὕτω βροτὸς ἄλλος ἴσην ἐφθέγξατο φωνήν.
καὶ θρασὺς εἶπεν ὅμιλος ἀκηλήτων Φαρισαίων·
μὴ σφαλεραῖς πραπίδεσσι παρεπλάγχθητε καὶ ὑμεῖς
πειθόμενοι κείνοιο νοήμασι; μή τις ἐς αὐτόν
ἡγεμόνων πίστευσεν ἢ ἀγχινόων Φαρισαίων, 180
εἰ μὴ δήιος οὗτος ἀτάσθαλος ἐσμὸς ἀλήτης,
ὃς νόμον ἀγνώσσων βακχεύεται ἔμπλεος ἀρῆς;
And the trusty servants returned amazed to the god-opposing priests.

And those men expressed themselves, ‘Why didn’t you bring him?’ And
the unerring ministers of a horrible necessity said with sensible expres-
sion, ‘Another mortal has not uttered thus an equal voice.’ And the bold
crowd of uncharmable Pharisees said, ‘Perhaps with slipping minds you
also were led astray, believing in that man’s thoughts? None of the leaders
nor any of the ready-minded Pharisees believed in him, did they? None
except this reckless erring swarm of people who, ignorant of the law,
revels Bacchicly full of curse.’
In Pharisees’ opinion the ignorant crowd following Jesus βακχεύεται (‘cele-

brates the Bacchic rites’). The verb βακχεύειν was a terminus technicus denot-
ing Dionysiac worship, although it was used, too, figuratively in describing any
state of frenzy.84 In the context of the volley of insults hurled by the infuriated
Pharisees at the crowd, the ordinary madness may be a matching interpreta-
tion of the term. However, considering the degree of theological meaning asso-
ciated with the term ἀβάκχευτος (Par. 2.15), it may be supposed that βακχεύεται
is meant in the above passage as more than a mere poetic ornament.
84 Jiménez San Cristóbal (2009) 46–47.

It is not difficult to notice that Nonnus elaborates on the theme of wisdom in

Par. 7.172–182. In this respect, the temple guards are shown in a very favourable
light. When they return empty-handed to the leaders and openly express their
admiration for Jesus’ teachings, they are called πινυτοί (‘prudent’) and speak
with ἔμφρονι μύθῳ (‘sensible words’). It is just the opposite with the Pharisees.
Although they consider themselves ἀγχίνοοι (‘shrewd’), at the same time the
poet describes them as ἀντίθεοι (‘hostile to God’), θρασεῖς (‘audacious’), and
ἀκήλητοι (‘proof against enchantment’), the latter no doubt referring to their
resistance against Jesus’ message.85 From this perspective, the words of the
leaders are full of dramatic irony. Even if the Pharisees are convinced of their
shrewdness, nothing could be further from the truth as they reject the true
wisdom embodied in Christ. For the same reason, there is no doubt that the
common people gathered in admiration around Jesus act judiciously, despite
being regarded by the Pharisees as ignorant. Thus, it seems clear once again
that the reference to Bacchic rites carries a theological meaning and stands for
the state of euphoria resulting from the close communion with God.
Much in the same vein Nonnus elaborates on John 17:25–26, the final lines
of the so-called High Priestly Prayer of Jesus. The Johannine passage reads:
‘Righteous Father, the world does not know you, but I know you; and these
know that you have sent me. I made your name (τὸ ὄνομά σου) known to them,
and I will make it known’. Nonnus retells the passage as follows (Par. 17.88–92):
οὔ σε, πάτερ, μάθε κόσμος· ἐγὼ δέ σε σύμφυτος ἔγνων.

καί σε σοφὸς χορὸς οὗτος ἐμῶν δεδάηκεν ἑταίρων
ἤθεσιν εὐσεβέεσσιν, ὅτι σφίσιν ὄργια μύθων 90
ὑμετέρων ἀνέφηνα· καὶ ἔμπαλιν εἰσέτι δείξω,
ὄφρα σε γινώσκωσι πολὺ πλέον.
The world has not learned of You, Father. Being congenital with You I
recognized You. And this wise chorus of my comrades knows You with
pious manners, because I have revealed to them the mysteries of Your
expressions. And contrawise I will point them out still yet, in order that
they recognize You much more.
Nonnus makes Jesus speak here of God’s ὄργια μύθων (‘orgies of words’) instead
of His ὄνομα (‘name’) as the Gospel has it. The attribute μύθων (‘of words’)
makes it clear that the word ὄργια must be taken figuratively to represent
the secret knowledge of God received by the disciples from Jesus. Still, there
85 Caprara (2005) 150–151.

342 Doroszewski
is a distinct Dionysiac ring to it, especially if we remember Clement’s Strom.

4.25.162.3 in which Jesus speaks of his orgies kept secret from the uninitiated.
We notice that Nonnus alludes to choral dance as well: the ὄργια of God’s
words were revealed to the χορὸς σοφός (‘wise chorus’) of disciples.86 This com-
pels us to juxtapose Par. 17.88–92 with another passage from Clement, Protr.
12.119.1, in which he speaks of a Christian but also Bacchic-like χορὸς σώφρων
(‘prudent chorus’) preaching τοῦ Λόγου ὄργια (‘orgies of the Word’) at the top
of Mount Sion.87
The metaphor of the Bacchic mysteries is all the more evident as Nonnus
accumulates the vocabulary typical of the initiation into the secret rites. In the
context of mystery cults the expressions ὄργια ἀναφαίνειν and ὄργια δεικνύναι
mean, respectively, ‘reveal the mysteries’,88 and ‘show the mysteries’,89 while
μανθάνειν (‘learn’),90 refer to the process of becoming acquainted with a secret
knowledge. Thus, in Par. 17.88–92 Jesus is shown as making a clear-cut distinc-
tion between the disciples and the world in terms of the initiation into the
mysteries of his Father’s words. The disciples are already initiated: God’s words
have been revealed to them by Jesus (ὄργια μύθων | . . . ἀνέφηνα, 90–91) and will
be revealed again in the future (ἔμπαλιν εἰσέτι δείξω, 91). By contrast, the world
that has not known (οὔ σε . . . μάθε κόσμος, 88) God remains as yet uninitiated.
This is confirmed by Nonnus’ use of the verb μανθάνειν earlier in Par. 17.23,
where he refers to the disciples who received God’s word and learned Jesus’
true origin. By showing Jesus as the one who initiates his disciples into the
mysteries of God’s knowledge, Nonnus firmly stands in the Alexandrian tradi-
tion of perceiving Christ as mystagogue.91
86 On Dionysiac cult and dancing, see Hardie (2004) 19 n. 52 (further bibliography).
On Dionysus and dance in the Dionysiaca, see Vian (1987b) 13.
87 Doroszewski (2014b) 289; Massa (2014) 127.
88 E.g. Procl. H. 4.15 ὄργια καὶ τελετὰς ἱερῶν ἀναφαίνετε μύθων; Dio Chrys. or. 4.101 τὰ τῆς ἡδονῆς
ἀναφαίνων ὄργια; OH 54.10 ὄργια νυκτιφαῆ τελεταῖς ἁγίαις ἀναφαίνων; AP App. 1.318.3 τελετὰς
ἀνέφηνε καὶ ὄργια. Cf. OH 79.8 τελετὰς ἁγίας θνητοῖς ἀνέφηνας.
89 E.g. Arr. Byth. fr. 33.5 Roos/Wirth ὄργια δεικνύων; Paus. 4.2.6 ὄργια ἐπέδειξε. Cf. Ar. Ra. 1032
τελετὰς κατέδειξε; Diod. Sic. 5.48.4 παραδεῖξαι τὴν τῶν μυστηρίων τελετήν; OH 76.7 τελετὰς
θνητοῖς ἀνεδείξατε.
90 E.g. Diod. Sic. 3.65.6 τελετάς, ἃς ὕστερον Ὀρφέα τὸν Οἰάγρου μαθόντα παρὰ τοῦ πατρός; Philo,
Leg. 1.319 τὸ διδάσκειν καὶ τὸ μανθάνειν τελετάς; Eudoc. Cypr. 2.13 μάθον ὄργια θηρός; AP
16.89.5 ὄργια μάνθανε σιγῆς; Thdt. Cur. 1.141.1 ταῦτα ἐκ τῆς Αἰγύπτου τὰ ὄργια μαθών.
91 See e.g. Or. In Jo. 13.50.325 Preuschen; Cyr. In Jo. I, 528.15–23 Pusey.
6 Jesus and the Samaritan Woman
The other passage of the Paraphrase that makes remarkable use of mystery
terminology is Christ’s conversation with the Samaritan woman, especially
those lines concerning the proper place of worship. In John 4:21–23 Jesus, while
answering the woman’s question about the place, announces the forthcoming
shift from the Judaic cult to the worship in Spirit and in truth which is bound to
no place: ‘Woman, believe me, the hour (ὥρα) is coming when you will worship
the Father neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem. You worship what you
do not know; we worship what we know, for salvation is from the Jews. But the
hour (ὥρα) is coming, and is now here, when the true worshipers (οἱ ἀληθινοὶ
προσκυνηταί) will worship the Father in Spirit and truth, for the Father seeks
such as these (τοιούτους . . . τοὺς προσκυνοῦντας) to worship Him.’ In Nonnus’
retelling (Par. 4.97–118), these lines are much expanded and show the greatest
concentration of the mystery terms in the poem:
πείθεό μοι,92 Σαμαρεῖτι γύναι, νημερτέι μύθῳ,

ὅττι νέου βιότοιο διάκτορος ἔρχεται ὥρη,
εὐσεβίης ὀχετηγός, ὅτ’ οὐκέτι μύστιδι τέχνῃ
οὔρεος ὑμετέροιο θεοκλήτῳ παρὰ βωμῷ 100
οὐδὲ τανυσκοπέλων ὑπὸ τέμπεσιν Ἱροσολύμων
αἵματι ταυρείῳ κεραελκέα ῥέξετε λοιβήν
ἱκέσιον κλίνοντες ἐρειδόμενον γόνυ πέτρῃ·
ὑμεῖς μὲν κραδίης σφαλερῆς ἑτεραλκέι θεσμῷ,
ὃν φρεσὶν οὐκ ἐδάητε, γεραίρετε μοῦνον ἀκουῇ 105
μιμηλὴν τελέοντες ἀληθέος εἰκόνα μύθου·
ἡμεῖς δ’ εὐαγέεσσιν ἀνάπτομεν ὄργια βωμοῖς
μυστιπόλῳ, τόπερ ἴδμεν, ἀνευάζοντες ἰωῇ
καὶ θεὸν αὐτογένεθλον ἀείδομεν ἔμφρονι μύθῳ·
ἀλλὰ σοφαῖς τελετῇσι θυηπόλος ἔρχεται ὥρη, 110
καὶ νῦν ἄγχι βέβηκεν, ἀληθέες ὁππότε μύσται
ξυνὸν ὑποκλίνουσι λιτήσιον αὐχένα γαίῃ,
αὐχένα δοχμωθέντα καθελκομένοιο καρήνου,
πάντες ἀληθείῃ καὶ πνεύματι· μυστιπόλους γάρ
τοίους ὑψιμέδων ἐθέλει θεός, οἵτινες αὐτῷ 115
ἀκροπαγῆ κάμπτουσι συνήορα γούνατα γαίῃ
92 Caprara (2005) reads μευ (γ = exemplar deperditum e quo descripti sunt N, Marcianus gr.
481, et P, Vaticanus Palatinus gr. 90) instead of μοι (L = Laurentianus plut. 7.10), printed by
Scheindler (1881a).
344 Doroszewski
πνεύματι θεσπεσίῳ καὶ ἀληθέι μάρτυρι φωνῇ

καὶ93 δαπέδῳ πρηνηδὸν ἐρειδομένοιο προσώπου·
Believe, Samaritan woman, in my unerring expression, that the minister-

ing hour of new life is coming, a conduit of piety, when no longer with
mystic art at the god-invoking altar of your mountain nor under the vales
of long-ridged Jerusalem will you make a horn-dragging libation with the
blood of a bull while bending a suppliant knee supported on the rock.
You, because of the wavering manner of your slippery heart, honour only
through hearsay what you do not know in your heart and celebrate a
mimic image of the true expression. But we kindle the mysteries at the
holy altars by saying evoe-evoe with mystic solemnizing voice at what we
know, and we sing the self-born God with sensible expression. But a sac-
rificial hour is coming for the wise rites and now stands near, when all the
true initiates in truth and Spirit are going to bow their common suppliant
neck on the earth, with their head dragging down their arched neck. For
God ruling on high wants such mystic solemnizing men who bend their
pair of knees fixed to the ground with the divine Spirit and with true wit-
nessing voice with their face also supported prone on the ground.
Unlike in the Gospel, in Nonnus’ lines Jesus says not only that worship at
Mount Gerizim and in Jerusalem will cease and be replaced with a new way of
honouring God, but also that the sacrifices will no longer be performed there.
At the same time, however, he stresses the fact that sacrifice will be an inte-
gral part of the worship in Spirit and in truth. Still, Jesus makes it obvious that
there will be a clear difference between the former offerings and the latter one.
While the old sacrifices are bloody and they are offered on the altars described
with a term that in both the Greek Bible and the writings of the Church Fathers
carries mostly negative connotations, that is βωμός (100, 107),94 the coming
θυηπόλος ὥρη (‘sacrificial hour’, 110) is presented in a very favourable light, as it
is the time of the σοφαὶ τελεταί (‘wise initiations’, ibid.) and the ἀληθέες μύσται
(‘truly initiated’, 111).
93 Caprara (2005) reads ἐν δαπέδῳ (γ, see above) instead of καὶ δαπέδῳ (L, see above), printed
by Scheindler (1881a).
94 For a more detailed discussion, see Doroszewski (forthcoming). On the LXX’s use of the
term, see e.g. Chamberlain (2011), s.v. In the NT, βωμός occurs only once in Acts 17:23
where St Paul speaks about the pagan altar of an unknown god. On the Fathers’ writings,
see Lampe, s.v.; see also Greco (2004) 67–68.
This fundamental difference between the old and the new cult is telling,
as it allows us to better understand the role of the mystery terminology in the
whole passage. As we have seen, it was common for Christian writers to use
the mystery terms both positively and negatively depending on the context.
This is also the case of Par. 4.97–118. In the first part of his answer, Jesus speaks
of the sacrificial cult at Mount Gerizim and in Jerusalem as performed μύστιδι
τέχνῃ (‘after the manner of mysteries’). Soon after, he calls the Jewish sacrifices
ὄργια (‘orgies’) that are accompanied by the μυστιπόλος ἰωή (‘mystic cry’). It is
particularly significant that, in the context of the Jewish cult, Nonnus employs
the term ὄργια. In the Christian writings, with the exception of the figurative
use of this term we saw in Clement, Theodoret and Par. 17.90, it always carries
strong pagan connotations.95 Thus, the Jewish cult as depicted by Jesus is not
only bloody, but also resembles the pagan mysteries.96
A very similar picture of Jewish celebrations can also be found elsewhere in
the poem. When Jesus attends the first Passover during his public ministry, the
Johannine phrase (2:23) ἐν τῇ ἑορτῇ (‘at the feast’) is rendered (Par. 2.112–113)
as καὶ ἀρνοφάγων ἱερήων | ὄργια μυστιπόλευε φιλόκροτα θυιὰς ἑορτή (‘And the
frenzied feast solemnized the noise-loving orgies of the lamb-eating priests’).
Again the animal sacrifice is mentioned, the verb μυστιπολεύω (‘to solemnize
mysteries’) alludes to the mystery rites, and the Jewish cult is referred to as
ὄργια (‘orgies’), and noisy ones at that. In fact, this is the perfect match for the
general image of the first Passover, given the epithet θυιάς (‘frenzied’) that addi-
tionally carries strong connotations of the Dionysiac cult. Much the same can
be said of the way in which Nonnus describes both the second Passover as well
as the Feast of Tabernacles. While the former is called the φιλόργιος ἑορτή (‘orgy-
loving feast’, 6.9),97 the latter festival is given the epithet μυστιπόλος (‘mysteries
solemnizing’, 7.50). At the same time, Nonnus significantly characterizes the
Feast of Tabernacles as the κῶμος ἑορτῆς (‘revel of the feast’, 7.11, 31) and stresses
that dance is an integral part of the feast, as he calls it ἀρτιχόρευτος (‘recently
celebrated in dance’, 7.37) and χοροστάς (‘leading choral dance’, 7.141).98
All of the features that characterize Jewish festivity in the above-mentioned
passages of the poem, that is, bloody offerings, the similarity to pagan prac-
tices, excessive noisiness as well as a general intemperance are leitmotifs of
95 Motte/Pirenne-Delforge (1992) 139 as well as Schuddeboom (2009) xiii suggest differently,
but they do not give any specific examples.
96 Cf. Caprara (1999) and (2005) 15–28, 223–226 who interprets Par. 4.107–109 as referring to
Christianity.
97 Franchi (2013) 290–291.
98 For a more detailed discussion, see Doroszewski (2014b) 294–300.
346 Doroszewski
the Judeo-Christian polemics. Just to give a few examples relating to the Feast
of Tabernacles: John Chrysostom begins his seventh oration against the Jews
by directing his criticism at the Jewish trumpets and fasts, calling the former
‘a greater outrage (παρανομώτεραι) than those heard in the theaters’ and the
latter ‘more disgraceful than any drunken revel (μέθης καὶ κώμου)’. He then
proceeds to censure the tabernacles for being ‘no better than the inns where
harlots and flute girls ply their trades’.99 When commenting on John 7:8, Cyril
of Alexandria quotes Amos 5:21–23 in which the Jews get a severe reprimand
for their feasts and assemblies (ἑορτὰς . . . καὶ . . . πανηγύρεσιν), burnt offerings
(ὁλοκαυτώματα καὶ θυσίας) and for their ritual music (ἦχον ᾠδῶν . . . καὶ ψαλμὸν
ὀργάνων).100 Finally, in a reference to John 7:14 from a Pseudo-Chrysostom
homily, the author points out such features of pagan and Jewish feasts (παρ’
Ἕλλησι καὶ Ἰουδαίοις) as drunkenness (μέθαι), revels (κῶμοι), obscene songs
(ᾄσματα πορνικά) and whirling dances (ὀρχήσεις πολύστροφοι).101
In the second part of Jesus’ answer the negative picture of Judaic worship
is immediately confronted with that of the new worship in Spirit and in truth.
Although the poet still appeals to the mystery and sacrificial imagery, he uses
it in a distinctly positive way. The new kind of sacrifice, foreshadowed by the
phrase θυηπόλος ὥρη (‘sacrificial hour’), will be performed as a part of the σοφαὶ
τελεταί (‘wise initiations’) and by the ἀληθέες μύσται (‘truly initiated’), who,
because of their worship in Spirit and truth, are additionally characterized
as the μυστιπόλοι τοῖοι (‘such celebrants of mysteries’, 4.114–115) as God wants
them. Naturally, it is not enough to say that the mystery terminology occurring
in the second part of Jesus’ answer bears positive meaning, it must be subject
to further interpretation.
A good point of departure for this is the theme of sacrifice that is central to
Jesus’ speech as retold by Nonnus. The τελεταί (‘initiations’) desired by God are
bound up here with a certain ὥρη (‘hour’) that is called θυηπόλος (‘sacrificial’).
The nature of this critical hour is easier to understand if we briefly examine
the other occurrences of the term θυηπόλος and its cognates in the poem. The
first Passover, the description of which in Nonnus’ retelling certainly alludes
to Christ’s salvific death,102 is called the θυηπολίη (‘sacrificing’, 2.70). The term
θυηπολίη also recurs in direct connection to the Caiaphas’ and the other Jewish
leaders’ plan to kill Jesus (11.208). Similarly, when Jesus warns his disciples
that they will suffer persecution and death, Nonnus uses the verb θυηπολεῖν
99 Chrys. Jud. 7.1.2 (PG 48.915). Trans. Harkins (1979).

100 Cyr. In Jo. I, 588.11–16 Pusey.
101 Ps.-Chrys. Hom. in Jo. 7:14.
102 See Livrea (2000) 303.
(‘to sacrifice’, 16.7). Finally, Annas is referred to as a θυηπόλος (‘sacrificing priest’,

18.91) while questioning Jesus during the trial before the Crucifixion.103
A close relation of the terms θυηπόλος, θυηπολίη, θυηπολεῖν to Jesus’ death
tempts us to consider that Nonnus alludes in this way to Jesus as the Paschal
Lamb and even echoes St Paul’s words from 1 Cor 5:7 ‘For our paschal lamb,
Christ, has been sacrificed (ἐτύθη)’,104 just as by means of the phrase αἵματι
ταυρείῳ (‘by bull’s blood’, 4.102) he possibly refers to lines Heb 9:11–15 that show
the Judaic worship inferior to the Christian one insofar as the blood of bulls
and goats (αἷμα τράγων καὶ ταύρων) is inferior to Christ’s blood. As a matter of
fact, it is important to note that in Heb 9:11–15, Christ appears both as a sacri-
fice and a sacrificing priest who redeems mankind with his own blood and acts
as the mediator of the New Covenant.105 It is likely, then, that this paradox also
lies behind Nonnus’ θυηπόλος ὥρη, especially since the same hour is referred to
as the νέου βιότοιο διάκτορος (‘messenger of new life’) in an earlier passage (Par.
4.98). This, in turn, can be related to the Pauline idea of man as the καινὴ κτίσις
(‘new creature’) in Christ (2 Cor 5:17), the theme of key importance to Cyril of
Alexandria’s Christology.106
Since the θυηπόλος ὥρη was linked by Nonnus to the σοφαὶ τελεταί (‘wise
initiations’), the latter must also be inextricably intertwined with Christ’s sac-
rifice and the newness of life resulting from it.107 This can be further confirmed
by another passage of the Paraphrase in which the term τελετή occurs—the
conversation between Jesus and his brothers before the Feast of Tabernacles.
In John’s Gospel (7:8), Jesus’ final answer given to his brothers reads as fol-
lows: ‘Go to the festival (τὴν ἑορτήν) yourselves. I am not going to this festival
(τὴν ἑορτήν), for my time has not yet fully come (ἐμὸς καιρὸς οὔπω πεπλήρωται).’
Nonnus’ retelling (Par. 7.31–34) of the passage reads:
ὑμεῖς εὐκελάδοιο μετέλθετε κῶμον ἑορτῆς∙

οὔπω ἐγὼ κλισίας νεοπηγέας ἄρτι γεραίρων
εἰς τελετὴν ὁσίην ἐπιβήσομαι. ἡμετέρου γάρ
οὔπω μοι τετέλεστο χρόνου δρόμος.
103 See Livrea (1989) 154.

104 Livrea (2000) 303.
105 Cf. Greg. Naz. carm. 1.1.2.[407]75 Moreschini ἦν θύος, ἀρχιερεὺς δέ∙ θυηπόλος, ἀλλὰ Θεός περ.
See also Livrea (1989) 154.
106 See e.g. Wilken (2003) 19–20.
107 Cf. Caprara (2005) 227.
348 Doroszewski
You go after the revel of the sonorous feast. I will not yet enter into the
holy rite to celebrate now the newly pitched tents. For the course of our
time has not yet been fulfilled for me.
The first Johannine ἑορτή is paraphrased as the κῶμος ἑορτῆς (‘revel of the feast’),
whereas the second as the ὁσία τελετή (‘holy rite’ or ‘holy initiation’). The word
κῶμος (‘revel’) carries strong negative connotations in both the Septuagint and
the New Testament as well as in the writings of the Church Fathers.108 It is,
therefore, difficult to assume that κῶμος ἑορτῆς and ὁσία τελετή are meant to be
synonymous and that they refer to the same event. Quite the opposite, it seems
that Nonnus intends to resolve the contradiction between Jesus’ words and his
subsequent participation in the feast reported in John 7:10. Thus, when Jesus
sends his brothers to the feast, he calls it κῶμος ἑορτῆς, but when refusing to go
with them, he refers to another celebration, ὁσία τελετή, which cannot be held
by him ἄρτι (‘now’).
It can be inferred from Jesus’ answer that ὁσία τελετή will be a celebration of
the κλισίας νεοπηγέας (‘newly pitched tents’). As rightly suggested by Caprara,
this phrase carries eschatological overtones, as it alludes to a renewed Christian
Feast of Tabernacles.109 But, at the same time, Nonnus seems to remind the
reader that such a renewal will not be possible without Christ’s sacrifice. In the
narrative of John’s Gospel, Jesus’ refusal to go up to the Tabernacles is closely
interrelated with other crucial moments of the Gospel by the theme of the
hour of Jesus, which not only refers to the time of salvation but also to the
hour of glorification on the cross.110 There can be no doubt that Nonnus under-
stands and plays on this interrelation, as in Par. 7.31–34 Jesus actually points to
the moment when his hour will surely come. This moment seems to be directly
alluded to when Nonnus replaces the Johannine form πεπλήρωται (‘it has been
fulfilled’) with τετέλεστο (‘it had been accomplished’, 7.34). For, if one looks
closer at Nonnus’ retelling of the Crucifixion (Par. 19.146–148, 159–160 ~ John
19:28a, 30b), the form τετέλεστο occurs there twice, each time replacing the
Johannine form τετέλεσται (‘it has been accomplished’), in direct relation to
Jesus’ death:
Ἰησοῦς δ’ ἅμα πάντα παριππεύσαντα νοήσας, 146

ὅττι θοῶς τετέλεστο, θοώτερον ἤθελεν εἶναι
τέρματος ἱσταμένοιο τὸ λείψανον∙
108 See Doroszewski (2014b) 296–297. See also Golega (1930) 64; Caprara (2005) 292.
109 Caprara (1999) 201 and (2005) 227.
110 See e.g. Brown (1966–1970) I, 307.
. . .
ἀγχιθανής∙ τετέλεστο, πανυστατίῳ φάτο μύθῳ 159
καὶ κεφαλὴν ἔκλινε, θελήμονι δ’ εἴκαθε πότμῳ.
Jesus, as soon as he perceived that everything had passed by, that it had
quickly been accomplished, wanted the rest of the incipient end to be
quicker. . . . When near death . . . ‘It is accomplished’ he said with his very
last expression and bowed his head, and yielded to a willing fate.
In this context, it is no coincidence that the pair of cognate words τελετήν/

τετέλεστο occurs in Nonnus’ retelling of Jesus’ refusal to go to the Feast of
Tabernacles. Even if these words are found in separate sentences, they are
close enough to make one think of an expression like τελεῖν τὴν τελετήν (‘to
perform a rite’ or ‘to initiate into mysteries’).111 In this way Nonnus seems to
suggest that the ὁσία τελετή, the holy initiation which cannot yet be performed
during the Jewish Feast of the Tabernacles, in fact refers to the Mystery of the
Cross, that is, to the new reality established by the death and resurrection of
Christ. Much in the same vein, the word τετέλεστο (‘it had been accomplished’)
spoken by Jesus twice on the cross can be understood as a direct counterpoise
to his previous words uttered in the conversation with his brothers: ‘the course
of time had not yet been fulfilled (τετέλεστο)’ (Par. 7.34). Thus, Nonnus makes
it clear that the time of the ὁσία τελετή comes with Jesus’ death on the cross.
In fact, Nonnus’ exegesis of John 7:8 seems to follow, once again, Cyril of
Alexandria’s commentary on John’s Gospel. The answer given by Jesus to his
brothers is interpreted by Cyril as follows: ‘You then, he says, who still love
the shadow and are coarsely and Jewishly disposed concerning these matters,
you go up to the assembly that is in shadows and types (ἐν σκιαῖς καὶ τύποις
πανήγυριν). But I take no pleasure in that kind of feasting. I do not go up to this
feast, namely the one in type and outline, since I have no delight in it. Instead,
I await the time of the true assembly, which has not yet fully come (τῆς ἀληθοῦς
πανηγύρεως τὸν καιρόν, ὃς οὔπω πεπλήρωται).’ Then, Cyril adds: ‘For he himself
[sc. Christ] has become for us the source of resurrection and the door of the
truer Tabernacles (τῆς ἀληθεστέρας σκηνοπηγίας)’.112
Taking all this into account, it seems obvious that the mystery terms occur-
ring in the second part of Jesus’ answer to the Samaritan woman form an
111 E.g. Hdt. 4.79.9 ἐπετέλεσε τὴν τελετήν (Bacchic rites); Plat. Phdr. 249c τελέους ἀεὶ τελετὰς
τελούμενος (contemplating the Ideas); Paus. 1.38.3.6 τελεῖν τὴν τελετήν (Eleusis); Nonn.
Dion. 40.152 μὴ τελετὴν τελέσω (Bacchic cult).
112 Cyr. In Jo. I, 588–590 Pusey. Trans. Maxwell in Maxwell/Elowsky (2013), slightly adapted.
350 Doroszewski
important part of the picture of the future worship in Spirit and in truth, which
will replace the one held by Samaritans and in Jerusalem. The analysis has
shown that this future worship is centred on the Mystery of the Cross, i.e., first,
on Christ’s death seen both as a sacrifice and a priestly act, and, secondly, on
the new life possible because of Christ’s death. Accordingly, the celebration of
these is portrayed as the Christian mysteries, which, as it can be easily deduced
from the way in which they are described as well as from the negative picture
of the Judaic cult, are the only true ones.
7 Conclusions
As pointed out by Wójtowicz, the Nonnian epithet is seldom formular; usually

it constitutes an integral part of the narration.113 We can safely say the same
about the mystery terminology in Nonnus’ Paraphrase. Apart from being a
retelling of high poetic value, the Paraphrase must also be recognized as an
exegetical work, because the way in which it retells John’s Gospel is meant to
interpret its message. It is evident, from what was said above, that also the
mystery terms assume a serious exegetical role in the poem.
First, they refer to the mystery of Christ and his mediatory function between
humanity and God. Nonnus shows Jesus as the one who initiates into the new,
fuller dimension of life and worship that enable man to feel closer to God. In
keeping with the Alexandrian—and more generally the Platonic—tradition,
this process is metaphorically portrayed as falling into Bacchic frenzy and
being initiated into secret rites. That involves, too, a division of people into
two groups: the initiates who acquired the secret knowledge of God, and the
others who did not and whom Nonnus identifies with the Johannine ‘world’.
It would seem that the poet appropriates the mystery vocabulary in reference
to the sacraments, using words that portray the celebration of Christ’s saving
acts as mystery rites. Using mystery vocabulary in this way, Nonnus is consis-
tent with the Christian writings of his era. Secondly, the mystery terminology
in the Paraphrase occurs with a negative meaning, just as we saw it in Philo,
Clement, Origen and Cyril. The terminology has a polemical function, because
Nonnus uses it to present the Judaic cult in a bad light, and more specifically, to
show it as bearing the hallmarks of pagan worship. This function, in turn, must
be seen in the broader context of the Judeo-Christian polemics in antiquity.
To sum up, the use of the mystery terminology in the Paraphrase must be seen
as fully conscious and strictly adapted to Nonnus’ exegesis of John’s Gospel.
113 Wójtowicz (1980) 284.

part 4
Metre, Style, Poetry, and Visual Arts
⸪
chapter 16
The Nonnian Hexameter

Enrico Magnelli
1 Nonnus’ Metrical ‘Revolution’
Even the most uncompromising detractors of Nonnus will hardly deny that
few Greek poets ever had so great an influence on the literary culture of their
age. The poet from Panopolis was a reformer, to some extent even a revolu-
tionary. His poetry, as we all know, did not come from nowhere: but while his
style was the outcome of a long evolution, moving its first steps in the middle
and late Hellenistic age (Nicander, Moschus, Antipater of Sidon, Meleager) and
further developing during the Imperial period (cf. especially Triphiodorus
and Claudian),1 his metrics marked the beginning of a new era of hexameter
poetry.2 In his invaluable handbook of Greek metre, Paul Maas systematically
compared three different types of hexameter, those of Homer, Callimachus,
and Nonnus.3 This is basically correct, but let us stress a difference: Callimachus
has been called ‘the peak of refinement’ attained in the third century bc,4
being the most fastidious (and most elegant) interpreter of new trends which
other poets too, in the same period, proved very fond of;5 Nonnus re-shaped
the hexameter, creating an innovative verse that all his followers, down to the
early Byzantine age, carefully imitated. In fact, from the second half of the fifth
1 Whitby (1994) offers an excellent treatment of this complex matter. See also Miguélez Cavero
(2008) 114–180.
2 The reference assessment of Nonnus’ metrical technique—incorporating and distillating the
enormous work of nineteenth-century German Hellenists, such as Ludwich, Hilberg, Tiedke,
Scheindler, and La Roche, as well as the more recent researches of Maas and Wifstrand—is
the deservingly famous chapter ‘De Nonni ratione metrica’ in Keydell (1959) I, 35*–42*. My
great debt to Keydell’s pages is, I think, self-evident: my own chapter is meant to update and
supplement them (especially as far as the Paraphrase is concerned), and to set Nonnus’ hexa-
meter into its historical frame, not to make them obsolete. Useful surveys are also provided
by Vian (1976) l–lv; Miguélez Cavero (2008) 106–114; Agosti (2004c) 35–44.
3 Maas (1962) 61–65.
4 West (1982) 153. His words are often quoted in more recent scholarship—rightly, in my view.
5 For a general survey see Magnelli (2002) 57–91; Hollis (2009) 15–23. Fantuzzi (1995–1996)
persuasively illustrated Theocritus’ ‘Callimachean’ standards of versification in his bucolic
poems.

354 Magnelli
century it is quite hard to find any refined poet—apart from those intention-
ally writing in an archaizing, Homeric style6—who does not count among the
‘Nonnians’.7
Nonnus, as one could expect from a man of such a prodigious erudition, was
a very competent versifier. In the Imperial age, and especially in Late Antiquity,
many a Greek poet proves either unable to write correct hexameters or not
interested in doing so: ‘false quantities’ appear here and there in the vast poeti-
cal corpus of Gregory of Nazianzus (though some of them may be due to mere
textual corruption),8 and more blatant anomalies infest the Oracula Sibyllina,
the ‘Codex of the Visions’ (P.Bodm. 29–37), and Eudocia’s poems, not to men-
tion Dioscorus of Aphrodite.9 Already in the age of Caracalla, a quite learned
and ambitious poet as the author of the Cynegetica proves highly unrespectful
of both classical prosody and metrical rules.10 Nothing of this kind in Nonnus,
whose skill was not inferior to that of the great Alexandrians. In more than
21,000 lines of the Dionysiaca, we find very few apparent slips in prosody: one
is the well known 17.59 ἀγρονόμων λιτὰ δεῖπνα,11 whose short iota was ‘corrected’
by Agathias;12 another is 28.303 ὀξυφαὴς δ’ Ἰδαῖος, where the long iota is due
to an etymological play with ἰδεῖν.13 There are a little more in the Paraphrase,
6 Like the unknown author of the Metaphrase of the Psalms in Homeric—but sometimes
also a little bit ‘Callimachean’, as Gonnelli (1988) has shown—hexameters, whose style
and metre are discussed effectively by both Gonnelli in Agosti/Gonnelli (1995–1996)
360–408 and De Stefani (2008) 8–16. On this poet, see Golega (1960) and most recently
Faulkner (2014).
7 For a general survey see Miguélez Cavero (2008) 106–114. Modern studies on the metre
of single authors include Tissoni (2000) 69–73 and D’Ambrosi (2004) on Christodorus;
Calderón Dorda (1995) on Pamprepius; Nardelli (1985) on Musaeus; De Stefani (2011b)
xxxiii–xxxviii on Paul the Silentiary; Caiazzo (1987) on John of Gaza. Colluthus is less
strict in his allegiance to Nonnus’ metrics: see Orsini (1972) xxvii–xxix; Nardelli (1982);
West (1982) 178–180.
8 Crimi (1972) was the first to deal with this problem from a methodologically correct point
of view. Cf. Gonnelli in Agosti/Gonnelli (1995–1996) 399–400; Simelidis (2009) 54–56.
9 See Agosti (1995a); Agosti/Gonnelli (1995–1996) passim. On the Oracula Sibyllina add now
Lightfoot (2007) 154–162.
10 Very useful data in Whitby (1994) 137 n. 95. A detailed study of Ps.-Oppian’s metrical prac-
tice is needed—Mersinias (1998) will not suffice.
11 Not just a mistake stricto sensu: rather a confusion with, or a deliberate allusion to, the
obscure λῐτός (‘sacred’ or the like) attested in Alex. Aet. fr. 1.2 Magnelli and OA 92. See
Gerlaud (1994) 243; Magnelli (1999) 115–118; Livrea (2014a) 62–64.
12 A P 9.644.3 = 47.3 Viansino (56 in Francesco Valerio’s forthcoming critical edition) λιτὰ
δέ σοι καὶ δεῖπνα: see Al. Cameron (1983) 287 n. 17; Agosti in Agosti/Gonnelli (1995–1996)
347–348. Cf. also Paul. Sil. Soph. 997 λιτὰ δέ σοι καὶ δόρπα.
13 See Vian (1990) 161; Agosti in Agosti/Gonnelli (1995–1996) 347.
The Nonnian Hexameter 355
but all can be easily explained as due to either learned echoes of Homeric
peculiarities14 or Nonnus’ will to keep as close as possible to the vocabulary
of the Johannine model.15 In other words, Nonnus knew well what an elegant
poet could dare to do and what he could not. The Paraphrase may have been
written (shortly) before the Dionysiaca, as Francis Vian contended with very
good arguments:16 but this has little to do, I think, with the alleged techni-
cal inferiority of its hexameters. Recent research has reaffirmed that the two
poems share the same metrical refinement.17 As we will see, Nonnus had the
greatest respect for the millenary tradition of Greek epic verse: his metrical
‘revolution’ had no bent for subversion or iconoclasm, rather aiming to blend
old and new in a kind of hexameter that could at the same time please the
admirers of Callimachus and suit the ears accustomed to accentuative poetry.
He had not come to abolish, but to complete.18
2 Many Dactyls, Little Variety
The Dionysiaca begin under the sign of ποικιλία, and variety, as scholars know
only too well, is a basic principle of Nonnus’ poetics.19 It may therefore seem
odd that his hexameter, on a purely metrical ground, is not varied at all. The
Hellenistic taste for a verse not very rich in spondees—the ‘gôut du dactyle’, as
14 This is the case of ἀμήν, ἀμήν, often placed after the feminine caesura (Par. 1.209, 3.52 = 5.89,
8.153, 10.1, 13.89, 16.68): a clear imitation of the Homeric Ἆρες Ἄρες βροτολοιγέ, μιαιφόνε
τειχεσιπλῆτα (Il. 5.31 = 455), as Struve (1834) 19 n. 8 realized long time ago. Juxtaposition of
prosodic variants of the same word is often attested in Hellenistic poetry: see McLennan
(1977) 90–91; Hopkinson (1982); Agosti (2003) 201 and 454–455, with further bibliography.
15 See Keydell (1933) 245–246 and the detailed discussions by Agosti in Agosti/Gonnelli
(1995–1996) 341–347; Agosti (2003) 195–204. On Par. 4.155 see also Caprara (2005) 71–72;
on 6.52 and 225, Franchi (2013) 217–219.
16 See Vian (1997b). His view is shared by many Nonnian scholars.
17 Kuhn (1906) 86–91 rightly held this view more than one century ago. Nobody will question
any more the Nonnian authorship of the Paraphrase, as Sherry (1996) did. Detailed refu-
tations of the latter’s theory in Agosti/Gonnelli (1995–1996) 331–333, 341–347; Accorinti
(1999) 493–495; Agosti (2003) 196–205.
18 In the following pages, for the text of the Dionysiaca I refer the reader to the Budé edi-
tion (Vian et al. 1976–2006); for the Paraphrase, to Scheindler (1881a) and to the critical
editions of single books by De Stefani (2002: 1), Livrea (2000: 2), Caprara (2005: 4), Agosti
(2003: 5), Franchi (2013: 6), Spanoudakis (2014: 11), Greco (2004: 13), Livrea (1989: 18), and
Accorinti (1996: 20).
19 See Fauth (1981); González i Senmartí (1981); Gigli Piccardi (1985) 150–154; Agosti (1997)
34–38; Giraudet (2005); Bannert (2008) 59–60; now also Paschalis (2014) and Gigli Piccardi
in this volume.
356 Magnelli
Francis Vian aptly called it long ago20—continued in the Imperial age: Nonnus
further enhances this trend. In the Dionysiaca he has an average of 4.25 dactyls
per verse, 4.21 in the Paraphrase: far more than in the Iliad (3.72), and more
than in Callimachus’ Hymns (3.90), but note 4.07 in Gregory of Nazianzus and
even 4.21 in the Metaphrasis Psalmorum.21 This is quite unsurprising. What
makes us appreciate Nonnus’ peculiarity in full evidence is his reduction of
verse patterns. Of the 32 combinations of dactyl and spondee in the first five
feet of the Homeric hexameter, Apollonius uses 26, Callimachus, Euphorion,
and Nicander only 20,22 the author of the Visio Dorothei 19; the Metaphrasis
Psalmorum, for all its dactylic taste, has no less than 18;23 Nonnus drastically
reduces them to 9 (a tenth one is a ghost-pattern attested only twice in the
Dionysiaca: see below). The following table resumes the percentage and order
of frequence of each pattern (d = dactyl, s = spondee).24
Dion. Par.
ddddd % 38.07 I % 35.70 I

dsddd 23.32 II 21.37 II
dddsd 14.45 III 11.70 IV
dsdsd 8.97 IV 6.97 V
sdddd 8.54 V 14.45 III
sddsd 3.56 VI 5.24 VI
ddsdd 2.16 VII 2.51 VII
sdsdd 0.50 VIII 1.40 VIII
dssdd 0.43 IX 0.66 IX
As we can see, Nonnus’ practice is almost identical in the two poems: the
one and only difference affects the pattern sdddd, more widely used in the
20 Vian (1961) 28.

21 On Hellenistic and earlier authors see van Raalte (1986) 32; Magnelli (2002) 60 with n. 14;
on Imperial poetry, Agosti/Gonnelli (1995–1996) 310–311 and 372–373.
22 See Brioso Sánchez (1974) 13–15; Magnelli (2002) 59 (with a methodological caveat at
n. 10).
23 Agosti/Gonnelli (1995–1996) 314–315 and 374–375.
24 Agosti in Agosti/Gonnelli (1995–1996) 315, relying on Ludwich (1889) 57. La Roche (1900b)
collects all the relevant evidence from the first five books of the Dionysiaca, together with
many useful data from the rest of the poem.
Paraphrase due to the frequent placement of Semitic names, especially Ἰησοῦς,

at the beginning of the line.25 The predominance of holodactylic lines is striking
(predictably enough, they also tend to gather into clusters26): note also that the
first five patterns together amount to more than 90% of Nonnus’ hexameters.
Two consecutive spondees are admitted only in the pattern dssdd (itself quite
rare27), where the penthemimeral caesura divides the sequence of four long
syllables reducing, to some extent at least, its undesirable rhythmical effect.28
Hexameters with more than two spondees29 are utterly banned; so are spon-
daic hexameters, in spite of the predilection that some Hellenistic poets—like
Aratus, Eratosthenes, Moschus, and Nonnus’ much beloved Euphorion30—
had for this kind of lines.31 The poet’s self-restraint proved stronger than his
aim to imitate his literary ancestors.
Not less strict than Nonnus’ ‘outer metric’ (i.e. his arrangement of dactyls
and spondees) are his prosodic rules. Elision, Attic shortening, epic shortening,
and various kinds of lengthening—traditional devices that poets, from Homer
25 As both Agosti (2003) 184–185 and Caprara (2005) 66–67 n. 6 rightly note.
26 See Par. 2.67–71 with Livrea (2000) 107; 6.30–34 with Franchi (2013) 211; 11.22–26 with
Spanoudakis (2014a) 101; cf. also Agosti (2003) 188–189 for other kinds of clusters and
‘near-repeats’.
27 Its remarkable abundance in Par. 1 is due to Semitic names: so De Stefani (2002) 38 n. 157.
28 Keydell (1959) I, 37* § 11, noting two exceptions (ssddd): Dion. 14.187 Σπαργεύς τε Γληνεύς
τε χοροιτύπος, ἀλλοφυὴς δέ and 47.69 κλάσσαι βοθρῆσαί τε βαλεῖν <τ’> ἐνὶ κλήματα γύροις.
In the first passage, the metrical oddity is apparently due to the proper names: Gerlaud
(1994) 188 compares Od. 8.112–113. According to Keydell, the second ‘a vetustiore poeta
N. mutuatus est’: the model, as Ludwich (1873) 111 realized, is Maximus Astrologus, Περὶ
καταρχῶν 459–460 ἢ γύροις (βόθροις L manu rec.) ἔνι κλῆμα Μεθυμναίου λελίησαι | κατθέμεναι
and 499–500 σὺ δέ κ’ ἐν νειοῖσι βάλοιο | σπέρματα θαρσαλέως, θεῖναί τ’ ἐνὶ κλήματα γύροις (in
turn imitating Call. Aet. fr. 190a.8–9 Harder = 110.8–9 Massimilla). This may account for
the correptio Attica in ἐνὶ κλήματα (see below), but not for the initial spondees—unless
Maximus and Nonnus both draw on a lost common source.
29 Verses with three or even four spondees occur time and again in Imperial poetry before
Nonnus: see La Roche (1900a) 42–43; West (1982) 178 n. 47; Agosti/Gonnelli (1995–1996)
312–313 and 375 n. *.
30 On Nonnus and Euphorion see Magnelli (2002) 117–122, and now Debiasi (2013) and (2015)
69–150. As Hollis (1976) 146 once remarked, ‘more substantial remains of Euphorion
might show that Nonnus owes more to him than to any other poet in vocabulary . . . and
that Euphorion rather than Callimachus formed the starting-point from which Nonnus’
general style developed.’
31 On σπονδειάζοντες in Hellenistic poetry see Magnelli (2002) 64–70. Ludwich (1866) is still
an invaluable storehouse of data—one can only regret that he deliberately refused to take
into account the Oracula Sibyllina.
358 Magnelli
onwards, used to fit words and sentences into the line—are now subject to
a number of limitations far more complex than those previously attested in
Hellenistic and early Imperial poetry.
(a) Elision is avoided not only with names, adjectives, and verbs,32 but also
with pronouns, the only exception being Dion. 5.366 Ἡμιθανὴς τάδ’ ἔλεξε (from
Call. Del. 201, cf. also Aet. fr. 178.13 Pf./Harder = 89.13 Massimilla). Prepositions
made of two short syllables are freely elided: those with trochaic shape are
not, except in ἀμφ’ ἐμέ and ἀντ’ ἐμέθεν. Conjunctions, negatives, and particles
can be elided, albeit with some limitations. Moreover, elision is admitted in
the first, second, fourth, and fifth longum, seldom in the third (in other words,
Nonnus tends to avoid it at the penthemimeral caesura); it is freely admitted
in the second short syllable of the biceps, not so in the first short syllable of
the third (at the ‘feminine’ caesura) and fourth foot (at the ‘fourth trochee’,
because of Hermann’s Bridge: see below); and with a monosyllabic biceps, eli-
sion can only take place with δέ and τε at the end of the first foot.33
(b) ‘Attic’ shortening (correptio Attica), i.e. plosive + liquid not lengthening
a preceding short vowel, is only admitted with words otherwise impossible to
fit into the hexameter, such as δράκων, ἀλλοπρόσαλλος, Ἀφροδίτη, Ἡρακλέης and
so on. Keydell lists three exceptions in the Dionysiaca: 19.161 οὐχ ὅτι χρύσεος
ἦεν ὑπέρτερος, ἀλλ’ ὅτι μοῦνον, which ‘excusatur anaphora’; 27.285 Μνώεο
Τριπτολέμοιο καὶ εὐαρότου Κελεοῖο, with a long proper name; and 47.69, dis-
cussed above. Very few anomalies in the Paraphrase too: see 11.54–55 ἀλλὰ πρὸς
αὐτόν | ἴομεν, closely following the Johannine model,34 19.13 κοίρανον ἠσπάζοντο
ἑῇ ψευδήμονι κλήσει,35 and possibly 16.65 γείτονι γλώσσῃ, where Lehrs conjec-
tured γ. φωνῇ.36
32 At Par. 20.125 Wernicke (1819) 125 rightly emended the transmitted μάρτυρ’ into μάρτυν:
see Accorinti (1996) 73.
33 See Keydell (1959) I, 41*–42* § 19; Agosti in Agosti/Gonnelli (1995–1996) 350–351;
Spanoudakis (2014a) 105. Nonnus’ practice is analyzed in detail by Ludwich (1873) 16–36:
some supplements in Ludwich (1880) 500–504.
34 John 11:15 ἀλλὰ ἄγωμεν πρὸς αὐτόν, as Spanoudakis (2014a) 106 rightly points out.
35 The presence of both hiatus (see below) and correptio Attica led Scheindler (1881a) 197 to
delete the line, but Accorinti (1986) defends it with good arguments.
36 Lehrs (1837) 262, followed by both Ludwich (1873) 111 and Scheindler (1881a) 174. At Par.
13.11 emend Ἰουδαίοισι προδοίη into Ἰουδαίοις παραδοίη with Lehrs (1837) 263, see Greco
(2004) 44 and 78; at 1.201 there is no need to supply σὺ <δὲ> Χριστὸς ὑπάρχεις with Hermann
(1834) 993, see Tiedke (1873) 29, Ludwich (1873) 12, and De Stefani (2002) 42 and 232–233
(add that the pause before σύ overshadows the possible violation of Naeke’s Law). Further
alleged exceptions in the Dionysiaca are due to textual corruption, as Hermann (1805)
761–762 demonstrated. On the whole see Keydell (1959) I, 40* § 16; Gonnelli in Agosti/
(c) Hiatus, increasingly avoided in polished hexameter poetry of the

Imperial age,37 is only admitted in the longum with traditional phrases like Ζεῦ
ἄνα, εἰ ἐτεόν, ἢ ὅτε, ᾧ ἔνι, καί οἱ, etc.; add Dion. 38.278 φυλλοχόῳ ἐνὶ μηνί ~ 2.641
φ. ἅτε μ., borrowed from Ap. Rh. 4.217, Par. 5.72 οὐδὲν ἑῇ ἰότητι, from Ap. Rh.
1.130,38 and Par. 13.123 ἢ ἵνα τι πτωχοῖσι βιοπλανέεσσιν ὀπάσσῃ, reproducing John’s
wording.39 In the biceps, long vowels in hiatus are banned with the excep-
tion of Dion. 35.334 εἰ μή οἱ κατένευσε (quite a traditional verse-beginning).
Hiatus with short vowels is restricted to the personal pronouns οἱ and ἑ, to the
Homeric πρὸ ἄστεος, and to very few exceptions: Dion. 39.84 ναύμαχα κολλήεντα,
περὶ στόμα εἱμένα χαλκῷ, almost identical to Il. 15.389;40 Par. 19.66 ἕκτη δ’, ἣν
ἐνέπουσι, προσάββατος ἔπλετο ἠώς, where the parallel of Od. 19.192 ἢ ἑνδεκάτη
πέλεν ἠώς may support the transmitted text against Hermann’s ἔτρεχεν;41
Par. 19.13 (quoted above), once again inspired by Homer;42 and finally Par. 2.45
οὐ μὲν ἀνήρ, πόθεν ἦεν, ἐπίστατο· ὑδροφόρος δέ, where interpunction apparently
mitigates hiatus.43
(d) Semihiatus, or epic shortening (correptio epica), is less inhibited, yet not
totally free.44 It takes place with the diphthongs αι (but not in the first nominal
declension) and οι, more rarely with other diphthongs and long vowels. When
it affects the first short of a dactyl, we usually find it in the first foot, or even in
the fifth but only with μοι, σοι, οἱ and the Homeric εἴ που ἐφεύροι: an unexpected
μοι in the second foot at Dion. 41.336 τοῦτο γέρας μοι ἔδωκε, Par. 6.150 πᾶς βροτός,
ὅν μοι ὄπασσε πατὴρ ἐμός and 18.58 αὐτὸς ὅπερ μοι ὄπασσε.45 In the second short
Gonnelli (1995–1996) 401–403; Agosti (2003) 194 n. 72; Caprara (2005) 70. Nonnus’ treat-
ment of plosive + liquid/nasal is documented at length by Scheindler (1878a) 17–67.
37 As the data collected by Keydell (1911) 3–46 demonstrate; cf. also Vian (1959) 212–220. On
Nonnus’ usage, see Scheindler (1878b); Keydell (1959) I, 40*–41* § 17; a detailed survey in
Lehrs (1837) 277–281.
38 Agosti (2003) 193 and 434.
39 John 13:29 ἢ τοῖς πτωχοῖς ἵνα τι δῷ: see Agosti in Agosti/Gonnelli (1995–1996) 350.
40 Simon (1999) 230–231; Agosti (2004c) 845.
41 Livrea (1989) 67 and (2000) 110.
42 Il. 10.542 δεξιῇ ἠσπάζοντο ἔπεσσί τε μειλιχίοισι ~ Od. 19.415 χερσίν τ’ ἠσπάζοντο ἔ. τ. μ.: see
Accorinti (1986) 186.
43 Gonnelli in Agosti/Gonnelli (1995–1996) 405. Scheindler (1878a) 48 conjectured ἐπίσταται,
very easy—other, less attractive corrections are listed in Scheindler (1881a) 19—but
perhaps unnecessary: see Livrea (2000) 110 and 219–220.
44 Lehrs (1837) 264–273; Keydell (1959) I, 41* § 18. Spanoudakis (2014a) 105–106 offers acute
remarks on the stylistic effect of epic shortening in the Paraphrase.
45 See Scheindler (1878b) 898–899; Livrea (1989) 138; Franchi (2013) 440–441. It goes without
saying that word-end after the first short is less frequent in the second and fourth feet, due
respectively to Meyer’s First and Second Laws and to Hermann’s Bridge (see below).
360 Magnelli
of a dactyl, correptio epica is normal in the first, fourth, and fifth foot, less fre-
quent in the second. Anyway, καί, ἤ and μή, because of their prepositive force
(not implying a real word-end after them), enjoy a little more freedom.46
(e) Lengthening is a most thorny subject, and we cannot analyze it in detail
here.47 (i) A short final vowel is never lengthened in the biceps (‘Hilberg’s
Seventh Law’).48 In the longum, short final vowels are seldom lengthened
before liquid: all of the few instances in the Dionysiaca belong to Homeric
or para-Homeric phrases,49 and all take place in the fourth foot except 40.217
Ἠράμεθα μέγα κῦδος· ἐπέφνομεν ὄρχαμον Ἰνδῶν (the first four dactyls are an exact
borrowing from Il. 22.393). Before two consonants or ζ ξ ψ, short final vowels
are usually lengthened in the second and fourth longum: this happens most
often with words made of two short syllables,50 rarely with either longer words
or monosyllables,51 and never if the preceding foot is a spondee. (ii) Words
ending with short vowel + consonant do not admit lengthening before initial
vowel. Before initial consonant, lengthening rarely takes place in a biceps, and
only in the first foot.52 In the longum, there are less restrictions53 unless the
preceding foot is a spondee: in this case, lengthening is limited to the second,
third, and fifth foot, and the word must be accented on the penultimate syl-
lable (but oxytones are admitted in the second foot).54 (iii) Nonnus disregards
46 See Scheindler (1878b) 899–900; De Stefani (2002) 41–42. Accorinti (1996) 74 discusses the
uncommon shortening of μή at 20.134.
47 For a general assessment see Keydell (1959) I, 38*–40* § 15; Vian (1976) liv–lv. Hilberg
(1879) and Král (1907) are still very important. Agosti/Gonnelli (1995–1996) 334–335 and
396–399 offer useful data on other late antique poets.
48 Hilberg (1879) 96.
49 Scheindler (1878a) 7 collects the relevant passages. Never in the Paraphrase: see Gonnelli
in Agosti/Gonnelli (1995–1996) 396 n. 393.
50 A detailed list of passages from both the Dionysiaca and the Paraphrase in Král (1907)
57–63.
51 Cf. Hilberg (1879) 96–97 (‘Hilberg’s Eighth Law’); Scheindler (1879) 427–429 and (1880)
41–43; Král (1907) 61–63.
52 See the occurrences in Hilberg (1879) 169–170 (‘Hilberg’s Thirteenth Law’), with additions
in Scheindler (1879) 439. With monosyllables, lengthening is allowed in the second foot as
well: cf. Scheindler (1879) 422–423.
53 Except with words of three syllables ending in the third longum: see Tiedke (1873) 4–8.
54 Hilberg (1879) 125–129, with a few, yet important objections in Tiedke (1879b) 421–422;
Vian (1976) liv–lv. On the placement of Ναζαρέθ at verse-beginning in the Paraphrase, see
De Stefani (2002) 39. Note that the same rule applies to words ending with -αι and -οι, i.e.
with diphthongs treated as long in traditional quantitative metrics but considered short
lengthening by paragogic ν, except with κεν, with words made of two short syl-
lables, and at Dion. 7.57 οὐκ ὄφελέν ποτε κεῖνο πίθου κρήδεμνον ἀνοῖξαι.55
This daunting labyrinth of rules and restrictions—some of them probably
evolving from pre-existing trends, both Eastern and Western,56 but never orga-
nized before in so complex a system—surely testifies to Nonnus’ technical skill
in composing elegant verses under such (self-imposed) constraint. At any rate,
the poet from Panopolis was much more than a virtuoso. Hermann Fränkel, in
the twentieth century, brilliantly revealed that Callimachus’ well-known met-
rical ‘laws’, rather than expressing a number of idiosyncrasies, were all part
of a global effort to make the Greek hexameter more smooth and balanced.57
In the last decades, scholars realized that Nonnian metrics should be inter-
preted in quite a similar way. Both the small number of verse patterns and the
reluctance to alter either the syllabic or the prosodic weight of a great num-
ber of words—thus greatly reducing their possible places in the line—point
to the very same scope, namely to build a more regular (even repetitive) hex-
ameter. Nonnus did not pursue metrical variety. Freedom and ποικιλία he did
attain through his imaginative, redundant, truly ‘Bacchic’ style and vocabu-
lary (and, in the Dionysiaca at least, narrative technique); it is remarkable how
well he accommodated such a protean poetry into a most formalized metri-
cal shape. But in his age this effort was badly needed: let us take into account
some more ‘rules’, i.e. those concerning the intensity accent, and everything
becomes clear.
3 Accentuative Metrics
The most important and most innovative feature of Nonnus’ metrical revo-
lution was the regulation of accent both at line end and at the third-foot
caesura.58 In the second century ad, Babrius—in all likelihood, under the
influence of rhetorical theories about rhythmical clausulae—appears to pay
(ἄνθρωποι, ὑποζεῦξαι) as far as word accent was concerned: see Keydell (1959) I, 39*–40*;
Vian (1976) lv.
55 Passages in Scheindler (1878a) 67–69.
56 Cf. Claudian’s dislike for elision in his Latin poetry: see Agosti in Agosti/Gonnelli (1995–
1996) 355 n. 274, with further literature. On prosodic changes in late Hellenistic and
Imperial epigram, see Page (1978) 28–39; Magnelli (2007) 182–183.
57 Fränkel (1968): but the first version of his ground-breaking paper was published in 1926.
58 ‘Il vero nodo centrale della riforma nonniana’: Agosti (2004c) 37.
362 Magnelli
attention to word-accent, ending (almost) every line of his choliambic fables

with a paroxytone.59 For some two centuries more, Greek hexameter happily
resisted the res novae, and not even a ‘modern’ poet like Triphiodorus has any
interest in stress regulation.60 But the world was changing. Thanks to recent
research, we can now fully appreciate the public dimension of poetry in late
antique society:61 we know that hexameters were carved on walls and monu-
ments, with a precise layout helping the passer-by to understand them and
identify their metrical shape;62 we know that hexameters were read at court,
used in public declamations (Paul the Silentiary’s Description of St Sophia was
just the most elegant fruit of a great bloom) and poetic competitions, very far
from the walls of any alleged ivory tower. Epic verse had to gain the favour
of a vast and varied audience, including many people no longer able to enjoy
classical prosody. Nonnus and his followers in fact achieved this, renewing the
hexameter in order to preserve ‘its main function as a means of communica-
tion and persuasion in a world of stress accents.’63
The last syllable of the Nonnian hexameter most frequently contains a long
vowel or a diphthong (almost 90%): in this case, there is no rule concerning
accent—in other words, it can be placed either on it (oxytone or perispome-
non) or on the penultimate syllable (paroxytone). On the contrary, when the
last syllable contains a short vowel, the accent is placed on the penultimate
(paroxytone or properispomenon): proparoxytones are banned,64 and among
oxytones only αὐτός/-όν (add ἑαυτόν at Par. 19.37), δέ and γάρ are freely admit-
ted, while μέν is rare.65 Possible exceptions include ἀριθμός/-όν (Dion. 3.294,
59 See Luzzatto (1985), and a list of the very few exceptions (emended by most editors) in
Luzzatto/La Penna (1986) c. Similar practices in other texts are documented by Maas
(1922) 581–582.
60 Cf. Wifstrand (1933) 3–77 passim; Al. Cameron (1970) 479; Miguélez Cavero (2013c) 90.
61 Agosti (2012) 362–363 and 377–378, recording previous bibliography.
62 As Agosti (2010a) has brilliantly shown; cf. also (2010b) 174–175.
63 To say it with Jeffreys (1981) 318.
64 Ludwich (1874) 441–449, partly anticipated by Struve (1834) 23–25.
65 The seven instances in the Dionysiaca are collected by Maas (1927) 18 n. 3; in the
Paraphrase, I find 3.148, 5.116, 11.43, and 16.30. For a general assessment, see Keydell (1959)
I, 37* § 12; Vian (1976) liii–liv.
22.325), λεπτόν (26.309),66 γυναικός (Par. 4.184).67 On the whole, paroxytones

amount to c. 72% of the final words in Nonnus’ verses.68
Every Nonnian line has either a penthemimeral or a ‘feminine’ (κατὰ τρίτον
τροχαῖον) caesura in the third foot:69 postponement of caesura to the fourth
foot, altogether rare in Imperial poetry,70 is now totally banned. Feminine
caesura strongly preponderates (Dion. 81.1%, Par. 79.95%).71 But Nonnus does
not just walk in the steps of his Hellenistic and late antique forebears: stress
regulation at the third-foot caesura shows that for him the central pause of
the hexameter was particularly important, not less than line end. Words end-
ing at the penthemimeral caesura must be accented on the penultimate syl-
lable, i.e. paroxytones or (very rarely) properispomena: there is a number of
exceptions involving oxytones, perispomena and proparoxytones, partly due
to Homeric imitation.72 Words ending at the feminine caesura enjoy more
freedom, but oxytones are only admitted when a trithemimeral caesura
precedes73—though a fair number of exceptions do in fact occur, chiefly due
to imitation of Homer, Hesiod, or other models.74 In Jeffreys’ effective words,
‘a rhythmical description of the first hemistich of the Nonnian line’ identifies
two patterns, one ‘of six or seven syllables with a fixed penultimate accent’, the
other ‘of seven or eight syllables with no fixed accent (though final syllable
66 ‘In frustulo descriptionis incohatae’ (Keydell): probably not, see Vian (1990) 287. Note that
at 3.294 Chuvin (1976) 32 accepts Graefe’s ἀριθμῷ. At 25.173 Vian (1990) 250 has shown that
the true reading is ἱδρώς, not Ἰνδός.
67 Homeric: see Caprara (2005) 70. On these passages cf. Tiedke (1878a) 352. Words in -ύς are
another story, since Nonnus probably treated the last syllable of their nominative and
accusative as long: see Ludwich (1873) 71–73; La Roche (1900b) 205; Keydell (1959) I, 37*
with n. 1.
68 Agosti/Gonnelli (1995–1996) 329–330 and 389–393, providing comparative material from
other authors.
69 Keydell (1959) I, 35* § 1.
70 Figures in West (1982) 177: cf. Agosti (2004a) 65–67.
71 Van Raalte (1986) 79; Gonnelli in Agosti/Gonnelli (1995–1996) 377.
72 Keydell (1959) I, 38* § 13; Vian (1976) liii–liv. Tiedke (1878b) collects the exceptions: some
further remarks in Livrea (1989) 66–67, De Stefani (2002) 40. On properispomena see
Agosti (2003) 188; Spanoudakis (2014a) 101–102.
73 Keydell (1959) I, 38* § 14; Vian (1976) liii–liv. This is sometimes called ‘Wifstrand’s First
Law’. The space between the two caesurae is most often filled with either adverbs in -ηδόν
or the phrase κατὰ βαιόν: see Wifstrand (1933) 4–8; Miguélez Cavero (2008) 111.
74 Discussed by Wifstrand (1933) 13–18; Agosti/Gonnelli (1995–1996) 331–333 and 394–395;
Agosti (2004a) 74–77; Spanoudakis (2014a) 102.
364 Magnelli
accentuation is rare)’, adding that ‘both types prefer a long word to end the
hemistich’.75 Furthermore, even word-breaks in the second half of the line
involve some kind of accentuation rule: proparoxytones should not end after
the fourth longum, unless the hephthemimeral caesura is followed (and thus
weakened) by the bucolic one.76
This is the truly ‘modern’ side of the Nonnian hexameter. All its peculiar fea-
tures—very few spondees, strict prosody, mandatory third-foot caesura, and
especially stress regulation—concur in producing an almost isosyllabic verse,
clearly divided into two cola, both marked near the end by intensive accent.77
It is a structure ‘complex to build up, yet very simple in its outcomes’,78 and
easy to recognize for an audience more accustomed to accentuative poetry
than to classical quantities. Even the high frequency of clusters and near-
repeats, predictable as it might be in a verse admitting so small a number of
patterns (see above), surely helped in making the metrical shape of these lines
more evident.79
One more fact deserves mention. As Accorinti pointed out twenty years ago,
there are fifteen lines in the Paraphrase where longa and stress fully coincide
(e.g. 20.29: καὶ κεφαλῆς ζωστῆρα παλίλλυτον ἅμματι χαίτης), and much more
where such coincidence is almost complete (like 1.2: ἰσοφυὴς γενετῆρος ὁμήλικος
υἱὸς ἀμήτωρ).80 This perfectly embodies the coexistence of quantitative and
accentuative metrics in Nonnus’ old-and-new verse.
75 Jeffreys (1981) 319.

76 Wifstrand (1933) 21–25 (‘Wifstrand’s Second Law’), listing some exceptions.
77 Jeffreys (1981) 315–319; Agosti (2004a) 62–64 and (2004c) 39–40. On such rhythmical
trends between Late Antiquity and the early Byzantine era, cf. also Lauxtermann (1999)
70–74.
78 Agosti (2004c) 40 (‘complessa nella sua realizzazione, ma assai semplice nei suoi
risultati’).
79 As Agosti (2004c) 41–42 rightly argues. Cf. Lauxtermann (1999) 73: ‘the late antique public
recognized quantitative metre only if its rhythmical patterns, which were small in num-
ber, were repeated time and again’.
80 Accorinti (1996) 73; cf. Livrea (2000) 109, Franchi (2013) 215. It would be interesting to
analyze the frequency of such lines in the Dionysiaca: in the first five books I have found
several instances of the second type (see e.g. 2.390 and 628, 3.103 and 164, 4.270), of the
first only 1.529 δέρκεται, ἄλλοτε χεῖρα ῥοδόχροον, ἄλλοτε μίτρῃ, 2.214 Ἤδη γὰρ σταθεροῖο
τινάσσεται ἕδρανα κόσμου, and three more occurrences (2.425, 3.54, 3.399).
4 The Alexandrian Heritage: Words, Pauses, and Bridges
At the side of his sensational innovations, Nonnus takes great care to respect
all the traditional rules of the Alexandrian hexameter concerning ‘inner met-
ric’ (caesurae, word-breaks and word boundaries).81 In doing so, he some-
times proves even more fastidious than Callimachus—better said, he exploits
Callimachus’ niceties according to his own sensitivity to words and pauses.
Penthemimeral caesura must be followed by hephthemimeral, bucolic, or
both.82 Tiedke(-Meyer)’s Law, according to which spondaic and anapaestic
words rarely end in the fifth longum, is usually respected.83 As a consequence
of these two rules, very few lines have a word-break after both the third and
the fifth longum. Naeke’s Law (avoidance of word-break after a spondaic
fourth foot) is never violated;84 its corresponding rule in the first hemistich,
i.e. Hilberg’s Law (avoidance of word-break after a spondaic second foot), is
violated three times in the Dionysiaca and only once in the Paraphrase, but all
four violations are very mild.85 On the whole, Nonnus severely restricts the use
of spondaic words: they cannot end with a biceps except in the first and sixth
feet (in the second and fourth feet, this is excluded by Hilberg’s and Naeke’s
Laws; in the third, by the main caesura; in the fifth, by Nonnus’ absolute
81 No need to discuss them at length: for a survey, see either Magnelli (2007) 180 or, less
concisely, Hollis (2009) 19–21. Here I will only focus on Nonnian practice.
82 See Keydell (1959) Ι, 35*–36* § 4. Tiedke (1873) 2–3 discusses the very few exceptions,
due for the most part to proper names: this does not, however, apply to Dion. 24.250 Ἡ δὲ
πανημερίη καὶ παννυχίη πέλας ἱστοῦ, on which see Hopkinson (1994b) 276. Bucolic caesura
is quite frequent in Nonnus, yet not so frequent as it was in Callimachus (63%) or in
Theocritus’ bucolic poems (74%): some 57 or 58%, see van Raalte (1986) 87 and Agosti/
Gonnelli (1995–1996) 321 and 380.
83 Keydell (1959) I, 36* § 5; Maas (1962) 64. The rule was discovered by Tiedke (1873) 15–27,
who nonetheless listed several exceptions in Nonnus’ poems—but lines featuring prepo-
sitions or conjunctions before hephthemimeral caesura are not irregular at all. Cf. also
Tiedke (1879a) 228–229; Scheindler (1881b) 71–72; Agosti in Agosti/Gonnelli (1995–1996)
326–327; Agosti (2003) 190.
84 Keydell (1959) I, 35* § 3; Maas (1962) 62. Alexandrian poets are not so rigid: see Magnelli
(2002) 76–78.
85 Keydell (1959) I, 36* § 8 records no exception. I found Dion. 6.327 πᾶσα πόλις, πᾶς δῆμος,
15.418 Πῇ Νέμεσις; Πῇ Κύπρις; 42.139–140 πῇ σέο θύρσοι | ἀνδροφόνοι; Πῇ φρικτὰ κεράατα;
and finally Par. 7.39 πῆ μοι ἔβη; ποῖ κεῖνος. Neither πᾶς nor πῇ/ποῖ are usually considered
‘appositives’ (on the meaning, see below), but here their link with the following word is
very strong, and the preceding sense-pause enhances the word-break after the second
longum almost overshadowing the alleged violation: see Magnelli (2014) 276. At Par. 1.180
read ποτε with Ludwich (1880) 498: cf. De Stefani (2002) 39.
366 Magnelli
distaste for spondaic lines), but ending with a longum is also quite infrequent.86
Meyer’s Second Law (iambic words rarely stand before penthemimeral cae-
sura) is infringed 218 times in the Dionysiaca and 56 in the Paraphrase: this is
less striking than one could think, since it just means 1.02% and 1.54% respec-
tively, in keeping with Hellenistic standards.87
Nonnus offends against Meyer’s First Law (words beginning in the first foot
should not end with the ‘second trochee’) 29 times in the Dionysiaca (0.14%)
and 8 in the Paraphrase (0.22%), once again in the wake of Callimachus (0.21%
in his hexameter hymns): add that some instances are probably due to imita-
tion of a Hellenistic or Imperial model.88 Far more frequent are the milder
violations caused by metrical units consisting of an independent word + one or
more appositives, such as συμφυέες δὲ δράκοντες (Dion. 1.158), Εἰ μὴ ζῆλος ἔχει σε
(Dion. 4.171), etc.:89 this happens no less than 541 times in the Dionysiaca (2.54%)
and 67 in the Paraphrase (1.89%),90 a remarkable amount—Callimachus and
Apollonius, who appear to dislike this kind of violations too, have 0.75% and
1.32% respectively.91 Single-word violations of Giseke’s Law (words beginning
in the first foot should not end with the second) occur four times in Nonnus’
poems (Dion. 13.94 οἵ τ’ Ἀσπληδόνος ἄστυ, 466 οἵ τε Τορήβιον εὐρύ, 26.55 οἵ τε
Σεσίνδιον αἰπύ, all probably due to imitation of earlier poetry; Par. 9.73 καί
μιν ἀνείρετο λαός): on the contrary, metrical units such as Dion. 25.194 Οἶδα
καὶ Ἀρκάδα κάπρον infringe the law 91 times in the Dionysiaca and 36 in the
86 Scheindler (1881b) 68–71; Wifstrand (1933) 48–50; Keydell (1959) I, 36* § 10; Maas (1962)
62–63; Vian (1976) li. I am not sure that Dion. 14.89 is corrupt: see Gerlaud (1994) 181.
87 See Magnelli (2014) 271; Tiedke (1878b) 64–66 discussed some violations. Aratus has
1.30%, Apollonius 1.47%, Theocritus even 3.14% in his bucolic poems, while Callimachus
is far stricter (0.32% in the hexameter hymns, 0.18% in elegiac hexameters).
88 Magnelli (2014) 267–270, with full collection of the relevant passages. Previous discus-
sions include Ludwich (1874) 453–457; Maas (1927) 18 n. 4 (with additions in Maas 1973, 170
n. 6); Keydell (1959) I, 36* § 7. Simultaneous violation of both Meyer’s First and Second
Laws, avoided by the most refined Hellenistic poets, takes place only at Dion. 40.399 and
Par. 19.51: see Magnelli (2014) 271.
89 ‘Appositives’ are not just enclitics and proclitics, but many other short words with feeble
semantic force, such as articles, prepositions, conjunctions, negatives, relative pronouns,
and various kinds of particles: words that Greek poets did not treat as independent units,
rather as part of a ‘metrical unit’ (Wortbild in German, parola metrica in Italian) that they
form together with more relevant words like nouns, adjectives, or verbs. On this subject,
see Bulloch (1970) 259–263; Devine/Stephens (1978) and (1994) 285–375; Cantilena (1995)
11–28.
90 See Magnelli (2014) 271–275.
91 On Hellenistic poets’ behaviour and its implications, see Magnelli (1995) 162–164.
Paraphrase.92 Further interesting details on the use of appositives are to be

found in the second hemistich. Nonnus invariably respects Hermann’s Bridge
(word-break after the ‘fourth trochee’ is strictly avoided), the most important
metrical taboo from the third century bc onwards.93 Gottfried Hermann him-
self, more than two centuries ago, was well aware that lines as Dion. 2.171 ἑπτὰ
περὶ ζώνῃσι, καὶ οἷά περ ὑψόθι πύργων or Par. 13.35 οὐ δύνασαι νοέειν, μετέπειτα δὲ
τοῦτο νοήσεις do not infringe the rule:94 yet Nonnus tends to avoid them as well,
if not with the same fastidiousness.95 Last but not least, final monosyllables.
In Greek hexameter poetry of all ages, an ‘independent’ monosyllable (neither
itself appositive nor preceded by appositives) placed at verse end is usually
preceded by a choriambic word or metrical unit, by bucolic caesura, and by an
uncontracted fourth biceps (not to infringe Naeke’s Law), so that the end of the
line is shaped ⏑ ⏑ | – ⏑ ⏑ – | ×. Callimachus, Apollonius, and Nicander tend to
do the same with appositive monosyllables (Call. Cer. 64 ποιησεῖς· θαμιναὶ γὰρ ἐς
ὕστερον εἰλαπίναι τοι).96 Nonnus turns their peculiarity into a rule: all his final
monosyllables, including the postpositives μέν, δέ, and γάρ, are preceded by
both bucolic caesura and a choriambic word (or metrical unit).97
To sum up, in Nonnus’ hexameter the distinction between appositive and
non-appositive words is not so neat as it used to be in the previous ages. The
reason lies, I think, in its very accentuative system. The sonority of verse, its
performative dimension, was by then achieved through stress accent: of word-
ends and word-boundaries Nonnus probably had a ‘visual’ perception, so that
οὐρανίοιο and οὐρανίου δέ seemed quite different to his eyes.
As scholars know, Hellenistic poets delighted in four-word lines (versus
tetracolos):98 Nonnus was even more fond of this stylistic device, often used to
92 See Keydell (1959) I, 36* § 9; Magnelli (2014) 276–277. This law may overlap with Hilberg’s,
since Giseke (1864) 128 explicitly included ‘der bacchius . . ., der molossus . . . und der
dispondeus’: yet Nonnus never has words beginning in the first foot and ending after a
spondaic second foot.
93 Keydell (1959) I, 35* § 2. Some Nonnian poets are less scrupulous: see Magnelli (2014) 282
n. 74.
94 Hermann (1805) 693; cf. Tiedke (1873) 39.
95 See Magnelli (2014) 277–280; a full list of passages in Magnelli (2008).
96 Magnelli (2004b) 19–25.
97 See Maas (1927) 18; Keydell (1959) I, 36* § 6; Magnelli (2014) 280. A useful collection of
data in Plew (1867). Three exceptions (8.270 and 370, 31.97) are due to Homeric imitation.
Let us note that Nonnus had a special idiosyncrasy for monosyllables, especially the long
ones, whose placement in the verse he severely restricted: cf. Ludwich (1880) 505–509;
Wifstrand (1933) 60–62; Keydell (1959) I, 36*–37* § 10; Vian (1976) li.
98 See Magnelli (2002) 85–87, with further bibliography.
368 Magnelli
mark an important passage and/or make it more solemn and impressive. And
here appositives still play their traditional role. Recent research has shown that
in Nonnus’ usage a verse composed by four major words and an appositive,
like Dion. 48.74 εἰς σκοπὸν ἀχρήιστον ἀνουτήτου Διονύσου, was treated just like a
four-word line stricto sensu.99 Thanks to the effect of long, ‘heavy’ names and
epithets, the tiny word-break between εἰς and σκοπόν did not prove disturbing
for Nonnus’ acute eye.
Sense pauses (i.e. strong interpunction) are usually admitted in few places:
at the end of the first foot (if dactylic) and at the trithemimeral, penthemi-
meral, feminine, and bucolic caesurae. Here Nonnus’ practice more or less
coincides with that of Callimachus.100
5 The Two Faces of the Nonnian Hexameter
Nonnus’ talent in blending old traditions and new trends makes perhaps otiose
any effort to ascertain which component predominates, the Alexandrian or the
modern one. Scholars still wonder, not without reason, whether Nonnian hex-
ameters were read according to quantities101 or as rhythmical prose, i.e. accord-
ing to intensive accents at caesura and line-end,102 or even trying to combine
both systems.103 We will never know how Nonnus’ verses exactly sounded, but
it seems very plausible that in public recitations it was read in the accentua-
tive way—the only one that a vast audience was, in all likelihood, able to enjoy.
This does not mean, I think, that the traditional system of long and short syl-
lables was a purely artificial construction. It surely was ‘a necessary authen-
ticating feature’104 of Greek verse, perceived much more by the eyes than by
the ears: but was Nonnus’ strict allegiance to Alexandrian metrical refinement
99 Vian (2003) 215–219; Agosti (2004c) 40–44 and (2010a) 90–95. On the stylistic effect of
Nonnus’ four-word lines see also Caprara (2005) 69; Spanoudakis (2014a) 104.
100 Keydell (1959) I, 42* § 20; Maas (1962) 64–65; West (1982) 153 and 177.
101 So Wifstrand (1933) 34–36. Steinrück (2008) modifies his theory assuming that Nonnus
made his verses identifiable through an oppositon between open and closed syllables, not
between long and short vowels.
102 So Jeffreys (1981) 315–319, whose view has deservedly won much credit: cf. Lauxtermann
(1999) 71; Livrea (2000) 111; Agosti (2004a) 64 and (2004c) 37–40. Miguélez Cavero (2008)
109 is more cautious.
103 According to Keydell (1961), ‘der Hexameter des Nonnos wurde also nach dem Wortaccent
gelesen, aber mit künstlicher Dehnung der langen Silben’ (italics mine).
104 Jeffreys (1981) 314, with reference to Maas (1903) 303 (‘historische Orthographie der
Versifikation’).
really necessary to obtain a mere certification of quality? Correct and elegant

hexameters, like those of Dionysius Periegetes,105 might have been enough for
that. Learned grammarians and literates were still able to understand classical
prosody and metrics: they probably read Nonnian poetry—maybe in individ-
ual, silent reading, as people had learned to do well before Late Antiquity106—
in a traditional way,107 and from them Nonnus could expect full appreciation
of his hyper-Callimachean niceties, not just of his correctness.
The ‘leonine’ hexameters (and pentameters) of the Latin Middle Age pro-
vide an illuminating parallel. The distinctive feature of these verses is a rhyme
between third-foot caesura and verse-end (or, in case of a pentameter, between
the two half-lines): hac sunt in fossa Bedae venerabilis ossa.108 In fact, they were
nothing but imitations of classical models such as Virg. Aen. 9.634 traicit. ‘i,
verbis virtutem inlude superbis!’ or Ov. Ars 1.59 quot caelum stellas, tot habet tua
Roma puellas:109 their success in medieval poetry is due to the fact that they suit
both the classical standards (regular hexameters with correct, or quite so, pro-
sodic shape) and the new trends (bipartite lines with accentuative structure).
Let us keep in mind that such lines were not a learned exercise, written for the
delight of scholars and men of letters: they were commonly used in inscrip-
tions and paintings. A telling instance will suffice. In the central panel of the
Maestà painted by Duccio di Buoninsegna for the Cathedral of Siena between
1308 and 1311, the base of the Virgin’s throne bears an inscription that reads:
Mater sancta Dei, sis causa Senis requiei,

sis Ducio vita te quia pinxit ita.
105 Whose standards are quite high, yet not ‘Callimachean’: see Lightfoot (2014a) 60–75.
106 Note that recent scholarship tends to dismiss the traditional view of silent reading as a
late development: see e.g. Gavrilov (1997); Battezzato (2009); Vatri (2012).
107 See Agosti’s excellent assessment in Agosti/Gonnelli (1995–1996) 356–358 (cf. 357: ‘questi
versi saranno stati per loro qualcosa di più di un Augenspiel’).
108 The famous line engraved on Bede’s tomb in the Cathedral of Durham. Its origin is
unknown, but had already become legendary in the thirteenth century, when Jacopo da
Varazze wrote the Legenda aurea (177.179–181, see Maggioni 1998, II, 1268). On leonine
verses, see Norberg (1958) 65–68; Klopsch (1972) 38–48; D’Angelo (1995), quoting previous
literature. There were more complex verse-forms of this kind, such as the leonini cau-
dati tripertiti—i.e. tripartite hexameters with rhymes at verse-end and an internal rhyme
between the first two cola—of the twelfth-century De contemptu mundi by Bernard of
Cluny, on which see Cresson (2009): Hora novissima, tempora pessima sunt: vigilemus. |
Ecce minaciter imminet arbiter ille supremus (ll. 1–2).
109 D’Angelo (1995) 138–142; cf. Müller (1894) 569–575.
370 Magnelli
O Holy Mother of God, may you grant peace to Siena, and may you grant
(eternal) life to Duccio, because he painted you thus.
The text is written on the three sides of the base (Figs. 4.1 and 4.2): we find
MATER S(AN)CTA DEI on the right side (to the left of the person looking at
it), SIS CAUSA SENIS REQUIEI • SIS DUCIO VITA TE QUIA on the central sec-
tion, and PINXIT ITA on the left side. The dot dividing the first line from the
second is a first help to the reader. This might have been enough for the most
educated citizens (how many, I do not know) of fourteenth-century Siena, who
were able to recognize a Latin hexameter and read the couplet accordingly. On
the contrary, those who were neither so learned nor illiterate could only read
it according to the accentual system: Máter sáncta Déi, sis cáusa Sénis requiéi
and so on. Rhythm was not enough: it was the internal rhyme that made them
realize that these are verses rather than prose—and the visual disposition of
the hexameter, its two hemistichs placed on two different sides, was probably
intended to make this even more evident.110
The same, mutatis mutandis, applies to the Nonnian hexameter. The poet
from Panopolis did not favour one kind of readers to the detriment of another:
his poetry could be read—and aimed to be—according to either ancient or
modern principles, attaining excellence on both sides (Byzantine writers of
dactylic metres will no longer be able to do so after the seventh century111). He
really created a verse for all seasons, not the least of his many merits.112
110 The pentameter did not enjoy such a privilege. Maybe the painter assumed that, once
the metrical structure of the first line had been recognized, the same could easily happen
with the second (I do not dare to think that he simply lacked attention to the short size
of sis Ducio vita: but art historians may well have a different, more authoritative opinion).
See Christiansen (2008) 16.
111 I.e. after George of Pisidia and his De vita humana in ninety Nonnian hexameters: see
Gonnelli (1991), and now Whitby (2014). Later poets writing under Nonnus’ influence
either cannot boast the same technical skill or have very different standards: see De
Stefani (2014b) 383–398.
112 I am deeply grateful to Domenico Accorinti, for his encouragement and great patience; to
Gianfranco Agosti and Claudio De Stefani, who read this paper in advance of publication
and commented on it; to Aglae Pizzone for bibliographical help. Needless to say, all the
remaining shortcomings are mine.
Figure 4.1 Duccio di Buoninsegna, Maestà ( front panel). Siena, Museo dell’Opera del Duomo.
Figure 4.2 Duccio di Buoninsegna, Maestà (detail of the inscription on the base of the Virgin’s
throne). Siena, Museo dell’Opera del Duomo.
chapter 17
Nonnus’ Conventional Formulaic Style

1 From Homeric Structural Formularity to Nonnus’ Conventional

Formulaic Style
A couple of premises are required. First of all, like almost all critics, we con-
sider Nonnus the author both of the Dionysiaca1 and the Paraphrase of St John’s
Gospel,2 which will also prove to be confirmed by the sharing of a conventional
formulaic style.
The second premise starts from the recognition that to deal with Nonnus’
formulaic style we have to look back to its distant matrix, the Homeric formula,
and since its very concept is controversial, it must preliminarily be defined.3
The Homeric formula, in the widest meaning, is constituted, in our opinion,
by any formal module present at least twice, in an identical way or one such
as to exhibit a correlation, at times only phonic or semantic; and by formal
modules I mean elements pertinent to the form of the expression, whether
verbal (from single words in a fixed metrical pattern or largely dominant4 in
groups of words that cover a metrical sequence, from minimum to polystich)
or structural (peculiar syntactic organizations),5 but also elements pertinent
to the form of the content, either topic (single concepts repeated in similar
contexts and in various forms, like numbers) or structural (like the laws of the
regulation of time).
1 For Dion. as a reference text I follow the edition by Vian et al. (1976–2006).
2 For Par. I follow Scheindler (1881a); but for Books 1–2, 4–6, 11, 13, 18, 20: De Stefani (2002),
Livrea (2000), Caprara (2005), Agosti (2003), Franchi (2013), Spanoudakis (2014a), Greco
(2004), Livrea (1989), Accorinti (1996). A rather isolated denier of Nonnus’ authorship of
Par. is Sherry (1996). By contrast, Golega’s arguments (1930, 4–88) regarding the authenticity
remain substantially valid. They are at least to be integrated with Livrea’s further considera-
tions (2000, 39–76; 2003, 447–455) on the so-called ‘Nonnian question’.
3 Cf. D’Ippolito (1977) 281–284 and (2003) 501–503.
4 These are the so-called monoverbal formulas, of which I indicate below five examples, spe-
cific to late Greek epic: φωνή (§ 3 and n. 29), ᾽Ηώς and ἀκροφανής (§ 4.1), ἀκρήδεμνος and
ἀγοστός (§ 5).
5 Like what I call (D’Ippolito 1977, 76) ‘epesegesi litotica’, i.e. the exposition of a concept first in
a positive and later in a negative form, or vice versa.

Nonnus ’ Conventional Formulaic Style 373
With the loss of orality of composition, the main reason for the formulaic
structure of the archaic epic, and hence with the passage from rhapsodic epic,
a theatrical genre, to reflected epic, a true literary genre,6 this technique loses
its motivation, and is reduced above all to reuse of segments of Homeric text
and to their variation and analogical combination. Hence in post-rhapsodic
epic the formulaic approach undergoes a change of function: from a composi-
tional method it is transformed, markedly reduced and with different charac-
teristics, into an interdiscursive stylistic feature,7 almost a genre hallmark, in
which however a poetic competition is played out that, as is obvious, presents
varying characteristics in the centuries-long evolution of the genre. Indeed,
a sort of hiatus exists between epics from Apollonius to Quintus and the late
ancients, notably that ‘Egyptian school’ that arose between the third and fourth
centuries with Triphiodorus, triumphed with Nonnus and his metrical ‘reform’,
and finally involved, among others, the Nonnians Musaeus and Colluthus and
the archaizing Orphic Argonautica (OA).8 For the former, the project was gen-
erally to start from a Homeric germ to develop it, according to more innovative
models in Apollonius,9 less so in Quintus,10 so as to awaken the memory of
Homer without slavishly imitating him: it is what has been called, speaking of
Callimachus, ‘presque homérique’;11 by contrast, the late Greek epic writers,
starting from Triphiodorus but more clearly with Nonnus, tended to create a
new formulaic system.
More than in the Paraphrase, which is less free because of its being a meta-
text, the conventional formulaic style, connoted as Homeric aemulatio, is
6 On this distinction cf. D’Ippolito (1988) 719–761.

7 This ordinary kind of relationship does not of course exclude cases of allusive intertex-
tuality. The proper distinction between intertextuality (relationship between texts) and
‘interdiscursivity’ (relationship between types of speech, of language) is made by Segre
(1982).
8 Triphiodorus having moved, for several decades, between the second half of the third
century and the first of the fourth (cf., among the many, Miguélez Cavero 2013c, 4–6),
the relative chronology of these late Greek epic writers has its uncertain point only in OA
(I follow the argument that it comes after not only Quintus but also Nonnus: cf. Vian
1987a, 45–46).
9 For him we speak of ‘paraformularity’ or ‘formulaic imitations’ (Fantuzzi 1988, esp. 7–46,
the chapter entitled ‘Formule omeriche ed imitazioni “formulari” ’). Hinging on an alleged
‘rejection of formulaic repetition’ by the Alexandrian poets is the research of Ciani (1975),
who seems to me to deny the premise, at least in part.
10 The first to speak of formulaic style for a Hellenistic epic poet, Quintus Smyrnaeus, to my
knowledge was Vian (1959) 175–211.
11 Cahen (1929) 519–523.
374 D ’ Ippolito
grafted into the sphere of ποικιλία, which characterizes the Dionysiaca, defined
by Nonnus himself as ποικίλος ὕμνος in the programmatic proem (1.15).12
The Dionysiaca has long attracted the attention of scholars regarding the
problem of distance repetitions, but the rare dissertations on the issue13 hinged
on a negative concept of imitatio sui. Nevertheless, if we speak of formulas in
relation to Quintus, there is all the more reason to speak of formulaic style in
relation to Nonnus: the first to do so was Hopkinson, affirming that the poet
‘fabricates his own formular style in accordance with his declared principle of
ποικιλία’ and defining that style as a ‘new semi-formulaic system’.14 Following
on from Hopkinson, extending the examination to the Paraphrase and the
Nonnians, I have addressed the theme in two articles: in the first one15 I ana-
lyzed the ‘prodramatic’ field, that is to say the expressions that open or close
the words put in characters’ mouths,16 and the temporal one, constituted by
the formulas of dawn and sunset; in the second one17 I analyzed the physi-
ognomic field, relating to the parts of the body. Here I return to my previous
researches on the three fields that I deem most important, concentrating on
Nonnus, without omitting a rapid reference to fixed epithets, on which formu-
laic research has developed for Homer.18
12 It is a convincing idea that Nonnus in Dion. wanted to represent a giant hymn, dedicated
to telling the story of a τρίγονος god (Zagreus, Dionysus, Iacchus) who through various
trials eventually ascends to Olympus, where he sits together with Zeus and Apollo, and
that is why, as a learned poet, he rigorously structured it according to the rhetorical key
of royal encomium (βασιλικὸς λόγος); according to what we learn from Menander of
Laodicea (Περὶ ἐπιδεικτικῶν 368–377 Russell/Wilson), this contemplated the treatment of
προοίμια, γένος (ancestors and parents) and πατρίς (hometown), γένεσις (birth), ἀνατροφή
(education), πράξεις (actions), divided into κατὰ εἰρήνην and κατὰ πόλεμον (cf. D’Ippolito
2011, 147–148). On the proem to Dion. as an expression of Nonnus’ poetic see esp. Fauth
(1981) 32–38, Gigli Piccardi (2003) 107–109, Accorinti (2009) 73–79.
13 Ludwich (1873) and Schiller (1908). The two articles by Keydell (1953) and Schmiel (1998a)
do not deal with formulaic iterations, at a distance, but close repetitions of words or roots,
the former tending to eliminate them through corrections, while the latter proposes a
taxonomy, distinguishing anaphoric, emphatic, and contrastive (positive/negative, male/
female) repetitions.
14 Hopkinson (1994c) 14.
15 D’Ippolito (2003).
16 The adjective ‘prodramatic’ was first used by Russo (1973) 636–637, who actually only
referred it to verses that introduce characters’ speeches. With etymological bending, we
also refer it to speech conclusion formulas.
17 D’Ippolito (2013a).
18 Cf. Parry (1928).
2 Fixed Epithets
Nonnus abandons the Homeric fixity of epithets; he usually respects ποικιλία

and draws on the whole foregoing poetic tradition, also showing abundant
protisms.19 If we look at the protagonists of the two works, Dionysus and
Jesus, there are few cases assimilable to formulas: as a trithemimeral incipit
Βάκχος ἄναξ 10× on 11 and Χριστὸς ἄ. 8× (already 5× in the Carmina of Gregory
of Nazianzus); as first-hemistich formula ἁβροχίτων Διόνυσος (19.249, 43.441),
ἁ. ἀσίδηρος (. . . πεζὸς ὁδίτης [Dionysus] Dion. 20.299; ἄναξ Par. 18.35);20 οἴνοπι
Βάκχῳ 8× out of 9 in an adonean clausula.
3 Prodramatic Formulaic Field
In Homer the prodramatic formulaic field is richly worked out: one distin-
guishes formulaic systems introducing allocutions, replies, monologues and
the brief conclusions of speech.21 But in the passage from the Homeric formu-
laic structure to the conventional Hellenistic one, the complex Homeric for-
mulaic system related to prodramatic verses undergoes a drastic modification,
due to the change in function of the formula but also, indeed above all, to the
reduction and transformation of direct speeches: from the 56.35% of dramatic
19 Many of them may have been invented by Nonnus, but we are unlikely to know for cer-
tain. In any case, there are fewer than are recorded in the lexicon by Peek (1968–1975),
who mistakenly relies on the dictionary LSJ. The latter, not considering the overtly
Christian texts, apart from the Old and New Testament, ignores for example the protisms
from Gregory of Nazianzus. An analytical study of Nonnus’ epithets occupies the entire
second part of the monograph by Wójtowicz (1980) 168–306.
20 Cf. D’Ippolito (1995) 223.
21 In the introductions to allocutions and replies in Homer, by far the most common for-
mula involves the use of a verb that expresses ‘saying’—εἶπον and φημί—or ‘speaking’—
αὐδάω and φωνέω—, also composed with the preverbs πρός (‘towards’) or μετά (‘among’).
The formula introducing monologues contains as a rule a verb meaning ‘to say’ without
a preverb—μυθέομαι or εἶπον—addressed ‘to one’s own mind’ πρὸς (προτὶ) ὃν . . . θυμόν,
while an initial participle reveals the speaker’s motivation. Alongside such introductory
formulas, which are generally stichic, there stands out the brevity of the conclusive ones,
often occupying only the first colon (the borderline case, the monosyllable ἦ disappeared
in Hellenistic epic). This discrepancy is easily explained if one agrees with Ambrosini
(1970, 83) that the speech introductory formulas derive from reduced didascalies in metri-
cal form.
376 D ’ Ippolito
verses in Homer (Il. 44.96, Od. 67.74)22 we go down to 29.40% and 23.55% in
Apollonius and Quintus, and 35.56% in Dion.;23 but above all the particular
Homeric introductions to monologues disappear and the monologues them-
selves disappear in that they are addressed to one’s own θυμός, so that, the dia-
logues and therefore the reprise formulas being reduced to the minimum, the
vast majority of speeches are in allocutions without any answer, addressed to
gods, in the form of prayers, hymnic prayers, and hymns,24 but also to absent
characters and even to animals or things,25 and hence it is above all introduc-
tory formulas that develop.
Thus in the search for Homeric rarities and eschewing formulas that are
already trite, Apollonius creates new formulas with more or less unusual
traditional elements. In particular, he also adopts a more innovative type of
introduction to a dialogue, mainly limited to the second hemistich: on the
prodramatic side, something unique in Homer, μνησάμενος δ’ ἁδινῶς ἀνενείκατο
φώνησέν τε (Il. 19.314), he reproduces the second hemistich in 4.1748 and, show-
ing he interprets the two Iliadic verbs as examples of hendiadys, according to
an exegesis known to the Homerological tradition,26 and perhaps through the
prompting of a scheme present in Od. 19.521 (χέει πολυηχέα φωνήν) and Batr. 271
(τοίην ἐφθέγξατο φωνήν), he devises a different one, which was to be very suc-
cessful: λιγέως ἀνενείκατο μῦθον (3.463) and above all ἀδινὴν δ’ ἀνενείκατο φωνήν
(3.635).
From these prototypes Nonnus develops a model of an allocutory introduc-
tion formula adopting a non-traditional periphrastic syntagm and verbs that
are unusual for such contexts.27 While the Homeric syntagm consisted of an
accusative indicating ‘word’—ἔπος/ἔπεα and μῦθον/μύθους—and a verb mean-
ing ‘to say’—αὐδάω, εἶπον, φημί28—also as a compound or in pseudo-tmesis, in
Nonnus, both in Dion. and in Par., there triumphs above all a model in which
22 It should be noted that the higher percentage of speeches in the Odyssey is particularly
due to the long narrative speeches in Books 9–12.
23 I take the data from Elderkin (1906) 6, supplementing them with Verhelst (2014b) 41.
24 Cf. D’Ippolito (2011).
25 Wifstrand (1933, 140–154), studying the speeches in Dion., had already noticed the paucity
of true dialogues and the absolute prevalence of monologues according to the rhetorical
rules of ethopoeia (τίνας ἂν εἴποι λόγους ὁ δεῖνα); see the catalogue of the most signifiant
examples by Agosti (2005b) 56. For an extensive analysis of speeches in Dion. see now
Verhelst (2014b).
26 Cf. Schol. B ad Il. 19.314: κάτωθεν τὴν φωνὴν ἀθρόαν ἐκ βάθους ἀνήνεγκεν.
27 On prodramatic formulas in Nonnus I more or less freely repeat D’Ippolito (2003) 505–513.
28 Not λέγω, which in Homer maintains the meaning ‘to enumerate’.
the object, fixed at the sixth foot, is no longer the ‘word’ but the ‘voice’, φωνήν,29
and coherently the verbs that mean ‘to speak’ or ‘to say’ disappear (there
are only 4 cases of φάτο) and those expressing modalities of vocal emission
emerge: thus ἀναβλύω indicates the voice that comes out bubbling like a liquid,
ἀναφέρω (ἀνενείκατο) ‘to utter’, (ἀν)ερεύγω an energetic emission, βρυχάομαι ‘to
bellow’, ἠπύω ‘to shout’, ἰάχω ‘to howl’, ῥήγνυμι ‘to cause to resound’, ῥοιβδέω
‘to hiss’, φθέγγομαι ‘to exclaim’, and χέω ‘to spread.’ Regarding this system of
prodramatic formulas in the second hemistich (but there are also whole for-
mulaic verses) exclusive to Nonnus and the Nonnians,30 I here present a table
of 161 occurrences (109 in Dion., 47 in Par., and 5 in previous epic) of the accu-
sative φωνήν preferably governed by the verbs mentioned above and very often
accompanied by one or even two adjectives. The five loci relating to previous
epic are asterisked; ‘c.’ indicates that the hemistich is exceptionally part of
a formula concluding a discourse, with verbs like γράφω (‘to register’), κλύω
(‘to listen’), ἐπικοιμίζω (‘to put to sleep’), or like βιάομαι, ἀνασειράζω or φθάνω,
with which failed emission of voice is expressed; ‘n.p.’ indicates the rare non-
prodramatic function of the formula; ‘c.+i.’ two functions, conclusion and
introduction, in a monostich formula.
a) Hemistichs beginning from median feminine caesura

a 1) with bucolic diaeresis
[⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ ‖ – ⏑ ⏑ ‖ – –]
(vb. + adj. acc. + φ.) ἀνέβλυε πενθάδα φωνήν Dion. 30.162 n.p.
ἀνήρυγε θυάδα φωνήν Dion. 23.225
(῝Ως φαμένου σκηπτοῦχος) ἀνήρυγε λυσσάδα φωνήν Dion. 21.240 c.+i.
ἀνήρυγε πενθάδα φωνήν Par. 11.57
29 Exceptional are μῦθον in Triphiodorus 264 with the meaning of ‘story’, and in Musaeus
μύθους ‘words’ (v. 267) and the adonean clausula ἔννεπε μῦθον (v. 202), already present in
Nonnus (Dion. 47.274), which was also accepted in OA 541 and observed from a Homeric
nonce word (Il. 8.412). It should also be noted that the very word φωνή, for late ancient
epic writers, is formulaic: while in the Homeric poems we can only speak of preferred
place (out of 26 occurrences, 13 occupy the 6th foot but the same number occupy five
different locations), in Triphiodorus 6 out of 7 occurrences fall in the 6th foot, in Nonnus
339 occurrences out of 344 (98.5%), in particular 217 out of 219 in Dion. and 122 out of 125
in Par. Even in Musaeus, in Colluthus, and in OA it only occurs in the 6th foot, respectively
2, 5, 6×. Note, conversely, that in Quintus it only appears 2× and before the trithemimeral
caesura while in Apollonius it only occurs 3× in the 6th foot.
30 Hopkinson (1994c, 15) cites 12 of these hemistichs to exemplify a formulaic system
peculiar to Dion., but, as I document here, the phenomenon also affects the Nonnians
Colluthus and Musaeus, and only shows a few sporadic links with previous epic (once in
the Odyssey, in Batrachomyomachia, in Callimachus, Apollonius Rhodius, and Moschus).
378 D ’ Ippolito
ἀνήρυγεν Ἀτθίδα φωνήν Dion. 37.319

(τοίην ἱμερόεσσαν) ἀνήρυγεν ἄφρονα φωνήν Dion. 35.36
ἐρεύγεται ἠθάδα φωνήν Par. 7.99
(vb. + n. dat. + φ.) ἀνήρυγε θαύματι φωνήν Dion. 7.225; Par. 3.19
ἀνήρυγε χείλεσι φωνήν Par. 6.142
κεράσσατο θαύματι φωνήν Par. 9.122 n.p.
ἐμίγνυε θαύματι φωνήν Par. 6.18
(οὔασι θελγομένοισιν)
(part. nom. + adj. acc. + φ.) δεδεγμένος ἠθάδα φωνήν Par. 3.146 n.p.
(εἶδον ἐγὼ καὶ ἔειπον)
(two adj. acc. + φ.) ἀληθέα μάρτυρα φωνήν Par. 1.126 n.p.
(καὶ πολέες φθέγξαντο) θεουδέα μάρτυρα φωνήν Par. 7.41
(ἄσκοπον ἐρροίβδησε)
(part. dat. + n. dat. + φ.) μεμηνότι χείλεϊ φωνήν Dion. 45.7
(οὔασι θελγομένοισιν)
(adj. acc. + vb. + φ.) ἐθήμονα δέχνυτο φωνήν Dion. 10.276 n.p.
μελίρρυτον ἤπυε φωνήν Dion. 41.251 n.p.
πυρώδεα ῥήξατε φωνήν Dion. 8.279 n.p.
ἀγέστρατον ἴαχε φωνήν Dion. 35.342
(– ⏑ ⏑ ἱκεσίην δὲ) βαρύστονον ἴαχε φωνήν Dion. 26.119
(οὗτος ᾽Ιουδαίοισι) δολοπλόκον ἴαχε φωνήν Par. 11.201
(καὶ κινυροῖς στομάτεσσι) δυσάγγελον ἴαχε φωνήν Dion. 47.212 n.p.
(καὶ φιλίοις στομάτεσσι 7.285) δυσίμερον ἴαχε φωνήν Dion. 7.285, 15.315
ἐλεύθερον ἴαχε φωνήν Par. 9.137
(φρικαλέην ἀγέλαστος) ἐπίκλοπον ἴαχε φωνήν Dion. 45.245
ἐτήτυμον ἴαχε φωνήν Par. 4.80
(– ⏑ ⏑ – Αἰῶνι/– ⏑ ⏑ – Σίμωνι) θεηγόρον ἴαχε φωνήν Dion. 7.71;
Par. 21.83
θεημάχον ἴαχε φωνήν Dion. 48.350;
Par. 18.66
θεόσσυτον ἴαχε φωνήν Par. 1.83
λαοσσόον ἴαχε φωνήν Dion. 27.166
(χείλεσιν αἰδομένοισι 40.36) παρήγορον ἴαχε φωνήν Dion. 3.325, 11.355,
33.350, 40.36,
43.421, 46.321
(ἀντιτύποις στομάτεσσι 2.208) πολύτροπον ἴαχε φωνήν Dion. 2.208, 31.211
δολοπλόκον ἔπλεκε31 φωνήν Dion. 20.265
31 That is the reading handed down, which, in presenting the etymological figure proves very
adherent to Nonnus’ taste (cf. Dion. 13.550 δολοπλόκον ἔπλεκε μολπήν, 30.83 πυρίπλοκον
ἔπλεκε σειρήν). Hopkinson (1994b, ad loc.) accepts, though not entirely convinced, the
ἀγήνορα ῥήξατο φωνήν Dion. 23.64

ἀμοιβάδα ῥήξατο φωνήν Par. 20.130
γοήμονα ῥήξατο φωνήν Dion. 24.200
(οἷα χόλου πνείουσα/
οἷά περ ἀσχαλόωσα) δολόφρονα ῥήξατο φωνήν Dion. 33.148, 41.407
ἐχέφρονα ῥήξατο φωνήν Par. 19.30
θεουδέα ῥήξατο φωνήν Dion. 39.137
(– ⏑ ⏑ εἰσορόωσα/
σαρδόνιον γελόωσα) κατηφέα ῥήξατο φωνήν Dion. 2.112, 31.82
μαχήμονα ῥήξατο φωνήν Dion. 47.536
(coord. conj. +
adj. acc. + vb. + φ.) καὶ ἔμπνοον ἴαχε φωνήν Dion. 21.35
(coord. conj. +
n. dat. + vb. + φ.) καὶ ἴχνεσιν ἔφθασε φωνήν Par. 1.174 n.p.
(Οὔ πω μῦθος ἔληγε·)
(n. nom.+ coord. conj. +
pron. dat. + vb. + φ.) μόρος δέ οἱ ἔφθασε φωνήν Dion. 47.137 n.p.
(prep. + n. acc. + vb. + φ.) ἐς ἠέρα ῥήξατο φωνήν Dion. 42.112
(᾽Ιησοῦς ἀγόρευε)
(two adj. acc. + φ.) παλίσσυτον ἠθάδα φωνήν Par. 21.99
(adj. nom. + vb. + φ.) ὁμόγνιος ἴαχε φωνήν Par. 11.139
(– ⏑ ⏑ – κρίνειε)
(n. nom. + adj. acc. + φ.) δικασπόλος ἴδμονα φωνήν Par. 7.187 n.p.
(n. acc. + vb. + φ.) πελειάδας ἴαχε φωνήν Par. 2.84
a 2) with hephthemimeral caesura

[⏑ – | ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ ‖– –]
(vb. + adj. acc. + φ.) χέει πολυηχέα φωνήν* Od. 19.521
(part. nom. + adj. acc. + φ.) χέων ἀνεμώδεα φωνήν Dion. 42.487
(χείλεϊ λυσσήεντι) χέων Κορυβαντίδα φωνήν Dion. 30.56 n.p.
χέει μελιηδέα φωνήν Dion. 4.140
unnecessary correction ἴαχε by Ludwich (based on the text handed down in Par. 11.201),
which was also accepted by the previous editor Keydell (1959). Ludwich (1873, 40)
had already noticed Nonnus’ formulaic style (‘Formelhafte Halbverse finden sich zu
Tausenden’), but in general he gives negative judgments and his findings are aimed at
textual criticism: with the intention of supporting the aforementioned amendment he
introduces a long digression (56–63), in which I find a rich list of expressions that include
the term φωνή. In his wake (63), Keydell (1936, 911) simplistically judges the syntagms ἴαχε
(or ἀνήρυγε) φωνήν as equivalent to ‘sagte’, defining them amplifications typical of the
baroque style.
380 D ’ Ippolito
(χείλεσιν ἀφθόγγοισι) χέων μελιηδέα φωνήν Dion. 11.252 n.p.

χέων νεμεσήμονα φωνήν Par. 7.183
(᾽Ιησοῦς δ’ ἀπάμειπτο) χέων πολυμεμφέα φωνήν Par. 10.111
χέων φιλοπευθέα φωνήν Dion. 40.422
(adj. acc. + vb. + φ.) ἑὴν ἀνεσείρασε φωνήν Dion. 48.723 c.
τόσην ἀνενείκατο φωνήν* Mosch. Eur. 134;
Dion. 6.34532
(n. nom. + coord. conj. +
vb. + φ.) φόβος δ’ ἐβιήσατο φωνήν Dion. 6.366 c.
(n. dat. + coord. conj. +
vb. + φ.) χόλῳ δ’ ἀνενείκατο φωνήν Dion. 21.10
[⏑ – | – – ⏑ ⏑ ‖ – –]
(adj. acc. + vb. + φ.) τόσην ἀντίαχε φωνήν Dion. 6.318
(οὔασι εὐμενέεσσιν) ἑμὴν ἀσπάζεο φωνήν Dion. 40.410 n.p.
ἑμὴν γινώσκετε φωνήν Par. 8.121 n.p.
(Εἷπε, καὶ Ἀδρήστεια/
– ⏑ ⏑ – Νέμεσις δὲ) τόσην ἐγράψατο φωνήν Dion. 1.481 n.p.,
37.423 n.p.
(Εἷπεν ὁ παῖς, Νέμεσις δὲ) κακὰν ἐγράψατο φωνάν* Call. Cer. 56 c.
μίαν ξυνώσατο φωνήν Dion. 14.8 n.p., 36.109
μίαν πιστώσατο φωνήν Dion. 42.505
τόσην ἐφθέγξατο φωνήν Dion. 2.661, 29.38,
30.166, 37.496,
46.282, 47.319,
48.601 and 702
(adj. acc.+ coord. conj. +
vb. + φ.) τόσην δ’ ἐφθέγξατο φωνήν Dion. 38.221
(n. nom. + coord. conj. +
vb. + φ.) ἀνὴρ δ’ ἠρεύγετο φωνήν Par. 9.168
(θεσπεσίοις στομάτεσσιν 7.58)
(n. nom. + vb. + φ.) ἄναξ ἠρεύγετο φωνήν Par. 2.94, 7.58
ἄναξ ξυνώσατο φωνήν Par. 1.143
ἄναξ ἐφθέγξατο φωνήν Dion. 18.216
(adj. acc. + vb. + φ.) ἴσην ἐφθέγξατο φωνήν Par. 7.176 n.p.
(n. dat. + vb. + φ.) χόλῳ ξυνώσατο φωνήν Dion. 1.325
32 Reused 4× by Colluthus (169, 265, 305, 329). Cf. Mus. 121 and OA 843 τοίην (⏑ –) ἀνενείκατο
φωνήν, OA 76 μείλιχον ἐκ λασίων στέρνων ἀ. φ. and 769 (n.p.) ἄδην ἀ. φ.
(part. nom. + adj. acc. + φ.) χέων λυσσώδεα φωνήν Dion. 29.4 n.p.
(μεμφομένοις στομάτεσσι Dion.) χέων οἰκτίρμονα φωνήν Dion. 11.73; Par. 5.17
(῾Εβραίοις δ’ ἰάχησε) χέων πανθελγέα φωνήν Par. 7.142
(σμερδαλέοις στομάτεσσι) φέρων ῥηξήνορα φωνήν Dion. 8.46 n.p.
(Βάκχος ἄναξ ἀγόρευε) χέων σημάντορα φωνήν Dion. 15.120
(᾽Ιησοῦς δ’ ἀγόρευε) χέων ὑψαύχενα φωνήν Par. 5.62
(καὶ Βερόην ἐρέεινε) χέων ψευδήμονα φωνήν Dion. 42.157
(ἀμφαδίην ἀγόρευον)
(two adj. acc. + φ.) ἑμὴν ἀψευδέα φωνήν Par. 3.141
a 3) with caesura after the fifth longum

[⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ – | ⏑ ⏑ ‖ – –]
(adj. acc. + vb. + φ.) πανυστατίην χέε φωνήν Dion. 23.78
(μεμφομένοις στομάτεσσιν) ὑποκρυφίην χέε φωνήν Dion. 29.107
(coord. conj. + adj. acc. +
vb. + φ.) καὶ ὑστατίην φάτο φωνήν Dion. 11.467, 17.270
(coord. conj. + subord. conj. +
adj. acc. + vb. + φ.) καὶ εἰ βροτέην λάχε φωνήν Dion. 20.135 n.p.
(coord. conj. + adv. + adj. acc. +
vb. + φ.) καὶ οὐ βροτέην πόρε φωνήν Dion. 16.227 n.p.
[⏑ – – – | ⏑ ⏑ ‖ – –]
(adj. acc. + vb. + φ.) ἀμοιβαίην πόρε φωνήν Par. 19.44 n.p.
(adj. acc. + pron. + φ.) ἀμοιβαίην σέο φωνήν Par. 1.79
(part. nom. + vb. + φ.) ὑποκλέπτων φάτο φωνήν Dion. 10.279
(τοίην ποικιλόμυθον) ὑποσσαίνων φάτο φωνήν Dion. 42.362
b) Hemistichs beginning from median masculine caesura

b 1) with bucolic diaeresis
[⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ ‖ – ⏑ ⏑ ‖ – –]
(– ⏑ ⏑ ἐκ στομάτων)
(vb. + adj. acc. + φ.) ἀνενείκατο πενθάδα φωνήν Dion. 24.146
ἐπεκοίμισε θυάδα φωνήν Dion. 4.307 n.p.
(vb. + n. dat. + φ.) ἐκεράσσατο θαύματι φωνήν Dion. 4.237
ἐπεμίγνυε θαύματι φωνήν Par. 1.191
(κλεψινόοις ὀάροις)
(adj. acc. + vb. + φ.) ἀπατήλιον ἴαχε φωνήν Dion. 31.135
ἐναγώνιον ἴαχε φωνήν Dion. 37.712
382 D ’ Ippolito
(σαρδόνιον γελόων/
καὶ Σατύρῳ γελόων 20.309, 21.215) φιλοκέρτομον ἴαχε φωνήν Dion. 3.102, 10.128,
16.230, 20.309, 21.215
ἱκετήσιον ἔκλυε φωνήν Dion. 37.644 c.
ἀλιτήμονα ῥήξατο φωνήν Dion. 44.72
κενεαυχέα ῥήξατο φωνήν Dion. 1.426
(τοίην ἐκ στομάτων 14.418) πολυθαμβέα ῥήξατο φωνήν Dion. 14.418, 30.15,
40.337
πολυμεμφέα ῥήξατο φωνήν Dion. 4.35, 39.272
πολυταρβέα ῥήξατο φωνήν Dion. 43.360
φιλοπαίγμονα ῥήξατο φωνήν Dion. 37.374
(λάος Ἰουδαίων/
καὶ χορὸς Ἑβραίων 9.134) φιλοπευθέα ῥήξατο φωνήν Par. 6.119, 8.60,
9.54 and 134
παλινάγρετον ἔσπασε φωνήν Dion. 42.154 n.p.
(adj. acc. + adv. + vb. + φ.) βροτέην πάλιν ἴαχε φωνήν Dion. 14.273
(part. nom. + vb. + φ.) δεδονημένος ἴαχε φωνήν Par. 11.121
[– – ⏑ ⏑ ‖ – ⏑ ⏑ ‖ – –]
(adj. acc. + vb. + φ.) εὐάγγελον ἴαχε φωνήν Par. 6.22
οἰνοσσόον ἴαχε φωνήν Par. 2.30
οἰκτίρμονα ῥήξατο φωνήν Dion. 48.813
(vb. + adj. acc. + φ.) πιστώσατο μάρτυρα φωνήν Par. 1.47
b 2) with hephthemimeral caesura

[⏑ ⏑ – | ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏑ ‖ – –]
(adj. acc. + coord. conj. +
vb. + φ.) ἀδινὴν δ’ ἀνενείκατο φωνήν* Ap. Rh. 3.635
(adj. acc. + vb. + φ.) βριαρὴν ἀνενείκατο φωνήν33 Dion. 16.146
δολίην ἀνενείκατο φωνήν Dion. 4.76
κινυρὴν ἀνενείκατο φωνήν Dion. 11.253
τρομερὴν ἀνενείκατο φωνήν Dion. 37.403
(εἰρετο – ⏑ ⏑ –)
(part. nom. + prep. +
n. dat. + φ.) προχέων ἐπὶ κάλλεϊ φωνήν Dion. 10.194
[⏑ ⏑ – | – – ⏑ ⏑ ‖ – –]
(adj. acc. + vb. + φ.) κινυρὴν ἐφθέγξατο φωνήν Dion. 46.191
33 Also in OA 818. Cf. Mus. 172 γλυκερὴν ἀνενείκατο φωνήν.

κρυφίην ἐφθέγξατο φωνήν Dion. 34.291

τρομερὴν ἐφθέγξατο φωνήν Dion. 36.258
(part. nom. + vb. + φ.) προφέρων ἠρεύγετο φωνήν Par. 13.97
(pr. n. nom. + coord. conj. +
vb. + φ.) Μαρίη δ’ ἐφθέγξατο φωνήν Par. 20.66
[– – | – – ⏑ ⏑ ‖ – –]
(adj. acc. + vb. + φ.) τοίην ἐφθέγξατο φωνήν* Batr. 251
Striking, though less numerous, are the 128 occurrences (77 in Dion., 51 in Par.)
of the second hemistich closed off by the dative φωνῇ: specifically 21 clausulas
φάτο φ. are attested in Dion. alone.
Among the most recurrent first-hemistich formulas I will only mention τινα
μῦθον ἔειπε(ν) (Dion. 14×: 4.181, 9.148, 12.36, 14.308, 15.297, 16.74, 19.22, 28.143,
33.300, 34.7 and 91, 35.163, 38.77, 40.166)/ἔλεξε (Dion. 8.356, 19.302, 32.4; Par.
13.41), with the variants καί οἱ μῦθον ἔλεξε(ν) in Par. 3.8, 13.41 and 20.74, εἴ τινα μ.
ἔειπον in Par. 3.60, Χριστῷ μ. in Par. 12.91.34
The speech conclusion formulas confirm reduced development in compar-
ison to introductory ones, almost always occupying the initial colon. Nonnus
rarely repeats the Homeric incipits Ὣς φάτο (καὶ) (Dion. 15.287 and 303, Par.
11.38) or Ὣς εἰπὼν or Εἶπε(ν). In this new function he often uses Ἔννεπε(ν) as
a dactylic incipit (Dion. 39×; Par. 5×), sometimes broadened to καί (Dion. 9×
out of 39; Par. 3× out of 5). As a rule he increases (47×) one not frequent in
Homer, that is to say Ὣς φάμενος (Dion. 7×, Par. 18.1)/μένη (Dion. 39×), which
Triphiodorus had already used (152, 463, 497) and Musaeus was to use (194), or
even in a greater number of cases (58×) introduces the participle in the accu-
sative Ὣς φάμενον (Dion. 25.351)/-μένην (Dion. 6×) and in the dative Ὣς φαμένῳ
(Dion. 2×) or as an absolute genitive Ὣς φαμένου (Dion. 37×, Par. 11.176)/-οιο
(Dion. 7.67)/-ης (Dion. 10×). The formula is often broadened to cover the first
hemistich, with the addition of a verb indicating the effect of the words just
uttered—῝Ως φάμενος θάρσυνε ‘encouraged’ (Dion. 36.1, [-νεν] 27.221, 30.43,
[-μένη -νε] 4.406, [-μένην -νε] 19.42, 41.338, 48.439); ῝Ως φαμένη παρέπεισε ‘per-
suaded’ (Dion. 11.155, 14.315, 20.289, 26.135, 31.191, 32.1, 35.139, 42.1, [-σεν] 40.31);
῝Ως φαμένου μείδησε ‘smiled’ (Dion. 20.251, [-σαν] 24.321, [-σεν] 30.38)—or the
action of leaving—῝Ως φαμένη πεπότητο ‘took flight’ (Dion. 20.99, 29.362, 31.98,
34.99, 45.31, [-μένης] 31.124)—that is to say, in the case of the absolute genitive
adding the identity of the speaker—῝Ως φαμένου βασιλῆος (Dion. 27.136, 44.184);
34 Typical of Dion. (17×) is the rhetorical incipit formula Ἀλλ’ ἐρέεις (ὅτι), studied by
Massimilla (2003), with which the speaker pretends to have a real or fictitious interlocutor.
384 D ’ Ippolito
῝Ως φ. Βρομίοιο (Dion. 19.69, 29.45, 37.494, 675 and 758, 45.1 and 252), and with
a phonic bond but a different syntactic structure, ῝Ως φαμένη Βρομίῳ (Dion.
30.293)—or replacing the initial monosyllabic adverb with the accusative
τοῖον ἔπος (Dion. 19.158, 33.216) or τοῖα θεοῦ (Dion. 12.41). Three of these hemi
stich formulas are extended to cover a whole verse: ῝Ως φαμένην θάρσυνε θεὰ
καὶ ἀμείβετο μύθῳ (Dion. 41.338, 48.439); ῝Ως φαμένη περέπεισε, καὶ ἠέρα δύσατο
δαίμων (Dion. 11.155, 14.315); ῝Ως φαμένου Βρομίοιο σακεσπάλος ὦρτο Μελισσεύς
(Dion. 37.494 and 675). A fourth formula starts as stichic: ῝Ως φαμένη σκιόεντι
πενείκελος ἔσσυτο καπνῷ (Dion. 16.302, 48.563).
Another hemistich formula is Τοῖον ἔπος κατέλεξε (Dion. 8.367, 10.217 and 321,
16.339, 20.403, 34.122, 40.570 [-ξεν], 42.429, 43.143 [-ξεν], 47.56, 553 [-ξεν], and
713, Par. 10.20). In two cases (Dion. 29.51, 47.497) it is used as an introduction to
allocution and the demonstrative adjective abandons its anaphoric function
to take on a cataphoric one; with the same value it reappears varied (with
οἰκτρόν instead of τοῖον) in Dion. 19.4.
Where the prodramatic formulaic field in Nonnus introduces a deeply dis-
tant structuring from the Homeric one is in the introduction of reprises. The
first observation to be made is that they are greatly reduced in Dion. because of
the shortage of true dialogues, while in Par. they are present but in the form of
rapid lines. This involves the almost total absence of stichic reprise formulas:
thus while, above all in the poem, we find verses that in the first hemistich
conclude the previous speech and in the second open the reply—for example
῝Ως φαμένην θάρσυνε θεὰ καὶ ἀμείβετο μύθῳ (Dion. 41.338, 48.439), ῝Ως φαμένης
ἀπάμειπτο θεά (Dion. 8.165), ῎Εννεπε, καὶ Νικόδημος ἀμείβετο (Par. 3.48)—in Par.
reply formulas that end in the first hemistich are found (Ἰησοῦς δ’ ἀπάμειπτο
3.25, 8.67 and 104, 9.170 and 175, 10.111, 11.31 and 143, 13.148, 16.117, 20.70; Ἰησοῦν δ’
ἀ. 14.84, 18.29, 21.104; καὶ φθονεροὺς ἀ. 5.40).
4 Temporal Formulaic Field
The Homeric structural law of the tripartition of daily time, which exhibits the
sequence dawn—midday meal—sunset, tends in later epic to become binary,35
35 The general characteristics of Homeric temporal indications and those of Alexandrian
epic, especially Apollonian, are very well studied by Fantuzzi (1988) 121–154 (‘Descrivere
il tempo: La designazione delle ore del giorno in Omero ed Apollonio’). On the temporal
formulaic field in Quintus cf. Vian (1959) 178–179.
developing around the two traditional subthemes of dawn and sunset through
a network of motifs constituting the theme (denotative) or pertinent to it
(connotative).36
4.1 Dawn Formulas

From Homer to Quintus 14 motifs make up the ‘dawn’ subtheme, the first 2
of which are denotative while 12 are connotative: 1. Eos, the goddess of dawn,
2. she awakes spreading light over the world, 3. she is called Erigeneia, matu-
tinal, 4. she is the colour of the rose, 5. or of the crocus, 6. she has a golden
throne, 7. she goes out of its cavern, 8. she rises from the Ocean, 9. or from the
mountains, 10. or from the bed of the companion Tithonus (or Cephalus or
Orion), 11. earth and sky smile at her, 12. men arise, 13. they start their activities,
14. while Hypnos fades away. As a rule these are stichic or distich formulas.
With Nonnus the temporal expression of the morning can be reduced to
an adjective—ἑώιος, ἠῷος, ὄρθριος, πρώιος (the latter always as an incipit: Dion.
7×, Par. 2×)—but we often find true polystich ἐκφράσεις in which there are
repeated expressions, formulas that hold out new motifs.37
Specifically, new verbs appear to indicate light that opens up a gap in the
darkness and illuminates the earth, replacing the traditional pink colour with
white or red—ἀποπτύω (‘to spit’), διαγράφω (‘to delineate’), διαρρήγνυμι (‘to
interrupt’), διαχλαινόω (‘to wrap’), διώκω (‘to pursue’), καταγράφω (‘to score’),
καταυγάζω (‘to illuminate’), λευκαίνω (‘to whiten’), πορφύρω (‘to redden’),
σχίζω (‘to tear’), χαράσσω (‘to lacerate’)—, and the darkness that, pursued or
lacerated, seems ‘to retreat’ (χάζομαι). It is already exemplified in a tristich by
Triphiodorus (668–670):
Ἄρτι γὰρ ἀντολίηθεν ἀπόσσυτος Ὠκεανοῖο

ἠρέμα λευκαίνουσα κατέγραφεν ἠέρα πολλήν,
νύκτα διαρρήξασα μιαιφόνον ἱππότις Ἠώς. 670
36 On Nonnus’ temporal formulas I more or less freely repeat D’Ippolito (2003) 513–519.
James (1978 and 1981) had already written on the themes of day and night in Greek epic
narrative, but the second article, devoted to Nonnus and the Nonnians, though it could
lead us to consider the subject as exhausted, actually still leaves room for investigation,
both because the approach to the material there is not specifically aimed at seeking out
formulaic elements and because of certain objective shortcomings, such as the lack of
consideration of Par. and the outdated chronology of Triphiodorus, even placed after
Nonnus, and also of OA, which open the series of texts.
37 Cf. String (1966) 52.
386 D ’ Ippolito
Here Nonnus is preceded in the use of verbs that are rare in the poetic tradition38
(κατέγραφεν ἠέρα + ταρσῷ as a hemistich formula in Dion. 4.407, 23.119, 31.5,
42.3 to describe divine flight) and in the contextualized use of epithets (the
night is called ‘bloody’, with a contingent epithet, since it recalls the fatal night
of Troy). Eos, which in late epic is configured as a monoverbal formula (out
of 50 occurrences Dion. has 49 at the 6th foot, Par. 11 out of 11, and so it is in
the minor texts, including OA), has a very rare epithet,39 which alludes to the
horses of Helios, and Nonnus will reprise it to attribute it to Hora (Dion. 1.172).40
Here are the main expressions connected with dawn in Nonnus:
Dion. 3.18 πρώιος ἤιε Κάδμος, ὅτε ζόφον ἔσχισεν Ἠώς

Dion. 3.55–58 Ἀλλ’ ὅτε πορφυρέοιο παρὰ πτερὸν αἴθοπος Εὔρου
ἄκρα χαρασσομένην ὑπὸ ῥωγάδα Τευκρίδος Ἴδης
ὄρθρον ἀποπτύουσα φάνη λιμενοσκόπος Ἠώς,
ἀντιπόρου μέλαν οἶδμα καταυγάζουσα θαλάσσης
Dion. 7.137 τόφρα δὲ καὶ Σεμέλη ῥοδοειδέι σύνδρομος ὄρθρῳ
Dion. 18.166–168 Ἀλλ’ ὅτε δὴ ῥοδέοις ἀμαρύγμασιν ἄγγελος Ἠοῦς
ἀκροφαὴς ἐχάραξε λιπόσκιον Ὄρθρος ὀμίχλην,
εὐχαίτης τότε Βάκχος ἑώιος ἄνθορεν εὐνῆς
Dion. 22.136–137 Ἀλλ’ ὅτε χιονόπεζα χαραξαμένη ζόφον Ἠώς
ὄρθρον ἀμεργομένῃ δροσερῇ πορφύρετο πέτρῃ
Dion. 27.1–7 Ἄρτι δὲ λυσιπόνοιο τιναξαμένη πτερὸν Ὕπνου
ἀντολίης ὤιξε θύρας πολεμητόκος Ἠώς,
καὶ Κεφάλου λίπε λέκτρα σελασφόρα· βαλλόμενος δέ
ἀντιπόρῳ Φαέθοντι μέλας λευκαίνετο Γάγγης·
καὶ φυγὰς ἀρτιχάρακτος ἐχάζετο κῶνος ὀμίχλης 5
σχιζόμενος φαέεσσιν· ἀπὸ δροσεροῖο δὲ δίφρου
ὄρθριος εἰαρινῇσιν ἐλούσατο καρπὸς ἐέρσαις.
Dion. 29.362–363 κῶμα τινάξας
πρώιον ἀρτιχάρακτον ὀπιπεύων φάος ᾽Ηοῦς
Dion. 31.138 ῎Ορθρος ἀκοντίζει με καὶ ᾽Ηριγένεια διώκει
Dion. 33.123–124 Ἀλλ’ ὅτε φοινίσσοντι σέλας πέμπουσα προσώπῳ
ὑσμίνης προκέλευθος ἑκηβόλος ἄνθορεν ᾽Ηώς
38 But already in Euripides, Iph. Aul. 156–157, we find λευκαίνει | . . . Ἠώς.
39 There is an identical adonean clausula in an oracular text in Theos. Tub. 1.33.264 (Beatrice
2001, 19).
40 Cf. Accorinti (1992).
Dion. 34.99–100 καὶ ἐξ ὕπνου θόρε Μορρεύς,

ἀρχομένης δ’ ἐνόησεν ἀμερσιγάμου φάος Ἠοῦς
Dion. 35.249 ἀλλ’ ὅτε φαινομένης ῥοδοειδέος ᾽Ηριγενείης
Dion. 37.86–87 Ἀλλ’ ὅτε δὴ δροσεροῖο προάγγελος ἅρματος Ἠοῦς
῎Ορθρος ἐρευθιόων ἀμαρύσσετο νύκτα χαράσσων
Dion. 38.8–10 εἰσόκεν ὄρθρος ἔλαμψε σελασφόρος, ἀρτιθαλὲς δέ
ἀμφοτέροις ἀνέτελλε γαληναίης φάος ᾽Ηοῦς,
᾽Ινδοῖς καὶ Σατύροισιν·
Dion. 40.381–385 Νὺξ μὲν ἀκοντιστῆρι διωκομένη σέο πυρσῷ
χάζεται ἀστήρικτος ὅτε ζυγὸν ἄργυφον ἕλκων
ἀκροφανὴς ἵππειος ἱμάσσεται ὄρθιος αὐχήν
σεῖο δὲ λαμπομένοιο φαάντερον οὐκέτι λάμπων
ποικίλος εὐφαέεσσι χαράσσεται ἄστρασι λειμών
Dion. 47.279 ἀλλ’ ἐπεὶ ὄρθρος ἔλαμψε καὶ ἔγγυθι φαίνεται ᾽Ηώς
Par. 1.128 Ἀλλ’ ὅτε δὴ φάος ἄλλο παλίνδρομος ἤγαγεν ἠώς
Par. 6.84–85 Ἀλλ’ ὅτε πορφύρων Τιβερηίδα γείτονα πέτρην
ἀκροφανὴς ἐχάραξε λιπόσκιον ὄρθρος ὀμίχλην
Par. 12.53 ἀκροφανὴς δ’ ὅτε νύκτα λιπόσκιον ἔσχισεν ἠώς.
In the verses of Dion. we notice two Triphiodorean motifs: the repetition of

λευκαίνω (Dion. 27.4), so that the ‘black’ Ganges ‘is whitened’ by the sun (while
Eos himself, ‘rosy’, ‘saffron’ or ‘golden’ in Homer, becomes ‘white’: χιονόπεζα
Nonnus calls her, Dion. 22.136, an absolute hapax modelled on the ἀχλυόπεζα
of Triph. 210),41 and the contextualized use of the epithet πολεμητόκος (Dion.
27.2), said of Eos that causes the return of the struggle (in Dion. 2.169 she is
likewise referred to as ἐγερσίμοθος and in 34.124 ὑσμίνης προκέλευθος) and it
seems to me it matches the night referred to as μιαιφόνος of Triph. 670 (like-
wise contextualized appears the use of λιμενοσκόπος in Dion. 3.57, unusual
with reference to Eos). Between Dion. and Par. there are two striking analo-
gies: Par. 6.85 is almost the same as Dion. 18.167, while Par. 12.53 contaminates
Dion. 3.18 and 18.167; ἀκροφανής is a monoverbal formula, placed at the incipit
(Dion. 7×, Par. 6×).42 Further, ἀλλ᾽ ὅτε (δή) is a common Homeric incipit (but
41 Triph. 209–210 ᾽Ηέλιος . . . | ἐς δύσιν ἀχλυόπεζαν ἑκηβόλον ἔτραπεν ἠῶ. The epithet ἀχλυόπεζα
is also an absolute hapax: though it is maintained by Wernicke (1819) 214 and 219–221, and
repeated by dictionaries, I do not adhere to the interpretation which refers it to Eos; syn-
tactic balance and a more obvious meaning (‘in the dark edge of the west’) would suggest
preferring a reference to δύσις, but settling the issue is Nonnus’ imitation (Dion. 4.195a) εἰς
δύσιν ἀχλυόεσσαν: cf. now Miguélez Cavero (2013c) 238.
42 It returns in John of Gaza, Ecphr. 1.278.
388 D ’ Ippolito
the hemistich ἀλλ’ ὅ. πορφυρέοιο/-οισι/-ύρων is found only in Dion. 3.55, 4.20,

and Par. 6.84); in Dion. 27.5 κῶνος ὀμίχλης is a formulaic adonean clausula: it
returns, on the subject of the sunset, in 7.310 and 33.267; but the motif of the
‘cone of darkness’ also appears in 2.165 and 18.158; in Dion. 34.100 and 38.9 φάος
᾽Ηοῦς is a formulaic explicit (Dion. 6×, Par. 1×), while ἀμερσίγαμος, modelled on
the expected ἐγερσίμοθος (Dion. 2.169), is an ironic example of a strictly con-
tingent epithet (dawn interrupts an erotic dream of Morrheus); in Dion. 27.5
and 40.382 the metaphoric use of χάζομαι (‘to retreat’), a verb of war language,
backed up by other contextual elements, creates an image of struggle between
light and darkness. Finally, there is the use of Erigeneia as a proper name,43 an
epithet of Eos in Homer.
4.2 Formulas of Sunset

In Homer the subtheme ‘sunset’ is made up of the following two denotative
motifs: 1. the sun setting, 2. the arrival of darkness. The following can be found,
as connotative motifs: 3. men going to rest, 4. men enjoying the pleasures of
love, 5. men sleeping.
Nonnus, even more than for dawns, produces true ἐκφράσεις, where, in addi-
tion to using traditional and Triphiodorean motifs, he introduces new ones:
Dion. 2.163–170 ῾Η μὲν ἔφη· Φαέθων δὲ πόλον δινωτὸν ἐάσσας

εἰς δύσιν ἔτραπε δίφρον· ἀναθρῴσκουσα δὲ γαίης
ὑψιτενὴς ἅτε κῶνος, ἐς ἠέρα σιγαλέη Νύξ 165
οὐρανὸν ἀστερόεντι διεχλαίνωσε χιτῶνι,
αἰθέρα δαιδάλλουσα. Καὶ ἀννεφέλῳ παρὰ Νείλῳ
ἀθάνατοι πλάζοντο, παρ’ ὀφρυόεντι δὲ Ταύρῳ
Ζεὺς Κρονίδης ἀνέμιμνεν ἐγερσιμόθου φάος Ἠοῦς.
Νὺξ μὲν ἔην· 170
Dion. 7.310–311 ἀκροτενὴς περίμετρος ἀνέδραμε κῶνος ὀμίχλης,
δυομένης ζόφον ὑγρὸν ἄγων ἀντίσκιον ᾽Ηοῦς
Dion. 33.266–268 ῎Ηδη γὰρ σκιόεντι θορῶν αὐτόχθονι παλμῷ
ἄψοφος ἀννεφέλοιο μελαίνετο κῶνος ὀμίχλης
καὶ τρομερῇ ξύμπαντα μιῇ ξύνωσε σιωπῇ.
Alongside the Theocritean/Triphiodorean motif of Helios/Phaethon turn-

ing the horses to the west, the motif of the cone of shade of night comes in,
already present on the subject of the dawn, as well as that of silent Night and
the starry mantle that enwraps the sky. The incipit Ἡ μὲν ἔφη is Callimachean
43 Reused by Musaeus 335 and Colluthus 327.

(Del. 249). Φαέθων, from being a fixed epithet of ἠέλιος not yet personified in
Homer, is now identified with Helios 70× out of 94 (23× it is his son, 1× the
planet Jupiter). At v. 165 the adonean clausula σιγαλέη Νύξ can be considered
formulaic, returning in Dion. 18.160 and 25.570. V. 166 is formulaic: it returns
with the sole variation in the verb, which however maintains the preverb δι(ά),
in 18.161, and, outside an analogous descriptive context and therefore with a
changed object, in 40.578 (ἀστραίῳ Διόνυσον ἀνεχλαίνωσε χιτῶνι); it originates
from the Homeric second-hemistich formula (ἀπ’/ἐξ/καὶ) οὐρανὸν (-οῦ/-ῷ)
ἀστερόεντα (-ος/-ι) moved to the first and modified in flexional terms so as to
introduce the image of the starry mantle.44 The epithet and explicit at v. 169b
were discussed speaking of the dawn. The incipit of v. 170,45 already in Il. parv. 9,
returns in Par. 18.87 with γάρ in the place of μέν.
In other places the same motifs return, but new ones are added, like the
banquet at sunset, the earth that is ‘all’ covered with shade, the air that
‘became black’ (the formulaic use of μελαίνω is parallel to that, already seen, of
λευκαίνω), the gift of sleep captured on pleasant beds:
Dion. 18.154–165 Καὶ πίον εἰς ὅλον ἦμαρ. Ἀφυσσομένων δὲ κυπέλλων

ἑσπερίη χθόνα πᾶσαν ὑπόσκιος ἔσκεπεν ὄρφνη 155
ἀκροκελαινιόωσα· καὶ αἰόλα φέγγεϊ λεπτῷ
ἄστρα καταυγάζων ἐμελαίνετο δίχροος ἀήρ,
δυομένου Φαέθοντος ὑπὸ σκιοειδέι κώνῳ,
βαιὸν ὀπισθοκέλευθον ἔχων ἔτι λείψανον Ἠοῦς·
καὶ ζόφον ἐχλαίνωσεν ἑῷ χροῒ σιγαλέη Νύξ 160
οὐρανὸν ἀστερόεντι διαγράψασα χιτῶνι.
Οἱ δὲ μετὰ κρητῆρα μέθης, μετὰ δεῖπνα τραπέζης
Βότρυς ὁμοῦ γενετῆρι καὶ οἰνοχύτῳ Διονύσῳ
κεκριμένοι στοιχηδὸν ἐυστρώτων ἐπὶ λέκτρων
ὕπνου δῶρον ἕλοντο καὶ ὡμίλησαν ὀνείροις. 165
There is a striking oxymoronic juxtaposition of καταυγάζων and ἐμελαίνετο

(Dion. 18.157; cf. μέλαν οἶδμα καταυγάζουσα in 3.58, mentioned above), typical
of the baroque poetic of Nonnus.46 The hemistich 165a is a shifted Homeric
quotation (Od. 2×), which returns in 20.26:
44 For Nonnus’ image of the night sky as a starry mantle, actually one that was in the Orphic
tradition, cf. Gigli Piccardi (1985) 171–179.
45 Reused by Musaeus 282.
46 Cf. D’Ippolito (1964) 49–57 and (1987).
390 D ’ Ippolito
Dion. 20.23–26 Τοῖσι δὲ τερπομένοισιν ἀνέδραμεν Ἕσπερος ἀστήρ

φέγγος ἀναστείλας χοροτερπέος ἠριγενείης.
Δαιτυμόνων δὲ φάλαγγες ἀμοιβάδες ἔνδοθεν αὐλῆς 25
ὕπνου δῶρον ἕλοντο βαθυστρώτων ἐπὶ λέκτρων.
The first verse is modelled on Od. 1.423 and 18.306 τοῖσι δὲ τερπομένοισι μέλας
ἐπὶ Ἕσπερος ἦλθε: the first hemistich is reused in an analogous context (Dion.
25.568); the adonean clausula returns in Dion. 24.167 and 29.323. The last verse
blends the two hemistichs mentioned above (Dion. 18.165a + 164b).
Finally, here is the only description of sunset at the end of a book (but with
night and sleep other books also end: Dion. 24.330–348, 26.375–378):
Dion. 25.568–572 Τοῖσι δὲ τερπομένοισι δύσιν διεμέτρεεν Ἠώς,

φέγγος ἀναστείλασα πυριγλήνοιο προσώπου·
καὶ σκιερὴν ἐμέλαινεν ὅλην χθόνα σιγαλέη Νύξ. 570
Λαοὶ δ’ ἔνθα καὶ ἔνθα χαμαιστρώτων ἐπὶ λέκτρων
ἑσπέριον μετὰ δόρπον ὀρειάδι κάππεσον εὐνῇ.
Also small, for reasons of content, is the formulaic field of sunset in Par., but
again related to Dion.:
Par. 6.66–69 ἀρτιφανὴς δέ

γαῖαν ὅλην ἐκάλυψε μελαγκρήδεμνος ὀμίχλη,
καὶ χροῒ ποικιλόνωτον ἐπισφίγξασα χιτῶνα
ἀστερόεν σελάγιζεν·
Par. 18.87 Νὺξ γὰρ ἔην σκοτίη, δυσπέμφελος·
Par. 20.84 Καὶ σκιερὴν ὅτε γαῖαν ὅλην ἐμέλαινεν ὀμίχλη.
5 Physiognomic Formulaic Field
The formulaic field that I define physiognomic47 is based on the concept of

physiognomy as the set of physical characteristics on the basis of which a per-
son is recognized, not limited to the features of the face but extended to the
features of the whole body. The sampling involves static and dynamic data
and, as the subject requires, privileges Dion.
To characterize the beauty of his characters, male or female, Nonnus rather
than the topos of insuperability (like Theocritus 18.20, speaking of Helen, or
47 On Nonnus’ physiognomic formulas I more or less freely repeat D’Ippolito (2013a).
Chariton 1.1.3, speaking of Chaereas) uses the winning comparison with ‘coeta-
neous youth’ (ἧλιξ ἥβη) expressed by a formula that, starting from the adonean
clausula ἥλικος ἥβης (10×), can cover up to three-quarters of the hexameter:
thus in Dion. 10.218 and 42.230 we have ὅτι κάλλος ὑπέρβαλεν ἥ. ἥ. (one formula
for two contexts: the one describes the beauty of Ampelus, in the other Pan
remarks on an ambition of women); 30.193 ἠνορέην καὶ κάλλος ὑπέρτερον ἥ. ἥ.
(on the Bacchante Alcimacheia); 11.370, 15.205, 33.168, 48.249 ὑπέρτερος ἥ. ἥ.
(respectively Calamus, Hymnus, the Bacchante Chalcomede, Aura); 41.260–
261 πλέον ἥ. ἥ. | τηλίκον ἔλλαχεν εἶδος (Beroe). In the masculine portraits other
formulaic details are seen: Calamus εἴδεϊ λεπταλέῳ . . . | ἰθυτενής (11.372–373),
Ampelus εἴ. φαιδροτέρῳ (10.219), and Hymnus ἰθυτενής (15.205). Again on the
subject of Beroe, what surpasses contemporaries is particularly the beauty of
the eyes, protagonists of another Nonnian motif, ‘beauty in arms’:48 41.254–255
Ἀσσυρίης δ’ ἔκρυπτον ὁμήγυριν ἥ. ἥ. | ὀφθαλμοὶ γελόωντες, ἀκοντιστῆρες Ἐρώτων.
Elsewhere what shoots the arrow of love are the naked breasts of Semele
(7.263–264 γυμνοί | μαζοὶ ἐθωρήχθησαν ἀ. Ἐ.), the naked thighs of Chalcomede
(35.25–26 γ. | μηροὶ ἐ., ὀιστευτῆρες Ἐ.), and again the eyes of Beroe (42.236 ὀφθαλ-
μοὶ γεγάασιν ἀκοντιστῆρες Ἐ.). To a different context there is linked the iunctura
ἥλικος ἥβης in 16.392: Nicaea, raped by Dionysus, broods on committing suicide
μῶμον ἀλευομένη φιλοκέρτομον ἥ. ἥ. (‘to avoid the mocking blame of coetaneous
young people’).49 As for the origin of the formula, Aeschylus and Herodotus
are evoked. In Pers. 681, the ghost of Darius addresses the contemporaries of
his youth (. . . ἥλικές θ’ ἥβης ἐμῆς), but the parallel is limited to the juxtaposition
of the two words; Herodotus 1.34.2, speaking of the two children of Croesus,
notes that ‘the second one was by far the first of the peers in every field’ (ὁ δὲ
ἕτερος τῶν ἡλίκων μακρῷ τὰ πάντα πρῶτος): it is true that in the passage the main
elements of the motif, beauty and youth, are only understood, but the contin-
uation, οὔνομά δέ οἱ ἦν Ἄτυς, is singly analogous to the verse (Dion. 15.206) that
concludes the formula of presentation of Hymnus mentioned above, οὔνομά δέ
οἱ πέλεν ῞Υμνος, which makes an intertextual relationship plausible.50
The beauty of the body, especially of women, is the object of attentive looks,
as four formulaic verses show: Dion. 5.306 ἁγνὸν ἀνυμφεύτοιο δέμας διεμέτρεε
κούρης, 7.216 γυμνὸν ἐυπλοκάμοιο δ. δ. κ., 42.41 ἁβρὸν ἐ. δ. δ. νύμφης, 48.343 ἁγνὸν
ἀθηήτοιο δ. δ. κούρης. The only difference is that in the last verse, where Aura
48 Cf. Gigli Piccardi (1985) 56–63.

49 In this isolated sense, it returns in Musaeus 35–36, which in a couplet uses of Nonnus’
verse first the clausula, then the first hemistich: οὐδὲ χορὸν χαρίεντα μετήλυθεν ἥ. ἥ. | μ. ἀ.
ζηλήμονα θηλυτεράων.
50 Cf. Gerlaud (1994) 215 (on Dion. 15.205–206).
392 D ’ Ippolito
spies on Artemis motivated by envy, in the other three we have lustful scopo-
philiacs (in order, Actaeon spies on Artemis, Zeus on Semele, and Dionysus
on Beroe).
To indicate the ‘head’, not only human, Nonnus uses the terms κάρη (Dion.
8×), κόρση (Dion. 28×, Par. 3×), κεφαλή (Dion. 60×, Par. 4×) and κάρηνον (Dion.
183×, Par. 5×): the first three are Homeric terms, while κάρηνον, by far the most
frequently used and in almost 80% of cases at the end of the hexameter, is only
met in Homer in the plural and is found in the singular in rare other poetic
passages.51 Here I will limit myself to mentioning a second-hemistich formula
that presents the genitive καρήνου preceded by a middle passive present parti-
ciple in the double form -ομένου δέ/-ομένοιο (Dion. 21×, Par. 1×).52
Female characters, introduced to express a feeling of amazement or admi-
ration or fear or pain (multiplication of the point of view is another character-
istic of a baroque poetic), are introduced in Dion. ‘without veils’: the epithet
ἀκρήδεμνος is found 25×, always between the diaeresis of the first foot and
the κατὰ τρίτον τροχαῖον caesura; the first foot is represented 15× by a dactylic
proper name (8× Νηιάς). In 4 cases alongside the epithet ἀκρήδεμνος there is
ἀσάμβαλος (‘without sandals’), so the iunctura extends to the bucolic diaeresis
(14.382: in the accusative, 47.216 and 461, 48.113). The formula would seem to
have been invented by Nonnus (this cannot be stated categorically, seeing the
loss of most post-Homeric epic): the epithet only appears elsewhere in Oppian
of Apamea, Cyn. 1.497, but in a different metrical setting (ἠδ’ ἀχίτων δειλή τε
καὶ ἀκρήδεμνος ἐοῦσα), so I find it difficult to agree with Vian that the epithet is
‘sans doute un emprunt’ from the Cynegetica.53 The Oppian context neverthe-
less allows us to give a sense to the Nonnian formula: within a simile, the scene
introduces a woman going through the pangs of birth, wandering around the
house, ‘without tunic and veil’, from which it can be deduced that presenting
oneself without a veil and, Nonnus adds, also barefoot, can be a ‘sign of hurry’,54
but above all of an emotional state (pain, fear, desperation, madness, amaze-
ment) inducing a person to neglect their appearance.
51 HHom. 8.12 and 28.8; Mosch. Amor fugit. 12.

52 ἀμειβομένου δὲ καρήνου (Dion. 12.183, 36.307), ἀρασσομένοιο κ. (21.23, 47.166), βαρυνομένου
δὲ κ. (16.258, 18.206, 37.739, 47.128), δαϊζομένου δὲ κ. (28.53), διχαζομένου δὲ κ. (30.142),
ἐρευθομένοιο κ. (46.281), καθελκομένου δὲ κ. (13.12), /-οιο κ. (7.25, 15.202, Par. 4.113), μαραι-
νομένοιο κ. (Dion. 30.214), τινασσομένου δὲ κ. (4.375, 19.285), /-οιο κ. (15.109, 18.120, 48.609),
χαρασσομένοιο κ. (39.305).
53 Vian (1990) 265 (on Dion. 25.469–470).
54 Agosti (2004c) 863 (on Dion. 39.254).
As for the hair, the unusual adonean clausula βόστρυχα χαίτης occurs 9× not
only in erotic contexts.55 The Homeric final position of χαίτη occurs in a new
formula beginning from the hephthemimeral caesura in which the accusative
is preceded by an adjective in -ώδης.56
In the description of the face Nonnus uses an adonean clausula formula
that unites κύκλα (‘circles’), the heteroclite plural of κύκλος, with παρειῆς (‘of
the cheek’)57 or, more frequently, with προσώπου (‘of the face’).58 Only in 40.110
are κύκλα and προσώπου disconnected, the one at the incipit of the verse
and the other at the explicit. The traditional interpretation of the formula is
‘oval of the face’, but Chrétien, supported by Vian,59 has rightly pointed to the
cheekbones.
Characterizing the face, in Dion. 22× we find a formula beginning from the
hephthemimeral caesura or even in the second hemistich comprising a pres-
ent participle in -ωντι/-οντι or an adjective in -εντι + προσώπῳ.60 In Par. there
returns (7.77) ὑποκλέπτοντι προσώπῳ and (1.160) γαληναίῳ (a variant on γαληνι-
όωντι) π. (said of Jesus). The formula is not a Nonnian invention: two identical
iuncturae are found in two texts that Nonnus knew, Eur. Bacch. 1021 προσώπῳ
γελῶντι and Greg. Naz. carm. 2.2.1.173 χλοάοντι προσώπῳ. And for Gregory we
can also juxtapose two passages:61 carm. 2.1.1.103 ἐν εὐμενέοντι προσώπῳ and
1.2.29.149 γελόωσι πρόσωπα. Collart62 was wrong both in general when he
denied a direct relationship between Nonnus and Gregory, maintaining that
a pagan, which was what he believed the author of Dion. to be, could not
have imitated a Christian, and in the specific case when he thought that the
55 Dion. 6.7, 10.174, 14.345, 16.15 and 40, 17.187, 27.215, 34.313, 47.495.
56 ἑλικώδεα χ. (Dion. 15.46, 18.349), εὐώδεα χαίτην (2.89), χιονώδεα χ. (13.395, 14.86, 44.308);
with an assonant variant and restricted to the adonean clausula: ἰκμάδι χ. (Par. 11.7), λευ-
κάδα χ. (Par. 3.20 and 8.40).
57 Dion. 10.180, 33.100, 37.412.
58 Dion. 1.527, 6.170 and 181, 15.219, 18.333, 24.182, 27.204, 30.123, 40.103, 42.77, 46.280. In the
first form the clausula returns in Christodorus, AP 2.14, and, with the genitive plural
(παρειῶν), in Musaeus 58, in the second, and also with the genitive plural (προσώπων), in
Colluthus 74.
59 Chrétien (1985) 143 (on Dion. 10.181); Vian (1976) 65 n. 3.
60 Precisely: 4× γελόωντι προσώπῳ (Dion. 15.119, 19.42, 38.42, 48.750); 3× ἄνω νεύοντι π. (15.92,
22.377, 36.226) and ὑποκλέπτοντι (3.232, 22.65, 35.322); 2× γαληνιόωντι π. (33.143, 41.402),
στίλβοντι π. (17.9, 18.114) and χλοάοντι π. (4.74, 48.389); 1× ἀπειλείοντι π. (21.274); δαφοινήεντι
π. (1.425); ἐπ’ ἀστράπτοντι π. (38.153); καταπιόωντι π. (18.337); κοτέοντι π. (45.242); πλήθοντι
π. (6.74).
61 Cf. D’Ippolito (1994) 206.
62 Collart (1930) 12.
394 D ’ Ippolito
connection χλοάοντι προσώπῳ could have been taken from an isolated χλοάουσα
in Nicander, Ther. 237.
On the subject of gaze, the nouns ὄμμα (Dion. 153×, Par. 28×; never in Homer
in the singular) and ὀπωπή (Dion. 111×, Par. 38×; only 4× in the Odyssey) are
both part of formulaic systems. As for ὄμμα, I will mention the infrequent case
of a formula that is placed both in the first and in the second hemistich: it
involves the noun and the verb τιταίνω (‘to extend the gaze’) or, less frequently,
the synonym τανύω. In particular, the first-hemistich formula shows the fol-
lowing structure: dactyl + ὄμμα + τίταινε(ν) (Dion. 13×, Par. 1×). The incipit is an
adjective (ἀπλανές Dion. 31.126;63 ἄσμενον 39.256; ἄστατον 3.156; δόχμιον 13.219,
25.143, 41.274, 46.134; φοίνιον 47.552), or also a noun with a preposition (εἰς δύσιν
Dion. 7.283, 10.252; εἰς δρύας 22.108; εἰς πόλον Par. 17.2), an adverb (πόλλακι δ’
Dion. 16.374) or a conjunction (ὄφρα μέν 38.318).64 There is a shifting of the for-
mula (ὄμμα δὲ σεῖο τίταινε) in 27.328. The second-hemistich formula shows the
adonean clausula ὄμμα τιταίνων (Dion. 13×, Par. 3×) preceded either by a four-
syllable adjective (ἀντώπιον Dion. 4.248, 25.408, 42.40, Par. 1.103; ἐρωμανές Dion.
33.199, 35.103, 48.395 and 501; νοοσφαλές Par. 3.93; πανίλαον 6.160; πολυπλανές
Dion. 33.288) or by a five-syllable participle (πεφυλαγμένον 42.45) or by a
noun, in the genitive or the accusative, preceded by a preposition (δι’ ἄστεος
40.353; δι’ ἠέρος 34.5; ἐς ἄμπελον 12.344; ἐς οὐρανόν 9.32). The present participle
is replaced by the aorist in 2.673 (ἐνάντιον ὄ. τιτήνας), and by the subjunctive
aorist and participle of the synonym τανύω (δόχμιον ὄ. τανύσσῃ 43.142; ἀπλανὲς
ὄ. τανύσσας 33.92; ἐνάντιον ὄ. τ. 37.71; ἐς Αἰακὸν ὄ. τ. 22.287). The only attestation
before Nonnus of the adonean clausula ὄμμα τιταίνων is again in Greg. Naz.
carm. 2.2.4.93 (but already in Triph. 371 we find ὄ. τιταίνει).65
The term ὀπωπή, which oscillates in a double direction of meaning, from
the active one of ‘sight, look, eyes’ to the passive one of ‘appearance, face’, is
involved in two different typically Nonnian formulaic systems. On one side,
there is a second-hemistich formula (Dion. 10×, Par. 3×) structured as follows:
ἔχων + four-syllable adjective starting with privative ἀ- + ὀπωπήν. Thus we have
ἔχων ἀγέλαστον ὀπωπήν Dion. 11.254, 21.188, 42.65 and 218; ἔ. ἄγνωστον ὀ. Par. 1.109
and 18.90; ἔ. ἄγρυπνον ὀ. Dion. 31.169, 33.300; ἔ. ἀκόρητον ὀ. 15.227; ἔ. ἀχάρακτον
ὀ. Par. 9.5. Three exceptions concern the infinite in the place of the partici-
ple (ἔχειν ἄγρυπνον ὀ. Dion. 16.386), ἄγων in the place of ἔχων (ἄγων ἀκόρητον
ὀ. 1.532), the four-syllable adjective without privative alpha (ἔ. κερόεσσαν ὀ.
63 On the ‘investigatory gaze’ of Iris see Lovatt (2013) 64.
64 The formula returns in Musaeus 336 (πάντοθι δ’ is the dactylic incipit).
65 On the first-hemistich formula ὄμμασιν αἰδομένοισι(ν) (Dion. 7.266, 11.375, 48.934), perhaps
inspired by [Theoc.] 27.70 (ὄ. αἰδομένοις), see Massimilla (2010–2011) 237–238.
7.320). On the other hand there is the periphrasis κύκλον ὀπωπῆς in an adonean
clausula (Dion. 12×, Par. 1×), whose meaning oscillates in the directions men-
tioned above, but in the use of κύκλον confirms Nonnus’ predilection for the
curved line.66
Speaking of embraces, dynamic data that well help to illustrate the phys-
iognomy of a person, the term ἀγοστός—in Homer a hapax legomenon also
semantically, since its probable meaning ‘hand’ seems to change beginning
from the Alexandrine poets to ‘arm’—only occurs 36× in Dion. and always at
the end of a verse. The word is at the ideal centre of a typical scene, in which,
taking a hint, and nothing more, from a little picture by Apollonius (3.148–
150), in which Aphrodite kisses Eros, Nonnus develops an affectionate scene
in which the mother embraces and kisses her child (not on the cheeks, as
in Apollonius, but on the mouth and on the eyes) and caresses his bow and
quiver to drive him to shoot the seductive arrow. The most interesting thing
is that the six verses 33.143–148 of the scene (which prepares the arrow-shot
aimed at Morrheus to make him love Chalcomede) are repeated in 41.402–407
(Dionysus and Poseidon will be struck so that they will love Beroe), with only
two variations, in 145b/404b and in 148a/407a, and this macro-repetition is
unique in the whole poem:
Dion. 33.143–148/ Καὶ μέσον ἀγκὰς ἑλοῦσα γαληνιόωντι προσώπῳ

41.402–407 πεπταμένῳ πήχυνε γεγηθότι κοῦρον ἀγοστῷ,
γούνασι κουφίζουσα φίλον βάρος· ἑζομένου δέ/
ἀμφότερον δέ
καὶ στόμα παιδὸς ἔκυσσε καὶ ὄμματα· θελξινόου δέ
ἁπτομένη τόξοιο καὶ ἀμφαφόωσα φαρέτρην,67
οἷα χόλου πνείουσα/περ ἀσχαλόωσα, δολόφρονα
ῥήξατο φωνήν.68
66 Cf. Riemschneider (1957) 49.

67 The verse is reused in Dion. 16.155 in an opposite context: Nicaea cautions Dionysus
against ‘touching her bow and caressing her quiver’.
68 The scene includes minor formulas like γαληνιόωντι προσώπῳ (with which we dealt
a little earlier and in note 60) and those that concern the most recurrent verb πηχύνω
(‘to embrace’): Dion. 3.340 παιδοκόμῳ πήχυνα γεγηθότι κοῦρον ἀγοστῷ, 3.398 (where Electra
holds Emathion and Harmonia in her arms) πεπταμένῳ πήχυνε φιλήτορι χειρὸς ἀ., 9.95
παιδοκόμῳ πήχυνεν ἀμήτορα Βάκχον ἀ., 13.176 παρθενίῳ π. ἀήθεϊ κοῦρον ἀ. (Athena and
Erechtheus), 14.152 πολλάκι πηχύναντο κεκυφότι κοῦρον ἀ., 36.80 ἀμφοτέρῳ πήχυνε κατηφέι
Φοῖβος ἀ., 36.220 αἱμαλέην π. κ. γαῖαν ἀ.
396 D ’ Ippolito
The ‘neck’ is a part of the body very much present in Nonnus through three
terms: αὐχήν (‘back part of the neck, nape’, Dion. 178×, Par. 10×: including some
references to animals69 or metaphorical uses), δειρή or λαιμός (‘front part of
the neck, throat’, Dion. 20× and Dion. 88×, Par. 7x, respectively). It conveys vari-
ous meanings: it reveals a proud character, if kept straight, a servile one, when
bent; naked, it becomes erotogenous.
Starting from the much more frequent term, αὐχήν, it presents formulas in
the first and second hemistichs. The first as a rule opens with the accusative
αὐχένα followed by an attribute that illuminates the meaning of the sentence
and is chosen from the following set of three: γαῦρον (‘proud’), δοῦλον (‘servant’),
γυμνόν (‘bare’). On the first-hemistich formula indicating ‘boldness’ we have
Dion. 7.353, 13.126 and 256, 19.318, 42.166 αὐχένα γαῦρον ἄειρε(ν); extended to the
whole verse in 8.376 and 9.207 αὐ. γ. ἄ. καὶ ὑψινόῳ φάτο φωνῇ; with a change of
verb in 20.51 and 39.252 αὐ. γ. ἔχοντα/ἔχουσα; with a shift in 11.57 Ἄμπελος αὐ.
γ. ἔχων, with a shift and verb variation in 1.384 ἅζομαι αὐ. γ. (of Iapetus). The
motif of ‘subjugation’ is expressed either by the adjective δοῦλος (12.20 αὐχένα
δοῦλον ἔκαμψαν; 22.73 and 36.432 αὐ. δ. ἔκαμψεν; 33.257 αὐ. δ. ἔρωτος ὑποκλίνων)
or only by the verbs κάμπτω and κυρτόω (‘to fold’, with shift: 24.59 εἰ θρασὺν
αὐ. κάμπτε and 35.181 καὶ θ. αὐ. κάμψον; 26.254 αὐχένι κυρτωθέντι; 43.79 αὐχένα
κυρτώσειεν ἐμοὶ θρασύν; 48.156 αὐ. κυρτώσας in a competitive context). The third
motif is the erotic one. The wind disarranges the hair baring the neck and this
kindles the lover’s desire: Dion. 1.531 αὐχένα παπταίνων γυμνούμενον, 4.138 αὐ.
γυμνὸν ἔθηκεν and 146 αὐ. γ. ἴδοιμι, 16.18 αὐ. γυμνωθέντα, 34.309 αὐ. γυμνώσαντες.
Outside these meanings, in a competitive context we find (37.597 and 48.126)
αὐχένι δεσμὸν ἔβαλλε(ν) (‘threw a string round his neck’).
The second-hemistich formulas, now extended to the whole verse and now
beginning from the hephthemimeral caesura or even restricted to the adonean
clausula, as a rule present a double structure: the term αὐχήν at the end of the
verse (6×) preceded by a four-syllable mediopassive present participle or the
accusative αὐχένα alternating with the dative αὐχένι in the fifth foot (27×) almost
always followed by an active participle or by the nouns κούρης/νύμφης or δεσμῷ
preceded by a four-syllable adjective. They involve a different distribution of
the motifs and their amplification.70 To the motif of ‘pride’ there can only be
69 Said of the elephant Dion. 26.309 αὐχένα βαιὸν ἔχων κυρτούμενον; of horses, 29.368 and
40.271 δέσμιον αὐ. δοῦλον, 38.300 ἵππιον αὐ. δ.; of the ‘shaggy neck’ of lions 14.2 αὐ. λαχνήεντα,
15.203 αὐχένι λαχνήεντι; of a snake or bull 1.202 and 38.341 αὐχένα κυρτώσας.
70 Six formulas relate to animals, real or imaginary: to the horse Dion. 1.318 and 37.362, to a
dragon 4.376, to a lion 18.189 and 43.26, to the snake 38.28. One refers to humanized trees:
12.273.
assigned 39.30 ὃ δὲ θρασὺν αὐχένα τείνων, said of the Indian king Deriades. To
the motif of ‘subjugation’ one can assign 3.229 ἐπ’ οὔδεος αὐ. κάμψας (said of
Cadmus), 7.26 κυρτούμενος αὐχήν (said of supplicant Aion), 22.376 and 38.215
κυρτούμενον αὐχένα κάμπτων (said of the defeated Indians and of supplicant
Phaethon before his father Helios), 43.136 καὶ εἰς πέδον αὐ. κάμπτει (said of the
Indian Ares that bows his neck on the field). To the erotic motif there must
be assigned 7.262 ἀσκεπέος σκοπίαζεν ἐλεύθερον αὐ. κούρης, 40.326 περίπλοκον
αὐχένα νύμφης, 10.185 and 15.232 μέσος γυμνούμενος αὐχήν, 42.423 Βερόης
ἀμαρύσσεται αὐχήν, 10.205 ἐπήορον αὐχένι χαίτην, 48.117 ἐπέρρεον αὐ. κούρης.
In these second-hemistich formulas there emerges the war context—15.144
περίπλοκον αὐχένα σύρων, 17.146 μάρψας εὐπαλάμῳ βεβιημένον αὐ. δεσμῷ (Pan
seizes an enemy by the neck), 21.31 ἀγχονίῳ σφήκωσεν ὁμόζυγον αὐ. δ. (Ambrosia,
turned into a vine, chains the neck of Lycurgus), 25.177 περίπλοκον αὐ. δ., 34.229
and 36.440 ἀγχονίῳ θλίβοντο π. αὐ. δ., 40.65 περίπλοκος αὐ. δ., 47.223 ἀγχονίῳ
σφίγξασα περίπλοκον αὐ. δ.71—and the competitive context—48.129 π. αὐ. σείων
and 171 εὐπαλάμῳ σφήκωσεν ὁμόζυγον αὐ. δ.—and what concerns the accessories
of female toilet—5.137 ἐρευθιόωντι συνήρμοσεν αὐχένι κούρης and 189 παρῄορον
αὐ. νύμφης—while an isolated work context appears—41.24 γεωμόρος αὐχένα
κάμψας—or a physiological one—8.203 κυρτούμενος αὐχήν (Hera changes
into an old woman)—or a thought of suicide—16.391 θλιβομένη σφιγκτῆρι
περίπλοκον αὐχένα δεσμῷ (Nicaea).72
Regarding λαιμός (‘throat’) there is a second hemistich ὁμογλώσσων ἀπὸ
λαιμῶν in Dion. 2.244, 19.107, 36.472, 37.287, 40.216, 47.24 (δ’ ἀπό), Par. 7.43, and,
with a change in one of the two elements that make up the four-syllable adjec-
tive, Dion. 22.11 μελιγλώσσων, Par. 10.73 ὁμοζήλων, 9.81 and 19.71 ὁμοφθόγγων.
Regarding πῆχυς (‘arm’) there is the second-hemistich formula ὁμόζυγι
πήχεος ὁλκῷ, present in Dion. 10.342, 34.256, 37.604, 48.126, reduced to the
simple adonean clausula in 13.541 and 37.572. It describes a particular hold in
the competitive struggle, but in 34.256 it refers to the shepherd that keeps his
sheep together.
The term δάκτυλος, absent in Homer, is encountered 41× in Dion. and 5× in
Par.: it generally indicates the fingers, and 3× (19.271, 22.304, 46.131) the toes. The
singular is used only 5× in Dion. and 4× in Par., the plural δάκτυλοι only in Dion.
3.238: the other occurrences concern the heteroclite plural δάκτυλα, which 29×
71 To this verse there is linked 35.364 ἀγχονίῳ σφίγξασα θεημάχον ἀνέρα δεσμῷ, where the term
αὐχένα is replaced by assonant ἀνέρα.
72 The hemistich in AP 9.362.10 περίπλοκον ἡδέι δεσμῷ appears to be inspired by Nonnus. It
comes from an incomplete anonymous hexametric poem, almost certainly written after
the time of Nonnus, about the love of Alpheus and Arethusa.
398 D ’ Ippolito
out of 36 occupies the dactyl of the fifth foot. In the singular, mention must be
made in Dion. 12.31 and Par. 1.105 of the formula δάκτυλον ὀρθώσας ἐπεδείκνυε
(‘pointing his finger he indicated’), expressing clear gestures characteristic of
Nonnian characters.73 In the plural there are various contexts in which fingers
or toes have a part: erotic, competitive, ludic, relating to pantomimic perfor-
mances or to digital calculation. These are second-hemistich formulas, some-
times extending to the whole verse, which are not worked out parallel to such
contexts. The final spondee can vary: χειρῶν 5×; βάλλων and κάμψας 4×; κούρης
3×; γαίῃ, δεσμῷ, πάλλων, and παλμῷ 2×; μίλτῳ and πήξας 1×; and there can be
variation in the five-syllable or four-syllable modifiers that precedes δάκτυλα,
which can be a compound of -τροπα 5× or of -χροα 4×, or ὁμόπλοκα, πεπηγότα,
or πεφιδημένα 2×. Once again there is a precedent in Gregory of Nazianzus,
carm. 2.1.19.23: ἐπὶ δάκτυλα βάλλων.
In Nonnus’ erotic topic, the female breast has central importance: the 120
occurrences of the term μαζός in Dion. show it. A characteristic formula is given
by the adonean clausula formed by the accusative singular ἄντυγα of ἄντυξ
(‘limit’), to be translated now as ‘line’ and now as ‘curve’, followed by the geni-
tive μαζοῦ/-ῶν (11×). Apart from 4 cases in which the reference is to the mascu-
line breast (22.328, 28.99 and 217, 36.209), in the other 7 cases the expression
is related to the female breast, preceded either by adjectives qualifying it or by
verbs specifying the action, and except for the example in 5.378 of παιδοκόμων
ἐρύθηνε φερέσβιον ἄ. μαζῶν—which takes us into a mournful context, where
Autonoe, weeping over Actaeon, ‘reddened (with blood) the curve of the life-
giving breasts that fed her child’—all move in an erotic context. In two cases
the formula covers the whole verse: 1.348 and 12.393 οἰδαλέην ἔθλιψεν ἀκαμπέος
ἄντυγα μαζοῦ. It extends to the first hemistich in 4.149 ἀμφοτέρων θλίψειεν
ἐλεύθερον ἄ. μαζῶν, in 2.110 κατέσκεπεν (‘tried to hide’) ἄ. μαζοῦ, 14.165 ὄρθιον
ἄ. μ., 17.218 ἄργυφον ἄ. In one case the breast is replaced by the thighs (15.228
ἐλεύθερον ἄ. μηρῶν).74 An exemplary case is that of the second hemistich 21.113
καὶ οὐκ ἐμνήσατο μαζοῦ, copied with a variation in 33.207 καὶ οὐκ ἐμνήσατο
μορφῆς, which refers, in the first case, to one of the women of Arabia that went
mad, who killed her child ‘and did not remember to give him her own breast’,
and in the second to Morrheus who was labouring under the delusion that
Chalcomede might like him ‘and did not remember his own appearance’ (his
black skin).75
73 De Stefani (2002) 176 (ad loc.).

74 The clausula ἄντυγα μαζῶν returns in Pamprepius, fr. 3.175 Livrea.
75 Colluthus 157 reprised the formula καὶ οὐκ ἐμνήσατο μαζῶν adapting it to another context,
the famous judgment of Paris where Aphrodite undressed ‘without regard to her breasts’.
There is a war context in the formula that, again varying the trithemimeral
incipit, introduces 7× up to the feminine median caesura the unusual connec-
tion γόνυ δοῦλον (‘the servile knee’), followed 6× in the second hemistich by a
voice of the verb ὑποκλίνω and once of ὑπογνάμπτω, both with the meaning of
‘to fold’, while the explicit contains a proper name 6×.76
The plural γούνατα forms with the participle πάλλων an adonean clau-
sula formula (Dion. 9×, Par. 1×). If γούνατα is a Homeric form, it is never, in
the unelided form, in the fifth foot, and above all never set alongside the verb
πάλλω. This juxtaposition is found for the first time in Apollonius Rhodius 1.1270
θοὰ γούνατ’ ἔπαλλε, where the verb, from meaning ‘to shake’, as in Nonnus more
or less takes on the banal one of ‘to move.’ The connection returns in Oppian
of Anazarbus, Hal. 2.83 γούνατα παλλομένοιο, but it was certainly Apollonius
that prompted Nonnus, who nevertheless moved away from Homer, eliminat-
ing the elided form of the noun. An interesting variant of the formula replaces
πάλλων with σύρων or κάμπτων: Dion. 2.225 ἀπειθέα γούνατα σύρων, Par. 11.167
ἀκαμπέα γ. σ., Dion. 1.316 γ. κάμπτων.77
Another formula presumably invented by Nonnus is formed by the accusa-
tive singular of πτύξ (‘fold’), which occupies the two short syllables of the fifth
foot, and in the sixth foot by the genitive singular (Dion. 8×) or plural (Dion. 4×,
Par. 1×) of μηρός (‘thigh’). The iunctura πτύχα μηροῦ/-ῶν can have two meanings:
either it is a redundant periphrasis to indicate the thigh, or it maintains the
sense of ‘fold of the thigh’, that is to say ‘groin’ or even ‘sex.’ In the singular,
πτύχα μηροῦ appears as a periphrasis in 7.201, 20.61, 25.222 and 44.161, where
it indicates Zeus’ thigh in which the gestation of Dionysus was completed; it
has the meaning of ‘groin’ in 21.207, where, preceded by the preposition εἰς, it
indicates up to what point a skin covers the satyr Pherespondus, in 23.31, where
in the context of a μάχη παραποτάμιος it indicates the limit of the immersion of
an anonymous Indian, in 25.317, where Attis castrating himself is remembered.
To an erotic context there refers the formula in the singular in 48.655, extend-
ing to the whole hemistich: καὶ ἀσκεπέος π. μηροῦ (Aura is surprised to see
her naked breast ‘and her sex bared’). In the plural, apart from 19.272, where
Silenus opens ‘his thighs’ in an acrobatic pantomimic dance, πτύχα μηρῶν has
the meaning of ‘groin’ in 18.250, speaking of the limit of the flakes that cover
76 Dion. 15.124 Καὶ βριαρῷ γόνυ δοῦλον ὑποκλίνας Διονύσῳ, 18.387 ᾽Ινδοφόνῳ γ. δ. ὑποκλίνων Δ.,
21.237 Βασσαρίδων γ. δ. ὑποκλίνειεν ῾Υδάσπης, 25.2 Οὔ πω γὰρ γ. δ. ὑποκλίνων Δ., 27.176 Εἰ μὲν
ἐμοὶ γ. δ. ὑποκλίνειεν ῾Υ., and 208 καὶ Βρομίῳ γ. δ. ὑποκλίνων μετὰ νίκην, 47.547 οὐτιδανῷ γ. δ.
ὑπογνάμψειε Λυαίῳ. The formula returns in Paulus Silentiarius, Soph. 231 (Καρχηδὼν γ. δ.
ἐμοῖς ἔκλινε τροπαίοις).
77 In the form γούνατα σύρων the formula returns in John of Gaza, Ecphr. 1.252.
400 D ’ Ippolito
the body of Campe, a sea monster that is half woman, and in Par. 21.41, where
the skin is mentioned that fishermen carry lowered as far as (again εἰς) the
‘fold of the two (διδύμων) thighs’, while in the two remaining cases we again
find the hemistichical formula and the erotic context: Dion. 35.32 and 48.118
καὶ ἀσκεπέων πτύχα μηρῶν.78 On the basis of this formula, in 46.279 there is the
variant referring to the breasts, καὶ ἀσκεπέων πτύχα μαζῶν (Agave in front of his
dead son Pentheus reddens with blood ‘the fold of his bared breasts’).
To indicate the female sex, again with a periphrasis tempered by metaphor,
Nonnus uses an adonean clausula formula where the dactyl is represented by
the term ὄργια followed by κόλπου (Dion. 7.266) or μηροῦ (17.224)/-ῶν (11.506):
the word belongs to the Dionysiac sphere, but only 4× (ὄργια Βάκχου 44.219,
45.25, 46.81 and 107) does it specifically designate the ‘mysteries of Bacchus’
(the formula was already present in Theocritus 26.13, in the form ὄ. Βάκχω,
and returns in Macedonius, AP 11.63.1); elsewhere it metaphorically alludes to
the esoteric nature of the speeches of Jesus (ὄ. μύθων Par. 16.111, 17.90),79 or
to the mysteries of medicine (τέχνης Dion. 4.264, 17.377, 35.62), of astronomy
(ὄ. Μούσης 15.70, 38.31), of jurisprudence (ὄ. θεσμῶν 41.344), of the alphabet
(ὄ. φωνῆς 41.382), down to taking on an erotic value in the three places indi-
cated above (to which there must be added, over and above the formula, the
connection Κύπριδος ὄ. in 42.373, designating sexual union).80
6 Conclusions
Summing up our analysis, first of all we see confirmed the stylistic unity of
Dion. and Par.81 Regarding chiefly the poem of Dionysus I believe that both
the examination of the two prodramatic and temporal fields, which because
of their compulsory presence in every stage of epic narrative have made it
possible to perceive a more immediate link with previous production, and
78 The πτύχα μηρῶν connection returns in Pamprepius, fr. 3.170 Livrea.
79 On the role of Dionysiac terminology in Par. see Doroszewski (2014b) as well as the chap-
ter by the same author contained in this volume.
80 The formula returns 2× in Christodorus (AP 2.133 and 303), in the form ὄ. Μούσης, and
while for the first character, Democritus, it alludes, as in Nonnus, to the science of astro-
nomy, for the second, Apuleius, with the adjective Λατινίδος it alludes to Latin wisdom,
magical and philosophical: cf. Tissoni (2000) 145–146.
81 By studying the words belonging to the family of μάρτυς in both works, Vian (1997b)
had already identified a ‘paraformulary system’ which Nonnus first established in Par.
Therefore his study once again shows that the Paraphrase is authentically a Nonnian
work.
the examination of the system of formulas relating to the human body, which
appear central in Nonnus’ epic as an expression of sport and war strength but
above all of beauty and of eroticism,82 have helped to grasp Nonnus’ skill and
innovation in manipulating language: in the use of formulaic structures as well
as in the single lexical choices our poet deliberately opposes Homeric epic and
at the same time, though with a strong taste for imitatio sui, shows the learned
pleasure of variatio which is not only verbal but also semantic, achieving unde-
niable creative originality.
82 On ‘eros as an architheme’ in Dion. see D’Ippolito (2013b).

chapter 18
Nonnus and the Play of Genres

Anna Maria Lasek
1 Introduction
Scholars agree that literary genres each have their own dynamic and are sub-
ject to change.1 Every author composing within the framework of a genre deve-
lops and transforms it, creating a work which combines the traditional with
the new and unexpected.2 In this way every instance of a given genre brings it
up to date and at the same time redraws its boundaries at the same time. That
phenomenon is especially clear in the Dionysiaca by Nonnus of Panopolis.3
The poem begins (1.1) with a request to the Muses to tell the story of
Dionysus, the twice-born god. In the opening lines (1–15) the poet outlines the
main subject of his enormous work, as well as announcing that he would sing
a many-coloured hymn (ποικίλον ὕμνον, 15)4 in the honour of the god of wine,
and so informs the reader of the manner in which he will present it. That is
confirmed by the subsequent lines (16–33), where Nonnus asks the Muses to
grant him the god Proteus,5 a symbol of multiplicity and of unending change.
That penchant for variety,6 which Nonnus himself indicates, is expressed
both in his style (such as in the wealth of synonyms,7 or in the way the author
1 English translation by Magdalena Jarczyk.

2 Stanzel (1998) 143.
3 For more information on Nonnus and his work, see Shorrock (2005); Accorinti (2013c). The
text of the Dionysiaca is according to the Budé edition (Vian et al. 1976–2006). Translations
are from Rouse (1940), occasionally slightly modified.
4 For more information on the proemium, see Fauth (1981) 32–38; Shorrock (2001); Gigli
Piccardi (2003) 20–23, 116–127; Giraudet (2005); Bannert (2008); Nizzola (2012) 135–147.
5 Gigli Piccardi (1993); Agosti (1996); Faber (2004).
6 Harries (1994) 63–64 notes that in relation to the Dionysiaca the term variatio does not carry
the meaning known from Greek or Roman poetry, but rather a broader one, being equivalent
to the ‘territorial, dynastic, and amatory ambitions of Dionysus himself.’
7 Faber (2004) 251: ‘In a larger context, at the level of literary style, the lexical variations pro-
mote the principle of ποικιλία that comprises the poem’s thematic and literary strategy.’

Nonnus and the Play of Genres 403
aims to diversify his depictions of characters, situations and objects alike8) and
in the structure of the poem.9
While originally Nonnus’ work was not that much appreciated, recent times10
have seen a distinct shift in those evaluations, resulting in attempts to regard
the characteristic features of his style and composition as part of an intended,
if not very comprehensible, artistic strategy.
It is worth noting that in the last few decades many outstanding researchers
have tried to solve the puzzles of Nonnus’ biography,11 of his style and com-
position,12 as well as of certain detailed problems of his huge work.13 One of
the few things all researchers agree about is the opinion that there is a certain
general thematic framework on which Nonnus bases his epic poem,14 and that
is the story of Dionysus’ origins, birth, life and apotheosis. Considering those
aspects in more detail, however, it fails to explain the structure of the poem in
8 String (1966) 33–70 (‘Ποικιλία als Stilprinzip’).

9 Lindsay (1965) 379–395 has some general reflections on the concept of variety in Nonnus.
Cf. Shorrock (2001) 21: ‘By containing Proteus within the proem Nonnus makes an open
declaration, and demonstration, of his poetic principles: like Proteus, the Dionysiaca will
have a transformative, and ποικίλος, nature.’
10 Until recently, appreciation for Nonnus’ epic was in fact rare. Certainly the aforemen-
tioned principle of variety has been one of the reasons for the scholarly controversy
surrounding it and especially its structure. Thus, one must note, Nonnus has both been
called the last of the great Greek poets, and excoriated for his idiom and style. For a review
of the evolution of such views on the Dionysiaca, see Gerstinger (1943–1947) 71–74; Krafft
(1975) 91–94; Shorrock (2001) 2–3. Keydell (1932) 198 n. 131 calls Nonnus a ‘stets inkonse-
quenter Dichter’. Hernández de la Fuente (2002–2003) 403 summarizes the evaluations of
the poem prevailing in the scholarship by succinctly referring to it as ‘the Dionysiaca, a
poem which more recently suffered almost a damnatio memoriae.’
11 Keydell (1936) 905; Riemschneider (1968); Schulze (1971); Abel-Wilmanns (1977) 12–18.
Livrea (1987) 113: ‘Sembra francamente impossibile che un personaggio di questo spessore
sia perito nel nulla, senza lasciare traccia alcuna. Credo invece che le sue vestigia vadano
ricercate nella letteratura ecclesiastica, e che l’autore dei due poemi si debba identificare
con Nonno, vescovo di Edessa nell’Osroene, sul quale si possono raccogliere elementi
documentari di rilevanza tale da rendere quest’identificazione difficilmente confutabile.’
Also on the same subject see Gigli Piccardi (2003) 33–44; Livrea (2003). Cf. the first chap-
ter by Accorinti in this volume.
12 It has also been stipulated that the Dionysiaca was composed in the manner of an enco-
mium: Stegemann (1930) 209–230; Lasky (1978); Miguélez Cavero (2010) also demonstra-
tes that the epic contains some elements of invective.
13 Shorrock (2001) 7–23 and (2005) 377–378.
14 Shorrock (2005) 377.
404 Lasek
full, since the Dionysiaca is made of many independent and complementary

compositional structures.15
Among the more intriguing aspects of the Dionysiaca there is the presence
throughout the text of scattered elements of various genres, and even whole
passages marked for genre so strongly that some scholars did not hesitate to
term them a hymn, an idyll, an epigram, etc.16 Mixing genres is a phenome-
non present in Hellenistic poetry, during other periods, and the author of the
Dionysiaca liked to use it as his model. No wonder then that this work exhibits
it as well. While the practice of mixing genres17 is beyond doubt frequent in
the poem, it does not exhaust the extent of genre-related phenomena in it,
since Nonnus is not content to simply inject into his epic individual motifs or
even longer passages bearing the hallmark of other genres. Analyzing more
closely the passages which refer to literary genres other than the epos indicates
that the author of the Dionysiaca has profound knowledge of the literary tra-
dition and draws on it in many different ways, as well as with a varying degree
of fidelity.
Nonnus shapes his text so as to evoke in the reader associations with tra-
ditional literary genres. Many passages clearly draw on genres other than the
epos. Those references are applied not merely to demonstrate the author’s
familiarity with the all but one thousand-year long history of Greek literature,18
but also to create a literary experience.19 However, on closer examination it
becomes apparent that the old genres and their elements play a number of
15 The structure of the Dionysiaca has been investigated by, among others, Shorrock (2001)
passim and (2005) 377–378; for a review of the most recent Nonnus research, see Verhelst
(2013) and Lauritzen (2013–2014).
16 Authors noting the cross-genre phenomenon in the Dionysiaca include Collart (1913);
Braun (1915); Chamberlayne (1916); D’Ippolito (1964) (the chain of epyllia); Schulze (1974);
Abel-Wilmanns (1977) 87–93; Wójtowicz (1997). Hollis (1994) 46 sees Nonnus’ poem as a
kind of an equivalent of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, and notes the presence of such genres as
tragedy, comedy, didactic poem, philosophical poem, epyllion, bucolic and love elegy. It
is his view that basically Nonnus prefers genres alien to the epic, such as for instance the
bucolic. See also notes in the excellent commentaries on Nonnus published in the afore-
mentioned (n. 3) Budé edition and in the Italian series BUR Classici Greci e Latini (4 vols.:
Gigli Piccardi 2003; Gonnelli 2003; Agosti 2004c; Accorinti 2004).
17 On the phenomenon of genre mixing, see Kroll (1924) 202–224 (‘Kreuzung der Gattungen’);
Rosen (1992) esp. 214–215; Stanzel (1998) 144–145.
18 The question of Nonnus’ command of Latin is widely disputed; see Keydell (1935); Maas
(1935b); D’Ippolito (1964) 253–270 and (2007); Herter (1981); Knox (1988); Shorrock
(2005) 380.
19 Shorrock (2005) 377.
different roles in the poem, as it contains a great variety of references to and

applications of the literary tradition, from individual decorative elements evo-
king a genre (such as didactic epic20), through passages which fit the criteria
for a genre perfectly, to passages which only partly fulfil them.
Finally, there are in the Dionysiaca passages which only appear to meet a
genre’s criteria, but whose context makes the reader realize that they have lost
their original role and are used subversively, making for a whole with an alto-
gether new function. That is because the poet weaves into his work old genres,
and parts thereof, so that they constitute a new, surprising whole.21 His artistic
strategy could be seen as a kind of game played with the reader whom he seeks
to deceive, and on a number of levels simultaneously too.22 I shall here present
that phenomenon using several passages which draw on the tradition of a few
genres.23
This paper discusses only a few passages selected based on the possibility
of interpreting them as being part of Nonnus’ intentional game of deceit. At
the same time one must remember that the degree of perceiving and under-
standing allusions and references both to the works of earlier authors and to
other genres is greatly dependent on the reader’s education and their ability to
recognize such references and allusions.24 Undoubtedly an uneducated reader
with no knowledge of the genological tradition is incapable of properly evalu-
ating this epic poem or appreciating the game played by its author.
In this essay I shall discuss a selection of passages which draw on bucolic,
epigrammatic and hymnic poetry.
20 Cf. Tissoni (1998) 142: ‘In ossequio alla regola stilistica della ποικιλία (1.15) le Dionisiache
si configurano come un poema composito che raccoglie e rielabora gran parte dei generi
letterari preesistenti. E così, se predominano abbondantemente l’epica eroica e mito-
logica, non mancano tra gli altri brani di poesia didascalica (e.g. 2.482–507: origine del
lampo), eziologica (e.g. 5.269–79: i venti Etesii), bucolica (e.g. 15.398 ss.: il compianto di
Inno, con il caratteristico verso intercalare) e anche innodica.’
21 And so for example Harder (1998) describes the functions of various genres and their ele-
ments in Callimachus’ Aetia.
22 As Harries (2006) 520 puts it, he sets out to trap the reader.
23 Other literary genres to be found in the Dionysiaca, but not discussed here, include the
psogos (see Miguélez Cavero 2010), tragedy, comedy, didactic, philosophy, epyllion and
the love elegy mentioned by Hollis (1994) 46.
24 As noted by Harries (1994) 79 n. 1.
406 Lasek
2 Bucolic Poetry
Passages drawing on pastoral poetry are among the most recognizable ones.25
As is the case with other genres woven into the epic, many different references
to the idyll can be found in the mare magnum of the Dionysiaca. And so there
are among them passages exhibiting all the important characteristics of the
genre26 (such as bucolic atmosphere and motifs, namely those of love, song,
the agon, etc.27), others, which show only some of those characteristics,28 and
still others, which only contain individual motifs known from pastoral poetry.29
References to the bucolic30 could be seen as including descriptions of nature,31
such as 1.110–117, which depicts a pasture in the open sea, facetiously referred
to by Gordon Braden32 as a ‘piscatory eclogue’. 8.6–33 is another good exam-
ple; in 8.27–3033 it has a clear allusion to Christian literature.34 In that pas-
sage Nonnus recounts the response of Semele, pregnant with Dionysus, to the
sound of a herdsman’s syrinx, forcing her to dance across the mountains and
forests. Here is also a bucolic depiction of the golden age in 41.185–197.35 By
including so many passages drawing on the bucolic tradition, the poet reveals
his excellent familiarity with the genre; so excellent, in fact, that it enabled him
to create an anti-idyll. For it is certainly possible to count as an anti-idyll the
passage of the Dionysiaca where Typhon is cheated by Cadmus (1.362–534).
The passage under consideration is woven into an account of the struggle
between Typhon and Zeus for the rule over the world. Namely, during a love
25 On the bucolic in the Dionysiaca see Harries (1994) and (2006); Lasek (2009) 107–127. The
discussion of 1.362–534 contained in this paper is an edited version of its analysis in Lasek
(2009) 109–118.
26 1.362–534; a description of the golden age: 22.1–54.
27 Schmidt (1964); Halperin (1983) 249–255; Bernsdorff (2001) 139–178.
28 Those could include the story of Nicaea and Hymnus (15.169–422). For more on that
passage, see Schulze (1968); Harries (1994) 72–76; Lasek (2009) 118–129. The category
could further include the account of Actaeon’s death and the lament he himself speaks
afterwards (5.287–365): Harries (1994) 70–71.
29 See below.
30 Chamberlayne (1916) 48 argues that 2.80, 3.154, 11.261, 12.157, 224, 247, and 19.187 show signs
of drawing on Bion’s Epitaph.
31 Other examples listed by Chamberlayne (1916) 48–53.
32 Braden (1974) 858.
33 Gigli Piccardi (2003) 576.
34 On the subject of references to Christian literature and tradition in the Dionysiaca, see
for example Gigli Piccardi (1984); Chuvin (1986); Wójtowicz (1994); Spanoudakis (2007);
Hernández de la Fuente (2013). See also Simelidis in this volume.
35 There is a similar image in Virg. Ecl. 4.18–30. The similarity of Dion. 41.185–203 to the
description of the Golden Age in Virgil’s Eclogue 4 is mentioned by Bajoni (2003) 198.
tryst, the distracted Zeus is robbed by Typhon36 of the attributes of his power,
that is his thunderbolts and his sinews.37 From that moment on, they fight the
long and fierce fight for power.38 The king of the Olympians is left alone on
that battlefield, as the other gods, terrified of the enormity of the threat, flee
for Egypt for the duration of the fight. Then Zeus is forced to admit his helples-
sness in the face of the danger (398–407), as he requests help from Cadmus,
who is searching for his lost sister, and from Eros.39
In order to help Zeus regain power, Cadmus resorts to deceit from the very
start.40 He dresses as a herdsman and in the enchanting surroundings (409b–
414) plays the syrinx. In that way, and with some aid from Eros,41 he charms
Typhon (415–534), allowing Zeus to recover the lightning bolts and thunder-
bolts which are the sources of his power. In addition, with his clever speech he
wins Typhon’s trust to trick the monster out of the stolen sinews.42 The ruse
works: in token of his friendship, Typhon gives Cadmus the sinews (507–511).
It is worth noting that the poet combines here a considerable number of the
elements of the bucolic tradition,43 concentrating them all into a short passage
(1.362b–375), thus reinforcing the impression of dealing with a typical idyll:
Οὐδὲ Τυφωεύς
μέλλεν ἔτι κρατέειν Διὸς ἔντεα· τοξοφόρῳ γάρ
Ζεὺς Κρονίδης σὺν Ἔρωτι πόλον δινωτὸν ἐάσσας
φοιταλέῳ μαστῆρι δι’ οὔρεος ἤντετο Κάδμῳ 365
πλαζομένῳ, ξυνὴν δὲ πολύτροπον ἤρτυε βουλήν
ῥαψάμενος Τυφῶνι δυσηλακάτου λίνα Μοίρης.
36 For information about Typhon in the Dionysiaca see also Schmiel (1992); Hansen (1995);
D’Ippolito (2001); Aringer (2012).
37 Vian (1976) 24–25.
38 Typhon’s assault on the heavens is discussed in detail in Komorowska (2004).
39 For information on that passage, see Vian (1976) 159; Gigli Piccardi (2003) 168–169; Lasek
(2009) 53–58.
40 Briefly on Cadmus’ role in the bucolic in Risi (2003) 3–6.
41 In fact, a crucial part of the plan is up to Eros: it is under his influence that Typhon lets
the music charm him, falling into the trap (1.525–534) which directly leads to his downfall.
Although we do not see Eros in action, he is, so to speak, a virtual participant in the agon,
since he has awakened in the monster delusive hopes of victory. After he defeats the mon-
ster, Zeus sarcastically advises him to punish the god of love for his failure, binding him in
chains of gold (2.602–604). More on the subject in Vian (1976) 13.
42 For more on Zeus’ sinews, see Rocchi (1980).
43 A herdsman (1.369), playing the panpipes and sitting down in picturesque rustic sur-
roundings: near his reed hut, under an oak-tree, and in a forest dotted with pasture (1.411,
419–420), watching over herds of sheep, goats and cattle as he plays (1.409–420).
408 Lasek
Καὶ Διὶ παμμεδέοντι συνέμπορος αἰγίβοτος Πάν

δῶκε βόας καὶ μῆλα καὶ εὐκεράων στίχας αἰγῶν·
πλέξας δ’ ἐκ καλάμων καλύβην ἑλικώδεϊ δεσμῷ 370
πῆξεν ὑπὲρ δαπέδοιο· καὶ ἀγνώστῳ τινὶ μορφῇ
ποιμενίην ἐσθῆτα καθαψάμενος χροῒ Κάδμου
εἵμασι μιμηλοῖσι νόθον χλαίνωσε νομῆα·
καὶ δολίην σύριγγα φέρων εἰδήμονι Κάδμῳ
δῶκε Τυφαονίοιο κυβερνήτειραν ὀλέθρου. 375
But Typhoeus was no longer to hold the gear of Zeus. For now Zeus
Cronides along with Archer Eros left the circling pole, and met roving
Cadmos amid the mountains on his wandering search; then he devised
with him an ingenious plan, and entwined the deadly threads of Moira’s
spindle for Typhon. And Goatherd Pan who went with him gave Zeus
Almighty cattle and sheep and rows of horned goats. Then he built a hut
with mats of wattled reeds and fixed it on the ground: he put on Cadmos
a shepherd’s dress, so that no one could know him in disguise, when he
had clad his sham herdsman in this make-believe costume; he gave clever
Cadmos the deceiving panspipes, part of the plot to pilot Typhaon to his
death.
Actually, the idyll’s audience includes Cadmus, Pan, Zeus and Typhon as well
as the reader. It is thus possible to distinguish three separate planes formed
by each type of the audience of the bucolic situation. The first and outermost
plane supports the reader with his ability to observe the world represented in
the poem. The second holds the monster’s enemies, who, unlike Typhon him-
self, know that there is really no herdsman and the whole bucolic ambience
is a masquerade. Thus the story of Cadmus is only an idyll in the eyes of one
person, namely the monstrous son of the Earth, since all he can see is a herd-
sman (369), playing the syrinx sitting in beautiful rural surroundings.44 That
herdsman is Cadmus by his poor hut made of reeds,45 under an oak in a forest
with grazing land in it (411, 419–420), watching his herds of sheep, goats and
cattle as he plays (408–420):
44 In a typically pastoral attitude: see Vian (1976) 160 (on Dion. 1.411); Gerlaud (1994) 46 n. 2.
45 Vian (1976) 158 (on Dion. 1.371) emphasizes that huts similar to the one described by
Nonnus were really used in Cilicia.
Ὣς εἰπὼν κερόεντι πανείκελος ἔσσυτο ταύρῳ,

ἔνθεν ὄρος πέλε Ταῦρος ἐπώνυμον.—Ὀξὺ δὲ τείνων
Κάδμος ὁμοφθόγγων δονάκων ἀπατήλιον ἠχώ, 410
κλίνας γείτονι νῶτον ὑπὸ δρυῒ φορβάδος ὕλης
καὶ φορέων ἄγραυλον ἀληθέος εἷμα νομῆος,
πέμπε Τυφαονίῃσι δολοπλόκον ὕμνον ἀκουαῖς
οἰδαλέῃ φύσημα παρηίδι λεπτὸν ἰάλλων.
Ἔνθα Γίγας φιλάοιδος ἐχιδναίῳ ποδὸς ὁλκῷ 415
ἄνθορεν εἰσαΐων δόλιον μέλος· ἔνδοθι δ’ ἄντρου
ὅπλα Διὸς φλογόεντα λιπὼν παρὰ μητέρι Γαίῃ
τερψινόου σύριγγος ἐδίζετο γείτονα μολπήν
ἑσπόμενος μελέεσσιν. Ἰδὼν δέ μιν ἐγγύθι λόχμης
Κάδμος, ἅτε τρομέων, ὑπὸ ῥωγάδι κεύθετο πέτρῃ. 420
But Cadmos tuned up the deceitful notes of his harmonious reeds, as he

reclined under a neighbouring tree in the pasturing woodland; wearing
the country garb of a real herdsman, he sent the deluding tune to
Typhaon’s ears, puffing his cheeks to blow the soft breath. The Giant
loved music, and when he heard this delusive melody, he leapt up and
dragged along his viperish feet; he left in a cave the flaming weapons of
Zeus with Mother Earth to keep them, and followed the notes to seek the
neighbouring tune of the pipes which delighted his soul. There he was
seen by Cadmos near the bushes, who was sore afraid and hid in a cleft of
the rock.
However, the idyllic scene only exists in Typhon’s imagination. That is particu-
larly saliently demonstrated by Typhon’s somewhat absurd offer to contend
with Cadmus in a friendly (sic!) agon: the monster will play the thunder and
lightning, with Cadmus playing the pipes (439–447):
Στήσω δ’, ἢν ἐθέλῃς, φιλίην ἔριν· ἀλλά σὺ μέλπων

πέμπε μέλος δονακῶδες, ἐγὼ βρονταῖον ἀράσσω· 440
πνεύματι μὲν σφριγόωσαν ἔχων προβλῆτα παρειήν
φυσιάᾳς στομάτεσσιν, ἱμασσόμενοι δὲ Βορῆος
ἄσθματι φυσητῆρος ἐμοὶ βρομέουσι κεραυνοί.—
Βουκόλε, μισθὸν ἔχεις σέο πηκτίδος· οὐράνιον γάρ
ἀντὶ Διὸς σκηπτοῦχος ὅτε θρόνον ἡνιοχεύσω, 445
ἑσπόμενον μετὰ γαῖαν ἐς αἰθέρα καὶ σὲ κομίσσω
αὐτῇ ὁμοῦ σύριγγι καί, ἢν ἐθέλῃς, ἅμα ποίμνῃ.—
410 Lasek
Let’s have a friendly match, if you like. Come on, you make music and
sound your reedy tune, I will crash my thundery tune. You puff our your
cheek all swollen with wind, and blow with your lips, but Boreas is my
blower, and my thunderbolts boom when his breath flogs them. Drover, I
will pay you for your pipes: for when I shall hold the sceptre instead of
Zeus, and drive the heavenly throne, you shall come with me; leave the
earth and I will bring you to heaven pipes and all, with your flock too if
you like, you shall not be parted from your herd.
For in fact, Cadmus’ song is nothing but a coldly calculated war trap. So it is
with the idyll’s main character the herdsman Cadmus: he also exists for one
other character only, that is for Typhon, as the reader knows full well what that
‘false herdsman’, as Nonnus himself terms him, is (Ψευδαλέον δὲ βοτήρα . . . |
Ζεὺς καλέσας, 376–377). I should also add that the episode features actual
herdsmen as well, both from the perspective of Typhon and other characters
of the Dionysiaca, and from that of the readers. One is the goatherd Pan (368);
the other, as mentioned above, is Zeus as the herdsman of the cosmos (389).
Other participants in the cosmic conflict (that is, Zeus, Cadmus, Pan and Eros)
are aware of the fictional character of the bucolic situation, but they lack the
complete perspective of the reader, who, knowing the idyllic atmosphere for
a mere illusion the best of all, forms a third audience group all by themselves.
Still, paradoxical as that may seem, an educated reader of the Dionysiaca
will see in the text even more bucolic elements than the monster does. Thus
one is probably justified in supposing that the genological convention applied
by the poet is even clearer to the reader than it is to Typhon, as that reader
observes the genus mixtum,46 and the typical pastoral situation: the enchan-
ting surroundings (411), the herdsman with his herd (368, 376, 427, and 513),
the erotic motifs (516–534),47 the musical agon at playing the flute and the
46 The genus mixtum encompasses both narrative (1.344–377, 408–426, 481–485, and 507–
534) and dialogs between two characters at a time (Zeus’ speech in 1.378–407, Typhon’s in
1.427–480, and Cadmus’ in 1.486–506).
47 The passage features as men in love Typhon and a youth, who appears in the simile high-
lighting the monster’s fascination with music. Namely, he is as enchanted with it as a
bridegroom admiring the charms of his beloved. The fascinating music is even compared
by Nonnus to the song of Sirens (2.9–19). On the subject of the power of music see also
Fayant (2001) 73–74; Newbold (2003b); Hardie (2007). Gigli Piccardi (2003) 180–181 sees
heroic-comical elements in the comparison of the monster to a young man.
thunder,48 and the deities typical of the bucolic, that is Eros, Pan and Apollo
(364, 378). Of course, the reader is all the time aware that the ‘friendly’ agon
(439)49 does not exist outside of the monster’s mind; the prizes, too, are very
different from what he imagines. Typhon does not know that by entering the
conflict he prepares his own doom or that the real stake is his life, but the
reader does. The monster is convinced that it is he that establishes the rules
and rewards the prizes in the agon, yet he is very wrong.
The selected passage clearly stands out from its surrounding descriptions of
war through its serene, idyllic mood even if it is false. While the first impres-
sion is that the poet places an idyll amid military action for artistic varietas
(ποικιλία) and to grant a moment of respite to the reader weary with conti-
nuous participation in war, inserting the idyll into the account of the Zeus-
Typhon conflict can also be understood as Nonnus playing around50 with the
literary tradition in the broad sense of the words, as he invokes a genre known
to his audiences since hundreds of years before, that is, the bucolic. His idyll
meets, or rather appears to meet, the genre’s formal criteria, and so also the
expectations of the reader who looks forward to a brief interlude between
stretches of martial tumult.
One must note, however, that that is but a masterly attempt at cheating
the reader: the idyllic passage (1.362–534) presents the account of the Zeus-
Typhon conflict so that the idyll becomes an indispensable, or even crucial,
point in that conflict. It is exactly in one of the aforementioned lines of the
48 That traditional bucolic motif is here applied for the purpose of parody, as noted by
Tissoni in Del Corno (1997–2005) I, 225 n. 51: ‘Tifone, oltre a essere “amatore del canto”,
si presenta ora addirittura come musicista . . . proponendo a Cadmo una vera e propria
sfida musicale. Ne nasce così una divertente parodia di un topos caratteristico del genere
bucolico: Tifone si atteggia come un pastore teocriteo che, incontrato per via un collega,
non resiste alla tentazione di sfidarlo per dimostrare la propria superiorità nel canto (cfr.
Teocrito, 6, 5; 8, 1; passim).’
49 There is a second reference to an agon in Cadmus’ fictitious tale of how he defeated
Apollo in a contest of music (1.489–492).
50 Harries (1994) 63: ‘Pastoral themes and motifs are among the more easily identifiable ele-
ments to be found in a wide range of poems, epic, dramatic, and bucolic, and it is now
an established approach to explore the ways in which their function can be analysed and
differentiated in, say, Hesiod and Theocritus, Homer and Aristophanes. The Dionysiaca
deserves more consideration in this respect than it has so far received, since in Nonnus
we have a poet who shows us what he thinks “Pastoral” means and does not mean, why
it is still (for him) important, how it can be integrated with other elements derived (with
acknowledgement) from Homer and Pindar’.
412 Lasek
text that the duel between good and evil takes place; it is here, in the idyllic
pastoral atmosphere, that the power of the usurper meets its downfall. In that
way the Panopolitan once again demonstrates his great art: he applies the most
peaceful of genres for martial purposes, thus reversing the order of things as
we know it. One can probably risk the claim that, at the same time as Cadmus
deceives Typhon, Nonnus lays a trap for his reader.51 By invoking a whole arse-
nal of bucolic motifs and using exceptionally inexact language (the bucolic
references are many, but the poet is inconsistent,52 adducing a different pasto-
ral instrument every few lines53), he distracts the readers and lulls them into a
false sense of security, allowing them to forget for a while that the fight for the
destiny of the universe is raging on.
3 Epigrammatic Poetry
Even though it might seem that the epigram, a genre short and concise from its
very nature, is quite opposed to the artistic principles of Nonnus’ long-winded
epic poem, it actually holds a prominent place in it. The Dionysiaca contains a
few dozen epigrams54 of varying subject matter and length, leading to a num-
ber of attempts at systematizing them. In this chapter, however, I shall discuss
a rather special subgroup of those, that is such Dionysiaca epigrams as reveal
games played by Nonnus with his reader. For greater clarity, they are below
arranged according to the order in which they appear in the poem.
51 On the subject of methods of deceiving the reader as early as Homer, see Morrison
(1992) 1–10.
52 Harries (1994) 66–67 cites another examples; Cadmus’ herds, for instance, are now sheep,
now goats.
53 Cf. Harries (1994) 68. As Harries is right to note, charming or deceiving through music
plays a crucial role in the poem. By enchanting Typhon with his music, Cadmus saves
the world from total chaos. At the same time, both Typhon’s defeat and the motif drawn
by Nonnus from the Odyssey, namely that of the fate brought on the sailors by the Sirens
(2.11–19), warn the reader of the tragic consequences of the trap set by the poet.
54 Even so, it should be remembered that many of those passages have been numbered
among instances of genres other than the epigram. Sepulchral epigrams: 2.629–630,
11.476–477, 15.361–362, and 46.318–319; erotic: 15.297–302 (Gonnelli 2003, 212 considers
that passage a prayer), 29.39–44, and 34.292–296; others: 2.304, 8.250, 15.286, 19.104–105,
21.40, 30.185, 33.262, and 48.748.
The first epigram of that type comes up in Zeus’ speech directed at the defe-
ated Typhon, in which the King of Heaven warns his opponent not to rise up
against the Olympians again (2.625–630):55
Ἔμπης, εἰ νόον ἔσχες ὑπέρβιον, εἰ δὲ καὶ αὐτῷ 625

ἐλπίσιν ἀπρήκτοισιν ἐπεσκίρτησας Ὀλύμπῳ,
τεύξω σοι, πανάποτμε, κενήριον, ὑστάτιον δέ
σὸν κενεὸν παρὰ τύμβον, ἀτάσθαλε, τοῦτο χαράξω·
‘Γηγενέος τόδε σῆμα Τυφωέος, ὅν ποτε πέτροις
αἰθέρα μαστίζοντα κατέφλεγεν αἰθέριον πῦρ.’ 630
Nevertheless, if you did have an over-violent mind, if you did assault

Olympos itself in your impracticable ambitions, I will build you a ceno-
taph, presumptuous wretch, and I will engrave on your empty tomb, this
last message: ‘This is the barrow of Typhoeus son of Earth, who once
lashed the sky with stones, and the fire of heaven burnt him up.’
This place draws on all the important traditions of the sepulchral epigram. The
very first piece of information listed is the origin of the person buried: ‘son of
Earth’.56 Yet the name of the monster’s father57 is omitted, even though tra-
dition required the patronymic, not matronymic, as the basic way to indicate
somebody’s family and social standing.58 Right after Typhon’s matronymic
comes the deictic formula indicating the tomb (τόδε σῆμα) and the dead per-
son’s name (Τυφωέος). The remainder of the epigram recounts the circumstan-
ces and cause of the monster’s death.
While formally, the lines under discussion fully meet the criteria for a sepul-
chral epigram, it is worth noting that Nonnus uses the genre in a most subver-
sive way. First, it is not an actual epigram as much as a ‘potential’ one, a draft
of what the king of the gods means to engrave on the cenotaph. Second, that
mock sepulchral epigram does not serve to express sorrow or pity for Typhon’s
55 The discussion of 2.625–630 in this paper is an edited version of its analysis in Lasek
(2009) 73–75.
56 1.154, 417, 483, 2.241, 264, 336, 555, 631, 637, 643.
57 The ancients were not in agreement on Typhon’s origins. He was usually regarded as the
youngest son of Tartarus and Gaia (Hes. Th. 821–822).
58 Cf. e.g. Hom. Il. 5.243, 10.555, 16.22.
414 Lasek
death; on the contrary, it expresses joy and satisfaction with victory, crowning
as it does the derisive speech of Zeus the Victor.59
There is another interesting reference to the epigrammatic tradition in the
passage recounting Actaeon’s death (5.287–532).60 Appearing after his death
to his grandfather Cadmus, Actaeon asks him to sculpt him a statue of a deer
bearing a human face. His arrows and sword are to be planted next to his grave.
He also asks Cadmus not to furnish the stone with any inscription telling of his
misfortune, since passers-by would be unable to weep for his fate and his looks
at the same time (5.531–532). Against that request his mother Autonoe, having
collected his mortal remains, decides to place on his tomb an inscription
(5.545–551) describing his fate:
Ὀστέα δ’ ἔνθα καὶ ἔνθα χυτῇ μεμερισμένα γαίῃ, 545

λείψανα πεπτηῶτα, μόγις συνελέξατο μήτηρ·
καὶ φιλίῃ παλάμῃ γλυκερὴν πήχυνε κεραίην·
καὶ κύσεν αἰνομόροιο δασύτριχα χείλεα νεβροῦ.
Ὀξὺ δὲ κωκύουσα νέκυν τυμβεύσατο μήτηρ,
πάντα δέ οἱ παρὰ τύμβον ἐπέγραφεν, ὅσσα τοκῆι 550
ἔννυχος Ἀκταίωνος ὀνειρείη φάτο φωνή.
With much trouble the mother gathered the fallen relics, bones scattered
here and there over the strewn earth. She clasped the sweet horn with
loving hand, and kissed the hairy lips of the bloodstained fawn. Wailing
loudly the mother entombed the dead, and carved along the tomb all that
the voice in a dream of the night had told Actaion’s father.
The above text contains many elements typical of Dionysiaca epigrammatic

passages, such as the characteristic expression which usually introduces sepul-
chral inscriptions (τύμβον ἐπέγραφεν, 550), as well as the motif of a passer-by
who will mourn the fate of the dead buried there.61 But although Nonnus men-
tions the epigram inscribed on Actaeon’s tomb, with his characteristic perver-
sity he fails to include it in his work. The suspicion comes to mind that he does
59 See Vian (1976) 188–189 (on Dion. 2.630): the epigram is a paraphrase of Hector’s words
in Il. 7.89–90, taunting the Achaeans to fight with a ‘hypothetical’ epigram for a man he
would defeat. No doubt such Homeric reminiscences make the monster into a more
heroic character.
60 The discussion of 5.545–551 is an edited version of its analysis in Lasek (2009) 80–81. Also
analysed in Harries (1994) 70–71.
61 Analysed in Tueller (2010).
so in order to fulfil Actaeon’s request, against which Autonoe had the lines
engraved. It might seem that Nonnus contradicts himself: although he aims
at bloating his work to the greatest proportions possible,62 in that passage he
ignores an opportunity to once more flaunt his skill at composing epigrams.
Paradoxically, one must admit that he surprises the reader here; this time not
by smuggling a shorter form into his epos but, quite the other way round, by
omitting it.
Many of the passages of the Dionysiaca which scholars consider epigram-
matic could be, or actually are, inscriptions on pieces of art or some other
objects.63 One special epigram of this kind is to be found in Book 20, which
recounts the events of the Indian expedition. Its participants include Botrys,
his mother Methe, and their servant Pithos. The latter will later be rewarded
for serving Dionysus: jars used to store wine will bear his name. It is those jars
that, if they could but speak, would say (20.137–141):
Εἰμὶ Πίθος, προτέροιο φερώνυμος, ἄγχι δὲ ληνοῦ

δέχνυμαι ἡμερίδων γλυκερὸν ῥόον· Ἀσσυρίου δέ
λάτρις ἐγὼ Σταφύλου καὶ Βότρυος, ἀμφοτέρους δέ
νηπιάχους ἔθρεψα γέρων τροφός· εἰσέτι δ’ ἄμφω, 140
οἶα πάλιν ζώοντας, ἐμαῖς λαγόνεσσιν ἀείρω.
I am Pithos, named after the old one, and here beside the winepress I
receive the sweet juice of the garden-grapes. I was the servant of Assyrian
Staphylos and Botrys; I was the old nurse who cared for them both as
children, and I still carry them both upon my hips, as if they were still
alive.
In the above passage it is worth noting its introductory formula καὶ εἰ βροτέην
λάχε φωνήν, | τοῖον ἔπος Σατύροισιν ἐρεύγετο κῶμον ἀκούων (‘If it had human
voice it would bellow such words as these to the Satyrs when it heard the revel’,
20.135–136), which sets it apart from its context.64 The text can be considered
a votive epigram based on the circumstances which make it possible for it to
be associated with a communicative situation typical of the votive epigram
62 Collart (1913) 133: ‘Jamais le Panopolitain n’a perdu une occasion de glisser une épigramme’.
63 More examples in Lasek (2009) 82–87.
64 For more examples of epigrams on objects in the Dionysiaca, see Montes Cala (2009)
330–338.
416 Lasek
(or possibly sepulchral epigram65), where a person, such as a passer-by, notices

a work of art or a tomb66 and reads the inscription on it aloud.
To fully understand the passage, it is crucial to note the ambiguity brought
about by the names Pithos, Staphylus and Botrys. Pretending to be uttered
by Pithos after he was turned into a vessel,67 the text could just as well be an
inscription on a jar used for storing wine. The lines that follow continue that
wordplay of names, Staphylus (grape) and Botrys (bunch of grapes), becoming
ambiguous as well. There is an aetiological explanation for Staphylus and
Botrys in 19.44–58, whereas the aetiology of Pithos can be found in the epigram
under discussion.68
All this play on words means that the epigram can be read two ways. Firstly,
it is a recollection of the old slave who took care of Staphylus and Botrys, car-
rying them on his hips. And secondly, there is the image of jars draped in vines,
supported by them now as the children were in the past. Thanks to his rela-
tionship to other characters in the epic, Pithos is firmly part of it himself, and
simultaneously, by evoking the image familiar from wine growing, he is closely
connected to the life circumstances of the audience.
4 Hymnic Poetry
It was very early on that scholars69 noticed that Nonnus had incorporated
hymns into his great work. From the start, too, it was difficult to clearly distin-
guish the hymns from other laudatory pieces, such as encomia or prayers.70 The
Dionysiaca contains passages which could almost be regarded as independent
hymnic works71 (such as the hymn to Heracles Astrochiton in 40.369–410),
65 On the subject of sepulchral epigrams, see Peek (1960) 1–42.
66 Hopkinson (1994b) 189 (on Dion. 20.127–128) notes that beginning with the third century ce
the winepress (ληνός) was related to the funeral; there were also sarcophagi in that shape,
conceived of as a promise of resurrection. It is possible that there are echoes of similar
symbolism in this epigram.
67 So interpreted by Hopkinson (1994b) 8.
68 Hopkinson (1994b) 188–189 (on Dion. 20.127–128) draws attention to the description of
Pithos which prepares the ground for that transformation. Pithos’ place in Dionysus’ cor-
tege is at the end, just like that of the real winejars carried in the procession.
69 Dilthey (1872), quoted by Braun (1915) 5; Braun (1915). See also Tissoni (1998) 142 and Lasek
(2009) 15–70.
70 Braun (1915) 7.
71 For information about the structure of a hymn, see Furley (1998) esp. 788–791 (‘I. Der
griechische Hymnos’).
as well as passages marked by the presence of a varying number of hymnic

elements.72 The latter include, among others, Aphrodite’s request to Eros in
41.408–427.73
The aforementioned passage belongs to Book 41, which contains the ac
count of the birth of the beautiful Beroe,74 daughter of Aphrodite and Adonis.
Beroe’s mother wishes to found a city of the same name, which will one day be
famous for its school of law,75 so she seeks out Harmonia to learn which of the
cities of the earth will be allotted the fame of jurisprudence. Upon her return
Aphrodite sets her son Eros in her lap and amid caresses asks him to make
Dionysus and Poseidon both fall for the lovely Beroe; for that boon she also
promises him as a reward a golden harp which will from now on be an attribute
of his.76 In order to get her way, she addresses her son as follows (408–427):
Ἐλπὶς ὅλου βιότοιο, παραίφασις Ἀφρογενείης,

νηλειὴς ἐμὰ τέκνα βιήσατο μοῦνα Κρονίων·
ἐννέα γὰρ πλήσασα μογοστόκα κύκλα Σελήνης 410
δριμὺ βέλος μεθέπουσα δυηπαθέος τοκετοῖο
Ἁρμονίην ἐλόχευσα, καὶ ἄλγεα ποικίλα πάσχει
ἀχνυμένη· κούρην δὲ μογοστόκον ἔλλαχε Λητώ,
Ἄρτεμιν Εἰλείθυιαν, ἀρηγόνα θηλυτεράων.
Τέκνον Ἀμυμώνης ὁμογάστριον, οὔ σε διδάξω, 415
ὡς λάχον ἐξ ἁλὸς αἷμα καὶ αἰθέρος· ἀλλὰ τελέσσαι
ἤθελον ἄξιον ἔργον, ὅπως παρὰ μητρὶ θαλάσσῃ
οὐρανόθεν γεγαυῖα καὶ οὐρανὸν ἐν χθονὶ πήξω.—
Ἀλλὰ κασιγνήτης ἐπὶ κάλλεϊ σεῖο τιταίνων
72 Braun (1915) 9–57 analyses other hymns and prayers including those to Athena (37.320–
323), Heracles Astrochiton (40.369–410), the city of Beroe (41.143–154), Selene (44.191–216).
73 Commentary ad loc. in Accorinti (2004) 223–225; also Chuvin/Fayant (2006) 170. According
to Braune (1948) 189–190, the scene could be modeled on Ovid’s Metamorphoses 5.366–
371. For the relationship between the Metamorphoses and the Dionysiaca, see also Braune
(1935) and Paschalis (2014).
74 Chuvin (1991) 196–197 sees two hymns in honour of Beroe: 41.14–17 and 41.143–154. An
analysis of passages connected to her story is to be found in Accorinti (1997) and (2004)
157–335; Chuvin/Fayant (2006) 10–28; Lasek (2009) 63–70.
75 Beroe or Berytus, later Beirut. The etymology of the city’s name is an interesting research
problem: it has been derived from a Phoenician word for a well, in an allusion to the
famous wells of the city; or else it is supposedly related to cypress trees. There is a whole
paper on the subject by Accorinti (1995–1996). See also Accorinti (2004) 216–218 and
Chuvin/Fayant (2006) 27–28.
76 For the legend of Beroe see Accorinti (2004) 157–171; Bajoni (2003) 197 –198; Drbal (2012).
418 Lasek
θέλγε θεούς, καὶ μᾶλλον ἴσον βέλος εἰν ἑνὶ θεσμῷ 420
πέμπε Ποσειδάωνι καὶ ἀμπελόεντι Λυαίῳ,
ἀμφοτέροις μακάρεσσιν· ἐγὼ δέ σοι ἄξια μόχθων
δῶρον ἑκηβολίης ἐπεοικότα μισθὸν ὀπάσσω·
δώσω σοι χρυσέην γαμίην χέλυν, ἣν παρὰ παστῷ
Ἁρμονίῃ πόρε Φοῖβος, ἐγὼ δέ σοι ἐγγυαλίξω 425
ἄστεος ἐσσομένου μνημήιον, ὄφρά κεν εἴης
καὶ μετὰ τοξευτῆρα λυροκτύπος, ὥς περ Ἀπόλλων.
You hope of all life! You cajoler of the Foamborn! Cronion is a cruel tyrant
to my children alone! After nine full months of hard travail I brought
forth Harmonia, suffering the bitter pangs of painful childbirth; and now
she suffers all sorts of grief and tribulation. But Leto has borne Artemis
Eileithyia, the Lady of Travail, the ally of woman-kind. You Amymone’s
brother, son of the same mother, need not to be told how I got my blood
from brine and ether; but I would perform a worthy deed, and being born
of heaven, I will plant heaven on earth beside the sea my mother. Come
then—for your sister’s beauty draw your bow and bewitch the gods, or
say, shoot one shaft and hit with the same shot Poseidon and vinegod
Lyaios, Blessed Ones both. I will give you a gift for your long shot which
will be a proper wage worthy of your feat—I will give you the marriage
harp of gold, which Phoibos gave to Harmonia at the door of the bridal
chamber; I will place it in your hands in memory of a city to be, that you
may be not only an archer, but a harpist, just like Apollo.
The passage under discussion contains numerous references to the traditional

structural patter of the hymn. The first line, in which Eros is addressed directly
(Ἐλπὶς ὅλου βιότοιο, παραίφασις Ἀφρογενείης, 408) can be considered equivalent
to the hymn’s indispensable apostrophe (invocatio). There is certainly some
deviation from the traditional hymnic pattern in that the name of the god invo-
ked, Eros, is omitted, and he is instead addressed with epithets. The term used
in the same line (408) for his mother, Ἀφρογενεία, has two crucial functions to
play. First it can be considered a genealogical term, referring as it does to the
birth of Eros’ mother Aphrodite. And second, it foreshadows77 a later passage
(415–417), where Aphrodite recounts the story of her origins in more detail.
77 In hymns, epithets may foreshadow themes and subject matter. The poet may also refer
back to the epithets applied initially in the hymn when constructing short scenes or epic
depictions.
The pars media is replaced by a series of short images inserted into the
goddess’s supplication (409–422), separated by another apostrophe to Eros
(415). The first of those (409–412) depicts the cruel Cronides persecuting the
offspring of the goddess of love (409) and her hardships in awaiting the birth
of Harmonia, and mentions the torments of the latter as a grown woman (410–
412). The images all seem to prepare the ground for the request the goddess will
have for her son in the second part. That second part (413–422) contains the
mention of Aphrodite’s birth.
At line 415 there is another invocation to Eros, this time referred to via his
family relationship, as Aphrodite addresses him as her child (Τέκνον), addu-
cing also the name of her daughter, and Eros’ sister, Amymone (Ἀμυμώνης
ὁμογάστριον78), known also as Beroe. The epithets used here for the god of
desire emphasize the nymph’s close relations both with the suppliant (her
mother Aphrodite) and the god Eros (an adjective highlighting the obvious
fact that they have come from the same womb), something that appears to
particularly motivate Eros to help both his sister and mother.
After this invocation the goddess applies the technique of apparent evasion,
that is the formula οὔ σε διδάξω (‘I shall not instruct you’, 415), inserting a short
genealogical note on herself. That (slightly subversive) reference to the hym-
nic tradition makes mention of the origins of both Aphrodite (416) and Eros.
Then there is another reference to her birth story at lines 417–418. In the first
of those the goddess expresses herself in most general terms, saying she comes
from the sky and the sea; in the other, she is more specific, calling the sea her
mother and herself ‘skyborn’, referring to the well-known myth of her birth
in the waters of the sea after Kronos threw in it the severed genitals of his
father Uranus. In that context there is double meaning to the word οὐρανόθεν:
it expresses both her descent from Uranus and her divinity (or, heavenliness).
At the same time, the lines in question are an aetiology for Aphrodite’s epithet
‘Foamborn’ (παραίφασις Ἀφρογενείης, 408).
At line 418 Nonnus again makes use of the ambiguity of οὐρανός, here
emphasized by applying it twice in the same line (οὐρανόθεν γεγαυῖα καὶ οὐρανὸν
ἐν χθονὶ πήξω79), in a reference to the city of Beroe that Aphrodite means to
found. The function of the word is likewise twofold: to underscore the glory
and beauty of the city to come, and to foreshadow Berytus as the seat of deities
and thus a ‘heaven’ of a kind. That is confirmed in 41.143–149, where a dozen or
more synonymous expressions term Beroe the home of various gods. It should
also be noted that in the passage in question Aphrodite prepares the ground,
78 Accorinti (2004) 224 notes that ὁμογάστριος appears twice in Homer (Il. 21.95 and 24.97).
79 The wordplay of οὐρανόθεν/οὐρανόν was noticed by Accorinti (2004) 224.
420 Lasek
so to speak, for her request: at first, she is quite enigmatic when revealing to
her son her plans for accomplishing a great work (417), the above-mentioned
‘heaven on earth’.
In the second part (413–422) one finds the genealogical mention referring
to the descent of the goddess of love, and the supplication (precatio, 419–422),
containing the two imperatives (θέλγε and πέμπε) which are her request proper:
Eros is to charm the god of wine and the god of the sea (θέλγε θεούς), shooting
them both with an identical arrow (ἴσον βέλος), one that kindles the fire of love.
Analyzing the passage demonstrates that Beroe is to be understood on two
levels in the hymn, as a city and as Aphrodite’s daughter. The goddess’s purpose
is twofold as well, since on the one hand she means to found the city of Beroe,
and on the other, to marry her daughter off. However, she only asks Eros for the
latter boon (422–427).
Towards the end of the hymn, Nonnus deviates from that genre’s typical
schema by not using any standard hymn-ending formula; instead, there is
Aphrodite’s promise to richly reward Eros’ labour (423–427). The promise of a
reward occupies a large part (almost a fourth) of the hymnic passage. In return
for his work, the god of love is to receive a golden lyre, which the author epithe-
tizes as ‘nuptial’ or ‘marital’ (γαμίην χέλυν). At line 425, as the poet mentions
the golden lyre, he refers back to the Apollo’s gift to Harmonia given her on the
day of her marriage as recounted in Book 5 of the Dionysiaca; that, however,
was not a golden musical instrument, he notes, but a bow (5.130).80
It is worth noting that none of the epithets and terms for Eros discussed
above have the typical laudatory function, and yet they indirectly praise the
power of the god as the cause of love. It should be remembered that by asking
her divine son for help in enflaming Poseidon’s and Dionysus’ hearts, Aphrodite
in a sense admits his superiority when it comes to arousing love. That seems to
be confirmed by another expression for Eros in the text, Ἐλπὶς ὅλου βιότοιο (‘the
only hope of life’, 41.408), which appears to be of particular importance in the
light of its prominent position (at the very beginning of the supplication), as
the question arises as to whose life Eros is actually supposed to be the hope of.
The above analysis of 41.408–427 makes it possible to conclude that the pas-
sage contains many elements characteristic of the hymn, but also of prayer,81
intentionally leaving the reader uncertain of its genre.
80 As pointed out by Accorinti (2004) 225.

81 For information about prayer, see Graf (1998).
5 Conclusions
Even an analysis as short as this is enough to surmise that both inserting

instances of specific genres into the work and alluding to them are among the
most characteristic features of Nonnus’ poem.82 The author shapes his text
so as to evoke in the reader associations with various traditional genres, but
the allusions and references are there not merely in order to demonstrate his
extensive erudition. Analysing even select passages indicates that the poet
of the Dionysiaca follows an intentional compositional strategy, playing aro-
und with the literary conventions his readers know. For it is only an educated
reader familiar with the literary tradition that stands a chance to absorb the
epic in all its wealth of genological allusions. And so, the author of this mare
magnum intersperses it with passages which follow the convention of their
intended genre faithfully, others which fall on the line between genres, and still
others which intentionally invert the convention. The example of 1.362–534
clearly shows how sophisticated his game with the reader can get. While the
poet preserves all the elements ascribed to the genre in question, he puts them
together in an unusual and surprising manner only to prove elsewhere in the
epic that he can write passages in accordance with the principles of that genre
as well. For in the Dionysiaca genres and their elements have lost their original
function and serve to create an epic subordinate to the principle of ποικιλία, or
diversity. Thus it will probably be no exaggeration to claim that Nonnus all but
exhausted the possibilities afforded him by the concept of combining genres,
and so created a new whole, this manifold song in honour of Dionysus.
82 D’Ippolito (1964) 41.

chapter 19
Nonnus’ Poetics
‘Con la parola “poetica” si vogliono essenzialmente indicare la consapevolezza

critica che il poeta ha della propria natura artistica, il suo ideale estetico, il
suo programma, i modi secondo i quali si propone di costruire. . . . Nel cogliere
il divario fra la poetica e la poesia, fra il programma e la realizzazione effet-
tiva, sta il compito essenziale del critico. Studiare quindi la poetica di un poeta
significa afferrare il centro della sua “ars” e insieme la qualità della sua per-
sonale sensibilità.’ Using these words, Walter Binni in the introduction to his
critical essay La poetica del decadentismo italiano defines, with his usual admi-
rable clarity, the point of research on poetics.1 The difficult task of identifying
the conflict between the poet’s programmatic statements and their becoming
poetry is left to the scholar, this being projected against the background of lit-
erary taste and of the aesthetical ideas emerging from the philosophical reflec-
tion on art in a particular historical period. Therefore, in order to penetrate
into the varied Dionysiac world of Nonnus, I think it is important to begin by
taking a look at the important developments imparted by Neoplatonic phi-
losophy, not only in the conception of art2 but also in the literary critics.
1 Neoplatonic Poetics and the Dionysiaca
In the commentaries on Plato and in the exegesis of Homer’s poetry from

Iamblichus to Proclus, Hermias, and Olympiodorus, a remarkable refinement
of literary survey methods came about. The study of the main meaning of the
Platonic dialogue and the research of its unity led to the formulating of the-
ories which were very different from the ones in use in style (or rhetorical)
criticism. We may say that the personality of the author is increasingly in the
spotlight, and equally so are the mental mechanisms of his inspiration,3 the
purpose which his work aims to achieve, the relationship of the structure of
1 Binni (1936) 1–2.

2 Panofsky (1973) 1–32 and Grabar (1992) esp. 29–87 (‘Plotin et les origines de l’esthétique
médiéval’, an essay originally published in 1945 in CArch 1, 15–34), also Sheppard (1980).
3 Coulter (1976) 1–32 and Gigli Piccardi (2014).

Nonnus ’ Poetics 423
the work itself with that of reality. The narration and the style of the dialogue
are no longer appreciated as appropriate register of the characters, but as man-
ifestations of the τέλος which is in the mind of the writer. Starting from the
organismic vision of the λόγος which Plato makes explicit in Phdr. 264c,4
the equivalence of Platonic dialogue to the best of the living beings, i.e. the
cosmos, is achieved.5 So the writer becomes a real demiurge who no longer
creates by imitating the models of the sensible reality, but rather by looking
at those of the intelligible world; the figure of the demiurge in the Timaeus6
was extremely important in determining the intuition of the analogy between
microscosmus and macrocosmus. In this perspective, also the methods used in
the interpretation of a text are subject to change, so the same criteria of study
suitable for an analysis of the physical and metaphysical world may also be
applied here. The exegesis will highlight the unity of a work beyond the variety
that characterizes the texture, a unity that corresponds to the σκοπός in the
mind of the writer, involving events, characters, place and time of action as
well as the style of the text analyzed. But since the universe, as it is conceived
by the Neoplatonists, is rigidly hierarchical, every element must be considered
not only in relation to the Unity, but also to the various levels of reality shared.
Hence an important consequence derives, namely that every element of a
text is only the lowest of a series of levels. This authorizes the interpreter to
point out various meanings which are not mutually exclusive, but which are
on the contrary a manifestation of the stratification of the reality: all this justi-
fies the conceptual density of a text. If we export this exegetical method from
the philosophical field and from its application to the commentaries on the
Platonic dialogues to the literary field, legitimacy of a recurrent datum of the
late antique poetry follows, i.e. its polisemy.
Another interesting element emerging in the thought of the Neoplatonists
on the psychological mechanisms of the imagination at various levels (proph-
ecy, dreams and so on) is the sacralization of the φαντασία (or better the
φανταστικόν in order to avoid the confusion with the meaning of ‘image’), since
it may be directly inspired by the intelligible gods. From the hints of Plutarch
and Philostratus, through Synesius’ De insomniis and Iamblichus’ theorization,
this idea reaches Hermias, who in his commentary on the Phaedrus extends the
possibility of a divine inspiration to the lowest parts of the soul as far as θυμός
4 Ἀλλὰ τόδε γε οἶμαί σε φάναι ἄν, δεῖν πάντα λόγον ὥσπερ ζῷον συνεστάναι σῶμά τι ἔχοντα αὐτὸν
αὐτοῦ, ὥστε μήτε ἀκέφαλον εἶναι μήτε ἄπουν, ἀλλὰ μέσα τε ἔχειν καὶ ἄκρα, πρέποντα ἀλλήλοις καὶ
τῷ ὅλῳ γεγραμμένα.
5 For a brief history of this image see Gigli Piccardi (1987a).
6 Coulter (1976) 96 and Regali (2012) 148 ff.
424 Gigli Piccardi
and ἐπιθυμία, citing examples of this eventuality not from the divination, as is
traditional, but from the visual arts.7 We may say that the artist becomes ever
more conscious of the creative act and of the psychological mechanisms that
determine it;8 his being a prophet, a traditional idea beginning from Pindar,
emerges better at the philosophical level and strengthens the experience of
the inspiration. All this grants to the artistic (and literary) product an impor-
tance that goes far beyond the exaltation expressed in the treatise On Sublimity
by Ps.-Longinus, who places it at the centre of a chain of timeless excellence, as
well as far beyond the important role given to it by Synesius in the educational
project outlined in his Dio. The idea of the sacred and of the divine bursts forth
at every level, making of the artist’s mind and his products a true meeting place
between man and divinity. It will then be the task of the exegete/philosopher
to decipher the theological meanings through the allegorical interpretation, as
if the text were a symbol of initiation in a vision of the culture that becomes a
sacred matter in an idealization of the past and of its talents.
From these few, essential concepts, expressed here in a very simplified form,
we may perceive some guidelines that will be useful in our survey of Nonnus’
poetics. First we must ask ourselves the following question: what meaning is to
be given to the conception of the longest poem in antiquity that, beyond the
intent to praise Dionysus, takes the shape of a universal history through the
medium of metamorphosis?9 Is it possible to acknowledge the Dionysiaca as a
consequence of the analogy of the literary work and the universe, a later evolu-
tion, as we noted, of the Platonic organicistic vision of literature? And, more-
over, what is the relationship between the principle of ποικιλία, the basic and
fundamental principle of Nonnus’ poetry, and this vision of the literary work?
In order to find the answers to these questions, we must first analyse the two
proems of the Dionysiaca, the places in which Nonnus expressed the main cri-
teria of his art with the intent to introduce the reader to the Dionysiac world.
2 The First Proem of the Dionysiaca: Nonnus and the Poikilia
In the proem to Book 1 it is immediately evident that the subject matter of

the poem will not be Dionysus tout court, but the fire of the lightning that
7 See Sheppard (1997) 201–10; Pizzone (2009) and (2011).

8 See Gigli Piccardi (2014) in relation to poetic inspiration in John of Gaza; on Nonnus see
ibid., 406.
9 For the Dionysiaca as a fresco of the history of mankind before and after the advent of
Dionysus, see Gigli Piccardi (2010) 259 ff.
provoked his birth. In the opening lines Nonnus, in fact, builds up some nota-
tions concerning light, so that it is shown as the true principal theme of the
Dionysiaca: 1 αἴθοπος εὐνῆς, 2 νυμφιδίῳ σπινθῆρι μογοστόκον ἄσθμα κεραυνοῦ,
3 καὶ στεροπήν up to the evocation of the birth of Athena from the head of Zeus,
10 τεύχεσιν ἀστράπτουσαν. I noted elsewhere10 how this beginning is in reso-
nance with the first lines of the Paraphrasis, where the Logos is defined ἐκ φάεος
φῶς (3) in a clear allusion to the Nicene Creed,11 to witness the syncretistic seal
that animates the two works. But at a formal structural level it is as if Nonnus
had wanted to propose, beyond the main character of his poem, a more gen-
eral theme able to absorb the huge mass of mythological material that thick-
ens in his lines, where the contrasts often emanate from the antinomy light/
darkness.12 In the anonymous sixth-century Prolegomena to the Philosophy of
Plato, in the part dedicated to questions concerning the unity of the dialogue
and to the rules given to the exegete in order to identify the purpose of the
dialogue itself, we find the suggestion to consider the more general theme of
dialogue to be preferable to a lesser one.13 Therefore we might be tempted to
see in this limelight granted to the light theme in the first proem, a deliberate
choice made by a poet who is accustomed to the criteria of the Neoplatonic
exegesis, which indeed favours the unity of the aim of a literary work beyond
the variety of the narrative and stylistic frame. The prominent position given to
this element, which comes before the name itself of Dionysus and also before
the statement of the dominant principle of the poem, i.e. the ποικιλία, leads
us to this belief. It is likely that all this has been thought up to avoid the nega-
tive evaluation of ποικιλία as aesthetic canon by the Neoplatonic philosophers.
Proclus especially stigmatized the variety, since, starting from the equivalence
literary work = cosmos and author = demiurge, the criteria informing the real-
ity have the same weight in literature: so as the One is the first principle in
the world, so in literature an unitary aim must dominate.14 It should be noted
that after Proclus this extremely negative opinion about the ποικιλία seems to
decrease because of the ever greater perception of the Platonic dialogue as
sum of the peculiarities of the universe. In a passage in his commentary on the
Alcibiades I (56.15–19 Westerink), Olympiodorus of Alexandria (c. 500–570),
after quoting the famous definition of the Phaedrus of the logos as ζῷον (264c),
10 Gigli Piccardi (2003) 50–51.

11 See De Stefani (2002) 108.
12 Gigli Piccardi (1985) 237–241.
13 See Coulter (1976) 83 (on § 21.37 ff.).
14 On Proclus and the ποικιλία see Lisi (2009); cf. also, for the literary environment, Coulter
(1976) 73 ff.
426 Gigli Piccardi
asserts: καὶ τὸν οὖν ἄριστα κατεσκευασμένον λόγον δεῖ τῷ ἀρίστῳ τῶν ζῴων ἐοικέναι.
ἄριστον δὲ ζῷον ὁ κόσμος· ὥσπερ οὖν οὗτος λειμών ἐστι ποικίλων ζῴων, οὕτω δεῖ καὶ
τὸν λόγον εἶναι πλήρη παντοδαπῶν προσώπων (‘It is necessary that the best made
logos be similar to the best of living beings and the best of living beings is the
cosmos. Just as this is a meadow of varied living beings, in the same way the
logos needs to be full of varied characters’). As we can see, here the ποικιλία is
seen as a ‘natural’ principle of a literary work without being remembered of its
subordination to a unitary principle.15
Also in rhetorical environment the stylistic canon of the ποικιλία binds itself
to the variety that the demiurge imparts to the cosmos. Drawing on the well-
known Platonic metaphor of the θαυμαστὸς σοφιστής (Resp. 596d) in his oration
68 (Ad persequendam in dicendo varietatem), Himerius first exemplifies the
concept through the Dionysiac polimorphy (68.5.30–36), then goes on to con-
sider the action of the demiurge (defined ὁ δὲ δὴ μέγας ἐν τῷ οὐρανῷ σοφιστής)
in the universe, by recalling all the atmospherical changes caused by the cycle
of the seasons (68.6.36–47). After this a variety is exemplified by the Homeric
description of Achilles’ shield in Il. 18, defined by Himerius τὸν Ὁμήρου λειμῶνα
τὸν καλὸν ἐκεῖνον καὶ πάμφορον (68.7.48–49), a real symbol that embodies the
variety of the cosmos.16 From this interesting glance into the rhetoric field, we
may understand how these concepts, expressed in orations addressed to the
students of the school,17 were acting also in poetry. For example the detailed
description given by Himerius of the variety imparted by the ‘great sophist’
to the world, recalls impressively Pamprepius of Panopolis’ Descriptio diei
autumnalis (fr. 3 Livrea). Recently Enrico Livrea has noticed how the aim of
this epyllion was probably the representation of the four seasons in a sin-
gle day, even if he was not able to provide any parallels to prove his theory.18
I think that a passage like the one by Himerius demonstrates the vitality of the
exemplification of the ποικιλία both in nature and literature in relation to the
15 For this underscore see Regali (2012) 10 n. 7. On the softer attitude of Olympiodorus
towards poetry and his lesser interest in philosophical speculation, see Jackson (1995).
16 See Buffière (1956) 155–168 for the allegorical interpretations of the shield of Achilles.
17 As results from the titulus of this oration, protreptic to the utilization of the ποικιλία,
which probably was a προλαλιά to the lost oration περὶ τοῦ σκώμματος. On this theme see
also or. 35 Colonna.
18 See Livrea (2014b) 25: ‘[W]e may imagine that Pamprepios’ purpose was to represent
within the context of a single imaginary day, all four seasons, exploiting the ambiguity of
Ὧραι (= “hours of the day” . . .), blending them into a single baroque composition—a little
like Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. Unfortunately, we are not able to point to any parallel for such
a bizarre conception’.
idea of the literary work as the cosmos and of the poet as ‘great sophist of
the sky’.19
However, the statement of the ποικιλία at the beginning of the Nonnian poem
does not seem to be inconsistent with the Neoplatonic aesthetics,20 whether
we are to see in the mention of the light the unitary aim of the poem, or con-
sider the lessening of the negativity of this principle in the late Neoplatonists,
traceable to the school of Ammonius of Alexandria.
Now we may attempt to answer the first question that we have put to our-
selves: we may consider fully functional the intent of the poet to create a
poem felt as the cosmos. In its lines it celebrates light as a metaphor of the
divine as well as of a god—Dionysus—who was considered as the demiurge
of the particular reality and of its variety both in the literary tradition21 and in
the Neoplatonic speculation.22 In this direction there is some relevance also
in the scene of the investiture of the poet, which begins with an incessant
rhythm from Dion. 1.11 up to the end of the proem, in relation to the allegori-
cal reading of clothing in a cosmological key in the late antique culture. We
may quote the interpretation given by Macrobius, Sat. 1.18.22 (OF 538, 541) to
OF 677iii, where the garments in an image of Liber-Sol are described,23 and
those given by Porphyrius in the Περὶ ἀγαλμάτων.24 Moreover I would like to
draw attention to a passage by Philo of Alexandria, who describes the priest’s
apparel in De vita Moysis 2.135 interpreting the single elements as a representa-
tion of the universe.25 Also the episode of Heracles Astrochiton (Dion. 40.577–
578) proves the validity of this idea: the god of Tyre gives Dionysus a starry
19 In the iambic proem, Pamprepius significantly speaks of τὸν ποικίλον νοῦν τῶν ποιητῶν (3).
20 For a different attempt at interpreting the ποικιλία of Nonnus, still in relation to the
Neoplatonic thought, see Agosti (1996). On the thematic and stylistic variety of the first
proem of the Dionysiaca, cf. Accorinti (2009) 74–75.
21 See Gigli Piccardi (2003) 107–108 about the outlook of Dionysus in Ael. Ar. 41.1–2 Keil, cf.
also 9.15–16 Lenz/Behr οὕτω μέγας καὶ πολύτροπος καὶ παναρμόνιός ἐστιν.
22 See Procl. In Tim. II, 80.22 ff. Diehl (OF 309iv); Dam. In Phd. 1.129 (81 Westerink = OF 309ii)
and Julian, or. 8.179b τὴν Διονύσου μεριστὴν δημιουργίαν. On this theme see Gigli Piccardi
(1985) 216–217. Fauth (1981) is always fundamental to the understanding of all the shades
of the Nonnian ποικιλία.
23 See Gigli Piccardi (1985) 171–172; Herrero de Jáuregui (2010) 36–37. It was ascribed to
Orpheus a work entitled Ἱεροστολικά, see Jiménez San Cristóbal (2008a) 765–766.
24 See especially fr. 354 Smith (OF 243) and Burkert (2008) 581–582; the same setting is also
in the Tabula mundi of John of Gaza, who applies the same Porphyrius’ exegetical criteria
to the allegorical interpretation of Aion’s clothes (1.137 ff.).
25 The priest himself becomes a βραχὺς κόσμος.
428 Gigli Piccardi
mantle, a symbol of divine investiture and a prefiguration of his rise to the sky.26
The narrative setting itself of the Dionysiaca finds an explanation: the poem, in
fact, begins with a long prelude in order to exalt apparently the benefits to the
grandfather of the god, of Cadmus, in view of the restoration of the order in
the universe, but essentially in order to give a cosmogonic tone to the poem, by
giving an account of the primitive conflict of the monstruous irrational forces
against the Olympic divinities. In this way an episode of the Dionysiac prehis-
tory takes on the outlines of a cosmogonical event, not only Typhon against
Zeus, but also the forces of chaos against universal harmony, a cosmic tranche
de vie in the name of Dionysus, as if the poet wanted to highlight the equating
of his poem to a microcosm also at the level of the subject matter.
3 The Second Proem of the Dionysiaca: Homer and Pindar
In the two proems of the Dionysiaca, Nonnus speaks clearly of his literary
models: Homer and Pindar are sometimes only hinted at, but easy recogniz-
able, at other times openly quoted. Natural and to be expected in an epic
poem is the mention of Homer, to whom Nonnus dedicates words of enthu-
siastic admiration in the proem to Book 25,27 asking him the inspiration as a
Muse.28 But in essence, Homer has only to support the wild and uncontrollable
Dionysiac sounds with his wise but long-gone voice, in order to bring life to a
new poetry with the arms of Bacchus.29 But there is more to it: the relationship
with Homeric poetry is tinged with shades of undisguised irony,30 revealing a
relationship made up of emulation and rivalry.31 The long section wedged in
the proem to Book 25 from line 31 to line 252, which contains a comparison
between the deeds of Dionysus and those of Perseus, Heracles and Minos, far
26 See also the dressing of Phaethon by Helios in Dion. 38.291–300.

27 See Dion. 25.253–254 Παμφαὲς υἱὲ Μέλητος, Ἀχαιίδος ἄφθιτε κῆρυξ, | ἱλήκοι σέο βίβλος
ὀμόχρονος Ἠριγενείῃ, 265 πατρὸς Ὁμήρου. For an analysis of the relation between Nonnus
and Homer, see Vian (1991); Hopkinson (1994c); Shorrock (2001) 121–125; Agosti (2004c)
63–64. See also Bannert/Kröll in this volume.
28 Dion. 25.260–261 Ἀλλὰ λιγαίνειν | πνεῦσον ἐμοὶ τεὸν ἄσθμα θεόσσυτον.
29 Dion. 25.1 Μοῦσα, πάλιν πτολέμιζε σοφὸν μόθον ἔμφρονι θύρσῳ.
30 In Dion. 1.34–38 the malodorous sealskins, under which Menelaus hides himself on
the occasion of his ambush of Proteus (Hom. Od. 4.400–409 and 435–443), are in a
Callimachean style a symbol of Homeric poetry, seen in opposition to the fawnskin full
of the perfume of wine, symbol of the intoxicating Dionysiac versification; cf. Shorrock
(2001) 116.
31 Dion. 25.27 Ἀλλὰ νέοισι καὶ ἀρχεγόνοισιν ἐρίζων, with Agosti (2004c) 74.
from being a mere narrative digression, reveals another important moment of

Nonnus’ poetics. In order to achieve the principle of emulation, the ζῆλος, it is
necessary to apply the σύγκρισις, through which it is possible διαδορατίζεσθαι32
with the models, weaving a net which keeps the cultural heritage of antiquity
alive. We might define it a forma mentis rather than a figure of speech. In fact,
the σύγκρισις constitutes an important connective within the poem,33 most of
all in the long monologues where the situation is meticulously compared with
similar ones in order to demonstrate the superiority of the speaker. Moreover
Book 25 contains another piece of information in regard to poetics: the descrip-
tion of the shield given by Attis to Dionysus (25.380 ff.) with his cosmic and sav-
ing message underlines the importance of this figure of speech in the economy
of the poem, as a moment of allegorical reading of myths and images.34
What is certainly less obvious and less studied in its effects is the men-
tion of Pindar as a model,35 which is already in the air in the proem to Book 1
(I will return to this passage later) and which becomes open in 25.18–21, where
the echo of Pindar’s lyre resounds at Thebes in the mode of a new Amphion.
Less obvious indeed, yet not completely unexpected, the influence of Pindar
on epic poetry goes back to Callimachus36 and so in examining the question of
the direct influence of the lyric poet on Nonnus we must take into account the
possibility of the Hellenistic poet as an intermediary. But also the Neoplatonic
aesthetics may have given an impulse in this direction: Plato quotes Pindar in
Men. 81a ff. as a poet inspired by the gods in singing the only subject matter
worthy of being celebrated in poetry, the praise of gods and of heroes. And
it cannot be by chance that Hermias in his commentary on Phaedrus 245a
(104.1–6 Lucarini/Moreschini) quotes Homer and Pindar together as οἱ ἔνθεοι
ποιηταί. Moreover the consideration of himself as a prophet, as an interpreter
of the gods, was destined to be closely connected to the vision that Proclus has
of poetry as a form of knowledge beyond rational intelligence.37 A first impor-
tant consideration on the impact of Pindar on Nonnian poetry comes again
from the proem to Book 25: at line 267, when Nonnus declares himself σὺν Διὶ
32 For this image see Subl. 13.4.1–9 in regard to Plato as ἀνταγωνιστὴς νέος πρὸς ἤδη
τεθαυμασμένον [i.e. Homer] ἴσως μὲν φιλονεικότερον καὶ οἱονεὶ διαδορατιζόμενος.
33 The important role of the σύγκρισις as structural principle has been well highlighted by
Duc (1990). See also the pages dedicated to this topic by Vian (1990) 15–33.
34 On the ecphrasis as a digressive moment see Agosti (1995) and the chapters by Faber and
Geisz in this volume. For Dionysus’ shield, see Spanoudakis (2014b).
35 I summarize here the conclusions on this topic, contained in my forthcoming paper
‘Nonnus and Pindar’.
36 See Newman (1985).
37 On the vision of poetry in Proclus see at least Sheppard (1980) 145 ff.
430 Gigli Piccardi
καὶ Βρομίῳ κεκορυθμένον, he highlights his involvement in the world of values

of the hero of his poem. So his personal struggle as poet comes to overlap the
war of Dionysus against the Indians, just as happens in the Pindaric epinician
odes, where the lyric poet speaks about his poetry through the medium of the
winner of the competition.38 This approach, which is new to the epic genre,
leads to the foundation of a Dionysiac subjective epic, I would almost say, mili-
tant epic.
Other important messages in the name of Pindar are to be found in the
proem to Book 1 of the Dionysiaca, where the pressing request made by the
poet to the Muses-Bacchae of the instruments of the Dionysiac ritual reminds
us of the ecstatic atmosphere of Pindar’s Dithyrambs,39 where the poetry like-
wise emanates from the Dionysiac τελετή. The result is an epic-dithyrambic
poetry which, in the name of Homer, acquires the modes and the tonali-
ties suitable for the celebration of the god of Thebes. But also at the level of
the expressive choices it is possible to detect some interesting (and hitherto
unnoted) points of contact between the two poets. In this direction, the anal-
ysis conducted by Eustathius in his introduction to the lost commentary on
Pindar is very helpful, since it provides us with some important guidelines for
our inquiry. First of all the revaluation of the ἀσάφεια of the Pindaric poetry in
contrast with the criticism expressed in the scholia: as examples of ἀμφιβολία,
Eustathius speaks of the fluctuation between geographic reality and anthropo-
morphism (24.3), an aspect favoured also by Nonnus,40 as well as the Pindaric
predilection for the metaphoric periphrasis—phrases formed by nominative +
genitive—, one of the most characteristic aspects of the imaginative language
of Nonnus.41 Also at the composition level we may note some similarities: in
this environment the ποικιλία consists of a skilful alternation of πλατυσμός—
the technique of digression—and of συντομία.42 The latter is accomplished in
Pindar through the utilization of compound epithets,43 that allow an effective
38 For this consideration see already Hopkinson (1994c) 13.

39 See esp. frs. 70b (Hercules vel Cerberus) and 75 Lavecchia with its insistent invitation to the
Olympian gods to be present at the ceremony.
40 See Gigli Piccardi (1985) 195–202.
41 I refer to the formulaic expressions studied in Gigli Piccardi (1985) 255–258, e.g. ἀκοντιστήρ,
οἰστευτήρ, μνηστήρ, κῆρυξ, τιθήνη + gen.; cf. Pind. Pyth. 12.24 and Isthm. 2.4–5, fr. 20 Maehler.
On Nonnus’ formulaic style see D’Ippolito in this volume.
42 Length and brevity are the characteristics of the voice which has to celebrate Dionysus in
accordance with his nature in the opinion of Aelius Aristides, or. 41.2 Keil; on this, see my
considerations in Gigli Piccardi (2003) 107–108.
43 Eustathius counts among the ἀρεταί of the style of Pindar also his great creativity as
regards the compound adjectives: in Prooem. Pind. 16.1 (13.11 Kambylis), he defines him
synthesis of thought and are really the true driving force of the Nonnian sen-
tence. Another structural characteristic borrowed by Pindar is the so-called
abrupt transition, the capacity to pass from one subject matter to another
without transitional formulae. In the Dionysiaca important turning points of
the narration happen within a line in correspondence to the bucolic caesura,44
but the impression is not the same as in Pindar, since in the torrential mass of
the Nonnian versification this stylistic peculiarity loses the effectiveness it has
in the ὀλιγοστιχία of the lyric poetry. Moreover, in both poets an important role
is played by the principles of association/opposition:45 in the catalogue of the
subject matter of the Dionysiaca, which Nonnus places at the very beginning
of his poem (1.16–33), the deeds of Dionysus are presented in association with
the metamorphoses of Proteus and in a series based on the alternating of war/
peace episodes.
From this, albeit short presentation, the importance and the quality of the
Pindaric presence in Nonnus emerge with strength. Also the principle of the
ποικιλία, which was considered by the ancient philologists as the main pecu-
liarity of Homeric poetry, is ascribed to Pindar too by Eustathius, in an evolu-
tion which is likely to have occurred in late literary criticism, although it is
impossible for us to specify, but of which Nonnus may be considered an inter-
esting witness.46
4 Nonnus’ Imaginative and Poetic World
But beyond the debts incurred by Nonnus towards his models, what is the very
substance of his imaginative world? How does the changing world of Dionysus
leave its imprint on the language and the imagery of the poem? Already in
my 1985 essay Metafora e poetica in Nonno di Panopoli I had decided to study
the organization and the level of opacity of the poetical language of Nonnus
through the metaphor. A poetical language emerged, which was dominated by
an extreme rhetoric and by the continuous tendency to create a specularity
ἐπιθέτων πόριμος ἐπινοητής, cf. also 9.5 (11.4 Kambylis). This is a quality which is unani-
mously recognized as typical of Nonnus.
44 See e.g. Dion. 3.97, 6.249, 10.141, and 11.485.
45 On these characteristics in Pindar see Newman (1985) 171 ff.; for Nonnus see the summary
table of the most important oppositions, which we may find in the Dionysiaca, in Fauth
(1981) 194–195.
46 The lines dedicated by Nonnus to state the principle of variety in Dion. 1.13–15 are signifi-
cantly borrowed from Pindar, Nem. 5.42 ποικίλων ἔψαυσας ὕμνων.
432 Gigli Piccardi
between image and myth, metaphor and literal meaning, figure and narration.
A language that tends to form a net of images based on the responsion both
by analogy and by antithesis47 rather than to pursue sublime peaks and origi-
nal modes,48 a language which has multiple echoes, which feeds on itself. The
preference conceded to the periphrastic expression formed by two or three
terms,49 the superposition of literal and metaphoric sense in a single term, the
oscillation between reality and illusion, truth and falsehood end up creating a
verbal world that lives only in the pages and that fails to impose in the mind of
the reader clear visions in a coherent narration. The forms find a sort of anni-
hilation in their ἀντίτυποι,50 they seem to exist within a game of reflections of
a reality that aims at the imitation and the similarity: in all this the concept
of natural sympathy has great importance, typical of Plotinian thought, but
which has a long tradition in the Greek culture.51
Indipendently from my analysis, but in those same years similar conclu-
sions were drawn by Sergej Averincev52 in his penetrating inquiry into the
metaphorical language of Nonnus, analyzed in parallel with the philosophi-
cal language of Dionysius the Areopagite.53 His examination of the Nonnian
expressive modes leads to some suggestive results. Here are some significant
passages regarding the language:
A Nonno le parole non vanno mai a pennello; non è questo il suo scopo.
I sinonimi, perfettamente equiparati l’uno all’altro, si allineano come alla
circonferenza di un cerchio tracciato intorno ad un centro ‘ineffabile’.54
47 See Gigli Piccardi (1985) 236.

48 The metaphors in absentia are rare: see Gigli Piccardi (1985) 260 and van Opstall (2014b),
who recognizes in the high frequency of the metaphors in praesentia in Nonnus one of
the most visible differences in comparison with the more daring baroque metaphors cre-
ated by Marino in his L’Adone.
49 See Gigli Piccardi (1985) 254–261 for a more detailed analysis.
50 Recurrent and typical of this attitude of Nonnus towards reality is the phrase ἀντίτυπον
μίμημα, see Gigli Piccardi (1985) 234 and n. 56.
51 See Muñoz Valle (1975) and Gigli Piccardi (1985) 234–237.
52 Averincev (1988) 183–207.
53 On the relation between the apophatic language of Dionysius and Nonnus’ style see also
Accorinti (2009) 81–83.
54 Averincev (1988) 192. The metaphor of the circle is at home in the Neoplatonic literary
criticism, see for example Anonym. Proleg. in Plat. phil. 17.30–38 Westerink: there we find
the image of the demonstrations, seen as a circumference whose centre is the πρόβλημα
of the Platonic dialogue.
And as for the metaphors he says:
Ma Nonno ha i suoi obiettivi, per i quali una sola metafora è insufficiente:

soltanto due metafore o più costituiscono nel loro insieme quella deserta
‘nicchia’ verbale all’interno della quale può riposare, isolata e silenziosa,
anche l’immagine, neppur nominata, dei capelli.55
Concerning the results he writes that ‘egli [Nonnus] non crea un’oggettività,
ma piuttosto, intenzionalmente, la distrugge’, and, as a seal of his analysis, he
concludes as follows: ‘La poesia di Nonno è la poesia della designazione obli-
qua e dell’immagine che si sdoppia, la poesia dell’allusione e dell’enigma.’56 Less
shared are the motivations adduced to explain the poetics of the αἴνιγμα. For
Averincev the extremized rhetoric of Nonnian poetry finds an explanation
on the basis of two different directions: on one hand as a manifestation of a
return to the origins, ‘alla sua ingenuità ed innocenza primigenia’, that of the
game and of the riddle, which pertain to the dimensions of childhood and of
folklore; on the other hand as expression of the barbarian or oriental nature
of Nonnian poetry, a product ‘della grande epoca dei barbari’, where ‘barbar-
ian’ is to be intended in a positive sense.57 In order to demonstrate his the-
sis, Averincev recalls the analogous predilection for the kennings that we may
find in Arabic poetry a little later than Nonnus and many centuries later in
Germanic-Scandinavian poetry.58 In my opinion the un-Greek and un-classical
nature of the poetics of αἴνιγμα asserted by Averincev should be reduced and
the few pages dedicated by him to its historical recognition are inadequate,59
since the author dwells on the αἴνιγμα only as the riddle in the late antique
and Byzantine fable and as an example of a learned revisitation of the ancient
oracular complexity in Lycophron’s Alexandra. On the contrary, prophecy and
poetry in the Greek culture,60 at least from Pindar onwards, are two aspects of
the same phenomenon: it is especially thanks to the studies of Peter T. Struck61
55 Averincev (1988) 193. In this case the analysis is imprecise and reveals an indirect contact
with the Greek text: in Dion. 1.528 the image of the hairs is clearly expressed by ἐθείρης,
translated by Averincev as ‘criniera’.
56 Averincev (1988) 206.
57 Averincev (1988) 199.
58 Averincev (1988) 198.
59 Averincev (1988) 183–187.
60 For the documentary evidence of αἴνιγμα terms in the classical period see Struck (2005)
156–160.
61 See Struck (1995), (2002), (2004) esp. 77–110 and 162–203, (2005). See also Montanari
(1991).
434 Gigli Piccardi
that it has been possible to realize the strict relationship between prophecy
and poetry also at the level of literary criticism.62 Alongside the criticism of
rhetorical background, which from Aristotle onwards favours the σαφήνεια
as the main cornerstone of the λόγος, an allegorical exegesis develops, which
presumes an opacity to be interpreted in the text as if it were an αἴνιγμα,63 a
tendency which finds the most refined level of elaboration in Neoplatonic phi-
losophy. But it will be useful to remember that, while it is easy to follow the
history of the allegorical interpretation in the literary criticism amongst the
philosophers,64 it is not so easy to trace out its features in the work of poets,
except in some particular cases, for example in poems with allegorical per-
sonifications such as John of Gaza’s Tabula mundi.65 What we may say with
certainty is that in Late Antiquity the allegorical exegesis is a praxis at the scho-
lastic level, and so it is plausible to think that the poets, too, had to resort to this
type of interpretation in their poems.66 It is interesting to notice for example
how in Nonnus and in the poets of the ‘Nonnian school’ terms of the language
of allegory are recurrent such as μαντεύομαι and σημαίνω, referring to the inter-
pretation of the hidden meaning of an element of the story.67 The diffusion of
the poetics of αἴνιγμα in Late Antiquity is demonstrated also by the diffusion
of theological oracles, the importance of which for the philosophical specula-
tion was asserted by Porphyrius in the Philosophia ex oraculis haurienda. The
62 It is more difficult to establish the mutual dependence. Struck (2005) 164–165 concludes
as follows: ‘However, the breadth of attestation of the prophetic uses is much higher, and
attests that this soon becomes the main stream of the idea, with the other ideas becoming
tributaries.’
63 On these two different types of literary criticism see Struck (1995) 215 ff.
64 In this regard Porphyrius’ essay De antro Nympharum is typical.
65 Struck (1995) 216 asserts that ‘Allegory, until Martianus Capella, is a system of reading,
not writing’, and later that ‘Allegory, understood as a coherent genre of writing, where
personifications of abstract qualities are important characters in the action, is a later
development.’
66 Several attempts to allegorical reading of late antique poetry are destined to remain a
pure hypothesis, as happened for the symbolic interpretations given by Gelzer (1975) 297–
302, 316–322 and (1993) to Musaeus’ Hero and Leander (see Accorinti 2013a, esp. 399, and
2013b, 169–170), by Schelske (2011) to the Orphic Argonautica, and by Livrea (2014b) 25–26
to Pamprepius’ Descriptio diei autumnalis. For Nonnus see Gigli Piccardi (1985) 237–241.
67 For μαντεύομαι see Nonn. Dion. 4.11, 5.383, 18.363, 20.98; Christod. AP 2.20–21; John of Gaza,
Tabula mundi 1.87; on the use of μάντις in Nonnus cf. Lightfoot in this volume. For σημαίνω
see Nonn. Dion. 48.379 (interpretation of the wheel of Nemesis). On the origin of such a
terminology we may refer to P.Derv. col. 10.9–10 [οὐδὲν κωλ]ύει ‘πανομφεύουσαν’ καὶ πά�̣ν̣[τα] |
διδά[σκουσαν τὸ αὐ]τ̣ὸ εἶναι.
oracles of the so-called Theosophia Tubingensis68 make use of the language of

the late antique mystical κοινή and are followed by a commentary aimed at clar-
ifying the Christian theological truths in originally pagan oracular verses. They
are learned commentaries, born very likely in an Alexandrian milieu, where it
is possible to discern the hand of the γραμματικοί, since the Homeric exegesis
of the scholia is often put to good use.69 Nonnus utilizes the oracular theologi-
cal language, as I believe I have proved elsewhere with many examples.70 But
we can go beyond this: the contact of epic language, Platonic cultural tradi-
tion and Christian allegorical exegesis, the intention of creating lexical equiva-
lences between Neoplatonic concepts and Christian theological lexique, show
a cultural milieu in accordance with the formation and ideology of Nonnus.71
The vision itself of the theosophy emerging from the proem (6 Erbse = Prooim.
1 Beatrice) as a spring from which a wisdom flows that has already reached
the Greeks, as well as the conception of the ancient Greek wisdom as equal to
the Christian dogmas and not a simple perfectible receptacle,72 opens a plau-
sible background for a new and more circumstantial vision of the ‘Nonnian
question’.73 This is not the place to investigate the possibilities opened up by
this hypothesis of work; here the evident affinity of the Nonnian lexique with
the oracular context is important in relation to the poetics of αἴνιγμα, even
though the theological late antique oracle is no longer comparable with the
αἴνιγμα as γρῖφος, but with a text perceived as opaque at an ideological level,
destined to attract one who, as Nonnus does, moves along the borders.
These Nonnian peculiarities have been also perceived as baroque taste,74 an
evaluation that has been more fully explored especially on the occasion of the
68 There are two modern critical editions of this text, that of Erbse (1995; 1st edn. 1941) and
that of Beatrice (2001).
69 See on this aspect Gigli Piccardi (2011) and (2012a).
70 Gigli Piccardi (1985) 211–245, (2011), (2012a) and (2012b). See recently Lightfoot (2014) and
the chapter by the same author in this volume.
71 For this hypothesis see Gigli (2012) § 43.
72 See Theos. Tub. 7 Erbse (= Prooim. 2 Beatrice): Ὅτι οὐ δεῖ ἀποβάλλειν τὰς τῶν σοφῶν ἀνδρῶν
Ἑλλήνων περὶ τοῦ θεοῦ μαρτυρίας· ἐπεὶ γὰρ οὐκ ἔστι τὸν θεὸν τοῖς ἀνθρώποις φαινόμενον
διαλέγεσθαι, τὰς τῶν ἀγαθῶν ἀνδρῶν ἐννοίας ἀνακινῶν ἐκείνους διδασκάλους τῷ πολλῷ ὄχλῳ
παρέχεται. ὥστε ὅστις ἀθετεῖ τὰς τοιαύτας μαρτυρίας, ἀθετεῖ καὶ τὸν θεὸν ἐπὶ ταύτας κινήσαντα.
73 All that invites us to a more detailed formulation of the concept of syncretism; in the
last decades, the studies which set out to define in a better way the several typologies of
syncretism, are redoubled: see esp. Dunand/Lévêque (1975) and Motte/Pirenne-Delforge
(1994).
74 On the Baroque as a category see Givone (1988) 21–24. For the evaluation of Nonnian style
as baroque see already Keydell (1936) 911–912 and recently Agosti (1995b) 134 and 150–151.
436 Gigli Piccardi
parallel of Nonnus’ poem with Marino’s L’Adone.75 In both of them similar rhe-
torical equipement may be found, as Fabrizio Gonnelli has rightly remarked.76
This Wahlverwandtschaft between Nonnus and Marino did not escape the
notice even of Emanuele Tesauro, who in his Cannocchiale aristotelico (1654)
speaks of the Dionysiaca as a ‘libro leggierissimo nel suggetto; ma di ogni arguta
Riflession fioritissimo’,77 where we cannot help but notice a hint at the rhe-
torical mode par excellence,78 suitable to create that gap that makes the whole
appear as always different and vivified. But the evaluation of the Dionysiaca
as a baroque poem tout court is due to Gennaro D’Ippolito, who dwelt on this
subject on more than one occasion, at times by including the case of Nonnus
in a broader historical reconstruction of the epyllion,79 at others by dwelling
particularly on the oxymoron as the main figure of speech of the ‘estrange-
ment’ that may give rise to ‘la spinta, l’elemento primario nella costruzione di
una scena, di un episodio, di una intiera opera.’80
This type of analysis does not take into consideration the poet’s culture and
the relative contemporary aesthetics. Although on one hand it has the merit
of inserting a work such as that of Nonnus, which in the past suffered from an
unproductive isolation, into the live circuit of ideas and history, on the other
hand it pays the price of a certain approximation in the understanding of the
cultural, psychological and ideological mechanisms that underlie his poetics.
From this setting the tendency emerges to stress only general concepts such
as grandiosity, the pathetic, sensuality, coloristic sensibility, changeability,
in short all the fireworks that derive from the baroque conceits, renouncing
For a useful overview of this evaluation see van Opstall (2014b). Calasso (1988) 369 prefers
to speak of ‘rococò’ and of ‘fede nella ridondanza quale modo di manifestarsi del cosmo’
(370). Riemschneider (1957) 46–47 and Hernández de la Fuente (2011a) 306 n. 11 read the
Nonnian style as mannerist; for Mannerism as a historical category suitable for expressing
the polarity with Classicism, see Curtius (2013) 273–274.
75 See Tissoni (1998) 59–62, Gonnelli (2003) 26–31, and most of all van Opstall (2014b).
76 Gonnelli (2003) 28–29: ‘[S]ul piano espressivo minuto, l’estrema attenzione per i parti-
colari descrittivi—coloristici, sonori, sensuali—, il patetismo spesso lambiccato con cui
tanti personaggi di Nonno si esprimono, e il ricorso continuo a espressioni metaforiche
più o meno ardite andavano automaticamente a incontrarsi con i modi della retorica
barocca.’
77 Tesauro (1654) 500.
78 The ‘arguto’ translates the Spanish ‘agudeza’, keyword of the poetics of Baltasar Gracián
(1601–1658), the author of Arte de ingenio. Tratado de la agudeza (Madrid, 1642) and
Agudeza y arte de ingenio (Huesca, 1648); on this see Givone (1988) 22–23.
79 D’Ippolito (1964) 37–53.
80 D’Ippolito (1987) 351.
understanding of its motivations. Let us give two instances: the ideas of verbal
illusionism and of grandiosity. In the first case it is necessary to ask ourselves
how it might be perceived and what function might be attributed in a highly
rhetorical and opaque style such as that of Nonnus in Late Antiquity. A passage
from Synesius’ Dio comes unexpectedly to our aid. Synesius is discussing the
ways of communication of the ineffable truths of philosophy to an audience
of un-initiated; if you do not want to be completely silent, a way has to be pur-
sued that calls into question Proteus and his verbal spells (Dio 5.7):
I admire also Proteus of Pharos since, wise as he was in the great things,
he showed himself as a real sophistic firework and appeared to the
visitors in increasingly varied forms. So they went away amazed by his
performance, and consequently no longer inquired about the truth of
what he had performed. There must be a pronaos of the temple for the
un-initiated.
And later he remarks (6.3): ‘And it is indeed a divine pleasure to give satisfac-
tion to all, depending on how one can benefit from it. But whoever has reached
the peaks, must remember that he is a man and must be able to communicate
with everyone at his own level. Why should we repudiate the Muses thanks to
whom, under their veil, it is permissible for men to be appeased and the divin-
ity to be preserved uncontaminated?’ Here the verbal conjuring is seen as a
device in order to protect the ineffable truth from an audience not prepared for
such, and the Muses as a veil to protect the divinity from the profane ears. So
this might be the meaning to give to such an opaque and complex style as that
of Nonnus in a cultural milieu worried about transmitting a message which is
not suitable for all ears, a minor content, hidden at the centre of a circumfer-
ence made up of illusionary variations on the theme.
As regards the second point proposed above, i.e. the grandiosity, I believe it
is essential to have recourse to Ps.-Longinus’ On Sublimity, in order to specify its
features on the background of late antique sensibility. If we read at the begin-
ning of this treatise the faults to be avoided in order not to fall into a false sub-
lime, we will find that the grandiosity of Nonnus is a good example. His ὄγκος,
wits and awkward pathos,81 as well as his tendency towards the αὔξησις, speak
clearly in this direction. On the contrary, Nonnus is a master in the property
called by Ps.-Longinus κοσμικὸν διάστημα (Subl. 9, 20.20 Mazzucchi), the ‘cos-
mic extension’, of which some lines describing teophanies from Homer’s Iliad
are quoted as examples. In this predilection for the cosmic dimension, we may
81 Subl. 3–6.

438 Gigli Piccardi
really recognize the main feature of the Nonnian grandiosity. Some passages
are particularly revealing such as the nocturne in Dion. 2.170–204, which stands
out suddenly on the conventional monologue of a nymph who despairs in the
wood (2.163–169), when after twilight the cone of shadow rises towards the
sky. And also the arrival of the Seasons to the palace of Helios in Dion. 12.1–20,
where the echo of the horses’ hooves of Hesperus’ chariot resounds, or Zeus’
arrival near Semele in a misty, boundless night (7.309–317). In this regard some
passages of the Typhony (Books 1–2) are also meaningful with the vision of
the enormous mass of rocks cast against Zeus (e.g. 2.371–377) as well as the
recurrent image of the κόσμος ἀλήτης82 and of the furrows of the universe
which have become barren in the myth of the spinning Aphrodite (24.269 and
326), and the astral visions in the story of Phaethon, to give just a couple of
the numerous possible examples.83 On the other hand we must notice that
the κοσμικὸν διάστημα is also a feature of Neoplatonic poetry, which likes to
represent the journey of the soul in matter with spatial images evoking sce-
narios on the largest scale, deep resonances and the vision of the One accom-
panied by harmonious irradiations. By way of an example, it is possible to
read about ‘the loud-resounding storm of the body’,84 about matter as ‘shape-
less abyss’,85 as ‘underground precipice’86 and also as ‘deep wave of deep-
resounding Becoming’ opposed to the sound of the lyre of Phoebus,87 about
‘voracious bark of matter’88 and the silence of the universe,89 about the moun-
82 On this image see Gigli Piccardi (2003) 55–56.

83 In order to understand the Nonnian poetic taste, it is useful to read the considerations
of Ps.-Longinus, Subl. 15 (44.3–5 Mazzucchi) in relation to the φαντασία: ἤδη δ’ ἐπὶ τούτων
κεκράτηκεν τοὔνομα ὅταν ἃ λέγεις ὑπ’ ἐνθουσιασμοῦ καὶ πάθους βλέπειν δοκῇς καὶ ὑπ’ ὄψιν
τιθῇς τοῖς ἀκούουσιν. He adds some instances of passages taken from tragedy—e.g. from
Euripides’ Phaethon (TrGF 779)—and some Dionysiac passages of Aeschylus’ Edones
(TrGF 58) and Euripides’ Bacchae (l. 726), where we find already in use the βακχεύειν as an
impressive effect of the god on nature.
84 Orac. ap. Porph. vit. Plot. 22.26 ῥεθέων δὲ πολυφλοίσβοιο κυδοιμοῦ.
85 Orac. Chald. 163.2 βυθὸς . . . ἄμορφος, Procl. H. 1.25 ὕλης . . . νεάτοις ἐνὶ βένθεσιν.
86 Orac. Chald. 164.1 κρημνὸς κατὰ γῆς.
87 Procl. H. 1.20 κῦμα βαρυφλοίσβοιο γενέθλης. Nonnus too likes compound adjectives start-
ing with βαρυ- in their first part, in order to express booming resonances: βαρύβρομος, the
hapax βαρύδρομος (reading of MS L, Laurentianus plut. 32.16, in Dion. 4.117 and 47.299, see
Gigli Piccardi 2003, 338–339), βαρύγδουπος/βαρύδουπος, βαρύκτυπος, βαρυσμάραγος (not a
hapax as indicated by Peek 1968–1975, s.v., since it is also in Procl. H. 1.30), βαρύστονος and
βαρύφθογγος.
88 Syn. H. 9. 108–109 βορὸν ὕλας | . . . ὕλαγμα.
89 Syn. H. 1.82–83 ἐχέτω σιγὰ | κόσμου λαγόνας.
tains and the immense valleys of Libya as images of isolation and of purifica-
tion of the soul.90 We might say that this sensitivity to the perception of the
spaces and of the cosmic resonances runs through Nonnus’ poetry as a conse-
quence of the cosmic dimension given to Dionysus in the Dionysiaca. However,
the Dionysiac dimension of the space inevitably reaches further outcomes: the
essence of the god is pervasive and intoxicating, his passage leaves its mark on
the nature of the places.91
One of the main marks left by Dionysus on Nonnus’ poem is surely the
musicality of its verses. The Dionysiac rites are characterized by the sounds of
the αὐλοί and by the rhythm of the percussion instruments, and in many pas-
sages Nonnus proves his awareness of the fascinating and destructive power
of music.92 Since the proem to Book 1, the attention for the Dionysiac sound
is underlined: 11 τινάξατε κύμβαλα, Μοῦσαι, 15 ποικίλον ὕμνον ἀράσσω,93 39 Εὔια
μοι δότε ῥόπτρα. And also the opposition with bucolic poetry is sketched out at
a sound level: 39–40 ἡδυμελῆ δέ | ἄλλῳ δίθροον αὐλὸν ὀπάσσατε. A special space
is assigned to the echoes of cosmic resonances in the battle of Zeus against
Typhon,94 as happens for instance in Dion. 1.240–243:
90 Syn. H. 1.44–71.

91 An examination of the passages regarding the transformation of the landscape, owing to
the Dionysus’ epiphany, is in Fauth (1981) 93–112.
92 An overview of the Dionysiac resonances and of their function in various narrative con-
texts is in Newbold (2003b).
93 The use itself of ἀράσσω is noteworthy: it is linked also with ἦχον and μέλος, referring
not only to the pizzicato of the strings of the lyre (such as in OA 382), but also to sounds
produced by wind instruments (Dion. 12.148, 43.71, 46.105, etc.), by percussion instruments
such as the drum (Dion. 10.223), by thunder (Dion. 2.364, 24.2, 28.195, 31.181, 38.37, etc.).
This lexical choice is due to the desire to highlight the acoustic impact of the percussion
as the main feature of the Dionysiac sound.
94 See Braden (1974) 855: ‘It is the surface noise of the poem that most insistently recom-
mends itself to our attention, and one might wonder if that itself is not Nonnos’ message,
his version of the Dionysiac experience’; Typhon is seen by Braden in its advance function
of many Dionysiac features (876: ‘Typhon is here not just to be defeated but also to antic-
ipate’), cf. also Gigli Piccardi (2003) 115.
440 Gigli Piccardi
Καὶ πόλος ἐσμαράγησεν· ἀμειβομένη δὲ καὶ αὐτή 240

οὐρανὸν ἑπτάζωνον ἰσηρίθμων ἀπὸ λαιμῶν
Πληιάδων ἀλάλαζε βοῆς ἑπτάστομος ἠχώ,
καὶ καναχὴν ἰσόμετρον ἐπεγδούπησαν ἀλῆται.
The sky was full of din, and, answering the seven-zoned heaven, the
seven-throated cry of the Pleiads raised the war-shout from as many
throats; and the planets as many again banged out an equal noise.95
Noteworthy is the onomatopoeia of ἐσμαράγησεν (240), ἀλάλαζε (242),

ἐπεγδούπησαν (243), the internal rhymes of -ον, -ων (241), the alliteration of καὶ
καναχήν (243), the anaphora of ἑπτάζωνον/ἑπτάστομος (241–242).
There are not so many studies devoted to the several sides of the euphony
in Nonnus’ poetry, given the risk, inevitable in this field, of an excessive inter-
ference on the part of the interpreter’s sensitivity. However, ancient literary
criticism, particularly in those schools of thought that saw in the αἴσθησις the
most important aspect of judgement in the aesthetic milieu,96 recognized
both at the level of ἐκλογή and that of σύνθεσις ὀνομάτων a high expressive
and psychagogical potential in the figures of sound, such as onomatopoeia,97
alliteration, homoteleuton, polyptoton, anaphora, paronomasia and so on. As
regards Nonnus, Ilona Opelt has provided us with a very careful analysis of
the alliteration, classified in two units, according to structural-syntactic level
or only sound level.98 In this case too, as we noticed above for the consider-
ations of Averincev, the author succumbs to the temptation to characterize the
poetry of Nonnus on the basis of geographical criteria. So Opelt ascribes to the
Coptic substratum the Nonnian predilection for some sounds.99 More recently
Gianfranco Agosti once again took up the theme of the figures of sound in

96 On this see Rispoli (1995) 13 ff. and passim, most of all in relation to the literary theories
contained in the Herculaneum papyri and in the Περὶ ποιημάτων of Philodemus, but also
in grammatical and rhetorical treatises (cf. 25 ff.).
97 For several instances of the importance of this figure of sound in the ancient literary criti-
cism, see Rispoli (1995) 132 ff.
98 Opelt (1958) 209 ff.
99 Opelt (1958) 214–215, 217: ‘Nonnos wäre dann ein Vertreter spezifisch gräko-ägyptischen
Sprachempfindens’; see also 217–218: ‘Bezeichnend für den emphatischen Charakter der
altägyptischen Allitteration dürfte es sein, dass sie vor allem in Zaubersprüchen auf-
tritt, wodurch wieder an einem Beispiel mehr die ursprüngliche Volkstümichkeit der
Allitteration erscheint.’ For a ‘Coptic’ reading of some passages of the Dionysiaca, see
Agosti in this volume.
relation to some passages in Book 5 of the Paraphrasis,100 speaking of ‘musi-

calità’ and of ‘teatralità’ in Nonnian lines.101
There is still something left to say about the representation of reality as
seen by Nonnus: it was Margarete Riemschneider who undertook the survey
of the great visual impact of the line, especially curved and circular lines, in
the poetry of Nonnus, in a flattened view of reality, ‘völlig unräumlich und
unplastisch’.102 The space is akin to a page where lines in movement are drawn
up, to which Nonnus commits sometimes the rare psychological notations of
his characters portrayed by the lines of their face, by the movements of their
eyes and by their pantomimic gestures as on a painting or a cloth. The German
scholar traced this peculiarity, defined as mannerist, back to analogous trends
of the contemporary art;103 later on the predilection for the spatial and tem-
poral circularity was interpreted, probably correctly, by Wolfgang Fauth as the
ideal equivalent of the linear action of Dionysus dominating the unrestrained
energy of the chaos, folding it within the harmony of the elements.104 Recently
this vision of reality has been traced back to the Neoplatonic cultural milieu:105
while the mutability and the metamorphosis represent the sensible world,
the circularity would be attributable to the intelligible world, in a poetry that
adopts philosophical conceptual patterns with the result of profoundly renew-
ing the epic genre.
5 Conclusions
If we return to the words of Walter Binni at the beginning of this work, we can
notice how a profound unity exists between the programmatic intentions of
the poet, as expressed in the two proems to Books 1 and 25 of the Dionysiaca
and their realization in the work of Nonnus. The idea of the cosmos-poem is
the macrostructure, which gives unity to the various parts of the work; the
theme of the light is its ethical framework, the character of Dionysus is the
100 Agosti (2003) 162–164 with further bibliography.

101 Other instances of this type of analysis in Livrea (2000) 101–103, who speaks of
‘un’atmosfera astratta e trasognata, di lussureggiante barocchismo, davvero antitetica
rispetto alla nuda semplicità giovannea’ (101), and in Schmiel (1998b) 402–403, concern-
ing Dion. 22.146–158.
104 Fauth (1981) 184–185.
105 See Hernández de la Fuente (2011a), who fully explores some ideas already expressed in
Gigli Piccardi (1985) 217–220.
442 Gigli Piccardi
omnipresent impulse to the ποικιλία in its several tonalities, of literary genre, of

style, of lexis and of subject matters. On this basis, the epic renews itself, open-
ing the doors to the subjectivity acknowledged by the lyrics and particularly
by Pindar. The epic work of Nonnus takes shape as the last fascinating attempt
to recover the Greek literary tradition in its totality, the survival of which was
assured by a divinity endowed with a changeable essence and a theological
adaptability.
chapter 20
Nonnus and the Poetry of Ekphrasis in the

Dionysiaca
Riemer A. Faber
Alles ist bei Nonnos Beschreibung.

Jonas Palm (1965–1966, 197)
⸪
1 Introduction
The poetry of ekphrasis in the Dionysiaca is inspired by the visual culture of

Late Antiquity, by the human experience of artistic beauty through every sen-
sory perception. In Nonnus’ age, this experience was often expressed in terms
of synesthesia—the commingled perceptions of sound, smell, taste, touch and
sight. In the fifth century the material nature of artistic aesthetics—of surface,
colour, texture, size—infused literary discourse with the language of all the
senses. Having attracted increased attention during the Second Sophistic, the
inter-relationship between the visual arts and literature continued to fascinate
viewers, listeners, and readers until it would reach a climax in the Byzantine
period.1 And, as literature sought to appeal more immediately to the five senses,
descriptive speech and writing flourished.2 Nonnus’ Dionysiaca contributes to
this development by offering in writing what is visual, tactile, and aural.3
Grounded in these intermedial aesthetics of the poem is the modern idea
that the composition of the Dionysiaca may be best expressed as a work of
1 On the interaction of literal and visual traditions generally see Squire (2009). For the Second
Sophistic see Bartsch (1989), especially ‘Description and Interpretation in the Second
Sophistic’ (3–39); for the third and fourth centuries see Webb (2009) 14–17, and for the
Byzantine period Nilsson (2014), especially ‘La Narrativité de la Rhétorique: Ekphrasis et
Panégyrique’ (135–169), and the contributions to Ćurčić/Hadjitryphonos (2010). For the rela-
tions between visual and literary expressions in Nonnus’ day see now Agosti (2014a).
2 On this see Miguélez Cavero (2008) 135–136.
3 On visuality in Greek and Latin epic generally see Lovatt/Vout (2013).

444 Faber
figurative art, a mosaic.4 Widely accepted, the mosaic metaphor has been
developed into a more complex theory of relations between the visual and
literary arts of the late antique period.5 The numerous connections that the
poetic text of the Dionysiaca establishes to the visual world in which it is com-
posed attest to Nonnus’ profound engagement with intermedial relations. The
literary descriptions in this poem are pregnant with social and cultural imme-
diacies that are unparalleled in earlier compositions of Greek epic.6 Thus, for
example, in the description of Electra’s palace in Book 3 the portrayal of the
dome-like structure (Dion. 3.137–138) may be read in light of contemporary
architectural designs like that of Diocletian’s palace in Split or the Rotonda
of Thessalonica.7 The detailed depiction of the snake-formed neck-band of
Harmonia in Dion. 5.135–189, with its double heads attached by a vulture and
set off by two gems cut in the form of a fish and a bird is so exact as to sug-
gest the styles practiced by contemporary goldsmiths.8 And then there is the
depiction of the enigmatic tablets which the Seasons consult in Dion. 12.29–115.
Unprecedented in epic poetry, the tablets with their zodiacal signs, images and
texts fastened to a wall reflect the contemporary social practice of posted orac-
ular verse inscriptions.9
A cultural-poetic reading of ekphraseis in the Dionysiaca does not, how-
ever, negate the fact that several brief as well as more extended descriptive
passages in the poem are thoroughly literary, especially Homeric, in their
inspiration, subject matter, and presentation. The descriptions of the palaces
of Electra in Dion. 3.131–179 and Staphylus in Dion. 18.69–86 are inspired by
Homer’s portrayals of the palaces of Menelaus and Alcinous in Od. 4.45–75
and 7.82–132 respectively.10 The poet’s brief description of a silver mixing-bowl
offered by Dionysus as prize in a dancing contest in Dion. 19.125–130 recalls
that of Nestor’s silver cup in Il. 11.632–635. In Book 41, the description of the
garment that Harmonia is weaving when Aphrodite comes to visit her (Dion.
41.294–302) echoes Homer’s account of the visit by Iris to Helen, who works
at her loom to fashion a robe depicting battle-scenes of Trojans and Achaeans
4 Thus Keydell (1936).

5 For a summary of the intermedial aesthetics in Nonnus see Shorrock (2001) 17–22, and for
the mosaic metaphor in particular see Roberts (1989) 66–121.
6 For Nonnus’ incorporation of contemporary figurative arts and iconographical represen-
tations of mythology see Agosti (2014a).
7 Thus Miguélez Cavero (2008) 137; cf. Chuvin (1976) 27 n. 1, who compares the construction
with that of the Hagia Sophia depicted by Paul the Silentiary (187, 481–511).
8 Friedländer (1912b) 22.
9 As Agosti has observed (2014a, 156), in Late Antiquity there must have been a diffusion of
such verse oracles. See also Lightfoot in this volume.
10 See Faber (2013) and (2004) respectively.
Nonnus and the Poetry of Ekphrasis 445
(Il. 3.125–128). The most prominent imitation of a Homeric model is the

ekphrasis of Dionysus’ shield in Dion. 25.380–572, which extensively adapts
the representation of Achilles’ shield in Iliad 18.478–608. The archaic pedigree
of these descriptions provides the foil in the poem’s overall strategy of engag-
ing the Iliad and the Odyssey in new ways.11
While the Homeric models and their Hellenistic emulations exercised con-
siderable influence on the ekphraseis in the Dionysiaca, it is clear that Nonnus
introduces innovative, ‘Dionysiac’ functions for them. For this reason the
poem boasts several ekphraseis of explicitly non-epic subjects: besides the
previously-mentioned tablets of Harmonia in Book 12, there are the pictures
of inscribed arrows in Dion. 7.116–128, an elephant in Dion. 26.295–328, and the
cities of Tyre and Beirut in Dion. 40.298–368 and 41.14–118. These descriptions
serve to propel the epic poem’s movement away from archaic and Hellenistic
traditions and fulfill explicitly Dionysiac purposes of protean presentations
and fluid forms for emotional effects.
One widely accepted interpretive approach to the Dionysiaca is to read it
as a royal encomium that traces the life of its kingly subject from birth and
childhood to adolescence, maturity, and eventually death and apotheosis. The
encomiastic flavour of the poem is effected by the many forms of Dionysus,
and by his many acts of beneficence as encapsulated in the principle of vari-
ety and diversity that is articulated at the opening of Book 1.12 There the poet
appeals to the Muses for inspiration and calls upon the polymorphous Proteus
to join him in his Bacchic dance (14–15):
στήσατέ μοι Πρωτῆα πολύτροπον, ὄφρα φανείη

ποικίλον εἶδος ἔχων, ὅτι ποικίλον ὕμνον ἀράσσω. 15
Set before my eyes the many-shaped Proteus, that he may

display his diverse form as I strike up my diverse hymn.13 15
The principle of poikilia unifies the thematic, literary, stylistic and structural
aims of the Dionysiaca as a whole and directs these aims at Dionysus.14 The
many marvelous forms and actions of the god, and the feeling of wonder or
marvel that they arouse in the reader, form the link between Dionysus, the
main subject of the poem, and poem’s ekphraseis. Like the god, the ekphraseis
present numerous things that are richly ornamented, δαίδαλα πολλά, things
11 On Nonnus and Homer see Bannert/Kröll in this volume.

12 Thus Shorrock (2011) 73–74.
13 English translation adapted from Rouse (1940).
14 Thus Paschalis (2014) 101.
446 Faber
that are wondrous to behold, θαῦμα ἰδέσθαι. Thus, for example, the ekphrasis
of Dionysus’ shield (Dion. 25.380–572), a symbol of the poem itself, begins with
an emphatic expression of the variety and wonder that are associated with the
god who will bear the shield (384–387):
Ἀολλίζοντο δὲ λαοί,
ποικίλα παπταίνοντες Ὀλύμπια θαύματα τέχνης, 385
θαύματα μαρμαίροντα, τά περ κάμεν οὐρανίη χείρ
ἀσπίδα δαιδάλλουσα πολύχροον·
And the people assembled

to marvel at the varied wonders of Olympian art,
the brilliant wonders which the divine hand had fashioned, 385
the cleverly-wrought shield of many colours.15
The encomiastic function of the ekphraseis in promoting a sense of marvel at

Dionysus’ beneficence and multiformity applies to the entire range of objects
depicted in the poem, from cities and buildings to clothing accessories. For this
reason the palace of Staphylus in Dion. 18.69–86 which Dionysus beholds like a
royal visitor is portrayed so as to reflect the sense of the variety, beauty and awe
that accompanies the god. In this regard the panegyric role that was assigned
to many architectural ekphraseis in Imperial Roman literature is developed in
the descriptions of buildings and cities in the Dionysiaca.16 For similar reasons
the depiction of the gem-studded throne, the many-jeweled crown, and the
necklace set with sparkling stones which the gods present as wedding-gifts to
Harmonia in Dion. 5.135–189 cause this royal ancestor of Dionysus to appear as
a Byzantine empress.17 In short, the sense of awe and wonder that epic ekphra-
seis have evoked since the time of Homer are adapted to the encomiastic aims
of this poem.
15 Various forms of ποικιλ- occur in the description of Dionysus’ shield in Dion. 25.384–567:
ποικίλα (385), ποίκιλλεν (392), ποικίλλεται (395), etc.
16 Newlands (2013) treats the panegyric role of architectural ekphrasis in Imperial Roman
literature.
17 Thus Miguélez Cavero (2008) 139.
2 The Descriptive Mode of the Narrative
It should be noted that the key-word ποικίλος, which occurs twice in the lit-
erary-programmatic statement at the beginning of the poem, applies equally
to the Nonnian aesthetics of art and of literature. Diversity in shape (ποικίλον
εἶδος, 15) is conveyed by diversity in song (ποικίλον ὕμνον, ibid.).18 In order to
express this important concept, Nonnus employs a word which in the tradi-
tion of epic poetry occurs first, and thereafter repeatedly, in the depiction of
Achilles’ shield in Il. 18.590: Ἐν δὲ χορὸν ποίκιλλε. When Homer’s Hephaestus
fashions scenes upon the armour of Achilles, he simultaneously fashions a
tale of universal proportions. It is in part to develop such interconnections
between the visual and the literary that the poet of the Dionysiaca pursues a
strategy of poikilia.
One means whereby the poet effects visual-textual inter-relations is by
conflating and even exchanging the descriptive and the narrative modes.19 A
poignant example of this inter-relationship occurs early in the poem, in the
depiction of the abduction of Europa (Dion. 1.46–90).20 Not an ekphrasis in
the strict sense of a digression from linear narrative, the account neverthe-
less engages the reader’s familiarity with a scene that is well known from both
fine art and ekphrastic texts.21 The narrative appears to describe a scene of art:
Europa is seated on the bull as it traverses the waves (53–57), and she holds
on to one of its horns (65–68) while her robe billows in the breeze (69–71).22
Meanwhile conventions of literary ekphrasis are exercised in the narrator’s
engagement of the reader (57–58) and in his comparison of Europa to a god-
dess (58–60). In fact, the pictorial narrative imitates the ekphrastic presen-
tations of this art-scene as recorded in Moschus’ Europa and Achilles Tatius’
Leucippe and Clitophon.23 By interweaving the pictorial and literary presenta-
tions of the Europa myth the poet effects a sense of vibrant sensual perception.
The narrativized description of Europa’s abduction is paralleled by other
passages in the linear, historical mode of discourse that contain the formal
18 The Greek ποικίλος derives from Indo-European word-forms that were employed in both
literary and artistic contexts; see Bader (1987) 45.
19 Thus also Agosti (2014a) 158–159.
20 For this episode, see also the chapters by Geisz, Hadjittofi and Miguélez-Cavero in this
volume.
21 On the interaction of literal and visual traditions generally see Squire (2009).
22 On Europa and the bull in fine art see Robertson (1988).
23 For Nonnus’ use of Moschus’ Europa here and in the Semele episode in Book 7 see Bühler
(1960) 27 and Mazza (2011–2012) 210–225, esp. 210–221. See also Miguélez-Cavero in this
volume.
448 Faber
qualities of ekphrasis. The depiction of the elephant in Dion. 26.295–328 is not

strictly ekphrastic in that it is not demarcated from the surrounding narrative,
nor is there an explicit arranging of the component parts in relation to each
other. Nevertheless, the depiction moves methodically and in graphic detail
along all the physical features of the animal. The account progresses from the
general (head, neck, body, legs) to the specific (teeth, ears, eyes, tail) in the
manner of rhetorical ekphrasis, and comparisons are made in order to con-
vey the impression which the elephant’s appearance has upon the internal
viewer (Dion. 26.301–302, 307, etc.). In a similar manner the narrative account
of Hera’s preparation for an encounter with Zeus in Dion. 32.9–37 focuses on
such conventional features of ekphrasis as different colours (11, 27), sparkling
gems and other precious stones (19–27), and the brilliant effect of the goddess’
appearance (14, 21). So too, in Dion. 10.175–192, the youthful figure of Ampelus
is depicted in typically ekphrastic language, with an abundance of colours
(179–181) and a comparison of the youth’s appearance to the light of the moon
(184–187).24 Indeed, the passage is presented in a markedly pictorial fashion
precisely because it is charged with a special thematic and structural signifi-
cance: Ampelus’ imminent death will propel Dionysus’ career from that of a
playful youth to a serious hero.
The descriptive quality of the poetic narrative of the Dionysiaca is rein-
forced in other ways, too. The subject matter of a scene within an ekphrasis,
for example, may be treated elsewhere in the historical narrative of the poem,
thus creating links between different modes of discourse. The abduction of
Ganymedes, depicted at length on Dionysus’ shield in Dion. 25.429–450, is
narrated in several places earlier in the poem, so that the reader is prompted
to compare the presentations of him in description and in linear narrative.25
There is also the alternation of description and narrative within ekphrasis, as
in the aition of the iris-plant and the myth of Apollo and Hyacinthus (Dion.
3.153–163) that interrupts the description of the garden within Electra’s palace
(131–179), or the story of Tylus and Morie (Dion. 25.451–552) in the description
of Dionysus’ shield (380–572).
The descriptive quality of the poetic narrative is advanced further by the
explicit treatment of intermedial qualities, that is, the simultaneous involve-
ment of conventionally distinct semantic modes in the signification of an arti-
fact. Intermedial connections draw the reader’s attention to the aesthetic and
material properties of more than one medium—of text, image, and object.
24 On the structural and thematic importance of the story of Ampelus see Shorrock (2011)
98–100.
25 Dion. 8.94–96, 11.293–295, 15.281–282, 31.252–254.
Thus, for example, the verse texts inscribed upon the arrows of Eros in Dion.
7.116–128 engage the love god (and by extension the reader) in the combined
action of viewing and reading messages engraved upon each of the shafts.26
Intermedial connections of this sort are evidenced most extensively by the
tablets of Harmonia described in Dion. 12.29–115 and 41.339–399.27 In the for-
mer passage the Seasons consult the tablets of Harmonia that are fixed to a
wall near the palace of the Sun in order to learn which of them will be assigned
the season of the grape. The tablets contain zodiacal signs, images and texts,
and the narrator records how one of the Horae peruses the tablets to learn her
destiny from pictures and from a ‘four-line oracle of inscribed hexameter verse’
(χαρασσομένων ἐπέων τετράζυγος ὀμφή, 12.107). In a similar scene of reading
inscriptions in Dion. 41.339–399, Aphrodite is led by Harmonia to learn the fate
of the city of Beirut depicted on Harmonia’s tablets. And there, too, Nonnus
offers a novel treatment of the mechanics of inscription, the practice of writ-
ing, and the hermeneutics of epigrammatic prophecy.28 The poet establishes
these unprecedented intermedial connections in order to intertwine art and
text through the joint process of viewing and reading.
3 Ekphrastic Poikilia
As diversity, varieties of shape, and stylistic multiplicities permeate the poem,

Nonnus promotes also what may be called a poetics of ekphrastic poikilia. The
ekphraseis in the poem advance this principle of polymorphism through an
abundance of variety both within the scenes described and in the types of
descriptions that are presented.
Regarding the poikilographic quality of individual ekphraseis we may
observe that the descriptions often include lists of various components, such
as the many jewels in the crown donned by Hera for her romantic encoun-
ter with Zeus (Dion. 32.18–27), the gems set into the neck-band of Harmonia
(Dion. 5.135–189), and the precious stones adorning Staphylus’ palace (Dion.
18.69–86). The depiction of the palace of Staphylus, the king ‘of manifold gifts’
(ποικιλόδωρος, 69), advances poikilia through its variety of gems. The list of
gems adorning the palace includes silver (73), gold (83), lychnite (75), ruby (76),
amethyst (77), aquamarine (77), agate (78), serpentine (79), and emerald (80).
26 On intermedial connections to inscriptional epigram in Latin elegy see Dinter (2011).
27 For a treatment of these passages see Bing (2009) 143–146, Agosti (2014a) 156, and Lightfoot
(2014b) 50–52.
28 Bing (2009) 143–146. See also the chapter by Lightfoot in this volume.
450 Faber
In a similar manner do the mosaics and stones adorn the city of Tyre described
in Dion. 40.298–368. Such ekphrastic copia and variatio turn the stones into
miniature expressions of material and literary artistry.29
The numerous precious stones do more than give an impression of the
abundant wealth of Staphylus. As exquisite gems evocative of the purple pas-
sage of ekphrasis itself, the stones serve as metaphors for Nonnus’ poikilo-
graphic poetry. In this regard Nonnus’ depictions recall the similar treatment
of gems in the Imagines by Philostratus the Elder, which infuses the descrip-
tions with meta-poetic meaning.30 Indeed, the valorisation of precious stones
by means of literary depictions may be traced as far back as the Hellenistic
period, as Elsner (2014) has recently pointed out for the ekphrastic epigrams
of Posidippus’ Lithika. Posidippus’ mini-ekphraseis of gems have several fea-
tures in common with Nonnus’ epic descriptions of stones. The most notable
of these are the comparisons of the stones’ sparkle to moonlight (Lithika 4.3),
to stars (5.1), and to the rainbow (6.2). And as in the Dionysiaca, so too in the
Lithika, the epithets evoke particular rhetorical concepts of brilliance, radi-
ance and colour.31
4 Nonnian Ekphrasis and Late Antique Paideia
The principle of poikilia that is illustrated by abundance and variety within the
descriptions is matched by the broad range in the types of ekphrasis appear-
ing in the Dionysiaca. This range may be explained in part by the influence of
late antique paideia, and in particular school-training and rhetorical exercises.
At centres of learning around the Mediterranean basin, instructors in rhetoric
sought to produce pupils who could write speeches with pointed elegance.32
An important feature of this training was the descriptive speech, and contem-
porary literatures reflect this training. The Dionysiaca, too, exhibits subjects
and styles that are found in the preliminary exercises in prose composition.33
29 On precious stones as expressions of the polychromatic qualities of poetry that were
prized in Late Antiquity see Roberts (1989) 52–55.
30 For a tabulation of the colours employed by Philostratus the Elder in the Imagines, and
for a discussion of their associations with pathos, ethos, pleasure and other emotions,
see Prioux (2013) 163–185. On the aesthetics of order, symmetry, harmony, and contrast in
Philostratus’ descriptions see Baumann (2011) 165–188.
31 On Hellenistic literary-artistic aesthetics generally see Prioux (2007).
32 On the influence of school practice on poetry in Late Antiquity see Miguélez Cavero
(2008) 264–366.
33 For the function of the progymnasmata in late Greco-Roman education see Webb (2001).
These subjects include descriptions of gardens, speeches in praise of cities,

representations of exotic creatures, and portrayals of seasons, times, or events.
One such exercise is the description of the idyllic garden, or ἔκφρασις
κήπου, and its features re-appear in the Dionysiaca. In his Progymnasmata, the
fourth-century Antiochene rhetorician Libanius provides a model for describ-
ing gardens that mirrors the one in Electra’s palace in Dion. 3.140–168.34 In
Libanius’ example the garden is surrounded by a wall, a river flows down from
a nearby mountain, and within the enclosure there are trees and a central
spring.35 The four-acre garden that takes up much of the ekphrasis of Electra’s
palace boasts an enclosing, protective wall (Dion. 3.140–142), a variety of fruit-
bearing trees (143–152), and a babbling brook (164–168). By appealing to the
reader’s familiarity with rhetorical variety, the narrator adapts the Homeric
palace description to the poem’s literary aims.
Another common exercise was the speech in praise of a city, and recently
Agosti (2014a) has demonstrated how the depiction of the city of the Indians
in Dion. 26.366–378 implements the rhetorical techniques of visualizing such
communities.36 Similarly, one may read the description of Beirut in Dion.
41.12–42 as panegyric ekphrasis, as it includes elements of local topography,
information about pagan traditions, and local myths that were standard ele-
ments in such speeches.37 Relevant, too, are the instructions which Menander
Rhetor provides on how to describe a city to visiting officials.38 Nevertheless,
in order that the city descriptions may promote the poem’s encomiastic aims,
Nonnus’ literary portrayals provide general rather than particular features. In
the portrayal of Beirut this is achieved by impressing the reader with a sense
34 Libanius, Progymnasmata 9.2–5 (VIII, 485.10–486.13 Foerster; cf. Gibson 2008, 446–448);
cf. Hermogenes, Progymnasmata 2.4 (330–344 Rabe).
35 Rhetorical ekphrasis affected also the descriptive passages in Greek romances, as Bartsch
(1989) 3–39 has shown for Heliodorus’ Aethiopica and Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and
Clitophon.
36 427.9–16 Russell/Wilson. On city descriptions in the Byzantine period see the collection
of essays in Odorico/Messis (2012).
37 For a recent treatment of the relevance of the ekphraseis of Beirut and Tyre to the themes
and structure of the poem see Lauritzen (2012) 210–213; see further Chuvin (1991) 196–224
and Saradi (2010) 50–55. Similar comparisons between rhetorical and literary ekphraseis
may be made about rivers, such as the Nile in Achilles Tatius, Leucippe and Clitophon
4.11–13; cf. Miguélez-Cavero in this volume.
38 Hadjittofi (2007) 374–378; Webb (2000) 68. The rhetorical conventions of encomiastic
description appear also in the novel, most notably in Achilles Tatius’ description of
Alexandria in 5.1.1–6; see Miguélez-Cavero in this volume. On the role of cities in Greek
novels, see Saïd (1994) 216–236 and 230–232 (Alexandria).
452 Faber
of peace as illustrated by diverse inhabitants (Dion. 41.13–27), of prosperity as

witnessed by wealth of fish that the sea produces (28–37), and of the city’s
strategic, advantageous location (38–42).39
Nonnus is fascinated also with literary images of exotic animals, and here,
too, he describes them in terms that are familiar to us not from the epic tradi-
tion but from writers of progymnasmata, such as Theon 118.15–17 and 120.3–8.40
Whereas the description of the elephant in Dion. 26.295–328 may have ethno-
graphic origins like the picture of the crocodile in Herodotus 2.68–70, it serves
a rhetorical purpose. In other words, on its own the depiction of the elephant
‘resists a more profound interpretation’;41 yet like the images of other animals
inserted into the rhetorical structure of the Dionysiaca, it serves Dionysiac pro-
paganda by means of its exotic and royal qualities.42 The description of the
rare-looking creature heightens the glory of the god who will celebrate his vic-
tory over the peoples of India by riding on an elephant (26.329–332).
Yet another progymnasmatic commonplace in the Dionysiaca is the vivid
portrayal of seasons, times and events. A good illustration of this type of rhe-
torical description appears at the opening of Dion. 3, where the poet pictures
the season of spring. He begins by indicating the zodiacal place of the season
(1–6), and then moves on to describe the thawing streams and rivers (7–9),
the song of the swallow (12–14), and the flower that emerges from the plant
(14–15). Like the lively account of the rain-storm and flood in Dion. 6.249–299,
the picture of springtime stimulates the reader’s visual imagination and adds a
dynamic quality to the poem’s descriptive narration.
5 Generic Enrichment of Nonnian Ekphrasis
The variety in the types of ekphrasis in the Dionysiaca is further developed by

the incorporation of the ekphrastic conventions that are proper to non-epic
literary genres.43 In keeping with Dionysiac poetics of generic conflation, the
39 On the similarities between contemporary iconographic representations of cities and the
description of Beirut see Agosti (2014a) 151.
40 See Miguélez Cavero (2014a) 246 and n. 3 and the chapter by the same author in this
volume.
42 On Nonnus’ portrayal of animals see Frangoulis (2014) 133–145 and 155–158.
43 I have adopted the term from Harrison (2007) to distinguish the phenomenon from
‘Kreuzung der Gattungen’ which had been coined by Kroll (1924) 202–224 for Hellenistic
poetry; see Lasek in this volume.
ekphraseis are augmented with the descriptive qualities common to works of

both prose and poetry.
Earlier in this chapter (§ 2) we noted that the narrativized description
of Europa’s abduction in Dion. 1.46–90 is inspired partly by the ekphrastic
scene of the Zeus-bull transporting Europa in Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and
Clitophon. In fact, Nonnus engages Achilles Tatius throughout his presentation
of the Europa myth in Dion. 1–3, and recently Frangoulis (2014) has demon-
strated how several ekphraseis allude to models in the writers of Greek novels.44
Perhaps the most obvious novelistic topos in the Dionysiaca is the portrayal
in Dion. 40.298–368 of Tyre, a city which ‘becomes almost a metonym for the
genre of the Greek novel’.45 Yet another clear example of how Nonnus enriches
ekphrasis with material from Greek novels is in the depiction of Electra’s
palace in Dion. 3.131–179. It reveals several debts to Daphnis and Chloe and
Leucippe and Clitophon: the role of an interpretive guide for the visitor Cadmus
(Dion. 3.83–97, 112–114, 124–130), the markedly romantic tenor effected by the
amorous behaviour of the depicted trees (3.142–154), and the scene’s proleptic
function of anticipating the marriage of Cadmus and Harmonia (5.190–209).46
The generic enrichment of the ekphraseis in the Dionysiaca comes also
from descriptions of briefer compass in shorter poems. We have had occasion
above (§ 2) to note how the contemporary social practice of posting inscribed
oracular verse is incorporated into the story of the Horae and their jurisdic-
tions in Dion. 12.29–115. As epigrammatic poetry became fashionable again in
the fourth century ad, it is not surprising that the conventions of this genre are
incorporated also into the epic ekphraseis of the Dionysiaca.47 Two funerary
epitaphs are worthy of note: the epigram inscribed upon the trunk of a laurel-
tree for the fallen Orontes in Dion. 17.313–314, and the self-described epitaph
for Actaeon in Dion. 5.527–532.
A less frequently studied model for the ekphraseis in the Dionysiaca is that
of sympotic poetry. Nonnus makes explicit use of one descriptive sympotic
poem in Dion. 24, after the extensive account of the battle between Dionysus’
44 Shorrock (2001) 192–194 discusses Nonnus’ imitations of Achilles Tatius in the depiction
of Europa’s abduction; see also Gigli (1978) and Reeves (2007).
45 Thus Shorrock (2001) 193, who notes the close parallels between Dion. 40.333–336 and
Leucippe and Clitophon 2.14.4.
46 See further Faber (2013) and Miguélez-Cavero in this volume.
47 On the popularity of epigrams in Nonnus’ day, and for echoes from especially Book 9 of
the Greek Anthology in the Dionysiaca, see Miguélez Cavero (2008) 90–91.
On inscriptional epigrams in the Dionysiaca see Miguélez Cavero (2008) 170–172 and
Agosti (2014a) 155–157.
454 Faber
army of satyrs and sileni and the peoples of India. At the feast celebrating
Dionysus’ triumph, the Lesbian poet Leucos sings the tale of the weaving-
competition between Athena and Aphrodite, much to the delight of his audience
(Dion. 24.242–329). The poet tells of how Aphrodite lays aside her girdle—and
the power of love for which it stands—and attempts to compete with Athena
by working the loom of the goddess of the arts and crafts (24.246–259). As
Aphrodite’s efforts fail, so too does her power over love, marriage, and procre-
ation, which all cease (24.261–273). While the gods are amused by the inability
of the Cyprian goddess to emulate Athena in her jurisdiction, Hermes teases
Aphrodite by stating that perhaps she is weaving new wedding-garb for a secret
marriage with Ares (24.301–303). If she must weave, Hermes says, she should
work into the cloth scenes that are appropriate to her own domain (303–305):
. . . νεοκλώστῳ δ’ ἐνὶ πέπλῳ

ἀσπίδα μὴ ποίκιλλε· τί γὰρ σακέων Ἀφροδίτη;
Τεῦχε τεῆς Φαέθοντα φεραυγέα μάρτυρον εὐνῆς 305
. . . but do not embroider a shield upon the

newly-spun cloth. For what does Aphrodite have to do with shields?
Fashion the light-bearing Phaethon, who witnesses your love-beds. 305
Here the epic poet of the Dionysiaca borrows an ekphrastic topos from
Anacreontea 4(i) West, a poem in which warfare is rejected—along with mar-
tial, epic poetry—in favour of wine and love.48 The anacreontic poet commis-
sions Hephaestus to forge for him a silver drinking cup rather than a suit of
armour. ‘For what’, he says (line 4), ‘do I have in common with battles?’ (τί γὰρ
μάχαισι κἀμοί). Not unlike Hermes in Dion. 24.303–304, the poet (lines 7–11)
instructs Hephaestus to fashion upon the cup not the constellations that adorn
the shield of Achilles in Iliad 18.485–489:
καὶ μὴ ποίει κατ’ αὐτό

μήτ’ ἄστρα μήτ’ Ἀμάξας,
<μὴ στυγνὸν Ὠρίωνα·>
τί Πλειάδων μέλει μοι, 10
τί δ’ ἀστέρος Βοώτεω;
48 For a discussion of this and other ekphrastic poems of the Anacreontea see Baumann
(2014).
And do not fashion on the bowl for me

neither the stars, nor the Plough,
<nor hateful Orion;>
what do I care about the Pleiades? 10
So what about the star Bootes?
Instead, the hollow drinking cup should be decorated appropriately with

grape-vines and blooming clusters to honour Lyaios, the god of wine, and Eros,
the god of love (12–21). Rejecting the epic genre epitomized by the shield scene,
the poet opts for a sympotic-erotic hymn worthy of Bacchus and Eros.49 And
just as Anacreontea 4(i) employs the commissioning of an ekphrastic subject
to champion Aphrodite’s proper jurisdiction of love, so too does Leucos’ song
of the rivalry of Athena and Aphrodite in Dion. 24 privilege the themes of love,
wine, and the power of the Cyprian goddess. For the poet Nonnus, the inter-
generic allusions permit him not only to exercise different types of literary
ekphrasis and so to enrich the traditional epic descriptions, but also to recast
the Iliadic epic as a truly Dionysiac one.
6 Focalization and the Hermeneutics of Ekphrasis
This chapter began by noting the significance of visual culture in the fifth cen-
tury ad for the ekphraseis in the Dionysiaca. Reflecting the late antique inter-
est in visualization, in the processes of viewing, and in the hermeneutics of
description, the poet of the Dionysiaca explores a range of interpretive pos-
sibilities for his ekphraseis. As the role of the viewer is crucial in the reception
of visual culture, Nonnus surpasses his predecessors in epic verse by making
more explicit the interpretation(s) of the scenes depicted, and he employs var-
ious focalizers to problematize the hermeneutics of ekphrasis.
Some depictions are marked by a sense of narratorial autopsy. Given the
ease of travel in the late fifth century, it is possible, for example, that Nonnus
himself saw the cities of Beirut (Dion. 41.14–49) and Tyre (40.298–368).50 At
any rate, these are not cities which existed only in the imaginations of the
author and his readers. Thus the intimation of autopsy suggested by the
simple ekphrastic introduction to the picture of Beirut—Ἔστι πόλις Βερόη
(‘there is a city called Beirut’, Dion. 41.14)—and by the matter-of-fact presenta-
tion of the city’s features, hints at the personal involvement of the narrator in
49 For a discussion of this feature see Rosenmeyer (1992) 89–90.

456 Faber
presenting the descriptive passage.51 The depiction of Tyre in Dion. 40, how-
ever, is recorded from the perspective of the god Dionysus. Like an impression-
able tourist, Bacchus marvels at the brightly coloured works of art adorning the
city (303–303); he is delighted by the city’s location on the sea-shore (311–313);
and he takes pleasure in looking at the streets paved with mosaics and pre-
cious stones (353–355). In presenting the two city descriptions from the points
of view of the narrator and of the poem’s main character, Dionysus, Nonnus
brings the narrator and his subject together through these two clearly focalized
ekphraseis.
There is in fact a striking range of focalizers for the ekphraseis in the
Dionysiaca. There is the dying Actaeon’s description of his own memorial statue
and funerary epitaph in Dion. 5.525–551, which corresponds to the narrator’s
earlier depiction of his metamorphosing body (Dion. 5.316–324).52 Persephone
beholds her own reflection in a mirror in Dion. 5.594–600, while Hera approves
of her own likeness in a mirror in Dion. 32.36–37. And the picaresque theme
of the Dionysiaca lends itself well to the ekphrastic topos of the ‘expert’ inter-
preter, as several ekphraseis are contextualized within narrative accounts of
travel. Thus when Cadmus comes to the palace of Electra described in Dion.
3.131–179, it is the character Peitho who points out to him the beauties and
meaning of the dwelling and its garden (Dion. 3.83–93, 112–114, 124–130).53 It
is Helios who guides the Horae to the prophetic tablets by the wall in Dion.
12.30–31, while Harmonia (Dion. 41.360) is the one who leads Aphrodite to a
perusal of the prophetic inscriptions about the fate of Beirut recorded in Dion.
41.339–399. In Dion. 18.67–87 it is king Staphylus who shows to the visiting
Dionysus the marvelous craftsmanship of his palace.
The figure of the learned interpreter does not occur in the ekphraseis of
archaic or Hellenistic epic poetry, and Nonnus may have modeled this focalizer
on precedents in the Second Sophistic. In Lucian’s Heracles 5.4, for example,
it is a learned Celt who interprets a painting of Heracles at which Lucian is
looking.54 The narrator in the Prologue to Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe (1.1.3)
reports that he required an expert to interpret for him the meaning of the
painting of a love scene. And, in the Imagines of Philostratus the Elder it is
the sophist who explains to the boy who accompanies him the meaning of each
51 Thus Shorrock (2011) 13, who cites as example the ekphrastic writings of the early sixth-
century ad epic poet, Christodorus of Coptus, on the statues decorating the Baths of
Zeuxippus. On Christodorus and Nonnus see Tissoni in this volume.
52 See Lasek in this volume.
53 On the role of Peitho in Cadmus’ visit to the palace of Electra see Carvounis (2014) 33–36.
54 See Bartsch (1989) 42–44.
painting which they behold.55 To use the words of Jaś Elsner, in the Imagines
Philostratus provides ‘training in how to look’.56
Appropriating this important process in visualization for his literary aims,
Nonnus employs the focalizers in the Dionysiaca to draw attention to the
hermeneutic activities that are involved in the reading of the descriptions.57
The diversity of interpreters has the effect of precluding a single, consistent
interpretation of the ekphraseis throughout the Dionysiaca, and it tends to
infuse the descriptions with a sense of illusion, ambiguity, or even mispercep-
tion. Robert Shorrock has illustrated this quality by means of the example of
Harmonia’s necklace described in Dion. 5.135–189.58 The recurring expression,
‘multiform necklace’ (ποικίλος ὅρμος, 5.144, 151) may bear the nuanced meaning
of complex, unclear symbolic import. The jewelry is furthermore characterized
by adjectives suggesting deception (ψευδαλέος, 5.157), likeness (e.g., ὁμοίιος,
176), and ambiguity (εἴκελος, 179). By using these and similar epithets in their
descriptive accounts, the narrators and focalizers in the Dionysiaca apply the
poem’s fundamental theme of appearances and reality to the hermeneutics of
ekphrasis. Consequently, the literary representations of buildings, works of art,
cities, jewelry and shields are endowed with a heightened relevance to their
immediate and general narrative contexts. Moreover, the possibly ambiguous
interpretations affect the process of the reader’s own hermeneutic activity
towards the text. Aware of the entire range of interpretive possibilities that is
afforded by purposefully complex meanings of his descriptions, the poet fully
exploits the relationship between object, viewer and reader.
7 Conclusions: Nonnian Ekphrasis and Metapoetics
In his introduction to the recently published volume of essays entitled Nonnus

of Panopolis in Context (2014), Pierre Chuvin describes Book 25 as a ‘program-
matic’ book which provides the ‘hidden consistency’ to the Dionysiaca as
whole.59 Beginning with a second, lengthy prologue (Dion. 25.1–21), the poet
signals the importance of the coming Indian War and the long march of events
that lead to the eventual apotheosis of Dionysus. Occupying a large portion
of this book is the description of the shield which Dionysus will bear in the
55 For the importance of this interpretive function see Webb (2006).
56 Elsner (1995) 29.
57 Cf. Bartsch (1989) 21–39, Roilos (2007) 338–340, and Webb (2009) 54.
58 Shorrock (2001) 52–55.
59 Chuvin (2014) 5.
458 Faber
battles that lead to his triumph (Dion. 25.380–572). And portrayed upon the
shield are four distinct scenes: the foundation of Thebes by Amphion and
Zethus (25.414–428), the abduction of Ganymedes by Zeus in the form of an
eagle and the youth as cupbearer on Olympus (25.429–450), the story of Tylus
and Morie (25.451–552), and the disgorgement of Kronos’ children through a
ploy of Rhea (25.553–562). By drawing together several major themes of the
Dionysiaca into a concentrated image of a shield that projects the qualities of
Dionysus himself, this ekphrasis expresses the interpretive secret of the mean-
ing of the entire poem.60
Several interpretations of the meaning of this lengthy shield description
have been offered in recent years, and whereas it is beyond the scope of this
chapter to evaluate them separately here, one deserves to be noted for its
extensive and detailed reading, and for its value of illustrating the metaliter-
ary quality of Nonnian ekphrasis as exemplified by the shield of Dionysus. In
an important contribution to Nonnus of Panopolis in Context, Konstantinos
Spanoudakis puts forth a reading of the shield description that is based on
the understanding that an allegorical reading is the ‘prerogative of any form
of art in Late Antiquity.’61 Like the Homeric shield of Achilles (Il. 18.478–608)
which is its model and which was interpreted as metaphor for the firmament
of heaven already in Hellenistic times, the shield of Dionysus may be seen
to function as a royal emblem for the god who carries it.62 And, developing
an earlier study which compared the portrayal of Tylus in the shield’s third
scene with the biblical figure of Lazarus,63 Spanoudakis offers a new reading
that touches also on the vexed question of the possible Christian motifs in the
Dionysiaca. The first scene, that of the founding of Thebes by Amphion and
Zethus, is read as an allegory for the creation of the world, while the picture
of Ganymedes is viewed as a conflation of the symbols of immortalisation and
apotheosis. Seeing the figure of Tylus in the long mythical excursus of the third
scene (Dion. 25.451–552) as representative of potentially divine man who falls
and dies, Spanoudakis interprets the story of Tylus and Morie as developing
60 On the Hellenistic background of literary ekphrasis as programmatic allegory see Prioux
(2012).
61 Spanoudakis (2014b) 333. See also the extensive bibliography there, of which Miguélez
Cavero (2008) 297–300 merits special mention for its rhetorical and formal approach and
Hernández de la Fuente (2011a) for its unique reading of the ekphrasis as a Neoplatonic
description of the circularity in the universe.
62 On this see especially Hardie (1985) 15.
63 Spanoudakis (2013b).
the theme of death and resurrection.64 And the final scene, concerning the
children of Kronos, is read as an ‘allegory for eschatological resurrection.’65
Taking the four scenes and their allegorical import together, Spanoudakis con-
cludes that the ekphrasis conveys a theological sense, namely ‘the realisation
of the plan conceived by God for man.’66
Building upon the Homeric tradition of the metaliterary function of epic
ekphrasis, Nonnus’ description of the shield of Dionysus may be read as a
highly self-conscious and self-reflexive work of art which draws the reader’s
attention to the artful contruction of the Dionysiaca itself. As an analogue for
the poem, the ekphrasis invites the reader to visualize the larger artifact of the
Dionysiaca as whole, and thus to reflect on the ways in which imaginary visual
representation negotiates a close relationship with literary, poetic represen-
tation. Together with the other skillfully wrought descriptions in the poem,
the ekphrasis of Dionysus’ shield continues to enable new readings of the
Dionysiaca that supersede the traditional boundaries of epic verse and its liter-
ary figures in order that the reader may have access to ever-changing literary,
allegorical, religious and mystical experiences.
64 On this reading see also Vian (1990) 267–268 (on Dion. 25.529–537).
65 Spanoudakis (2014b) 367.
66 Spanoudakis (2014b) 371.
chapter 21
Nonnus and the Art of Late Antiquity

1 Introduction
In the introduction to W.H.D. Rouse’s Loeb translation of Nonnus’ Dionysiaca,

published in 1940, H.J. Rose described the relevance of the work ‘as being the
longest and most elaborate example we have of Greek myths in their final stage
of degeneracy.’1 Since Rouse and Rose, scholarship on the Dionysiaca and late
antique literature more generally has progressed in more fruitful directions (as
evident from the contributions to this volume). So has work on late antique art,
which was described in the past in a similarly derogatory language of decline, a
position that is traceable back to the 18th-century schema of art history devel-
oped by Johann J. Winckelmann.2 Modern scholarship thus generally studies
late antique art on its own terms and as an aspect of the continued reception
and creative engagement with classical visual culture into the Medieval period.
In fact, the study of late antique art is today a flourishing field in its own right.3
The purpose of this essay is to provide an overview of how the world of
Dionysus, so vividly depicted in epic form in the Dionysiaca, was represented
in late antique art. In turn, it will also address how such visual depictions
relate to and diverge from the textual representations of the same repertoire
of myths. The use of mythological motifs in art had a very long history in the
ancient world, and the complex relationship between art and text that exists
in such imagery has been treated in a range of recent scholarship.4 Efforts to
connect the visual and the verbal in the case of Nonnus have a long tradition
in scholarship, and the issue has received renewed impetus in recent years.5
Here I hope to show that better understanding of late antique art helps to open
1 Rouse (1940) x. For some historiography in relation to changes in scholarly attitudes towards
late antique poetry, see Agosti (2012).
2 E.g., in Berenson (1954).
3 Recent introductions include Elsner (1998) and Hoffmann (2007).
4 Woodford (2003) on images and myth. Elsner (1995) and Squire (2009) are two key contribu-
tions on art and text, and see also contributions on art and epic in Lovatt/Vout (2013).
5 Agosti (2014a) is a recent exploration of this topic, providing important historiography and
bibliography.

Nonnus and the Art of Late Antiquity 461
up new modes of engagement with Nonnus’ texts and the audiences that he
was writing for. Similarly, literary re-assessments of Nonnus have inspired new
work on the period’s visual culture and have helped to define new approaches
to works of art that often do not have a solid archaeological context.
The Dionysiaca dates to the mid-5th century, but was written in a consciously
Homeric tradition of epic.6 Late antique art often worked in a similarly con-
scious way with much earlier forms of representation and iconography, a fact
that in some cases has complicated dating efforts. Consequently, we will touch
here on earlier artworks that show a similar interest in Dionysiac themes and
that may have provided an important visual source for the way that mythology
was represented and used for literary purposes in the Dionysiaca. After a brief
introduction to the representation of Dionysus more broadly in classical art,
we will move on to a more detailed discussion of the problems and perspec-
tives of studying late antique art by looking at some examples of Dionysiac
imagery in different media.
2 Visualizing the World of Dionysus
It is well established that Dionysus was a prominent figure in late antique

religion and also played a significant role in contemporary art, in which his
alluring world features time and again. Representations of Dionysus had a long
history going back to archaic Greece and cover a vast variety of different media
that developed in very distinctive ways in different contexts.7 Across this time
range, depictions of Dionysus underwent several transformations that are
highly revelatory of his place in contemporary society and religion, as well as
of the cross-fertilisation between art and text. Yet the key question for poets,
playwrights, sculptors and vase painters essentially remained the same: how to
visualise the god of wine, madness and ecstasy?
The story of Dionysus’ iconographical development is often told through his
numerous representations on Attic pottery, which have survived in large num-
bers and can be dated relatively precisely. He first appears on such pots in the
first quarter of the sixth century bc as a fully clothed, bearded adult, frequently
wearing an ivy or vine wreath, and in many other contexts identifiable by the
6 On the date of the Dionysiaca, see the summary of scholarly discussion in Miguélez Cavero
(2008) 17–18. Cf. also the first chapter by Accorinti in this volume.
7 For overviews, refer to Houser (1979), Moraw (2011) and the standard corpus of representa-
tions in LIMC, s.v. ‘Dionysos’. On archaic Greek representations of Dionysus, refer to Isler-
Kerényi (2007).
462 Kristensen
presence of grapes or an amphora. In this early period Dionysus was already a

popular figure on pottery that was used during the aristocratic drinking party
known as the symposion. Around 425 bc, Dionysus suddenly lost his beard and
was re-invented as a youth.8 This is a period when the popularity of Dionysiac
imagery flourished in close connection with the success of Euripides’ influen-
tial tragedy, Bacchae, which was first performed in 405 bc.9 Certain key scenes
in the repertoire of Dionysiac imagery, such as his infancy, were introduced at
this time, and remained in use into Late Antiquity, demonstrating the remark-
able popularity and longevity of this motif. The late classical Derveni krater,
discovered with a series of other metal vessels in a rich Macedonian tomb
dated to 320–300 bc, was decorated with a beautiful repoussé frieze showing
Dionysus and Ariadne as well as Silenus and dancing maenads, and was used
according to a recent interpretation to represent ‘eschatological hope’ in the
funerary context.10
In Roman Italy, the cult of Dionysus (Bacchus) was introduced in the early
second century bc and grew rapidly in popularity, much to the chagrin of the
senate. In 186 bc, it thus tried to suppress the cult, which was perceived as a
threat to social order.11 However, in later Roman art Dionysiac symbols and
images are frequently found on everything from wall paintings and sarcophagi
to precious glass vessels, again showing their ubiquity and permeability in dif-
ferent contexts. The famous paintings of the so-called Villa of the Mysteries
outside Pompeii include an image of Dionysus and a female consort, identi-
fied as either Ariadne (his bride) or Semele (his mother). The scene is some-
times read as a Dionysiac rite of initiation.12 Whatever meaning these panels
may have had in the context of a private house, they certainly demonstrate
the prevailing popularity of Dionysus and his attraction to Roman viewers. In
the funerary sphere, Dionysiac motifs were immensely popular on Roman sar-
cophagi from the second century ad onwards, and even children could occa-
sionally be represented as Dionysus to convey a message of joie de vivre.13
In the fourth century ad, the popularity of Dionysiac imagery showed no
signs of abating, even as the influence of Christianity was on the rise. Yet
responses to Dionysus differed greatly. In his more general diatribe on pagan
images, Theodoret of Cyrus thus condemned Dionysus as ‘that limb-loosener
8 Carpenter (1993).
9 Osborne (1997).
10 Barr-Sharrar (2008), quote from p. 181.
11 Beard/North/Price (1998) 91–95.
12 Sauron (1998).
13 A SR IV.1–4; and see Birk (2013) 165–167, fig. 93, and cat. no. 568.
and effeminate creature’.14 The strongly rhetorical critiques by Christian bish-

ops and authors do not seem to have had much of an impact, however, and
Dionysus remained a fixture in the cultural imagination, even into the eighth
century, as evident, for example, in the case of an Egyptian textile band now
in Paris, with a Greek inscription making the identity of the figure perfectly
clear.15 This suggests that Dionysiac representations were not simply part of
a visual tradition that lived on without any real knowledge of the meaning of
the motifs. Yet it is likely that at this time Dionysiac imagery had lost the reli-
gious associations that it may have had in earlier periods, and increasingly it
came to serve as illustrations of the patron’s paideia (learned culture). Several
scholars of Late Antiquity have thus pointed out that it is within the cultural
context of paideia that Dionysiac (and other so-called pagan) imagery should
be understood, rather than being perceived as indications of the patron’s per-
sonal faith.16 These discussions about the religious affiliation of the patrons of
‘pagan’ art mirror the perennial ‘Nonnian question’, but in some ways misrep-
resent the complex character of late antique society.
In the following, we shall investigate some of the media in which Dionysus
was depicted in Late Antiquity and the different meanings that these repre-
sentations could have had. We will also discuss how these scenes interact with
themes that can be observed in the Dionysiaca. This survey explores the mean-
ings of mythological imagery in the late antique context and focuses on textiles
and mosaics, two media in which we find numerous depictions of the world
of Dionysus. Other media in which Dionysiac imagery was prevalent in Late
Antiquity include ivories (such as diptychs, plaques and caskets) and silver-
ware, both of which depict similar mythological themes as those to be dis-
cussed in more detail here, and they have been frequently evoked in discussions
of the visual world of Nonnus.17 In silverware, some motifs show very specific
aspects of Dionysiac myth and ritual that are quite intriguing in a Christian
context, such as a sixth-century silver bowl from Asia Minor and now in
St Petersburg showing a woman feeding a snake crawling out of a cista mystica
14 Theodoret, Cur. 3.80 (translation quoted here from Gazda 1981, 167; see now the edition by
Scholten 2015), and see Kristensen (2013) 225.
15 Musée National du Moyen Âge-Thermes de Cluny, Paris, inv. no. 13188, see Török (2005)
266, fig. 107, and (2013) fig. 15.
16 The most subtle exploration of this issue remains Stirling (2005).
17 See, for example, the fifth-century ivory pyxis showing the childhood and youth of
Dionysus, now in Bologna. In most cases, such objects also lack their original colours:
Connor (1991). On Dionysiac imagery on late antique silverware, see Leader-Newby (2004)
141–144.
464 Kristensen
(Fig. 4.3).18 While seemingly referring to a very specific act in Dionysiac proces-
sions, it also displays an interest in the everyday life of mythological creatures,
such as Dionysus’ snake and maenads. Relief sculpture furthermore continued
to include representations of Dionysus and his entourage, for example, in the
decoration of funerary buildings in Egypt.19
The categories of art that Nonnus for one reason or another leaves out of
his story are also important if we are to understand the cultural and religious
context in which he was writing. As pointed out by Gianfranco Agosti, it is
indeed quite striking that he shows very little interest in ekphrastic descrip-
tions of statuary, a medium that experienced a notable decline in production
during this period, but that was enthusiastically described, in the case of the
Baths of Zeuxippus of Constantinople, by Christodorus of Coptos, writing only
shortly after the time of Nonnus.20 Late antique sculpture in the round, includ-
ing several examples from villas and other contexts at Antioch, occasionally
depicts prominent Dionysiac motifs and played an equally important role in
the period’s visual culture, even though the medium may have posed prob-
lems to some Christians.21 Nonnus’ apparent lack of interest in statuary may
be taken as evidence of the author’s Christianity, but it could equally reflect
a more general concern with abstraction that contrasts with Christodorus’
(slightly) more bounded ekphrasis.
3 Dionysiac Imagery in Late Antiquity I: Textiles
Late antique textiles have survived in large numbers in the dry climate of Egypt,
and Dionysus is a prominent figure among this body of material.22 Nonnus’
hometown of Panopolis (Coptic Shmin, Arabic Akhmim) was not only an
important place of culture and education in late antique Egypt but also one of
the most important textile production centres in the ancient world. It therefore
18 Effenberger/Maršak/Zalesskaja/Zaseckaja (1978) 120–124.

19 Thomas (2000) 63.
20 Agosti (2014a) 162–164. On the decline in the production of round sculpture, see Kristensen
(2013) 65–76. On Christodorus’ ekphrasis of the statues in the Baths of Zeuxippus, see
Kaldellis (2007a).
21 Stirling (2005) 219.
22 Török (2005) and (2013) present more general surveys of late antique art from Egypt. On
examples of Dionysus on textiles, see Bourgon-Amir (1992) figs. 34–52, and Bénazeth
(2002).
seems particularly pertinent to begin our survey with this particular medium.23
Many Egyptian textiles that originate in Middle Egypt were indeed decorated
with mythological motifs that have been used as comparanda for Nonnus’
descriptions of Dionysus and other aspects of the Dionysiaca. Although occa-
sionally presented as objects of everyday life in modern museums, many of
these textiles constitute spectacular artworks in themselves and are testimony
to a creative tradition that is lost to us in other parts of the Mediterranean.
However, working with the Egyptian textiles presents several problems, not
least when it comes to the lack of exacting chronologies (in many cases, very
wide date ranges are given for individual examples, such as ‘fourth to sixth
century ad’).24 Furthermore, most Egyptian textiles offer very little in terms
of archaeological context, as they come from badly documented excavations
of graves, and many fragments of the same textiles that originally belonged
together have been dispersed to several different collections, complicating
modern efforts to reconstruct their original appearance and composition. So
although it may be difficult to place the textiles within historical and social
contexts and to understand their use and function, they remain useful as evi-
dence of the wide circulation of mythological motifs in Late Antiquity, and
of the way in which they were put to use in daily life and beyond. The textiles
indeed provide us with a vivid and colourful picture of the late antique visual
imaginaire, in which the world of Dionysus was a prominent feature. In turn,
the Dionysiaca constitutes a useful cultural frame of reference for contextualis-
ing the textiles.
One of the most extraordinary late antique textiles that have survived is a
monumental wall hanging, now in the Abegg-Stiftung in Switzerland, which
is generally dated to the fourth century (Fig. 4.4).25 Many scholars have used
this spectacular wall hanging to exemplify the great popularity of Dionysus
in Late Antiquity. Although it was purchased on the German art market in
1986, it is likely to originate from an Egyptian tomb, not least because of its
relatively well-preserved state. Based on comparison with smaller fragments in
other collections, it has been suggested that it was produced in a workshop at
Panopolis.26 Originally, it was more than 7 m long and 2 m wide, and presum-
ably it would have decorated the interior of a building before its deposition in
23 On Panopolis as a cultural centre, see Miguélez Cavero (2008) 191–263 and van Minnen in
this volume.
24 Kristensen (2015).
25 Riggisberg, Abegg-Stiftung, inv. no. 3100a; and see Schrenk (2004) 26–34; Török (2005)
233–235.
26 Willers (1992) 150.
466 Kristensen
a funerary context. It should be noted that the order in which the figures are
currently placed is likely to be incorrect, and Sabine Schrenk has recently pre-
sented a new reconstruction that differs in important respects from Fig. 4.4.27
However, in order to avoid confusion, the present montage will serve as the
basis for our discussion here.
As preserved, the wall hanging shows eight nearly life-size figures, separated
by elaborately adorned arcades whose decoration varies in every case, adding
a splash of colour and ornament.28 The arcade-like composition is reminiscent
of Roman and Asiatic column sarcophagi that display figures using a similar
format, although marble sculptures usually lack the extraordinary colours that
are seen here. Arcades of a similar nature are used as framing devices on other
late antique textiles as well as on the Projecta casket from the Esquiline trea-
sure, dated to c. ad 380. The arcades clearly function as dividers between the
figures, but they also weave together the motif of abundance and prosperity.
They are testimony to the creativity of the textile artists and find parallels in
Egyptian architectural sculpture, such as the pilasters from the South Church
at Bawit.29 In contrast to the figural scenes, the twisting and turning floral
motifs of the arcades provide a sense of movement. It is furthermore highly
significant that each individual figure appears to be framed in a particular way;
for example, the arcade that frames Dionysus is decorated with grapes and ivy
leaves.
The freeze-frame figures do not interact, and the scene seemingly demon-
strates a lack of interest in telling a story through the depiction of multiple
figures in the same scene. However, claims that this exemplifies a general move
from narrative to symbol in late antique art quite miss the mark.30 Indeed, this
view seems to me to misrepresent the function and context of the medium.
Part of the convivial atmosphere that such images offered to viewers was
clearly that the isolated figures could be revealed one at a time, thus slowly
unfolding a story in several parts in front of their eyes. A fragment of another
tapestry hanging in Boston even depicts a man who is pulling back a curtain
from similar arcade-like architecture, although in this case what he reveals is
not preserved.31 Such playful depictions offered an innovative way of telling
and re-telling a well-known story to contemporary viewers.
27 Schrenk (2004) 32–33.

28 Also seen in some other examples of Dionysiac textiles, see Rutschowscaya (1990) 86–87.
29 McKenzie (2007) 295–305.
30 Contra Török (2005) 233.
31 Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, inv. no. 49.315; and see Török (2005) fig. 72.
Indeed, the story told by the Dionysiac wall hanging is not altogether
straightforward. Although there is thematic unity, most of the figures appear
to have been taken from a picture book with stock images of single figures that
could be reproduced on different scales. But even when it is singled out as a
stand-alone figure, several aspects of the representation of Dionysus in this
image resonated with his representation in text, such as the long hair crowned
with flowers and ivy leaves, the panther at his feet, and the wine-pouring kan-
tharos that he holds in his hand.32 Arguably, he is also shown in an androgy-
nous way that finds resonance with both his description in the Dionysiaca as
well in Theodoret’s condemnation of him. Even though Dionysus himself is
shown as a statuesque figure rather than in a chariot or supported by revel-
lers, there is a sense in which what we are seeing is a Dionysiac procession, a
so-called thiasos.
The naked woman to the left of Dionysus is often identified as Ariadne,
shown with a diadem in her hair, rich jewellery and possibly a pomegranate
in one hand. This figure finds a close iconographic parallel in a fragment of
another textile now in Cleveland in which the accompanying figure is identi-
fied through text as a satyr.33 In other textiles, Ariadne is usually depicted as
clothed, and it could be thought that the figure was simply a maenad, had it
not been for the fact that this naked ‘attire’ is also used for other heroines in
fourth-century mosaics, such as Leda and Cassiopeia on the large mosaic from
Nea Paphos discussed below.34 Perhaps her precise identity is less important
in this context, as her most important role was simply as a female companion
of Dionysus, which of course to many viewers would have signified Ariadne.
To the left of Dionysus, we see a satyr. We also see Silenus depicted as the first
figure from the left, holding a special kind of whip ( februum), although this
figure is occasionally interpreted as an old man or a peasant. More clearly iden-
tifiable are goat-legged Pan, who is playing his flute, and the maenad in the
arcade on the far right, who is dancing. Of special interest is the woman next
to Pan, who is exposing her right leg and breast; she is holding a sandal in her
left hand, which suggests that the scene is iconographically linked to Pan and
his mischievous behaviour.35
32 This has recently been discussed in more detail by Miguélez Cavero (2009) 559.
33 Museum of Art, Cleveland, inv. no. 75.6; and see Rutschowcaya (1990) 86–87; Török (2005)
235–236, and fig. 77.
34 For example, in a pair of Dionysus and Ariadne from Gayet’s excavations at Antinoopolis:
Louvre, inv. nos. AF 5468 and 5469; see Bourguet (1964) 72–73.
35 Török (2005) 234 identifies this woman as the scene’s protagonist, the bride-to-be.
468 Kristensen
One figure in particular eschews easy identification, namely the woman in

the second arcade from the left. She wears precious jewellery and a red tunic
that is decorated with golden clavi and bound by a girdle. In her right hand
she holds a garland, and in her left a bowl. She is furthermore the only fig-
ure to be shown with a blue nimbus (all other preserved examples are yellow).
Possible interpretations of her have included a personification, a portrait of
the deceased (by comparison with the painted niche of the Tomb of Theodosia
at Antinoopolis), or a woman initiate into the Dionysiac Mysteries.36 If the
scene is interpreted as an initiation, it would then turn its meaning from the
generic sense of a procession to a more personal message of cultic initiation.
Schrenk’s reconstruction thus places Dionysus in the central arcade of the tex-
tile, flanked to his right by a maenad, and to his left by the female initiate, who
would then have played a sort of mythological game of mirrors, not only in her
position in the panel, but also by the posture of her hands and the objects that
she holds in them.
The interweaving of myth and figures from real life, as well as its images of
conviviality, would make the wall hanging suitable for display in a domestic
setting, such as on the walls of the house of a nobleman, where the arcades
would have given the figural scenes a certain palatial appearance that was par-
ticularly apt in the case of this very large textile.37 In the funerary context, the
iconography of the wall hanging is comparable to the series of Roman sarcoph-
agi that show Dionysiac processions, even though it is broken into individual
elements here. As an ensemble, the figures would have opened up the world
of Dionysus by depicting his entourage and followers (both human and mythi-
cal). If we accept the suggestion that it represents the initiation of a woman
into a mystery cult, it is difficult to know if ancient viewers would have picked
up on the highly specific meanings that the wall hanging may have had. At a
more general level, both pagans and Christians would have been able to iden-
tify individual motifs here to demonstrate their paideia, and many scholars
have emphasized this aspect of the iconography. Based on the suggestion that
the Dionysiaca could be read through a Christian lens as a story of redemption
and Dionysus interpreted more specifically as a saviour, it is also possible that
the hanging is testimony to late antique syncretism. This interpretation would
indeed seem to be supported by the fact that a silk with Christian scenes from
36 Personification or deceased: Rutschowcaya (1990) 83. Initiation rite: Willers (1992) 147. On
the Tomb of Theodosia, see Donadoni (1938).
37 As suggested by Schrenk (2004) 30.
the life of Mary was found in the same grave.38 At least, fragments of the Mary
silk were attached to the Dionysus wall hanging when it was purchased by the
Abegg-Stiftung. As such, the wall hanging offers a particularly intriguing exam-
ple of late antique culture in which pagan and Christian motifs could function
side by side, similar to how the Dionysiaca has been interpreted.
The wall hanging in the Abegg-Stiftung stands in some contrast to other late
antique textiles, not only in size and quality, but also because of its less narra-
tive evocation of particular stories and myths from the Dionysiac repertoire.
The so-called ‘Antinoë veil’ (which more accurately should be described as a
wall hanging) is a famous example of an Egyptian textile that tells the story of
the life of Dionysus in more detail (Fig. 4.5).39 Unlike the previous wall hang-
ing, it aids its viewers by offering several inscriptions that name the individual
actors in the scene, including Dionysus and Semele, showing a closer affinity to
a textual frame of reference. The veil, usually dated to the fourth century, was
made in the special resist-dye technique and was discovered by Albert Gayet
in 1906 during his excavations at Antinoopolis. It is now wonderfully presented
by modern technology in the Louvre’s recently re-installed galleries of Eastern
Roman art.
The lower part of the preserved fragment, some 3.47 m long and 1.30 m high,
is most directly comparable with the Abegg-Stiftung wall hanging, as it also
depicts a procession, although in this scene the figures are not separated by
arcades. Dionysus is shown as a triumphant ruler, joined by his mortal mother
Semele. Although there is nothing to suggest that this is the Indian triumph
of Nonnus celebrated in the Dionysiaca, the motif could be read in a more
general way as an image of the ever-victorious Dionysus. A floral scroll (with
grapes, ivy leaves and birds) separates the lower scene from the upper scene,
in which the figures are smaller. These vine scrolls with birds emphasize the
imagery of abundance that was seen previously in the case of the wall hanging
in the Abegg-Stiftung, a theme that is mirrored in the representation of baskets
of fruit that some of the participants of the procession carry. The depiction of
different scenes in the life of Dionysus, including his birth and first bath but
also Hera’s attempted murder of him, resonates with the apparent interests of
the Dionysiaca, which devotes a total of twelve books to his ancestry, birth and
upbringing (Books 1–12). However, as Laura Miguélez-Cavero has noted, the
cycle of imagery in the case of the veil only partially matches the Dionysiaca, in
38 Schrenk (2004) 185–189, cat. no. 62. For a similar case of pagan and Christian objects
found together in an Egyptian tomb, see Kristensen (2015) 276.
39 Louvre, inv. no. E 11102, and see Török (2005) 282–283.
470 Kristensen
which, for example, Dionysus’ first bath is notably absent.40 Although art and
text circle around the same general themes, there does not seem to be a direct
interest in telling a specifically Nonnian version.
We have so far discussed depictions of Dionysus and scenes from his life,
but many other textiles show an engagement with his world, although again
not necessarily in ways that overlap with the Dionysiaca. Nereids, long-popular
sea creatures in many different kinds of media (and seen also on other famous
late antique objects, such as the Projecta casket), offer one such example. In
Nonnus’ text, Nereids feature in many passages, usually in dramatic episodes,
such as when Dionysus has escaped from king Lycurgus (21.170–199), but also
under more peaceful circumstances, such as when they dance during the wed-
ding of Dionysus and Pallene (48.191–202). When Nereids are seen on textiles,
however, they are most often shown in what can be called scenes of every-
day life, such as one spectacular example of a fifth/sixth-century tapestry in
Washington, DC that shows a pair of Nereids against a rich red background
(Fig. 4.6).41 As is common, the Nereids are depicted seated on their sea crea-
tures, but there is no sense of action or narrative: one Nereid is holding up
a mirror and admiring her own reflection. Although it has been suggested
that the scene may be linked to the myth of Europa and the bull in which the
Nereids occasionally featured (a story that features prominently in Book 1 of
the Dionysiaca), that is certainly only one particular interpretation, whereas
the image leaves itself open to many different interpretations by the viewer.42
Marine processions may indeed be linked to both Venus and marriage scenes.
Again, there seems to be little interest in connecting art and text directly. Such
images seem deliberately to prefer the everyday and banal rather than the epic
grandeur offered by specific texts. The purpose of the textile is instead to offer
an interesting composition for viewers to conjure up their own version of a
particular story or myth.
The non-narrative approach is again observed on another textile rich
in Dionysiac themes, now in New York.43 It shows busts of the followers of
Dionysus depicted in isolated medallions. Similarly to the Abegg-Stiftung wall
hanging, the individual busts are connected by a series of interconnecting flo-
ral ornaments that make the viewer’s eyes wander across its rich repertoire of
40 Miguélez Cavero (2009) 561–562. On representations of Dionysus’ first bath, see Bowersock
(2011).
41 Dumbarton Oaks, inv. BZ. 1932.1; and see Rutschowscaya (1990) 120–121.
42 On Nereids and Europa, see Barringer (1991).
43 Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, inv. no. 31.9.3; and see Rutschowscaya (1990)
88–89.
representations. The different figures all visualized the world of Dionysus, but
there is no attempt to supplement with a narrative in the Nonnian vein. Its
medallion composition is compatible with contemporary mosaics in houses
and churches.44
In the study of these late antique textiles, scholars have generally tended to
focus on their iconography, but we may also speculate on their significance by
placing the imagery in a social context. It is particularly striking that so many
of these textiles depicting Dionysus were found in funerary contexts, which
potentially points to their role within contemporary thinking on the afterlife.
Already in the fourth century bc, the iconography of the Derveni krater seems
to have offered an eschatological vision to viewers, and it is not unlikely that
the late antique Dionysiac motifs offered similar connotations. Although they
do not derive their motifs directly from Nonnus, the funerary textiles may be
compared with the eschatological strain that has been identified in some parts
of the Dionysiaca.45 The degree to which this eschatological strain reflects the
influence of Christian soteriology is open to debate and is discussed in more
detail by other contributions to this volume.46 At any rate, the Dionysiac imag-
ery on textiles helps us to understand a tradition of using images for both
pleasure (in the context of domestic convivium) and contemplation (in the
funerary context).
4 Dionysiac Imagery in Late Antiquity II: Mosaics
Mosaics constitute another large body of late antique art that is preserved in
many parts of the Mediterranean. In comparison with textiles, the great advan-
tage of mosaics is that many examples are still to be found in their original
architectural context. They are furthermore datable by means of associated
finds, such as pottery and coins. Many mosaics depict mythological themes, not
least the world of Dionysus, and his triumphal procession was one of the most
popular motifs in mosaics in many parts of the Roman world.47 Generally rich
in inscriptions, mosaics constitute an excellent medium in which to engage
44 Such as a mosaic in the Maison de l’Âne in Djemila, see Dunbabin (1978) figs. 185–186
(dated to the end of the 4th or early 5th century).
45 Shorrock (2011) 97–98; Kristensen (2015).
46 See the chapters by Accorinti, Bernabé/García-Gasco, Dijkstra, Hadjittofi, and Lightfoot
in this volume.
47 See, for example, the overview of Dionysiac motifs on North African mosaics in Dunbabin
(1978) 172–188.
472 Kristensen
with questions of art and text in relation to the Dionysiaca. Glen Bowersock
has indeed explored some of the connections between the mythological narra-
tive of the Dionysiaca and well-known mosaics from Sepphoris (Palestine) and
Nea Paphos (Cyprus) that amongst other things show a Dionysiac procession.48
He has eloquently shown how such pagan themes could flourish within a
Christian environment. These mosaics adorned large private houses belonging
to elite members of society whose religious affiliation cannot be established
simply on the basis of the archaeological finds.
New discoveries of mosaic floors adorned with Dionysiac imagery occur
on a fairly regular basis. One recent example is the spectacular mosaic known
as ‘figurative panel D’ from a fourth or fifth-century villa found at Noheda in
Spain (Fig. 4.7).49 The almost 10 m long panel shows a procession with Dionysus
standing triumphantly on a chariot in the centre of the scene. The iconography
is easily decipherable, as Dionysus is shown with a wine jar and the thyrsus,
and is thus again clearly recognizable to readers of the Dionysiaca. Underlining
the theme of triumph, Dionysus is shown as being crowned by Ariadne and a
Nike. Projecting out from the chariot, four centaurs are shown symmetrically,
all playing pipes or the double-fluted aulos. Other participants in the proces-
sion include dancing maenads, torch-carrying satyrs, Pan, and Silenus on a
donkey. The composition attempts to achieve symmetry, so that for example
two torch-carrying satyrs are shown in the same places but going in different
directions. The advantage of this composition is that it allows Dionysus and his
chariot to take up the central part of the panel.
Processions and scenes from the life of Dionysus were a very popular motif
in the Eastern Mediterranean but are less frequently seen in the West, which
makes the social context of the choice of iconography particularly interesting in
the case of the Noheda mosaic.50 In this case we furthermore possess detailed
information about the architectural setting. The panel was only one part of
a much larger decorative programme that adorned a triconch triclinium and
originally covered almost 300 m2. The mosaic floor was divided into six figural
panels and decorated with floral and geometric motifs in the exedrae, where
couches would have been available to diners. The placement of the Dionysiac
panel immediately in front of the central exedra and thus presumably also the
patron of the mosaic is highly significant, and points to the importance of the
scene in the overall conception of the mosaic.51 The triclinium in the House of
48 Bowersock (1990) 41–53. Sepphoris: Talgam/Weiss (2004). Nea Paphos: Kondoleon (1995).
49 Tévar (2013) and Uscatescu (2013) offer introductory accounts.
50 Tévar (2013) 328–329.
51 Uscatescu (2013) 381–382.
Dionysus at Nea Paphos was similarly decorated with the triumph of Dionysus,
although here this motif was placed in the entrance to the room.52
Other mosaics in the Noheda triclinium showed the judgment of Paris,
Pelops and Hippodameia, mimes and pantomimes, as well as other mythologi-
cal figures. At the centre of the triclinium stood a marble fountain decorated
with statues, including a pair of Dioscuri. Triconches were important features
of late antique aristocratic houses and played a key role during social occa-
sions in such houses, offering the owners the chance to show off their wealth,
status and learning, not least through the room’s decoration.53 Some of the
richly coloured figures on the mosaics are more than life-size, which increased
their impact on viewers as they walked into the triclinium, which was used for
lavish dining. Three of the figural panels are indeed directed so that they can
be ‘read’ from the perspective of viewers entering the room through the main
entrance to the west.
In the context of studying Nonnus, it is interesting to note the different ways
in which scholars have interpreted Dionysiac imagery in late antique mosa-
ics. The so-called House of Aion in Nea Paphos on Cyprus, whose triclinium
was decorated with a large mosaic divided into five panels in three registers,
presents a particularly useful case.54 Since the discovery of the mosaic in 1983
by Polish excavators, its interpretation has been the subject of intense debate,
both because of the semantics of the decorative programme as a whole and
owing to the complexity of its allegorical narrative. The scenes (dated to the
mid-fourth century) are crammed with figures all identified by text, showing
an intense interest in literary culture, although it is an important contribution
of this particular mosaic that it gives us an entirely different version than those
known from texts of the story of the Ethiopian queen Cassiopeia. Instead of
being punished for her vanity, she is here represented as triumphant in the
beauty contest judged by Aion, Zeus, Athena, Helios and Selene. This is a use-
ful reminder that even though every figure is identified here by means of an
inscription, particular myths were still available in many different versions and
could be depicted (and read) accordingly. In the eyes of contemporary viewers,
art could as such take on a very independent existence from the world of text,
which offered a narrower frame of interpretation.
52 Kondoleon (1995) 191–229.

53 The literature on late antique houses has experienced dramatic growth in recent decades.
For a recent overview focused on the Triconch Palace at Butrint, see Bowden (2011).
54 Daszewski (1985); Bowersock (2006) 39–44; but note historiography in Olszewski (2013)
209–210.
474 Kristensen
Two scenes on this mosaic are particularly relevant to our discussion of

Dionysiac imagery. The lower left panel shows one of those Dionysiac tri-
umphal processions that we have now come across several examples of in
different media, although in this case the image of Dionysus himself is not pre-
served, but his entourage (including the centaurs driving his chariot and the
satyr Skirtos, who is also depicted on the ‘Veil of Antinoë’) clearly identifies the
scene. More uniquely, the upper right panel shows baby Dionysus seated on
Hermes’ lap and in the company of numerous other figures, including nymphs
and his tutor Tropheus, but also personifications, such as the mountain Nysa
(Fig. 4.8). Daszewski’s initial interpretation of the entire mosaic paid particular
attention to these Dionysiac scenes, which he interpreted as not only pointing
to the popularity of the wine god in Late Antiquity but also being an indica-
tion of the soteriological aspects of his cult that were discussed above (the
choice of title for his publication, Dionysos der Erlöser, was as such highly reve-
latory). However, the Dionysiac scenes are not the most central of the narrative
here; indeed the largest panel shows Cassiopeia as triumphant in the beauty
contest with the Nereids, here intricately named as Doris, Thetis and Galatea.
Nonetheless, we can still focus on the Dionysiac scenes in isolation, and here it
is particularly intriguing to note the scene of Hermes and the baby Dionysus,
which is comparable with Christian scenes of Mary and the baby Jesus. Similar
to the different readings of the Dionysiaca, we may thus see here reflections of
a late antique culture in which aspects of Dionysus found expression in very
similar compositions to those that are seen in Christian art and literature.
In contrast to the textiles, whose function in the domestic sphere is difficult
to reconstruct, we have seen here examples of how Dionysiac imagery was put
to use in rich villa settings in both east (Cyprus) and west (Spain). Although
we know little about the contexts in which epic poetry was performed in Late
Antiquity, it is not unlikely that such stories could have been read for guests
during dinner parties in rooms such as those that we have discussed here. The
chief attraction of the Dionysiaca was to offer ‘agreeable and pleasurable enter-
tainment’, and Dionysiac imagery also offered such pleasures as well as allow-
ing the patron to show off his own learning.55 The complex iconographies of
the mosaic floors offered the opportunity to play games with the guests, and
different interpretations of the scenes may have arisen in the context of the
dinner party. The Noheda and Nea Paphos mosaics thus shed important light
on the social context of the use of mythological motifs in Late Antiquity.
55 Quote: Miguélez Cavero (2008) 103.

5 Conclusions
The triumphant Dionysus is a common motif in late antique art, even to the
degree that it can be said to be paradigmatic for modern approaches to the
complex relationship between continuity and change in Late Antiquity. This
brief survey of late antique art has focused on two different media in which
the world of Dionysus was visualized and put to use within the culture of pai-
deia. Although the individual scenes and motifs in many cases overlap with
the narrative of the Dionysiaca (which, in fact, is inevitable, if only because of
the extensive character of the poem), direct correlations between art and text
have not been identified in any of the above cases. Like poetry, art remained
a central component of late antique cultural formation. Art and poetry were
indeed both elements of the shared culture of paideia, a particularly elite cul-
ture of learning, philosophy and myth that was common to both pagans and
Christians. Although we have mostly focused on ‘high’ art, mosaics and high-
quality textiles here, more humble textiles point to the strength and permea-
bility of this iconographic tradition. The late antique textiles also demonstrate
that the consumption of this sphere of mythology was not limited to the elite
but rather had spread to several different strata of society. Engagement with
Nonnus’ epic poetry thus allows for a better understanding of the cultural and
social context in which late antique art was produced and enjoyed by contem-
porary viewers.
476 Kristensen
figure 4.3 Feeding the snake (in a cista mystica): a central part of the Dionysus festival,
depicted on a sixth-century partially gilded silver bowl. St Petersburg, The State
Hermitage Museum.
figure 4.4 Dionysus wall hanging. Riggisberg, Abegg-Stiftung, inv. no. 3100 a.
figure 4.5 Drawing of the ‘Antinoë veil’. Paris, Louvre.
figure 4.6 Nereids tapestry. Washington, DC, Dumbarton Oaks Collection, inv. BZ. 1932.1.
478 Kristensen
figure 4.7 Dionysus panel from Noheda (Cuenca).
figure 4.8 House of Aion, Nea Paphos: Hermes with the baby Dionysus.
PART 5
Nonnus and the Classical Tradition
∵
Chapter 22
Nonnus and the Homeric Poems

Herbert Bannert and Nicole Kröll
visus Homerus adesse poeta

Ennius, Ann. 3 Skutsch
∵
1 Introduction: Invocations of Homer
Nonnus and Homer: this is a multi-faceted, at least a mutual concern.1 Homer

is an ideal, a Vorbild and a guide, but a rival as well. Given the epic poetry of the
centuries before the life and times of Nonnus and his contemporaries, there
is many a follower of Homer. Nonnus would renew the epic, and he would
renew it to be both, poetry in traditional form and poetry with a new bias. The
emphasis obviously is laid more on the design of epic poetry for his own life-
time than on the demonstration of his ability and skill to write in a kind of old-
fashioned traditional style. Therefore, Nonnus did not just imitate Homer, and
he did not just use the storehouse of Homeric expressions or para-formulaic
internal repetitiveness.2 Iliad and Odyssey are a guideline, but, as it were, the
narrative is arranged in reversed order, as is the basic structure of Virgil’s nar-
ration in the Aeneid too. The first part of the Dionysiaca, the stories of Cadmus
(Dion. 1–5) and Dionysus’ journey to India (Dion. 13–24), follows the general
concept of the Odyssean wanderings, the books with fighting actions obviously
are imparted by the Iliad (Dion. 25–40). Nonnus uses traditional narrative ele-
ments from the Iliad: catalogues of fighters, assemblies, a dream of the com-
mander, battle scenes, breaking of the truce, an embassy, description of feasts
1 For previous discussion see Wild (1886); D’Ippolito (1964) 37–41; Vian (1991); Lamberton/
Keaney (1992); Hopkinson (1994c); De Stefani (2011a); Frangoulis (2011); Mazza (2012) 228–
240; some general remarks can be found in Accorinti (2004) 7–19. See more recently Kröll
(2016) 98–120 and Agosti/Magnelli (forthcoming).—Translations from Homer: Murray (1919)
and (1924). Translations from Nonnus: Rouse (1940).
2 Hopkinson (1994c) 14–17 and 20; see also Shorrock (2001) 116–119.

482 Bannert and Kröll
and meals, assemblies of the gods, seduction of Zeus, description of a shield,

withdrawal and return of the hero, slaughter in a river,3 funeral games; on the
other hand, Dionysus’ procession to Athens can be compared to the nostoi of
the Greek warriors from Troy, the contest between Dionysus and Poseidon for
the nymph Beroe recalls wooing for Penelope and the Slaying of the Suitors,
and Icarius the old peasant recalls Odysseus’ father Laertes.4 There is the use of
elements of composition like specification of space and time, foreshadowing
through prophecies and dreams, but Nonnus also applies devices to indicate
the line of the narrative which are not common in Homer and traditional epic
poetry, and allusions to Homer and epic conventions sometimes are in contra-
diction to Homeric narrative. So it is Nonnus’ concern not only to imitate or to
rival Homer, but to subsume, adopt, and ultimately surpass his poetic ancestor
and to become a ‘Homer’ of his time.5
Nonnus takes over traditional mythical patterns and literary motives which
show relevance for the constitution of the epic, he modifies and reshapes them
in order to fit into his own poetical concept. It is striking that in the Dionysiaca
essential myths and famous mythical figures are spared: the Trojans, Achilles,
Menelaus, Odysseus are only mentioned by name. On the other hand, Nonnus
includes in his account multifarious details known from the Epic Cycle, he
picks up mythical stock elements, rearranges and transfers them into a new
context.6 Therefore, Nonnus’ heroes generally are not heroes like those Homer
featured in archaic epic; Nonnus’ heroes exceed the figures of Homer, they even
make them looking small given that the principal figure is a god and therefore
retains overall control of action.7 Nonnus presents only few mythical stock fig-
ures like Cadmus or the Olympic pantheon. He obviously favours certain char-
acters which are barely known in the mythical tradition or even do not exist
3 In Dion. 22, Aeacus, the grandfather of Achilles, is the protagonist fighting the Indians in the
river Hydaspes just as his grandson later will fight the Trojans in the river Scamander (Il. 21);
the analogy is explicitly stated, Dion. 22.387–389.
4 Vian (1991) 7–10; Shorrock (2001) 95–111 and (2007) 388–391.
5 Hopkinson (1994c) 9; see Shorrock (2001) 119: ‘The Dionysiaca is not the story of a successful
epic poet, but the story of his attempt to become a successful poet. It is the story of Nonnus’
on-going relationship with Homer, his own anxious endeavour to break free from the power-
ful influence of his father.’ Moreover, there seems to be a trend of interpretation which iden-
tifies the author Nonnus with his character Dionysus and therefore parallels the acceptance
of Dionysus at the table of Zeus (in the last lines of Dionysiaca, 48.974–978) with Nonnus’
claim for acceptance at the ‘table’ of Homer.
6 Cf. Vian (1991) 7–9.
7 Before fighting, the Indians actually are forewarned explicitly by prophecising Niobe not to
campaign against the son of Zeus: Dion. 14.274–279.
Nonnus And The Homeric Poems 483
at all but are invented and designed by himself. Nevertheless, c onstructing his
dramatis personae the poet has to rely on traditional paradigms, so that certain
characters can be discerned by distinctive traits from which they are moulded.
The poetry of Nonnus mirrors the intellectual culture of a time in which
authors still were writing for devoted audiences of connoisseurs.8 Sometimes,
Nonnus’ chief merit is considered to be the perfection to which he brought the
Homeric hexameter, but, as has also been noticed, the strictly limited varia-
tions can seem to be monotonous.9 The mythology of the Dionysiaca, repre-
senting the most elaborate gallery of Greek myths in their late stage, that is
in most expanded and accumulated form, is often simply considered as a pic-
turesque lay of stories.10 Nonnus in a sense takes to an extreme the generic
tendency of epic to the expansive and the comprehensive. On the other
hand, the concept of the Dionysiaca is highly traditional: there is a main hero,
and the doings of this hero determine the storyline. A difference is made by
the fact that the main hero is a god whose earthly existence is the theme of
the account: Nonnus did not model Dionysus on any other epic hero (e.g. the
fighting wine god as a new Achilles, as he says himself, Dion. 25.255–256), just
because he is a god already; the main objective, therefore, is Dionysus’ struggle
to be accepted in the Olympian pantheon.11 Hence the narrative, as in the Iliad,
is mainly built on an aristeia, the effort of the hero to distinguish himself, an
epic display of excellence, but an aristeia, so to speak, on a higher level, on the
level of Olympus, and again Nonnus uses epic stock elements for the setting of
the plot.12
8 Cf. Bakker/Kahane (1997).

9 See Wifstrand (1933) for an overview on metre and hexameter technique; cf. also Vian
(1976) l–lv for a short summary and Magnelli in this volume. A comprehensive study on
hexameter poetry can be found in Fantuzzi/Pretagostini (1995–1996).
10 Opinions used to be different about whether Nonnus should be estimated as a poet or
rather as a kind of lexicon-like source. See esp. Shorrock (2001) and (2011), Hernández de
la Fuente (2008), Spanoudakis (2014c), and the French (Vian et al. 1976–2006) as well as
the Italian (Gigli Piccardi 2003; Gonnelli 2003; Agosti 2004c; Accorinti 2004) editions with
commentaries, originating in the work of Francis Vian.
11 He will succeed in the end, gain acceptance in the realm of Olympus, and sit at one table
with Zeus and Apollon; he will leave the earthly gift of the wine to the mortals and drink
heavenly nectar: Dion. 48.974–978; see also Shorrock (2001) 204–205.
12 Being a god, Dionysus nevertheless has received order from Zeus to fight the lawless
Indians and teach viticulture as a precondition for his acceptance in Olympus: Dion.
13.1–7 and 19–24 (Zeus to Iris, and Iris to Dionysus).
For Nonnus Homer is both, a guide and a rival.13 In the Dionysiaca, there are
six direct invocations of Homer, and once the Homeric Muses are addressed to
help when the victims of Deriades are to be listed in a catalogue (Dion. 32.184);
the same applies to the naming of the leaders of single divisions: when Nonnus
regrets that ‘[he] could not tell so many peoples with ten tongues’, he calls
Homer to his aid: Ὅμηρον ἀοσσητῆρα καλέσσω (Dion. 13.47–50; cf. Il. 2.489).
Homer is mentioned at the beginning of the proem (Dion. 1.37–38), when
Nonnus refers to the Odyssean scene with Proteus and the seals, βυθίῃ δὲ παρ’
Εἰδοθέῃ καὶ Ὁμήρῳ | φωκάων βαρὺ δέρμα φυλασσέσθω Μενελάῳ (‘and let Homer
and deep-sea Eidothea keep the rank skin of the seals for Menelaos’). At the
beginning of Book 25 (ll. 8–10), Nonnus’ decision to report on the last year of the
war only is guided by the Homeric example from Il. 2: τελέσας δὲ τύπον μιμηλὸν
Ὁμήρου | ὕστατον ὑμνήσω πολέμων ἔτος, ἑβδομάτης δέ | ὑσμίνην ἰσάριθμον ἐμῆς
στρουθοῖο χαράξω (‘I will make my pattern like Homer’s and sing the last year of
warfare, I will describe that which has the number of my seventh sparrow’).14
Disappointment is stated, with a little bit of irony, when the narrator expresses
Dionysus’ feelings while willing to wait for the nymph Beroe, with the phrase
ἐψεύσατο βίβλος Ὁμήρου (‘Homer’s book did not tell the truth!’, Dion. 42.181),
because Homer once said that one can be tired of everything, even of love
(Il. 13.636), but Dionysus never will be tired of the company of Beroe.
Nonnus lived up to provide his audience with an equivalent to Homeric
epic, as it were significant in Homer’s time and throughout Greek literature.
He challenges Homer, inasmuch as he requires to be Homer’s equivalent in
his own times; he calls Homer ‘father’, inasmuch as Homer is a brand for epic
poetry, and it is Nonnus’ ambition to surpass Homer rather than just to imitate
him. Finally, Nonnus succeeded in accomplishing his mission: he bequeathed
literature with an outstanding, all-inclusive poetry and with a vastly expanded
treasury of Greek myth.
2 Homeric Language and Style
Nonnus obviously writes for a connoisseur audience knowing not just Homer
but recollecting epic poetry of former centuries, not at least conveyed by
abridged prose versions and augmented by commentaries and scholia tradi-
tion, but he rarely cites Homer literally. If he does so, he does so deliberately
13 See throughout Vian (1976) and (1991); see further Hopkinson (1994c) 9–14; Shorrock
(2001) 116–119.
14 For the prodigy of the sparrows see Wild (1886) 45.
and on purpose, and mostly he uses just one word or a short, striking phrase.
Nonnus generally avoids to pick up Homeric hemistichs or whole lines.15 Only
once, in the narration of the funeral games for Opheltes, three single lines
from the Iliad are quoted—but this is done with a wink, for the repeated
lines are not stock repertoire of Homeric formulae, they just are narrative
single lines.16
On the other hand, there can be found allusive single words or groups of
words known from Homeric poems, typical for Nonnus’ learned use of tradi-
tion. A famous example is the Homeric word καλαῦροψ, a technical term which
signifies a throwing stick fitted with a throng used by herdsmen to separate
cattle or to bring back runaway cows, a hapax legomenon in Il. 23.845. In the
Iliad, it is used in a comparison to illustrate the length of the winning toss of the
huge iron lump-disk during the funeral games for Patroclus. It was copied by
the epic poet Antimachus of Colophon (fl. about 400 bc), preserved in a scho-
lion on the Homeric line, and it was used twice by Apollonius Rhodius, again
in the context of an athletic contest (2.33, 4.974).17 This subtle, Hellenistic-
like repetition of rare but exquisitely positioned words to stimulate flashback
literary recollection is a favourite means of literary zest used and applied by
Nonnus. So we are not surprised to count far more than a dozen instances (19)
in the Dionysiaca where Nonnus uses this Homeric hapax.18
Nonnus sometimes cites words and groups of words to indicate allusion.
A striking example is Nonnus’ resuming of the singular Homeric phrase λῦτο
δ’ ἀγών. Only once in the Homeric epic, emphasizing a turning point, at the
beginning of the last book of the Iliad, it reports the end of the funeral games
for Patroclus and the dismissal of the assembly (Il. 24.1). Nonnus quintuples
the phrase, four times even at the beginning of a book, and in each case it
15 This recalls Virgil’s alleged dictum that it would be easier to steal the club of Hercules
than a line from Homer: facilius esse Herculi clavam quam Homero versum subripere
(Vita Donati 46).
16 Dion. 37.44 = Il. 23.164; Dion. 37.50 = Il. 23.170; Dion. 37.634 = Il. 23.764; see Frangoulis
(1995) 146. An example of part of a line, and also only once in Nonnus, is Dion. 25.340
(Dionysus), which is quoted from Od. 5.118 (Calypso), which itself is a slight variation of
Il. 24.33 (Apollon). Cf. also Hopkinson (1994c) 17.
17 Schol. bT Il. 23.845; Antimach. fr. 91 Wyss = 64 Matthews, see also Vian (2008) 398–411;
Martin (forthcoming); for the use of Homeric hapax legomena in Apollonius see Kyriakou
(1995). A study of Homeric hapaxes in Nonnus is desirable; for hapax legomena in Nonnus
see Espinar Ojeda (2002). Some examples in Paraphrase 11 are listed in Spanoudakis
(2014a) 5–6.
18 See also Hopkinson (1994c) 15–16; for late antique poetry and Homeric vocabulary gener-
ally Miguélez Cavero (2008) 154–161.
highlights the end of a narrative unit: the Typhonomachy (Dion. 3.1), the end
of the athletic games of Dionysus, Ampelus and other satyrs (Dion. 11.1), the
funeral games for Staphylus, king of Assyria (Dion. 20.1), the funeral games for
Opheltes, officer in the army (Dion. 38.1), and the end of the fights of Cadmus
preceding the foundation of Thebes (Dion. 5.49).19 Moreover, there is a desig-
nated use in the repetition of this memorable phrase, because Nonnus obvi-
ously refers to the Homeric line but at the same time demonstrates that he is
able and willing to go beyond Homer and to design epic poetry ready for his
own lifetimes and ready for the new dimensions of Dionysiac myth.
Here is an example for composing verses with details that come directly
from Homer; this is rather rare in Nonnus, and therefore significant, frequently
referring to certain passages. In a battle description, the Homeric expression
‘Who was the first, who was the last to lose his life . . .’, usually beginning a cata-
logue of slain opponents, reads as follows (Dion. 22.187–190):
Ἔνθα τίνα πρῶτον, τίνα δ’ ὕστατον Ἄιδι πέμπων

Βιστονίης Οἴαγρος ἀπέθρισεν ἀστὸς ἀρούρης,
κτείνων ἄλλοθεν ἄλλον, ἑῆς ἀλόχοιο τελέσσας
ἔργα φατιζομένης ἐπιδευέα Καλλιοπείης; 190
Here whom first, whom last did Oiagros send to Hades, as the man of
Bistonia sliced them down, killing one after another, doing deeds that
needed Calliopeia his consort, to tell them?
The passage is modelled on three instances of the formula in Homer: Il. 5.703
and Il. 11.299, where Hector is mentioned, and the repeated line runs ἔνθα τίνα
πρῶτον, τίνα δ’ ὕστατον ἐξενάριξεν, followed by one and two names of acting
fighters respectively.20 Nonnus uses the modified verse once again to introduce
a catalogue of victims of the fighting Dionysus himself (Dion. 30.296), and this
time it is phrased like the third instance, Il. 16.692–693, when Patroclus’ death
is announced:
ἔνθα τίνα πρῶτον τίνα δ’ ὕστατον ἐξενάριξας

Πατρόκλεις, ὅτε δή σε θεοὶ θάνατον δὲ κάλεσσαν;
19 See also Gigli Piccardi (2003) 274–275; Kröll (2013) 79–80 and (2016) 101–120.
20 See Hopkinson (1994b) 82–85 and 238 (on Dion. 22.187–206).
Then whom first, whom last didst thou slay, Patroclus, when the gods
called thee deathwards?
In Nonnus, the line runs like this (Dion. 30.296–297):
Ἔνθα τίνα πρῶτον, τίνα δ’ ὕστατον ἔκτανε Βάκχος,

ὁππότε μιν θάρσυνε μόθων ἀκόρητος Ἀθήνη;
Now whom first, whom last did Bacchus slay, when Athena insatiate of
battle made him brave?
The difference, even the reversal into the opposite is obvious: in the Iliad, it
is Patroclus’ last and deadly fight; in the Dionysiaca, it is another triumph of
Dionysus and his men over the Indians.
Nonnus’ techniques of quotation and remaking of Homeric models thus
can be defined: he uses and varies Homeric language and epic stock elements
by modifying, interpreting, sometimes even twisting and sophisticating the
original context.
3 Homeric Narration: Elements and Themes
3.1 Mortals and Leaves in Autumn

The relations between Nonnus’ compositional technique and the monumen-
tal Homeric epic often are allusive,21 even hinting at single words and expres-
sions, thus not pointing at central scenes or sections of Iliad and Odyssey but
far more often suggesting, varying and modifying single quotations and well-
known proverbial expressions.22 A very famous image is the comparison of
men and their lifetime with leaves in the wind, which occurs twice in the Iliad:
in the conversation between Glaucus and Diomedes in Book 6 and in the battle
of the gods in Book 21.23 In Book 6, when they come to fight, Glaucus, introduc-
ing himself to Diomedes, answers (Il. 6.145–149):
21 This section of the chapter substantially reproduces Bannert (2014) 79–84.
22 For similes in Nonnus see generally Wild (1886); Hopkinson (1994c) 18–20; Vian (2008)
402–403.
23 For similar comparison cf. also Il. 2.468 and 800; Od. 9.51–52. The analogy can be found in
Mimnermus (fr. 2); it is also used, in a much shorter form, by Quintus Smyrnaeus (14.208–
209): ἀνδρῶν γὰρ γένος ἐστὶν ὁμοίιον ἄνθεσι ποίης, | ἄνθεσιν εἰαρινοῖσι· τὰ μὲν φθινύθει, τὰ δ’
Τυδεΐδη μεγάθυμε τί ἢ γενεὴν ἐρεείνεις; 145

οἵη περ φύλλων γενεὴ τοίη δὲ καὶ ἀνδρῶν.
φύλλα τὰ μέν τ’ ἄνεμος χαμάδις χέει, ἄλλα δέ θ’ ὕλη
τηλεθόωσα φύει, ἔαρος δ’ ἐπιγίγνεται ὥρη·
ὣς ἀνδρῶν γενεὴ ἣ μὲν φύει ἣ δ’ ἀπολήγει.
Great-souled son of Tydeus, wherefore inquirest thou of my lineage?

Even as are the generations of leaves, such are those also of men. As for
the leaves, the wind scattereth some upon the earth, but the forest, as it
burgeons, putteth forth others when the season of spring is come; even so
of men one generation springeth up and another passeth away.
In Book 21, during the battle of the gods, Poseidon requests Apollon to join
the battle, recalling the fraud of Laomedon when they once together built the
walls of Ilion; Apollon refuses to fight, and he justifies his reluctance with the
ephemeral nature of men (Il. 21.462–467):
ἐννοσίγαι’ οὐκ ἄν με σαόφρονα μυθήσαιο

ἔμμεναι, εἰ δὴ σοί γε βροτῶν ἕνεκα πτολεμίξω
δειλῶν, οἳ φύλλοισιν ἐοικότες ἄλλοτε μέν τε
ζαφλεγέες τελέθουσιν ἀρούρης καρπὸν ἔδοντες, 465
ἄλλοτε δὲ φθινύθουσιν ἀκήριοι. ἀλλὰ τάχιστα
παυώμεσθα μάχης· οἳ δ’ αὐτοὶ δηριαάσθων.
Shaker of Earth, as nowise sound of mind wouldest thou count me, if I

should war with thee for the sake of mortals, pitiful creatures, that like
unto leaves are now full of flaming life, eating the fruit of the field, and
now again pine away and perish. Nay, with speed let us cease from strife,
and let them do battle by themselves.
Now, Nonnus picks up this famous picture and the references to the Homeric
scene, but at the same time he expands the situation of the Iliad by adding a
statement concerning time lasting and continuing forever. After the third del-
uge Cadmus is welcomed and hosted in the house of Atlas’ daughter Electra,
and when she asks his ancestry he answers (Dion. 3.248–256):
ἀέξει (‘Mortal man is like flower in the greenfield, like flower in springtime: some pass
away, others flourish’). For a full comparative discussion see D’Ippolito (1993) 52–59. In
Dion. 7.74–75 the human race is compared to the waxing and waning moon.
Νύμφα φίλη, τί με τόσσον ἀνείρεαι αἷμα γενέθλης;

Ὠκυμόρων μερόπων γενεὴν φύλλοισιν ἐίσκω·
φύλλα τὰ μὲν κατέχευαν ἐπὶ χθονὶ θυιάδες αὖραι 250
ὥρης ἱσταμένης φθινοπωρίδος, ἄλλα δὲ καιρῷ
εἰαρινῷ κομέουσι τεθηλότα δενδράδες ὗλαι·
ὣς βροτέη γενεὴ μινυώριος ἡ μὲν ὀλέθρῳ
δάμναται ἱππεύσασα βίου δρόμον, ἡ δ’ ἐπιθάλλει,
ἄλλῃ ὅπως εἴξειεν· ἐπεὶ παλινάγρετος ἕρπων 255
εἰς νέον ἐκ πολιοῖο ῥέει μορφούμενος Αἰών.
Beloved lady, why do you ask me thus of my blood and breeding? I liken
the swift-passing generations of mortal man to the leaves. Some leaves
the wild winds scatter over the earth when autumn season comes; oth-
ers the woodland trees grow on their bushy heads in spring-time. Such
are the generations of men, short-lived: one rides life’s course, until
death brings it low; one still flourishes,24 only to give place to another:
for time moves ever back upon itself, changing form as it flows from
hoary age to youth.
Nonnus obviously varies and plays on the ‘classical’ expression, so that the lit-
erary background can be identified and, at the same time, is amplified with the
addition of the reference to ever moving time. This chimes with a far-ranging
concept of Nonnus’, the concept of Aion, the coming and the return of time
unlimited. The statement thus is generalised and, at the same time, included
in the narration of the deluge sent by Zeus.
3.2 Smiling in Tears

An obvious allusion to another famous proverbial Homeric line, but, as often
in Nonnus, signifying the very contrary, is the phrase ‘Smiling in tears’. In
Il. 6, when Hector takes his leave of Andromache to return into fighting, she
retrieves little Astyanax, their son, in her hands and, despite the tearfulness
of this crucial moment, she cannot help mixing her farewell tears with a smile
(Il. 6.482–484):
ὣς εἰπὼν ἀλόχοιο φίλης ἐν χερσὶν ἔθηκε

παῖδ’ ἑόν· ἣ δ’ ἄρα μιν κηώδεϊ δέξατο κόλπῳ
δακρυόεν γελάσασα· . . .
24 At line 254, Rouse (1940) prefers the reading of L (Laurentianus plut. 32.16) ἔτι θάλλει to
Koechly’s ἐπιθάλλει, accepted by Keydell (1959) and Chuvin (1976).
So saying, he laid his child in his dear wife’s arms, and she took him to her
fragrant bosom, smiling through her tears . . .
Nonnus singles out this moment, but he transfers it in a completely different

context, where neither tears nor laughter and happiness could be expected.
Agave, struck with insanity by Dionysus, has killed Pentheus, her son, and
sorrow is bestowed on Thebes: mourning becomes Cadmus, mourning
becomes the Cithairon, the trees and the fountains. The god, then, has mercy
upon Pentheus’ family, and he is ashamed of having caused all that grief
(Dion. 46.267–271):
καὶ δρύες ὠδύροντο, καὶ ἔκλαγον αἴλινα Νύμφαι

Νηιάδες. Πολιὴν δὲ κόμην ᾐδέσσατο Κάδμου
καὶ στοναχὴν Διόνυσος· ἀπενθήτου δὲ προσώπου
μίξας δάκρυ γέλωτι νόον μετέθηκεν Ἀγαύης, 270
καὶ πάλιν ἔμφρονα θῆκεν, ὅπως Πενθῆα γοήσῃ.
[T]he trees lamented, the Naiad Nymphs chanted dirges. Dionysos was
abashed before the hoary head of Cadmos and his lamentations; min-
gling a tear with a smile on that untroubled countenance, he gave reason
back to Agauë and made her sane once more, that she might mourn for
Pentheus.
But ‘what have tears to do with Dionysos?’ (Dion. 19.170). Dionysus does not
know mourning, and there are no tears with Dionysus, he is ἄδακρυς since
he was a baby (Dion. 9.26). The consciousness of the sorrow he caused in
Thebes—and indeed he was weeping (Dion. 46.270)!—is mingled with a smile,
because (contrary to what happens in the Bacchae of Euripides) he sets an end
to Agave’s madness and thus enables the family to perform the funeral rites.25
3.3 ‘We are the Winners!’ The End of the War

To signify the end of slaughter and of the war with the Indians, Nonnus uses a
direct wording from the Iliad, when he makes the Bacchant fighters shouting
(Dion. 40.217):
Ἠράμεθα μέγα κῦδος· ἐπέφνομεν ὄρχαμον Ἰνδῶν.
We have won great glory! we have slain the Indian chieftain!
25 See also Tissoni (1998) 335–336.

The verse evidently is borrowed from the Iliad,26 where, at the end of the vic-
tory speech of Achilles after Hector’s death, it announces the end of the com-
bat (Il. 22.393):
ἠράμεθα μέγα κῦδος· ἐπέφνομεν Ἕκτορα δῖον.
We have won us great glory; we have slain goodly Hector.
Once again, the contrast is obvious, and even more than in the other instances,
because the quotation is not just adapted but carries significant momentum:
in the narrative of the Dionysiaca, there are three women bemoaning the death
of their fathers and husbands (Dion. 40.101–214), an allusion to the wailing
for Hector in Il. 22; it follows the burial of the dead (Dion. 40.220–222) and a
funeral ceremony (Dion. 40.222–234), a feast celebrating victory, the distribu-
tion of the booty, the dismissal of the army, and the homeward journeys (Dion.
40.236–285).27 Beginning with the line which announces the final victory,
scene and narrative following are expanded and lead into the endless wide
open; in the Iliad, in contrast, scene and design are narrowed and concentrated
after victory has been declared: Achilles maltreats the corpse of dead Hector
(Il. 22.395–405), Hecabe, Priamus and the other Trojans have to watch full of
pain (405–436), and finally the narration is focused on the information that
Andromache does not know anything about what had happened in the battle-
field and at the same time is busy in the palace tailoring raiment for Hector
(437–441) and even preparing a bath for him when he would return (442–446).
Then, having got the message and having mounted a tower, she faints (447–
472). What a contrast, provided and carefully developed by Nonnus against the
setting of the Iliad!
4 Homeric Narration: Retardation, Cuts and Restarts
In the Dionysiaca, there can be found various beginnings as well as several nar-
rative cuts and pauses. Nonnus does not start the epic with his main character
Dionysus but preposes the stories of his ancestors and of his family. It is not
until Book 6 that Zagreus, the first Dionysus, is presented and not until Book 8
that the son of Zeus and Semele is born. The cut at the end of Book 6 is marked
by an ecpyrosis and a deluge sent by Zeus, therewith the pre-Dionysiac era
26 See Hopkinson (1994c) 26–27; Shorrock (2007) 383–384.

27 See Shorrock (2001) 95–111.
is set to an end to smooth the way for the new god to come. The Indian War
restarts after the description of the shield in Book 25. There are also elements
of retardation, e.g. the scenes without Dionysus, scenes which are but loosely
connected with the figure of the god, but have a strong impact on the composi-
tion of the epic poem.
4.1 Beginning and Retardation

The beginning of the Dionysiaca, therefore, is startling: in the epic tradition
the hero and information about the hero usually are presented in the first lines
of the poem. In the case of Nonnus the hero-god himself will enter the stage
much later. In contrast, a series of stories is inserted to create an all-embracing
picture presenting the traditional mythological background, the generation
before Dionysus: the story of Typhon intertwined with the story of Cadmus
(Books 1–5), the story of Zagreus (end of Book 5–Book 6), the deluge (Book 6),
which is a break leading to the next generation represented by Zeus and Semele
and the preliminaries of the birth of Dionysus, finally the arrival of the god
himself. A special issue is the relationship between the figures of Cadmus and
Dionysus, for both share certain characteristic traits: Cadmus traditionally is
presented as a wanderer, he is in search of his sister Europa, he is the husband
of Harmonia, he is a cult-bearer by introducing the alphabet to the Greeks, he
is a city-founder and finally gains a new home at Thebes after having defeated
the serpent Python. With the construction of the character of Cadmus Nonnus
merges not only traditional stories of the founder of Thebes that are linked
with Dionysiac traits but also traditional mythical patterns like the wanderings
of Odysseus, who is also designed to be a cult-bearer introducing the cult of
Poseidon to peoples living far off the sea, or the marriage of Peleus and Thetis.
A closer look at the Cadmus episode discloses the poet’s method of creative
imitation and his technique of (re)starting a narration, for Nonnus furnishes
his epic with several invocations of the Muses.28
When Dionysus and his allied troops depart for fighting the Indians, the god
for the first time is shown in action (beginning of Book 13), but the actual start
of fighting is postponed by implementing two comprehensive catalogues of
Dionysiac troops (Books 13–14).29 Again, the action is delayed with the story of
Hymnus and Nicaea (Books 15–16) and Dionysus’ escape into the sea in fear
of threatening Lycurgus (Book 20), until in Book 25 the narrative as well as
the war action start anew with another proem, an invocation of the Muses
and Homer, a characterisation of Dionysus, and the description of the shield.
28 See Shorrock (2001) 44–50.

29 For a detailed study of these catalogues see Chuvin (1991) 29–144; cf. also Vian (1991) 7–9.
And again, instead of a continuing narration, there follows another catalogue

of fighters (the Indians, Book 26) as well as some war preliminaries (division of
the gods into two groups, Book 27). Together with a line-up of scenes in which
Dionysus is not in the focus of the narrative—Dionysus is struck with frenzy
by malicious Hera, the episode of Morrheus and Chalcomede (Books 33–35),
the truce and funeral games (Book 37), prophecies and Phaethon’s destiny
(Book 38)—the poet retards the denouement of the Indian War until Book 40
(death of king Deriades; see Figs. 5.1 and 5.2).30
In contrasting this Nonnian technique of retardation with the Homeric con-
vention the narrative strategies and the special literary achievement of the late
antique poet can be stated and defined, especially concerning the beginning
and the end of Dionysus’ epic journey.
4.2 Beginning and End of the Dionysiaca: The Prooemia

Ever since the Homeric poems, there is many an epic beginning before the
Dionysiaca, and beginnings are meant to introduce the storyline and to ensure
the help of the Muse. Epic poetry starts with a prayer, an invocation of the
gods, a plea to the Muse to bestow memory on the singer and, at the same
time, the Muse should guarantee the truth of the narrative.31 The first lines
or passages that we have, although sometimes with variations, bear witness
and certify the poet as a mouthpiece of the Muses: Μῆνιν ἄειδε, θεά (Il. 1.1),
Ἄνδρα μοι ἔννεπε, Μοῦσα (Od. 1.1), Μουσάων Ἑλικωνιάδων ἀρχώμεθ’ ἀείδειν (Hes.
Th. 1), Μοῦσαι Πιερίηθεν ἀοιδῇσι κλείουσαι | δεῦτε, Δι’ ἐννέπετε (Op. 1–2), Νῦν δὲ
γυναικῶν φῦλον ἀείσατε, ἡδυέπειαι | Μοῦσαι Ὀλυμπιάδες, κοῦραι Διὸς αἰγιόχοιο
(Cat. fr. 1 M.-W.), Ἐκ Διὸς ἀρχώμεσθα, τὸν οὐδέποτ’ ἄνδρες ἐῶμεν | ἄρρητον (Arat.
Phaen. 1–2), Ἀρχόμενος σέο Φοῖβε παλαιγενέων κλέα φωτῶν | μνήσομαι (Ap.
Rh. 1.1–2). Callimachus the innovator, the critic of traditional form and con-
tent, obviously plays on that kind of beginnings, not abandoning but vary-
ing and spurring the epic tradition: in the beginning of the Aetia, in the first
line, in lieu of the Muses he apostrophizes his envious, green-eyed critics, the
Telchines—but yet in the following line, the Muses are introduced indirectly,
as the dedicated enemies of his opponents (Call. Aet. fr. 1.1–2 Pfeiffer): πολλάκ]ι
μοι Τελχῖνες ἐπιτρύζουσιν ἀοιδῇ, | νήιδες οἳ Μούσης οὐκ ἐγένοντο φίλοι (‘It happens
that often the Telchines grumble at me because of my song—ignorant as they
are, they never became friends with the Muses!’).32 Later poets, as far as we
30 See Shorrock (2007).

31 See recently Metcalf (2015) 140–142.
32 Cf. Acosta-Hughes/Stephens (2002) 238–255. Nonnus lists the Telchines in the catalogue
of the divine combatants, Dion. 14.36–48.
can see, retain the traditional epic usage: Triphiodorus’ Sack of Troy (3rd/4th
century) reads in the first lines (4–5): ἔννεπε, Καλλιόπεια, καὶ ἀρχαίην ἔριν ἀνδρῶν
| κεκριμένου πολέμοιο ταχείῃ λῦσον ἀοιδῇ (‘do thou tell, O Calliopeia, . . . and the
ancient strife of men, in that war now decided, do thou resolve with speedy
song’),33 and Colluthus of Lycopolis ( fl. 500 ce), in the beginning of the Rape of
Helen (1–8), starts with variations on the Hesiodic proems, certainly in order to
please his readers: Νύμφαι Τρωιάδες . . . δεῦτε, . . . εἴπατέ μοι . . . (1, 5 and 6).
Completely different, new, almost fierce, yet in a sense traditional too, is the
beginning of the Dionysiaca (1.1–12):
Εἰπέ, θεά, Κρονίδαο διάκτορον αἴθοπος εὐνῆς,

νυμφιδίῳ σπινθῆρι μογοστόκον ἄσθμα κεραυνοῦ,
καὶ στεροπὴν Σεμέλης θαλαμηπόλον· εἰπὲ δὲ φύτλην
Βάκχου δισσοτόκοιο, τὸν ἐκ πυρὸς ὑγρὸν ἀείρας
Ζεὺς βρέφος ἡμιτέλεστον ἀμαιεύτοιο τεκούσης, 5
φειδομέναις παλάμῃσι τομὴν μηροῖο χαράξας,
ἄρσενι γαστρὶ λόχευσε, πατὴρ καὶ πότνια μήτηρ,
εὖ εἰδὼς τόκον ἄλλον, ἐπεὶ γονόεντι καρήνῳ
ὡς πάρος ὄγκον ἄπιστον ἔχων ἐγκύμονι κόρσῃ
τεύχεσιν ἀστράπτουσαν ἀνηκόντιζεν Ἀθήνην. 10
Ἄξατέ μοι νάρθηκα, τινάξατε κύμβαλα, Μοῦσαι,
καὶ παλάμῃ δότε θύρσον ἀειδομένου Διονύσου.
Tell the tale, Goddess, of Cronides’ courier with fiery flame,34 the gasping
travail which the thunderbolt brought with sparks for wedding-torches,
the lightening in waiting upon Semele’s nuptials; tell the naissance of
Bacchos twice-born, whom Zeus lifted still moist from the fire, a baby
half-complete born without midwife; how with shrinking hands he cut
the incision in his thigh and carried him in his man’s-womb, father and
gracious mother at once—and well he remembered another birth, when
his own head conceived, when his temple was big with child, and he car-
ried that incredible unbegotten35 lump, until he shot out Athena scintil-
lating in her armour. Bring me the fennel, rattle the cymbals, ye Muses!
put in my hand the wand of Dionysos whom I sing.
33 Trans. by Mair (1928).

34 At line 1, Rouse (1940) reads αὐγῆς of P (Palatinus Heidelbergensis gr. 85) instead of L’s
εὐνῆς, see Vian (1976) ad loc.
35 At line 9, Rouse (1940) reads ἄσπορον (Ludwich’s conjecture) instead of L’s ὃς πάρος, see
Vian (1976) ad loc.
In the following verses, Nonnus compares his personal approach to the narra-
tion which will be presented in the poem to a struggle with Proteus of many
guises, and he assures the reader that he will be able to stand the fight, that is
to say that he accepts the handling of the huge and monstrous mass of Greek
myth which he will tame and subdue to his poem.36 The actual narration, then,
starts with the announcement of the first part of the prehistory of Dionysus,
the story of Cadmus (Dion. 1.45):
Ἀλλά, θεά, μαστῆρος ἀλήμονος ἄρχεο Κάδμου.
Then come now, Goddess, begin with the long search and travels of
Cadmos.
Εἰπέ, θεά: Nonnus starts his prelude with a thunderclap, just right into the story.
There is no prayer to the Muse, no appeal for a theme, it is a command that he
issues, and it is a command immediately to be assumed (as is shown by the
aorist form of the verb). But the phrase clearly is modelled on a Homeric arche-
type. Towards the end of the proem of the Odyssey the Homeric poet asks the
Muse to set a beginning to his record, a starting point in space and time which
is not yet defined at the beginning of the Odyssey (1.10):
τῶν ἁμόθεν γε, θεά, θύγατερ Διός, εἰπὲ καὶ ἡμῖν.
Of these things, goddess, daughter of Zeus, beginning where thou wilt,

tell thou even unto us.
In the Odyssey, the narrator asks the Muse for help to find the plot and to set
the beginning, to put an order into the bulk of themes to be told; Nonnus
instructs the Muse to provide just the opposite, to enable him to narrate of the
vastness of space and time, of metamorphoses and passages, of journeys into
unknown and faraway regions and countries, and exactly these themes are the
program of the Dionysiaca: the epic turns protean.37
At the beginning of the second half of the Dionysiaca, in Book 25, there is a
second proem, and there Nonnus demonstrates that he is capable of old fash-
ioned epic composition as well: this time the proem has a highly traditional
36 The six metamorphoses of Proteus in the Dionysiaca are arranged corresponding to the
parallel scene in the Odyssey (4.455–458); cf. Gigli Piccardi (1993); Giraudet (2005).
37 See Hopkinson (1994c) 9–12; Shorrock (2001) 20–23 and 117–119; Giraudet (2005); Nizzola
(2012) 135–148; Baumbach (2013) esp. 157–161. See also Bannert (2005) 44–49 and (2008).
form.38 With the last scenes of Book 24, the action has reached a standstill:
the end of the fighting with the river Hydaspes, father of Deriades, the king
of the Indians, and the reason for averting danger is that in case of the river’s
drying out the further existence of the vine is endangered, because water, reed
and moisture are indespensable for cultivation (Dion. 24.11–12).39 The vic-
tory is celebrated with a Saturnalia-like feast, the singer Leucos amuses the
troopers with the song of Aphrodite challenging Athena at the loom,40 and
finally everybody goes to sleep; turned into a clearly Dionysiac atmosphere—
panthers, lions and dogs stand sentinel to guard the camp—the situation
corresponds to the end of the second day of fighting in Iliad 8, when the
Trojans are lighting their bonfires in the field. Book 25 signifies the beginning
of the second half of the Dionysiaca, it is the beginning of the next day and
the opening of combat anew, and its beginning is a traditional poet’s invo-
cation of the Muse and a reverence for Nonnus’ own new-style Dionysiac
poetry (Dion. 25.1):
Μοῦσα, πάλιν πτολέμιζε σοφὸν μόθον ἔμφρονι θύρσῳ.
O Muse, once more fight the poet’s war with your thyrsus-wand of the mind.
But then Nonnus lists up what he will not describe, he gives negative
announcements just to declare that he will agree with Homer in singing
only the last year of the war (Dion. 25.8–9): τελέσας δὲ τύπον μιμηλὸν Ὁμήρου
| ὕστατον ὑμνήσω πτολέμων ἔτος (‘I will make my pattern like Homer’s and sing
the last year of warfare’). However, as he is going to sing the song of Thebes, he
already can hear the phorminx of Pindar, the master of Thebes, and he does
him honour as well as he does Homer (Dion. 25.18–21).41 And finally, Nonnus
celebrates Homer the ancestor of song and praise, the one and only poet to
sing the song of the fall of Troy, or else to sing any epic song. Instead he hum-
bly prays for Homer’s divine spirit and announces to resume his n arration
38 Cf. Hopkinson (1994c) 12–13.

39 For Dionysus and the river Hydaspes see Hopkinson (1994b) 112–124 and (1994c) 29–30.
40 The song of Leucos, with its opening line, ostentatively is modelled on Demodocus’
song in Od. 8.266. Cf. Hopkinson (1994b) 155–162; Agosti (2004b) 38–51; Kröll (2011);
Verhelst (2014a). An abridged version of the song of Demodocus can be found in Dion.
5.578–585.
41 A subtle hint at Pindar (σοφὸν μόθον!) can already be found concealed in Dion. 25.1. See
Gigli Piccardi in this volume.
and sing again of Dionysus and the war with Deriades, king of the Indians
(Dion. 25.253–263):
Παμφαὲς υἱὲ Μέλητος, Ἀχαιίδος ἄφθιτε κῆρυξ,

ἱλήκοι σέο βίβλος ὁμόχρονος Ἠριγενείῃ·
Τρῳάδος ὑσμίνης οὐ μνήσομαι· οὐ γὰρ ἐίσκω 255
Αἰακίδῃ Διόνυσον ἢ Ἕκτορι Δηριαδῆα.
Ὑμνήσειν μὲν ὄφελλε τόσον καὶ τοῖον ἀγῶνα
Μοῦσα τεὴ καὶ Βάκχον ἀκοντιστῆρα Γιγάντων,
ἄλλοις δ’ ὑμνοπόλοισι πόνους Ἀχιλῆος ἐάσσαι,
εἰ μὴ τοῦτο Θέτις γέρας ἥρπασεν. Ἀλλὰ λιγαίνειν 260
πνεῦσον ἐμοὶ τεὸν ἄσθμα θεόσσυτον· ὑμετέρης γάρ
δεύομαι εὐεπίης, ὅτι τηλίκον ἄρεα μέλπων
Ἰνδοφόνους ἱδρῶτας ἀμαλδύνω Διονύσου.
O brilliant son of Meles, deathless herald of Achaia, may your book

pardon me, immortal as the Dawn! I will not speak of the Trojan War;
for I do not compare Dionysos to Aiacides, or Deriades to Hector. Your
Muse ought to have hymned so great and mighty a struggle, how Bacchos
brought low the Giants, and ought to have left the labours of Achilles to
other bards, had not Thetis stolen that glory from you. But breathe into
me your inspired breath to sing my lay; for I need your lovely speech,
since I make nothing of the sweat of Dionysos, the fatal foe of India,
when I hymn so great a war.
And finally, the singer again pledges himself to the Muse and asks for the ‘weapons’
of ‘father Homer’ to accomplish the mission of his narrative (Dion. 25.264–270):
Ἀλλὰ, θεά, με κόμιζε τὸ δεύτερον ἐς μέσον Ἰνδῶν,

ἔμπνοον ἔγχος ἔχοντα καὶ ἀσπίδα πατρὸς Ὁμήρου, 265
μαρνάμενον Μορρῆι καὶ ἄφρονι Δηριαδῆι
σὺν Διὶ καὶ Βρομίῳ κεκορυθμένον· ἐν δὲ κυδοιμοῖς
Βακχιάδος σύριγγος ἀγέστρατον ἦχον ἀκούσω
καὶ κτύπον οὐ λήγοντα σοφῆς σάλπιγγος Ὁμήρου,
ὄφρα κατακτείνω νοερῷ δορὶ λείψανον Ἰνδῶν. 270
Then bring me, O goddess, into the midst of the Indians again, holding
the inspired spear and shield of Father Homer, while I attack Morrheus
and the folly of Deriades, armed by the side of Zeus and Bromios! Let me
hear the syrinx of Bacchos summon the host to battle, and the ceaseless
call of the trumpet in Homer’s verse, that I may destroy what is left of the
Indians with my spear of the spirit.42
In addition, the narration after the proem is aligned by episodes closely

inspired by Homeric scenes, the first from the Odyssey, the second from the
Iliad: the song of Leucos on the weaving of Aphrodite at the end of Book 24,
and the shield of Dionysus. The description of the shield obviously is a rever-
ence to Homer—with a wink, because Nonnus’ divine hero has no need to be
protected by a shield but can fight with the thyrsus alone, as he says himself
(Dion. 25.341–342), and later in the poem there is no mention of the shield any
more. The shield is announced towards the end of the second proem, when
Nonnus emphasizes the ‘shield of father Homer’, and it is quite obvious that
only for this reason the description of the shield has been included into the
narrative. So once again, this is an issue released by the author to take over the
epic mantle from Homer.43
Another invocation of the (Corybantic) Muses, another obeisance to Homer
is at the beginning of Book 13, namely the beginning of the second quarter of the
48 books. Introducing a catalogue of Dionysus’ forces (Dion. 13.43–46), Nonnus
refers to the famous statement at the beginning of the Catalogue of ships in the
second book of the Iliad, when the poet calls the Muse to his aid for names and
places and regrets being unable to recall all the details (Dion. 13.47–52):
Οὐ γὰρ ἐγὼ τόσα φῦλα δέκα γλώσσῃσιν ἀείσω

οὐδὲ δέκα στομάτεσσι χέων χαλκόθροον ἠχώ,
ὁππόσα Βάκχος ἄγειρε δορυσσόος. Ἀλλὰ λιγαίνων
ἡγεμόνας καὶ Ὅμηρον ἀοσσητῆρα καλέσσω, 50
εὐεπίης ὅλον ὅρμον, ἐπεὶ πλωτῆρες ἀλῆται
πλαγκτοσύνης καλέουσιν ἀρηγόνα Κυανοχαίτην.
For I could not tell so many peoples with ten tongues, not if I had ten
mouths pouring a voice of brass, all those which Bacchos gathered for his
spearchasing. Yet I will loudly name their leaders, and I will call to my aid
42 νοερὸν δόρυ (‘the intellectual spear’, namely ‘the spear who knows what he’s talking
about’), is meant to be a kind of embedded help for the poet when describing the battle.
But, as a matter of fact, Homer actually does not have extensive battle scenes compared
with what we can read in Nonnus’ epic. Maybe the battle scenes in Homer are supposed
to have more impact on the reader.
43 See Vian (1991) 10–12; Hopkinson (1994c) 21–24; Miguélez Cavero (2008) 295–300;
Spanoudakis (2013b) 191–194 and (2014a) 47–52.
Homer, the one great harbour of language undefiled, since mariners lost
astray call on Seabluehair to save them from their wandering ways.
It is the record of the similar situation prior to the Catalogue of ships, and
Nonnus does honour to Homer by alluding to, even by echoing (the precise
word is in verse 48!) this passage (Il. 2.484–493; 489: οὐδ’ εἴ μοι δέκα μὲν γλῶσσαι,
δέκα δὲ στόματ’ εἶεν).
Another instance is to be found in Dion. 32.181–190, and again a catalogue of
victims of Deriades cannot be handled without the help of the Homeric Muses:
Ὁμηρίδες εἴπατε Μοῦσαι· | τίς θάνε, τίς δούπησεν ὑπ’ ἔγχει Δηριαδῆος; (‘O ye Muses
of Homer! Tell me who died, who fell to the spear of Deriades!’, 184–185).
And finally, very traditional and close to old epic practice, Nonnus calls on
Homer and the Muses for help with a hymnus on Berytus (Beirut) before he
recounts the struggle between Dionysus and Poseidon for Beroe-Amymone,
the eponymous nymph of the city: Ἀλλὰ . . . | ὕμνον Ἀμυμώνης Λιβανηίδες εἴπατε
Μοῦσαι (‘Come now, ye Muses of Lebanon . . .! recite the lay of Amymone’,
Dion. 41.10–11).44
4.3 Beginning and End of the Dionysiaca: The Closure of the Poem
The first books of the Dionysiaca obviously are intended to be contrasted
with Book 48 and therefore the last book is a coherent closure of the poem,
just as are the first and the last book of the Iliad with the interruption of
fighting and the corresponding journeys of Thetis and Priamus. Similarities
(Typhonomachy and Gigantomachy) and contrasts (Cadmus and Harmonia
vs. Dionysus, Pallene and Aura; elaborated prefiguration and birth of Dionysus
vs. admission of the god to Olympus) ostensibly refer to a planned ending of
the narrative, which, therefore, is not to be rated as haphazard and unfinished.45
The overly long narration of Typhon the villain, compared to a relatively short
description of such an important issue as is the Gigantomachy, is striking but
well considered given the fact that in the first book as well as in Book 25, when
44 Sometimes, Nonnus asks the Muses to sing, announce or report something, in case the
poet pretends to be unable to tell, e.g. Dion. 21.73, where ‘warrior Muses’ are asked to
explain how it could happen that the Bacchae with their tender fingernails could tear into
pieces an iron gear (μαχήμονες εἴπατε Μοῦσαι).
45 Shortness in the narrative vs. elaborateness in detail is characteristic of Nonnian style; cf.
Hopkinson (1994c) 27 (‘[S]imilar brevity in other passages suggests that narrative trunca-
tion is characteristic of Nonnus’); Shorrock (2007) 380–381; Accorinti (2009) 73–79.
the epic action is hauled anew, the poet gives a hint by placing an encomium
on Dionysus and his victorious combats and inserting a catalogue of Giants.46
5 Homeric Scenes and Allusions
Special heed is paid on scenes which come close to what is called ‘type-scenes’
in the Homeric poems: Dionysus as a fighter (Books 17, 22–23, 30); catalogue of
the Dionysiac and Indian fighters (Books 13, 14, 26);47 ekphrasis, namely descrip-
tion of the shield (Book 25), or description of the site of cities and cityscapes
(Tyre, Book 40; Berytus, Book 41); division of the gods in two groups (Book 27);
fighting scenes with the gods (Book 29, with a fine arrow-shot by Melaneus
aiming at Hymenaeus; Books 30, 36); Dios Apate (Books 31–32); funeral games
(Books 19, 37). These passages seem to be well-known standard vehicles of epic
poetry, but, looking closer, it turns out that Nonnus pays his tribute to Homer
not by imitating but by contrasting and alluding to what is known to be epic
standards. Nonnus shares a wide range of common traits with the traditional
Homeric epic, but he diverges in some main points from his predecessor: there
are three catalogues of troops instead of only two as well as four athletic con-
tests instead of only one in the Iliad. The description of the shield in Book 25
reveals a multiplication of Homeric narrative in one scene: invocation of the
Muses, invocation of Homer himself, presentation of Dionysus before start-
ing warfare again, description of the shield. Nonnus multiplies traditional
epic technique on the occasion of starting the narration anew, and it is a play
with narrative as well: Nonnus uses Homeric standard technique to emphasize
important moments in the storyline.
5.1 Athletic Competitions, Funeral Games

In the Dionysiaca, there are four athletic competitions: the funeral games in
honour of Staphylus, king of Assyria (19.59–348), the funeral games in hon-
our of Opheltes (37.103–778), the wrestling match between Dionysus and the
nymph Pallene (48.106–182), and the contests between Dionysus and his favou-
rite satyr Ampelus (10.339–430, 11.1–55).48 Again, Nonnus outnumbers, varies
and exceeds Homer by adapting and enhancing the tradition. In Homer there
46 The report of the Gigantomachy recalls the fragments of the Greek Gigantomachy by
Nonnus’ Egyptian fellow countryman Claudian Claudianus of Alexandria.
47 For catalogues in the Dionysiaca see Chuvin (1991) 29–144; Hopkinson (1994c) 27–29; Vian
(2008) 400–401.
48 See the extensive discussion in Kröll (2016) 101–120.
are three contests, in Iliad 23 the funeral games for Patroclus, in the Odyssey
the athletic competitions with the Phaeacians (8.105–255) and the contest of
the bow (Book 21). Nonnus displays the motif twice; he shows that he has a
good command of epic representation, and that he can variegate the genre by
creating something quite different. The funeral games for Opheltes are treated
in a manner very similar to the Homeric episode: the sequence of the competi-
tions is analogous, chariot race, boxing-match, wrestling, footrace, throwing an
iron lump like a discus, archery, javelin throw, with a special heed on chariot
race and footrace, and there even a small detail is adopted, when Ocythoos,
just like Ajax the Locrian in the Iliad, tumbles down sprinting, thus making
the spectators laugh.49 The funeral games for king Staphylus, on the other
hand, are different from the Homeric passages and newly arranged in a very
Nonnian way. First, there are no athletic but artistic events, a competition in
lyre playing is followed by a pantomime dance akin to the games in honour of
Odysseus organised by the Phaeacian people in Od. 8.256–380. Secondly, the
competition has a very Nonnian purpose: winner with the lyre is a Dionysiac
song vs. a traditional encomium, the victorious dance is the pantomimic pre-
sentation of wine (Dionysus) vs. honey (Aristaeus), and these victories once
again are intended to demonstrate the standing of the candidate for the
Olympian pantheon, the new god Dionysus vs. the traditional gods and god-
desses of Olympus.50
The late antique poet takes Homer as a starting point in order to indicate dif-
ferences with striking details. Before entering battle, the commander-in-chief
traditionally is presented in his combat gear or is shown while arming himself,
and since Homer there is a fixed sequence of the pieces, from ankle to vertex,
beginning with the greaves up to the crested helmet; but when Dionysus is
presented as the commander-in-chief of his army, first, according to epic tra-
dition, the flashing and shining appearance of the god foreshadows victory.
But then Nonnus modifies, or better disrupts and reverses the sequence and
underlines the difference by naming and at the same time as well stating the
absence of the traditional pieces, thus once more underlining the extraordi-
nary appearance of the leading hero-god (Dion. 14.228–246):
49 Cf. Lommer (1901); Hopkinson (1994c) 31; Frangoulis (1995) and (1999) 15–74; Agosti
(2004c) 669–675; Miguélez Cavero (2008) 314–316; for a synopsis of funeral games in epic
poetry see Frangoulis (1999) 4–5.
50 See Gerbeau/Vian (1992) 74–100.
Κεκριμένον μὲν ἕκαστος ἑὸν στρατὸν ἤγαγε Βάκχῳ,

πάντων δ’ ἡγεμόνευε πυρίβρομος Εἰραφιώτης
ἀστράπτων ἀρίδηλος· ἐς ὑσμίνην δὲ χορεύων 230
οὐ σάκος, οὐ δόρυ θοῦρον ἐκούφισεν, οὐ ξίφος ὤμῳ,
οὐ κυνέην ἐπέθηκεν ἀκερσικόμοισιν ἐθείραις,
χάλκεον ἀρραγέος κεφαλῆς σκέπας, ἀλλὰ καρήνου
ἄπλοκον ἐσφήκωσε δρακοντείῳ τρίχα δεσμῷ,
κράασι κυκλώσας βλοσυρὸν στέφος· ἀντὶ δὲ τυκτῆς 235
δαιδαλέης κνημῖδος ἕως ἐπιγουνίδος ἄκρης
ἄργυφα πορφυρέοις ἐνεθήκατο ταρσὰ κοθόρνοις,
νεβρίδα λαχνήεσσαν ἐπὶ στέρνοιο καθάψας,
στικτὸν ἔχων θώρηκα, τύπον κεχαραγμένον ἄστρων.
Λαιῇ μὲν κέρας εἶχε βεβυσμένον ἡδέος οἴνου, 240
χρύσεον εὐποίητον, ἀπ’ οἰνοχύτου δὲ κεραίης
ὄρθιος ἡδυπότοιο κατέρρεεν ὁλκὸς ἐέρσης·
χειρὶ δὲ κέντορα θύρσον, ἐελμένον οἴνοπι κισσῷ,
δεξιτερῇ κούφιζεν, ἐπ’ ἀκροτάτῳ δὲ κορύμβῳ
χαλκοβαρὴς πετάλοισι κατάσκιος ἦεν ἀκωκή. 245
Καὶ χρυσέην λαγόνεσσι περίτροχον ἥρμοσε μίτρην.
Each army was brought to Bacchos by its own separate leader, but the
commander-in-chief was Eiraphiotes,51 roaring with fire, flashing, all-
conspicuous. Dancing to battle he came, holding no shield, no furious
lance, no sword on shoulder, no helmet on his untrimmed locks, or metal
to cover his inviolate head. He only tied his loose tresses with serpent-
knots, a grim garland for his head; instead of fine-wrought greaves, from
ankle to thigh he wore purple buskins on his silvery feet. He hung a furry
fawnskin over his chest, a chestpiece dappled with spots like the stars. In
his left hand he held a horn full of delicious wine, cunningly wrought of
gold; from this pitcher-horn poured a straight stream of flowing wine. In
his right hand he bore a pointed thyrsus wound about with purple ivy, at
the end a heavy bronze head covered with leaves. And he fitted a golden
kilt round his loins.52
51 A name of Dionysus, yet in the fragmentary first Homeric Hymn to Dionysus (1.2 and 17).
It seems to mean ‘insewn’.
52 The translation by Rouse (1940) follows Koechly’s transposition of v. 246 after v. 239; here
the original verse order has been restored by Keydell (1959).
6 Conclusions: The Last Epic Poet
Nonnus of Panopolis in Upper Egypt is the author of the 48 books of the last
large scale mythological epic in antiquity, the Dionysiaca, in length about
three-fourths of the Iliad and Odyssey together. The earlier books (1–12) cover
the rape of Europa, the mythological stories about Zeus, the mythical history
of Thebes (Cadmus, Semele), birth and youth of the god. Books 13–40 describe
the expedition to India, the fighting and warfare there, and, finally, the return
to Europe is narrated (Books 41–48). The god bestows blessing upon earth and
manhood, for he plants and dibbles grapevine and teaches the process of fer-
mentation, which will enable the human race to do both, to eat the grapes
and to preserve liquid food, that is he teaches men to survive (Demeter, on
the other hand, teaches how to preserve crop by cooking and baking—but, as
Dionysus himself proudly declares, he provides not only food but also drink
for mortal men).53 This god, a religious saviour and a propagator of cultural
techniques, is the main figure in an outstanding and comprehensive story. The
poem contains tales of gods and heroes, and as in Homer there are interlaced
stories and anecdotes like threads in a tissue. Other than in the Homeric epic, a
special interest is paid to astrology, oracles, and soothsaying. The whole story is
imaginative, even visionary, and full of fanciful details, sprinkled with fantastic
imagination.
The technical aspects of this advanced epic composition basically are those
created by Homer and the oral tradition of verse-making, refined by Hellenistic
authors, enhanced and expanded by many an epic writer due to a longtime
evolution over the centuries. Following the literary preferences of late antique
culture, sometimes tellingly called ‘the jeweled style’,54 and generating his own
handling of the metre, Nonnus, on the level of epic language, has sophisticated
verse-making in a very special way: he employs a restricted, reduced form of
the verse, which, on the other hand, enables and allows the coining of new
words, adjectives, nouns, and even verbs. Reworking Homer and epic tradi-
tion, Nonnus rarely includes whole verses from Iliad and Odyssey but prefers
to insert references and allusions to be recognized and decoded by the reader.
He uses single words bearing literary effect, pointing at certain scenes or situa-
tions in the Homeric epic, and he utilizes some plot patterns, particularly refer-
ring to the Iliad.
53 Dion. 12.207–211 (Dionysus to Ampelus); cf. Dion. 7.82–88 (Zeus to Aion, revealing the
future) and 47.49–55 (Dionysus with Icarius in Attica). See Vian (1995) 197–198; Gigli
Piccardi (2003) 536–538 and 840–841; Franchi (2013) 154–156; Kröll (2016).
54 Cf. Roberts (1989); De Stefani/Magnelli (2011) 557–562.
The same author also wrote the Paraphrasis, an epic poem in the same hexa-
metric form praising the history and the doings of Jesus Christ according to
St John’s Gospel, with conspicuously less direct and blatant Homeric allusions,
possibly even to separate old mythic lore from the new ‘myth’ represented by
the tales of Jesus.55 Nonnus thus has an outstanding position in ancient litera-
ture being at the same time a pagan and a Christian author, living in a time
when Christianity was common in the Roman Empire, while pagan culture
and traditions were still maintained. Nonnus the poet represented both but
also fostered in his poetry the old and traditional myths and the epic form of
classical Greece. This antagonism is represented in the poems themselves:
Nonnus’ language, as well as the whole concept of his poetry, while often cling-
ing to the Homeric forms and archaic ways of expression, at the same time is
creative, modern and new; in his poems the propriety of the past is infused
with the mischief and irreverence of his own time.
55 For some aspects of Homer and the Paraphrase see Floyd (2002); Agosti (2005a) 20–22;
FIGURE 5.1 Νόννου τοῦ Πανοπολίτου Διονυσιακῶν Βιβλία ΜΗ. Nonni Panopolitae
Dionysiacorum Libri XLVIII. Suis et aliorum coniecturis emendavit et illustravit
D. Fridericus Graefe, 2 vols. (Lipsiae: Sumtibus Frid. Christ. Guil. Vogelii, 1819–1826)
I, vignette.
FIGURE 5.2 Νόννου τοῦ Πανοπολίτου Διονυσιακῶν Βιβλία ΜΗ. Nonni Panopolitae
Dionysiacorum Libri XLVIII. Suis et aliorum coniecturis emendavit et illustravit
D. Fridericus Graefe, 2 vols. (Lipsiae: Sumtibus Frid. Christ. Guil. Vogelii, 1819–1826)
II, vignette.
Chapter 23
Composing the Masters: An Essay on Nonnus

and Hellenistic Poetry
Ἀλλὰ νέοισι καὶ ἀρχεγόνοισιν ἐρίζων,

εὐκαμάτους ἱδρῶτας ἀναστήσω Διονύσου.
Nonnus, Dion. 25.27–28
∵
1 ‘A Gentle Wind’
Ζέφυρος δὲ περιθλίβων θρόον αὐλοῦ

εἰαρινοῖς δονάκεσσι μελίζετο θῆλυς ἀήτης. (Nonn. Dion. 6.42–43)
and Zephyr, a gentle breeze, pressing the flute’s notes

all round, made song upon its spring reeds.
καὶ πρόκατε γνωτὸς Μέμνονος Αἰθίοπος

ἵετο κυκλώσας βαλιὰ πτερὰ θῆλυς ἀήτης,
ἵ̣ππ̣ ο[ς] ἰοζώνου Λοκρίδος Ἀρσινόης (Call. Aet. fr. 110.52–54 Pf.)
and suddenly Ethiopian Memnon’s twin came rushing,

circling his dappled wings, a gentle breeze, the Locrian horse
of Arsinoe of violet lap.
The reader confronted with these two parallel texts seeks the answers to two
questions: is this in fact an allusion? And, if so, what is the resulting effect?1
The answer to the first question is certain: the description of Zephyr as a ‘gen-
tle breeze’ (θῆλυς ἀήτης) occurs only in these two texts,2 in the same m etrical
1 I owe this formulation originally to Luca Grillo.

2 θῆλυς occurs in the Ninos romance (col. B II.12 Stephens/Winkler) of Notos, the south wind.
Cf. Apul. Met. 4.35.10–15: Psychen autem pauentem ac trepidam et in ipso scopuli uertice

508 Acosta-HugHes
sedes: Chuvin notes the parallel in his commentary.3 Yet why would Nonnus be
recalling Callimachus’ Lock of Berenice (the concluding episode of the poet’s
four-book elegiac Aetia) in this setting?4 A closer study of the contexts becomes
quite revealing on multiple levels. The lines of the Callimachus text follow the
lament of the sister locks for the severed lock dedicated by the Egyptian queen,5
those of the Nonnus text set apart Zephyr from his three brothers: in each case
one sibling is set apart. The story behind Callimachus’ Lock of Berenice is that
the court astronomer arrived at the happy discovery of the queen’s dedication
in the sky to appease her loss of the dedicated lock:6 the four winds in the
Nonnian episode prepare a reception for the goddess bereaved of her daughter,
Persephone. The Nonnus dining episode concludes with the explication of the
astronomer Astraeus, as the Callimachus poem begins with an astronomical
articulation, by the court astronomer Conan. The characterization of Zephyr
as θῆλυς in both passages is clearly meant as a Nonnian mark of approval of the
unusual Callimachean usage:7 in Callimachus the adjective contrasts in part
with the god’s military twin, Memnon, in Nonnus it contrasts Zephyr with his
three brothers, who take on the role of servers at table.8 Now clearly there are
other models at play in this passage of the Dionysiaca, Aphrodite proffering the
flute to appease Demeter’s sorrow in Euripides’ Helen (lines 1346–1352) being
one of them.9 At the same time, though, the marked allusion to Callimachus is
d eflentem mitis aura molliter spirantis Zephyri uibratis hinc inde laciniis et reflato sinu sensim
leuatam suo tranquillo spiritu uehens paulatim per deuexa rupis excelsae uallis subditae floren-
tis cespitis gremio leniter delapsam reclinat. (Apuleius may be using Callimachus directly as a
source here: NB aura molliter ~ θῆλυς ἀήτης, which does not reappear in Catullus’ rendition).
3 Chuvin (1992) 139.
4 Most interestingly, the Lock episode recurs in Pseudo-Nonnus 5.1.7–16 (173 Nimmo Smith),
cf. Nimmo Smith (2001) 69–70.
5 Aet. fr. 110.50 Pf.
6 Hyg. Poet. astr. 2.24.1.5–20: Cuius [sc. Leonis] supra simulacrum, proxime Virginem, sunt aliae
septem stellae ad caudam Leonis in triangulo conlocatae, quas crines Berenices esse Conon
Samius mathematicus et Callimachus dicit. Cum Ptolomaeus Berenicen Ptolomaei et Arsinoes
filiam sororem suam duxisset uxorem, et paucis post diebus Asiam obpugnatum profectus esset,
uouisse Berenicen, si uictor Ptolomaeus redisset, se crinem detonsuram; quo uoto damnatam
crinem in Veneris Arsinoes Zephyritidis posuisse templo, eumque postero die non conparuisse.
Quod factum cum rex aegre ferret, ut ante diximus, Conon mathematicus cupiens inire gratiam
regis, dixit crinem inter sidera uideri conlocatum et quasdam uacuas a figura septem stellas
ostendit, quas esse fingeret crinem. See Benedetto (2008).
7 On the phrase θῆλυς ἀήτης in the Callimachus text see both Massimilla (2010) and Harder
(2012) ad loc.
8 This also puts Zephyr in the Zetes role, the three brothers who labor in that of Amphion.
9 χαλκοῦ δ’ αὐδὰν χθονίαν | τύπανά τ’ ἔλαβε βυρσοτενῆ | καλλίστα τότε πρῶτα μακά- | ρων Κύπρις·
γέλασεν δὲ θεὰ | δέξατό τ’ ἐς χέρας | βαρύβρομον αὐλὸν | τερφθεῖσ’ ἀλαλαγμῷ.
Composing the Masters 509
clearly meant to recall that passage to the reader’s attention, a passage where
the queen’s lock comes to be placed on the lap of her divine mother, and in
which there is something of the humor with which Callimachus (and Nonnus)
treat the gods. And like the Aetia, the Dionysiaca, while a much longer poem,
is episodic rather than linear, with many smaller, self-contained episodes that
are aligned to a much larger trajectory.10
Καί νύ κε κόσμος ἄκοσμος ἐγίνετο, καί νύ κεν ἀνδρῶν

ἄσπορον ἁρμονίην ἀνελύσατο πάντροφος Αἰών.
Ἀλλὰ Διὸς ζαθέοις ὑπὸ νεύμασι Κυανοχαίτης
Θεσσαλικοῦ σκοπέλοιο μεσόμφαλον ἄκρον ἀράξας
γειοτόμῳ τριόδοντι διέσχισε· καὶ διὰ μέσσου
ῥηγνυμένου πρηῶνος ἐχάζετο μέρμερον ὕδωρ. (Nonn. Dion. 6.371–376)
ἀμνά]μ̣ ω̣[ν Θείης ἀργὸς ὑ]π̣ ερ̣ φ

̣ έ̣[ρ]ε̣τ[̣ αι,
βουπόρος Ἀρσινόη̣ ⌊ς μ⌋ητρὸς σέο, καὶ διὰ μέ̣[σσου
Μηδείων ὀλοαὶ νῆες ἔβησαν Ἄθω. (Call. Aet. fr. 110.44–46 Pf.)
At the conclusion of Dion. 6 Nonnus returns to the Lock of Berenice, here to the
lines that precede the Lock’s lament in Callimachus’ poem. This recurrent and
at the same time disparately placed allusion is reminiscent of earlier Hellenistic
poetics, in particular of Apollonius, who tends to reflect and at the same time
to deconstruct a larger model through placing its disparate parts at different
points in his hexameter narrative: his use of the Odyssey’s Nausicaa episode
being one very striking example. At a first reading the outstanding feature is
the phrase (line 375) διὰ μέσσου, which appears in Callimachus’ poem (line 45)
and which Chuvin again notes in his commentary.11 A closer reading of both
contexts is again revealing: the lock in the Callimachus poem both mourns
and marvels at the paradox of ‘destructive ships of the Medes’ cutting through
Mt. Athos, while in Nonnus there is the adynaton of vast waters returned into
the earth. Both episodes take place in ‘northern’ Greece, the Nonnus one
also reminiscent of the birth narrative as told in Callimachus’ Hymn to Zeus
(lines 30–32), where Rhea, by striking the ground with her staff, separates the
earth and brings forth water to a land that was previously not watered.12 An
intriguing, though problematic, issue in viewing the two passages is the two
pointed objects: Poseidon’s ‘earth-cutting trident’ would be a remarkable par-
allel for Callimachus’ βουπόρος Ἀρσινόης (line 45) if we can assume (which is
10 On the narrative structure of the Dionysiaca, see Geisz in this volume.
11 Chuvin (1992) 166.
12 Stephens (2015) ad loc. on this passage.
510 Acosta-HugHes
far from certain) that this object is in fact an obelisk, and so ‘pierces’ the sky.13
Why would then Nonnus choose to ‘frame’ his sixth book with these marked
Callimachean recollections? One answer, a very likely one, is that the Lock of
Berenice is an astronomical poem, the aition is the recognition of a small group
of as yet unidentified stars in the night sky: the sixth book of the Dionysiaca
is replete with imagery of the Zodiac and of movement in the Heavens.14 Or
even that the Lock of Berenice is, thematically, a narrative of order created from
disorder, and so too is, very much so, the sixth book of Nonnus’ poem.
2 Nonnus and the ‘Interpretative Reception’ of Hellenistic Poetry
One fascinating aspect of considering Nonnus’ relationship to earlier Hellenistic

poetry in the composition of his Dionysiaca is that this same relationship is a
later mirroring of the creative reception that Hellenistic poetry itself makes of
the archaic and classical poetic traditions.15 Here we can observe both areas of
compositional similarity and of compositional difference. The Dionysiaca is an
erudite poem that in turn reflects a tradition of erudite poetry, indeed more
than one tradition: Hellenistic poetry is in turn erudite poetry, even when com-
posed with an eye toward performance, that often takes as its models earlier
Greek poetic traditions, many of them intended more for performance than
for reading, that while at times feature even quite recherché mytho-histori-
cal and geographical references, are not meant for an erudite audience. And
herein lies a substantial difference. At the same time, many of the character-
istic features of Hellenistic poetry receive in turn a Hellenistic treatment in
Nonnus: whether this is allusion to explicate usage of rare Hellenistic poetical
terms, place names, or enhancements or variations on individual episodes of
Hellenistic narrative, Nonnus often comes to serve as the same sort of ‘inter-
pretative reception’ that we find in e.g. Apollonius’ use of rare Homerisms.
Nonnus’ Dionysiaca is of course replete with many kinds of associations
with earlier Hellenistic poetry, and an adequate treatment of even a part of
13 On the possible meanings of this phrase (none have won complete approval in the schol-
arship), see Marinone (1997), Massimilla (2010), and Harder (2012) ad loc.
14 See Chuvin (1992) 5–12, 36–39; Accorinti (2014b) 470–471, 476–478 (on Simone Weil’s
reading of Dion. 6).
15 This is an area of large scope in the scholarship on Hellenistic poetry: a few recent works
include Cusset (1999); Fantuzzi/Hunter (2004); Morrison (2007); Acosta-Hughes (2010);
Klooster (2011).
this complex relationship could not be contained in a paper of this length.16

So in the pages that follow I propose to look at several discrete passages in
the Dionysiaca that are closely connected to passages of earlier Hellenistic
poetry, with an eye to setting some guidelines for future scholarly discussion.
The use of early Hellenistic poetry in later Greek literature has really only been
touched upon, and is without question a field that can lead to a great deal
of new scholarship, particularly on the reception, and also interpretation, of
Greek poetry of the third and second centuries bce in later Greek literature.
My hope in the pages that follow is to lay out some potential examples for just
such a study.
2.1 Selene
Harmonia, at Dion. 4, now inclined to wed Cadmus and leave her homeland
and family, closes her final speech with a short catalogue of mortal lovers who
have won the love of goddesses. Τhe last of these is Selene (Dion. 4.194–196):
εἰ δέ ποτ’ ἔλθω
ἐς δύσιν ἀχλυόεσσαν, ἐπ’ Ἐνδυμίωνι καὶ αὐτή 195
Λατμιὰς ἶσα παθοῦσα παρηγορέει με Σελήνη.
And if I go to the misty setting, where for Endymion upon Latmos even
Selene, suffering the same feelings as I, is a source of comfort to me.
Selene’s love for Endymion caused her to leave her celestial station and to
descend to earth and to mortal embrace on Latmos. The image, which may
ultimately go back to Sappho (and so additionally be a very apt one for the
setting of a young girl’s departure from her home on the eve of marriage) has a
famous parallel in Selene’s scolding of Medea upon the latter’s secretive depar-
ture from her father’s home to seek for Jason (Arg. 4.57–58):
Οὐκ ἄρ’ ἐγὼ μούνη μετὰ Λάτμιον ἄντρον ἀλύσκω,

οὐδ’ οἴη καλῷ περὶ δαίομαι Ἐνδυμίωνι.
I am not alone in wandering after a Latmian cave, nor do I alone burn for
a fair Endymion.
16 A recent study that does lay considerable groundwork for this scholarly area is Mazza
(2012).
512 Acosta-HugHes
Nonnus’ narrative of Harmonia’s love is interwoven in a rather dense and

complex fashion with his more recognized earlier Hellenistic model, namely
Apollonius’ portrayal of Medea’s psyche and erotic trauma, and I will return
to this subject very shortly. But first I would like to point to another earlier
Hellenistic model here, again Callimachus’ Lock of Berenice. Here the Greek
text is largely missing, but we have Catullus’ rendition (66.5–6):
Ut Triviam furtim sub Latmia saxa relegans

dulcis amor gyro devocet aereo
. . . how sweet love calls down Trivia in an airy whirl, casting her secretly
below Latmian rocks.
We may deduce one observation on the opening of Callimachus’ Lock of

Berenice here that is then in turn further supported by Nonnus’ text. The Lock
of Berenice, which closes the poet’s four-book Aetia, and the departure of
Medea from Colchis, which occurs at the opening of Apollonius’ fourth book,
are two passages that distinctly mirror one another. Given Selene’s reference
to her love of Endymion in the context of Medea’s departure, and given the
Catullus text, we can assume that the opening of the Lock of Berenice featured
the reference to the Moon and Endymion—a celestial descent of an immortal
to the mortal world that pairs with the ascent of the mortal lock to the immor-
tal celestial orb at the poem’s conclusion. What Nonnus has then done with
these is typical of his own reworking of his earlier Hellenistic models: the more
obvious model text in his treatment of Harmonia is Apollonius’ treatment of
Medea’s love, but the placement of this image of Selene and Endymion prior to
Harmonia’s departure, and not in Selene’s subsequent speech in Dion. 4.216–
225, recalls the opening of Callimachus’ poem. This sort of ‘divided allusion’17
is typical of Hellenistic poetics, particularly of Apollonius, and Nonnus marks
his debt to Apollonian style also simply with the effect of a ‘divided allusion’.18
Nonnus’ narrative of Harmonia’s love and of her departure with Cadmus
constantly responds to Apollonius’ portrayal of Medea in love: the larger
17 The term of Wills (1998) 280, 285.

18 A classic instance in Apollonius occurs at Arg. 3.948–953, where Medea’s maids play while
Medea awaits her meeting with Jason: the passage is modeled on Nausicaa and her maids
at play in Od. 6.99–109, except that in the Apollonian version there is no ball—this has
been ‘transferred’ to the opening of Arg. 3, and the opening of the erotic narrative, where
the ball (now a wondrous celestial toy) in a different way is, as the ball in the Odyssey, the
aition of the subsequent narrative. On Nonnus and Apollonius see Vian (2008) 399–410.
arrative frame, however, goes back also to Homer’s narrative of Nausicaa and
n
Odysseus. For Athena appears in a dream to Nausicaa at the opening of Od. 6
(lines 20–24) in the guise of one of Nausicaa’s age-mates:
ἡ δ’ ἀνέμου ὡς πνοιὴ ἐπέσσυτο δέμνια κούρης, 20

στῆ δ’ ἄρ’ ὑπὲρ κεφαλῆς καί μιν πρὸς μῦθον ἔειπεν,
εἰδομένη κούρῃ ναυσικλειτοῖο Δύμαντος,
ἥ οἱ ὁμηλικίη μὲν ἔην, κεχάριστο δὲ θυμῷ.
τῇ μιν ἐεισαμένη προσέφη γλαυκῶπις Ἀθήνη·
And she [sc. Athena] like a breath of wind rushed upon the girl’s bed, and
stood there over her head, and spoke a word to her, likening herself to
the daughter of Dymas, famed for his ships, who was her age-mate and a
source of pleasure to her heart. Likening herself to her, grey-eyed Athena
spoke to Nausicaa.
There is no such age-mate in Apollonius’ narrative, Medea leaves her father’s

house only to go to the temple of Hecate (Arg. 3.250–252), and her first vision
of Jason and his companions is one of anguished panic.19 Nonnus has restored
the Homeric pattern here, but in a typically Hellenistic manner that implicates
several additional earlier poetic passages as well (Dion. 4.67–76):
Ἀλλὰ περισφίγξασα δέμας φρενοθελγέι δεσμῷ,

κερδαλέῳ ζωστῆρι, δολοφράδμων Ἀφροδίτη
καὶ χροῒ δυσαμένη φιλοτήσια φάρεα Πειθοῦς
Ἁρμονίης εὔοδμον ἐδύσατο παρθενεῶνα. 70
Καὶ τύπον οὐρανίοιο μεταλλάξασα προσώπου
Πεισινόῃ δέμας ἶσον ἐίσκετο γείτονι κούρῃ,
Κάδμον ἅ περ ποθέουσα, καὶ ὡς κρυφίῃ τινὶ νούσῳ
λεπταλέον πέμπουσα σέλας χλοάοντι προσώπῳ
ἀμφιπόλους ἔσσευε· παρεδριόωσα δὲ μούνῃ, 75
οἷά περ αἰδομένη, δολίην ἀνενείκατο φωνήν·
Belting her body, however, with a mind-charming bond, crafty girdle,

wile-weaving Aphrodite, also putting about her flesh the love-promoting
veils of Persuasion, entered Harmonia’s fragrant virgin chamber. And
19 Ap. Rh. Arg. 3.250–253: Ἥρη γάρ μιν ἔρυκε δόμῳ· πρὶν δ’ οὔτι θάμιζεν | ἐν μεγάροις, Ἑκάτης
δὲ πανήμερος ἀμφεπονεῖτο | νηόν, ἐπεί ῥα θεῆς αὐτὴ πέλεν ἀρήτειρα. | Καί σφεας ὡς ἴδεν ἆσσον,
ἀνίαχεν.
514 Acosta-HugHes
changing her cast from a heavenly face, she likened her body to a girl of
the neighborhood, Peisinoe, as though she were longing for Cadmus, and
as though from some hidden sickness she sent forth a thin light upon her
pale countenance, she caused the maids to flee. She sat down by the girl
alone, and as though in shameful bashfulness, let forth a voice of trickery.
Aphrodite’s δεσμός (line 67) derives of course from the Dios Apate in Iliad 14:20
here however the purpose of donning this object is not to seduce a man, but
to persuade a woman. Language of persuasion and trickery imbues the pas-
sage, not only wafted by Aphrodite’s veiling, but also in the name of the neigh-
boring girl she assumes.21 Aphrodite’s epithet, δολοφράδμων (line 68), which
occurs only here, is Nonnus’ variation on Homer’s δολοφρονέουσα (Il. 3.405),
also of Aphrodite, but may also, given the many implications of Sappho in the
Apollonian narrative of Medea’s love, which is very much in the background
here, echo Sappho’s characterization of Aphrodite as δολόπλοκος in Sappho’s
hymn (fr. 1.2 Voigt παῖ Δίος δολόπλοκε) to that goddess that was placed at the
opening of the first book of Sappho in the Alexandrian edition.22 Nonnus plays
further with the tradition of Sappho’s treatment of love as ἐρωτικὴ νόσος, an
integral component of Apollonius’ characterization of Medea in love,23 by hav-
ing Aphrodite ‘put on a literary tradition’, as it were, and herself take on the
classic symptoms of the ἐρωτικὴ νόσος: her feigned pallor, the result of ‘hidden
sickness’, being a classic symptom of this state, as delineated in Sappho, fr. 31
Voigt (to which line 74, λεπταλέον πέμπουσα σέλας χλοάοντι, appears to allude
doubly). Indeed Aphrodite’s own persuasive armament here recalls Sappho,
fr. 1 Voigt both in that the goddess descends in quasi-military fashion to her
supplicant, and that the goal of Sappho’s prayer is, indeed, persuasion.
As scholars of the passage have well noted, the ‘seduction’ of Harmonia and
her subsequent departure from her home imitate the general structure of the
‘seduction’ of Medea, particularly the section from the crow speaking to the seer
Mopsus (Arg. 3.927–937) to the harsh judgment of Selene (Arg. 4.54–65):24 the
narrative of Cadmus and Harmonia opens with a crow scolding Cadmus (Dion.
20 Cf. Il. 14.214–217 (line 214 κεστὸν ἱμάντα). In Dion. 4.67, L (Laurentianus plut. 32.16) reads
θεσμῷ; Chuvin (1976) prefers the conjecture δεσμῷ of anon. Villois. (see Vian 1976, lxxi) to
Koechly’s κεστῷ, accepted by Keydell (1959).
21 On the role of Persuasion in this episode see Carvounis (2014) esp. 25–33.
22 On the Alexandrian edition of Sappho see Liberman (2007), Acosta-Hughes (2010) 92–104.
23 See Acosta-Hughes (2010) 49–57. On echoes of Sappho in Nonnus see Accorinti (2009) 88.
24 See Carvounis (2014) 25–33 for a close analysis of this parallel structure.
3.97–123), and finds an initial conclusion with Selene’s scolding of Aphrodite at

Dion. 4.213–225. Nonnus’ recreation of this part of the Argonautica is fascinat-
ing for its acutely intelligent variatio in imitatione. In Apollonius Medea, upon
first beholding Jason, suffers a complex trauma of Sappho’s ἐρωτικὴ νόσος;25 in
Nonnus this detailing of the same trauma is transferred to Aphrodite herself,
both in her assumption of her ‘persuasive’ affectus of pallor and misery and
her own mental preoccupation with Cadmus’ physical form (Dion. 4.126–142),
which really extends into her own erotic fantasies that close the speech, where
she then drives Harmonia to her own desire for Cadmus as though stung by a
gadfly (4.177–178):
Εἶπε, καὶ Ἁρμονίην φυγοδέμνιον ἤλασε κεστῷ

εἰς πόθον οἰστρήσασα πόθῳ πειθήμονα κούρην.
She [sc. Aphrodite] spoke, and with her girdle drove Harmonia, who had
shunned the marriage bed, to desire, on stinging the now obedient girl
with desire.
οἰστρήσασα (line 178) of course recalls the appearance of Eros at Arg. 3.275–277,
where he, at the bidding of his mother (again Aphrodite) earlier in the book
now enchants Medea with his arrow. Each god, with her/his characteristic
erotic weapon, Aphrodite her girdle, Eros his bow, effects a radical change in
the psyche of the tormented parthenos:
Τόφρα δ’ Ἔρως πολιοῖο δι’ ἠέρος ἷξεν ἄφαντος, 275

τετρηχώς, οἷόν τε νέαις ἐπὶ φορβάσιν οἶστρος
τέλλεται, ὅν τε μύωπα βοῶν κλείουσι νομῆες.
Meanwhile Eros arrived through the grey upper air, full of commotion,
like the stinging fly that lands upon the young heifers, the one that cow-
herds call the gadfly.
And so an Apollonian beginning becomes a Nonnian ending, a perfect exam-

ple of the ongoing compositional variation with which Nonnus treats his
Alexandrian model.
25 For a more detailed study of Apollonius’ use of Sappho in this context see Acosta-Hughes
(2010) 49–55.
516 Acosta-HugHes
Indeed Nonnus’ reworking of Apollonius’ Argonautica is a fascinatingly com-

plex process, one worthy of the sort of study that D. Nelis did for Apollonius and
Virgil.26 The careful composition that re-casts so many aspects of Apollonius’
narrative comes to create a reflective tension, where the Apollonian epic nar-
rative appears again and again before the reader, only then often to evanesce
into something different, constantly both inciting and challenging the reader’s
expectations.
The two passages in which Selene scolds the central female figure make for
a wonderful example of this sort of apposition. First the Apollonian; as Medea,
veiled and in secret, flees the house of her father, the moon challenges her
(Arg. 4.54–65):
Τὴν δὲ νέον Τιτηνὶς ἀνερχομένη περάτηθεν

φοιταλέην ἐσιδοῦσα θεὰ ἐπεχήρατο Μήνη 55
ἁρπαλέως, καὶ τοῖα μετὰ φρεσὶν ᾗσιν ἔειπεν·
‘Οὐκ ἄρ’ ἐγὼ μούνη μετὰ Λάτμιον ἄντρον ἀλύσκω,
οὐδ’ οἴη καλῷ περὶ δαίομαι Ἐνδυμίωνι.
Ἦ θαμὰ δὴ καὶ σεῖο κίον δολίῃσιν ἀοιδαῖς
μνησαμένη φιλότητος, ἵνα σκοτίῃ ἐνὶ νυκτὶ 60
φαρμάσσῃς εὔκηλος, ἅ τοι φίλα ἔργα τέτυκται.
Νῦν δὲ καὶ αὐτὴ δῆθεν ὁμοίης ἔμμορες ἄτης,
δῶκε δ’ ἀνιηρόν τοι Ἰήσονα πῆμα γενέσθαι
δαίμων ἀλγινόεις. Ἀλλ’ ἔρχεο, τέτλαθι δ’ ἔμπης,
καὶ πινυτή περ ἐοῦσα, πολύστονον ἄλγος ἀείρειν.’ 65
Titan’s daughter, on rising from the horizon, saw Medea as she went, and
the goddess, the Moon, took great pleasure, and said to herself: ‘So not
only I shun the Latmian rock, nor am I alone in raging for fair Endymion.
Truly, frequently I came because of your tricky songs, remembering my
love, that you might busy yourself in a dark night, unheeded, busy with
your doings. But now you yourself finally share in this agony: a harsh god
has given you Jason to be a source of suffering without remedy. Go now
and learn, clever though you are, to endure pain, cause of much lament.’
This passage is, as I have shown elsewhere,27 an interweaving of some of

Sappho’s poetry into a later epic setting. A scholion to this passage attributes
the story of Selene’s love for Endymion to Sappho, which only makes the
26 Nelis (2001).

27 Acosta-Hughes (2010) 58–59.
relationship of Apollonius to Sappho the more complex.28 The appeal to the

moon is, according to a scholion to Theocritus’ Idyll 2, itself a careful imitation
of Apollonius’ treatment of Sappho’s eros in heroic hexameter, a traditional
feature of women in love.29 Here there is of course the irony that Medea is a
witch, and a traditional characteristic of a witch is to be able to call down the
moon; at the same time she is portrayed earlier in the poem as a young girl
sleepless at night, tormented by her love for Jason (Arg. 3.744–755). Medea thus
has a double nocturnal role in this setting, and in both cases the moon is her
companion.
In Nonnus’ version of the Moon’s scolding, the close recall of Apollonius’
passage belies some of the radical variation Nonnus is taking on the same
motif (Dion. 4.213–225):
Παρθενικὴν δ’ ὁρόωσα παρ’ ᾐόνας ὑψόθι πόντου

ξείνῳ ἐφεσπομένην, φλογερῇ ζείουσαν ἀνάγκῃ,
Κύπριδι μεμφομένη φιλοκέρτομος ἴαχε Μήνη· 215
‘Κύπρι, καὶ εἰς σέο τέκνα κορύσσεαι, οὐδὲ καὶ αὐτῆς
ὑμετέρης ὠδῖνος ἐφείσατο κέντρον ἐρώτων;
Ἣν τέκες, οὐκ ἐλέαιρες, ἀμείλιχε. Καὶ τίνα κούρην
οἰκτείρεις ἑτέρην, ὅτε σὸν γένος ἐς πόθον ἕλκεις;
Πλάζεο καὶ σύ, φίλη· Παφίης τέκος, εἰπὲ τεκούσῃ· 220
“Kερτομέει Φαέθων σε καὶ αἰσχύνει με Σελήνη.”
Ἁρμονίη, λιπόπατρι δυσίμερε, κάλλιπε Μήνῃ
νυμφίον Ἐνδυμίωνα, καὶ ἄμφεπε Κάδμον ἀλήτην·
τλῆθι φέρειν πόνον ἶσον, ἐρωτοτόκῳ δὲ μερίμνῃ
μνώεο καὶ σὺ καμοῦσα ποθοβλήτοιο Σελήνης.’ 225
When she saw the girl along the shore above the sea, following after a
stranger, seething under fiery constraint, the Moon, faulting Cypris, in
mocking words cried: ‘Cypris, you make war even upon your own chil-
dren, nor is even the product of your own birth-pains spared the goad of
28 Schol. ad Ap. Rh. 4.57–58 (264 Wendel): <οὐκ ἄρ’ ἐγὼ μούνη μετὰ Λάτμιον>: Λάτμος ὄρος
Καρίας, ἔνθα ἔστιν ἄντρον, ἐν ᾧ διέτριβεν Ἐνδυμίων. ἔστι δὲ καὶ πόλις ἡ λεχθεῖσα Ἡράκλεια.
λέγεται δὲ κατέρχεσθαι εἰς τοῦτο τὸ ἄντρον τὴν Σελήνην πρὸς Ἐνδυμίωνα. περὶ δὲ τοῦ τῆς
Σελήνης ἔρωτος ἱστοροῦσι Σαπφὼ [fr. 199 Voigt] καὶ Νίκανδρος ἐν β´ Εὐρωπείας [fr. 24
Gow/Schofield].
29 Schol. ad Theoc. 2.10 (271.7–10 Wendel): ἀλλὰ Σελάνα· Πίνδαρός [fr. 104 Maehler] φησιν ἐν
τοῖς κεχωρισμένοις τῶν Παρθενείων, ὅτι τῶν ἐραστῶν οἱ μὲν ἄνδρες εὔχονται <παρ>εῖναι Ἥλιον,
αἱ δὲ γυναῖκες Σελήνην. There remains scholarly debate on this scholion, as no example of
men in love praying to the sun is extant: see Fantuzzi (2007) 84–85.
518 Acosta-HugHes
the loves! She whom you bore you do not pity, relentless one! And what
other girl will you pity, when you draw your own daughter into desire?
So wander you too, my love; say to your mother, the Paphian’s child:
“Phaethon mocks you, and Selene shames me.” Harmonia, leaving your
fatherland, unhappy in love, leave Endymion as bride-groom to Mene, and
follow Cadmus the wanderer; endure bearing travail like mine, and when
you are weary with love-producing care, remember love-struck Semele.’
As it was Aphrodite who, in her comportment and over-wrought exhortation,

took on the character of one smitten with desire, so Aphrodite is the initial
object of the Moon’s scolding—Aphrodite, paradoxically, the cause of the pas-
sion that she earlier claimed to possess. The moon’s view of the departing girl
directly recalls the Apollonian passage, with Μήνη a direct allusion (the word
is not a common one, though Apollonius is clearly fond of it),30 along with a
similar concluding exhortation (line 224 τλῆθι φέρειν πόνον ἶσον) which recon-
figures the Apollonian one (4.64–65 Ἀλλ’ ἔρχεο, τέτλαθι δ’ ἔμπης, | καὶ πινυτή
περ ἐοῦσα, πολύστονον ἄλγος ἀείρειν). The dramatic phrase in the Nonnus pas-
sage φλογερῇ ζείουσαν ἀνάγκῃ (line 214) is very striking: the adjective φλογερός
occurs twice in Euripidean choral odes (Hel. 1126, El. 991) and at Ap. Rh. Arg.
4.126, in the extraordinary simile of the fleece compared to a cloud that is red-
dened by the rays of the rising sun. The Apollonian passage here is particularly
apt, as Medea and Jason are here alone together in darkness, she is still in her
homeland, he is the ξεῖνος, though in the Apollonian passage as they approach
the fleece (and the guarding dragon) he follows her.31 φλογερῇ ζείουσαν ἀνάγκῃ
at the same time, I would argue, alludes to Sappho, fr. 31.9–10 Voigt (λέπτον |
δ’ αὔτικα χρῶι πῦρ ὐπαδεδρόμακεν), a line that Apollonius carefully re-casts in
his own portrayal of Medea wounded by Eros’ arrow at Arg. 3.286–287: βέλος
δ’ ἐνεδαίετο κούρῃ | νέρθεν ὑπὸ κραδίῃ, φλογὶ εἴκελον. This is then another dou-
ble allusion, one that reflects both the original Sappho and the Apollonian
re-casting of that text, embedded here in Nonnus’ re-working of a different
30 The word appears five times in Apollonius’ Argonautica (3.533, 4.55, 1479, 1616, 1697),
twice in Homer (Il. 19.374, 23.455), once in a tragic fragment of Euripides (TrGF V.2 1009,
the play is unknown), once in the Homeric Hymn to Selene (line 1), once in Aeschylus (PV
797), and 30 times in Nonnus (see Peek 1968–1975, s.v.). Intriguingly this is also the papy-
rus reading of Sappho, fr. 96.8 Voigt, which Page obelized as unmetrical. The association
of female love and the moon in this poem is however very tantalizing.
31 Ap. Rh. Arg. 4.149 Εἵπετο δ’ Αἰσονίδης πεφοβημένος.
Apollonian passage. Ἀλλὰ νέοισι καὶ ἀρχεγόνοισιν ἐρίζων (Dion. 25.27)—Nonnus’

own poetic declaration could not be more fitting.
2.2 The Female Gaze

One of the many outstanding and unusual features of Apollonius’ Argonautica
is that the male hero is the object of the erotic gaze: we read through Medea’s
internal dialogues and acts of heroism, but it is Jason who is the object of the
admiring and erotic gaze, particularly the female gaze. Apollonius’ description
of Jason donning the wondrous cloak in Book 1 is an early example: the cloak
is described in terms of its redness (Arg. 1.725–728),32 ἔρευθος (line 726) being a
term often erotically charged, and Jason wearing the cloak is compared to the
erotic effect Hesperus has upon young women longing for distant husbands
(Arg. 1.774–781).33 In a striking variation on the Homeric model of Athena
enhancing the beauty of Odysseus (Od. 6.227–237) in the eyes of Nausicaa
and her attendants, when Hera magnifies Jason’s beauty and also his speech
at Arg. 3.919–925, it is the other Argonauts who take the place of Nausicaa’s
maids (a part of the ongoing re-working of the Odysseus/Nausicaa episode
that extends throughout Arg. 3).34 The passage sets Jason as a show-horse, as it
were, before his male comrades, very much reminiscent of Paris at the end of
Iliad 6,35 and a step in objectifying Jason that culminates in the odd and very
telling comparison of Jason reveling with the golden fleece (Arg. 4.162–182) to
a young girl admiring her gown in the moonlight.
The central erotic gaze in the Argonautica is that of Medea, of her gazing
upon Jason, and her external and internal reactions—a long poetic unwinding
of the ἐρωτικὴ νόσος symptoms laid out in Sappho, fr. 31 Voigt.36 Apollonius’
delineation of her mental processes on Jason’s departure from her father’s pal-
ace, the first time Medea has looked upon him, is, as has long been recognized,
a masterpiece of the portrayal of psychological processes (Arg. 3.451–462):
32 Ap. Rh. Arg. 1.725–728 Τῆς μὲν ῥηίτερόν κεν ἐς ἠέλιον ἀνιόντα | ὄσσε βάλοις ἢ κεῖνο μεταβλέψειας
ἔρευθος· | δὴ γάρ τοι μέσση μὲν ἐρευθήεσσα τέτυκτο, | ἄκρα δὲ πορφυρέη πάντῃ πέλεν. See
Lowatt (2013) 182–186.
33 Note at Arg. 1.790–791 how the ‘redness’ (ἔρευθος) of the cloak is transferred upon the
blush of Hypsipyle’s cheeks: παρθενικὰς ἐρύθηνε παρηίδας (line 791).
34 Ἐνθ’ οὔ πώ τις τοῖος ἐπὶ προτέρων γένετ’ ἀνδρῶν, | οὔθ’ ὅσοι ἐξ αὐτοῖο Διὸς γένος οὔθ’ ὅσοι ἄλλων
| ἀθανάτων ἥρωες ἀφ’ αἵματος ἐβλάστησαν, | οἷον Ἰήσονα θῆκε Διὸς δάμαρ ἤματι κείνῳ | ἠμὲν ἐς
ἄντα ἰδεῖν ἠδὲ προτιμυθήσασθαι. | Τὸν καὶ παπταίνοντες ἐθάμβεον αὐτοὶ ἑταῖροι | λαμπόμενον
χαρίτεσσιν.
35 Hom. Il. 6.503–514.
36 See Bonanno (1990) 147–181, Acosta-Hughes (2010) 49–57.
520 Acosta-HugHes
αὔτως δ’ αὖ Μήδεια μετέστιχε. Πολλὰ δὲ θυμῷ

ὥρμαιν’ ὅσσα τ’ Ἔρωτες ἐποτρύνουσι μέλεσθαι·
προπρὸ δ’ ἄρ’ ὀφθαλμῶν ἔτι οἱ ἰνδάλλετο πάντα,
αὐτός θ’ οἷος ἔην, οἵοισί τε φάρεσιν ἧστο,
οἷά τ’ ἔειφ’, ὥς θ’ ἕζετ’ ἐπὶ θρόνου, ὥς τε θύραζε 455
ἤιεν· οὐδέ τιν’ ἄλλον ὀίσσατο πορφύρουσα
ἔμμεναι ἀνέρα τοῖον· ἐν οὔασι δ’ αἰὲν ὀρώρει
αὐδή τε μῦθοί τε μελίφρονες οὓς ἀγόρευσε.
Τάρβει δ’ ἀμφ’ αὐτῷ, μή μιν βόες ἠὲ καὶ αὐτὸς
Αἰήτης φθείσειεν, ὀδύρετο δ’ ἠύτε πάμπαν 460
ἤδη τεθνειῶτα· τέρεν δέ οἱ ἀμφὶ παρειὰς
δάκρυον αἰνοτάτῳ ἐλέῳ ῥέε κηδοσύνῃσιν.
And Medea likewise went after her [sc. Chalciope], turning many things
over in her heart, as many concerns as the Loves incite. Everything still
shown vividly before her eyes, he himself, how he was, what clothing he
was wearing, what he said, how he sat upon his chair, how he went to
the door. All in confusion she thought there to be no other man like him.
In her ears ever rose his voice and the honeyed words he had spoken.
She feared for him, lest the oxen and Aeetes himself destroy him. She
mourned him as though already dead, and in her terrible pity and her
care a soft tear ran down her cheek.
Apollonius presents Jason from the outside, as a figure seen, admired, desired,
and also scorned. He is the object of admiration, scorn and, in the case of
Medea, erotic longing, yet his own internal reactions and thought processes
are given only very minimal space (in his possession of the fleece Jason is all
but child-like): it is Medea’s response to Jason, and her inward struggle to take
control of her situation, that is given the largest canvass in the poem.
Nonnus’ representation of Aphrodite’s/Peisinoe’s portrayal of Cadmus, and
her feigned reaction to him (Dion. 4.102–105), is a strikingly varied pastiche of
Homer, Apollonius, archaic lyric and surely many other models. As Odysseus
compares Nausicaa to a young Delian palm (Od. 6.161–165), Aphrodite com-
pares Cadmus to the image of Apollo at Delphi (with the added humor that in
this case she is describing an image of her brother):
Μέμνημαί ποτε τοῖον ἐγὼ τύπον· ἡμετέρῳ γάρ

εἰς δόμον ὀμφήεντα συνεσπομένη γενετῆρι,
Πύθιον εἶδον ἄγαλμα, καὶ ὡς τέον εἶδον ἀλήτην,
ὠισάμην Φοίβοιο πάλιν βρέτας ἐνθάδε λεύσσειν. 105
I remember once such an image. For following my father I went into the
oracular house, and there I saw the Pythian statue,37 and when I saw the
young wanderer, I thought again to see the image of Apollo here.
Taking off from this image of Cadmus qua statue, Aphrodite goes on to ‘gaze’
upon Cadmus in an erotic portrait that treats the hero as sexual object (this
very much follows upon Apollonius’ treatment of Jason, as well as Theocritus’
Simaetha first catching sight of the gleaming Delphis),38 in a series of images
that consciously combine variations on earlier poetic imagery (Cadmus’ rosy-
fingered hand e.g.) with Nonnus’ own poetic motifs (e.g. the poet’s affection for
the back of the neck, here at lines 137–138).39 The details that draw Aphrodite’s
particular gaze are an intriguing mixture of ephebic and almost feminine
(the color imagery in the description of Cadmus’ feet at lines 131–132 tellingly
alludes to both masculine and feminine beauty). Her own ‘hidden sickness’
(line 145 κρυπταδίης . . . νούσου)40 leads her to a series of erotic fantasies (very
much in line with Medea’s in Argonautica 3, though much exaggerated) that
she instills into Harmonia. Harmonia, her resolve now changed, leaves her
girlhood bedroom in a passage (lines 199–206) very reminiscent of Medea’s
own departure from her chamber, particularly the leave-taking of the cham-
ber itself (Dion. 4.203–205 μυρομένη δέ | τυκτὰ πολυγλυφέων ἠσπάσσατο κύκλα
θυράων | ἄπνοα καὶ κλιντῆρα καὶ ἕρκεα παρθενεῶνος ~ Arg. 4.26–27 Κύσσε δ’ ἑόν
τε λέχος καὶ δικλίδας ἀμφοτέρωθεν | σταθμοὺς, καὶ τοίχων ἐπαφήσατο). And as
Medea departs from Colchis seated on the stern of Jason’s ship for a journey
unto an unknown land (Arg. 4.188–189 Πρύμνῃ δ’ ἐνεείσατο κούρην | ἀνθέμενος)
so Cadmus places Harmonia on the same part of the boat (Dion. 4.233–234 ἐπὶ
37 ἄγαλμα as at Od. 6.168 ἄγαμαί τε τέθηπά τε. Aphrodite plays upon the standard contrast of
Pythian and Delian Apollo.
38 Theoc. Id. 2.77–80: εἶδον Δέλφιν ὁμοῦ τε καὶ Εὐδάμιππον ἰόντας· | τοῖς δ’ ἦς ξανθοτέρα μὲν
ἑλιχρύσοιο γενειάς | στήθεα δὲ στίλβοντα πολὺ πλέον ἢ τύ, Σελάνα, | ὡς ἀπὸ γυμνασίοιο καλὸν
πόνον ἄρτι λιπόντων (‘I saw Delphis coming with Eudamippus, their chins more golden
than helichryse, their chests gleamed far more than you, Selene, as they had just left the
gym’s noble toil’).
39 Nonn. Dion. 4.135–138: Εἴ ποτε δινεύων φρενοτερπέα κύκλον ὀπωπῆς | ὀφθαλμοὺς ἐλέλιζεν,
ὅλη σελάγιζε Σελήνη | φέγγεϊ μαρμαίροντι· καὶ εἴ ποτε βόστρυχα σείσας | αὐχένα γυμνὸν ἔθηκεν,
ἐφαίνετο Φωσφόρος ἀστήρ. The comparison with Selene is a sleight of hand allusion to
Theoc. Id. 2 (see the previous note).
40 Dion. 4.171 φάρμακον εὕρω (cf. 4.145 εὕροιμι . . . φάρμακα) is surely, as Keydell ad loc. and
Chuvin (1976) 66 n. 1 suggest, an allusion to Theoc. Id. 11.17 ἀλλὰ τὸ φάρμακον εὗρε (of
Polyphemus in love). One might go a bit further here and compare the emphasis on the
color white in both descriptions.
522 Acosta-HugHes
πρύμνῃ δὲ καὶ αὐτήν | Ἁρμονίην ἄψαυστον ὁμόπλοον ἵδρυσε κούρην) for her jour-
ney, in turn, to an unknown land, traversing once again the textual surface of
Apollonius’ poem.
2.3 Gifts at a Wedding

The wedding of Cadmus and Harmonia in Dion. 5, perhaps best-known
to many modern readers through Roberto Calasso’s Le nozze di Cadmo e
Armonia,41 has among earlier models Pind. Pyth. 3.86–95 and the narrative of
this wedding is clearly very old.42 Dion. 5 has a second narrative of gift-giving,
this being the courtship of Persephone by the male Olympians, at the book’s
conclusion: these two episodes of primeval wedding/subsequent deflow-
ering (of Persephone in Dion. 6), each with its own foundation myth, serve
almost as mirror images of one another on heroic and divine planes. There is
a Callimachean model shared by both episodes (so a typical ‘divided’ allusion,
a common feature of Hellenistic poetics), a tantalizing and at the same time
frustratingly fragmentary one, Iambus 12. The poem, the penultimate one in
this collection,43 celebrates the amphidromion (the seventh day song), rather
like a birthday poem (genethliakon) for the young daughter of an acquaintance
of the poet (so the later prose diegesis),44 in which the poet uses the para-
digm of an Olympian celebration for the birthday of Hebe. On this occasion
the Olympians, contending with one another, bring gifts for the daughter of
Zeus and Hera—Apollo wins the gift-giving contest with his gift of song (Call.
fr. 212.56–70 Pf.), to which the poet devotes the longest section of the gift-giving
contest, which includes Apollo’s own speech on the eternal value of song. In
Nonnus the longest passage (Dion. 5.135–189) is of course the extraordinary
ecphrasis of the two-serpent necklace that Aphrodite gives Harmonia (an
elaborate object that hauntingly pre-figures the final traditional metamorpho-
sis of Cadmus and Harmonia into serpents). Both speech and ecphrasis are
necessarily self-contained, i.e. set apart from their narrative contexts, and so
the victorious object garners the greatest attention.
41 Calasso (1988). See Hernández de la Fuente in this volume.

42 See Dodds (1960) 235–236 (on Eur. Bacch. 1330–1339). Chuvin’s note on the serpent neck-
lace in his introduction to Dion. 5 (1976, 83–87) is particularly helpful. Ovid narrates the
metamorphosis of the two into serpents at Met. 4.563–603.
43 There is a perennial scholarly debate on the final number of the Iambi, some choosing to
see in Horace’s Epodes a later imitation of the Iambi + 4 subsequent poems that Pfeiffer
in his 1949 edition of the fragments titled the Mele. I assume there to be 13 Iambi: on the
issue see Acosta-Hughes (2003).
44 Call. fr. 202.21–22 Pf.: τὴν γενεθλίην | ἑβδόμην Ἥρ[η] θ̣[υγ]ατ̣ρὸ̣ ς ἡμέρην.
Pfeiffer in his commentary to Iambus 12 already noted a number of parallels

in the Callimachean and the two Nonnian texts: the contesting gods in Iamb.
12.24–25 η̣ [. . .].[.]τις πα̣ι ̣.[.καλ]λ̣ ίστῃ δ̣ό̣σ� ει | π.[. .].α τιμήσει τ̣[. . .]. . . . . . ερο.[ and
45–46 οἱ δ’ ι.[..γ]λυκεῖαν̣ ἀλλήλοις ἔριν |θ]έντες ἡμ[ι]λλῶντ̣ο δω[τί]νη[ς πέρι ~ Dion.
5.571–574 ὅσοι ναετῆρες Ὀλύμπου | παιδὶ μιῇ θέλγοντο καὶ ἀγχιγάμου περὶ κούρης |
Κυπριδίην ἔριν εἶχον ἀσυλήτων ὑμεναίων |δωροφόροι; Apollo’s gift of song in Iamb.
12.47–57 ~ Dion. 5.576 ὤρεγε δ’ ἕδνα γάμοιο λύρην εὔυμνον Ἀπόλλων; Iamb. 12.26
Ζεὺς πατήρ ~ Dion. 5.586 Ζεὺς δὲ πατήρ. In both Nonnian passages there is an
assembly of rival gods, the first consisting of divinities of both genders, and the
victorious gift is Aphrodite’s; the second of male deities only, and the victor is
Zeus, whose pleasure in the girl is reflected in her own pleasure at her image
in a bronze vessel (Dion. 5.594–600), a passage apparently influenced by the
depiction of Aphrodite’s image reflected in Ares’ shield at Arg. 1.742–746.45
Callimachus’ twelfth Iambus opens and apparently closes (the fragment
ends at line 86)46 with an address to Cretan Artemis (lines 1–2, 81–82), and
so this hymnic poem (in catalectic trochaic tetrameters) has a virgin goddess
in its frame and the narrative of a young virgin goddess’ feast-day at its cen-
ter. Both passages from Nonnus also center on celebrations of young virginal
figures, though on the eve of quite different narrative conclusions (voluntary
loss of virginity in the one, involuntary loss in the other). There results a type
of variatio in imitatione that we observe very often in earlier Hellenistic poetry,
where e.g. an individual lyric poem or smaller earlier hexameter episode is dis-
tributed over a larger sequence, each separate allusive moment then recalling
not only the original model, but also earlier uses of this model in the poem.
The gift-giving sequence of Iamb. 12 is the center of a discrete poem, and Hebe/
honoree remains the same little girl. The two sequences in Dion. 5 end with the
loss of virginity, and the transformation of the girl into a woman—with the
poet’s use of his model in two separate narrative sequences a proof of his
finesse in the use of an earlier model to different ends.
2.4 The Flower Preserved

The Ampelus episode of Dion. (Books 10–12) has recently received a masterful
treatment of its relationship to Theocritean, and the larger Hellenistic, bucolic
tradition in Daniele Mazza’s superb doctoral dissertation, La fortuna della
poesia ellenistica nelle Dionisiache di Nonno di Panopoli, which hopefully will
45 In both cases there is an external viewer whose reaction is implicit in the description:
Nonnus uses this feature to insert Zeus, and his all-seeing eye, into the setting.
46 See Pfeiffer in app. crit. ad loc.
524 Acosta-HugHes
soon be accessible as a monograph.47 Here I would like to add a few observa-

tions that complement Mazza’s work, and that may lead to further study of the
homoerotic loves of Dionysus in Nonnus’ poem.
Ephebic love and beauty, and generally its literary representations, is neces-
sarily of brief duration. In some myths, those of Pelops and Adrastus, for exam-
ple, the eromenos comes to be an adult man, and the ephebic love fades into
the background. But also very common is an early death that preserves ephe-
bic beauty at a specific moment.48 Patroclus is in some ways a Homeric forbear
of this figure: the closest friend and lesser image of the much more power-
ful Achilles, Patroclus is killed when he ‘competes’ with a more mature hero.49
Ephebic eros, though, as Marco Fantuzzi has recently convincingly shown,
does not have a place in Homeric epic,50 but does in the context of shorter
Hellenistic hexameter poems and of course in Pindar. Nonnus, however, in his
on-going variegation of genre, includes several famed homoerotic episodes in
his delineation of Dionysus as a youth and as a young warrior. In the former
case, Ampelus (and Calamus and Carpus), the youthful beauty of the boy is cut
off, and so is not lost or transformed through the transition to male adulthood.
In the ‘chronology’ of Dionysus this period of playful athletic contest is his
own ephebic stage, a period in which he takes pleasure in the playful athletic
contests that pre-figure the long martial contests of his young adulthood—
Nonnus’ description of Dionysus and Ampelus beginning to wrestle together
as (Dion. 10.339) ἀεθλητῆρες Ἐρωτων is indeed very apt.
Dionysus enters into his own ephebic period at Dion. 10.139–144:
Τόφρα δὲ καὶ Διόνυσος ὑπὸ κλίμα Λυδὸν ἀρούρης,

εὔια δινεύων Κυβεληίδος ὄργανα Ῥείης, 140
ἤνθεε μῆκος ἔχων ὅσον ἤθελεν.—Ὑψιπόρου δέ
φεύγων Ἠελίοιο μεσημβρίζουσαν ἱμάσθλην
ἥσυχα παφλάζοντι δέμας φαίδρυνε λοετρῷ
Μῃονίου ποταμοῖο·
47 Mazza (2012) 99–145. See also Kröll (2016).

48 For the Hellenistic period see Acosta-Hughes (2014). Seminal to this subject are Reed
(1995) and (1997), Calame (1996). Lament for the young bride-groom has a long tradi-
tion in Greek culture: esp. valuable here is Alexiou (2002; 1st edn. 1974). This is paral-
leled in many cultural traditions, including the devotion to the young war dead in the
Confederate South of the US.
49 And we might note here the perfect preservation of his body: Hom. Il. 19.29–33.
50 Fantuzzi (2012).
Meanwhile Dionysus in the region of Lydia’s fields, brandishing the Euian

instruments of Cybelian Rhea, came to flower with the stature that he
wished. Fleeing the midday lash of high-moving Helios he caused his
body to shine in the quietly splashing bath of the Meionian river.
Several features of this passage are typical of the scene-setting for ephebic
love scenes: Dionysus is at the ‘bloom of youth’ (ἤνθεε, line 141); his avoid-
ance of the midday sun through exposure of his physical beauty in the water
(δέμας φαίδρυνε, line 143); that he is engaging in playful athletic activity (line
140). And while Τόφρα δὲ καί (line 139) is a perfectly innocuous epic phrase, a
reader attuned to earlier Hellenistic poetry might well recall the Τόφρα δ’ Ἔρως
that opens the scene of Medea’s passionate first sight of Jason at Arg. 3.275
(Apollonius’ portrayal of Medea’s infatuation finds a number of parallels in
Nonnus’ depiction of the young Dionysus in love).
The initial description of Ampelus already captures something of the per-
fect moment of boyhood: he is the ὀμέψιος (‘playmate’, line 193),51 Dionysus’
ἁβρὸν ἀθύρων (line 193), he is not quite yet at the ἥβης χρύσεον ἄνθος (line 181);
the description is indeed a studied reflection of the description of the adoles-
cent Dionysus himself. The ongoing contrasts of red and white are another
standard feature of this type of ephebic description (also of early ephebic
death). Dionysus catches sight of Ampelus at the time when Ampelus is yet
a combination of male and female characteristics, as yet in very early youth
(Dion. 10.189 Ἐκ μελέων δ’ ὅλον εἶαρ ἐφαίνετο).
Nonnus is unusual among authors of ephebic love narratives in the length
and detail he gives to the Dionysus/Ampelus episode. And while not graphi-
cally sexual, which would not suit the tone of high epic,52 sexual love is more
than implied, both in Dionysus’ recurrent jealousy of his younger playmate,
and in their shared athletic activities, particularly the depiction of the two
youths’ wrestling.53 Of Dionysus’ jealousy (Dion. 10.238–249):
Εἰ δὲ βαθυσκάρθμοιο πόθου πεφορημένος οἴστρῳ

Ἄμπελος ὀρχηστῆρι ποδῶν ἐλελίζετο παλμῷ,
51 A rare word, but cf. ἑψιάασθαι at Call. Dian. 3 and ἑψιόωντο at Call. Cer. 38, both instances
of divinities at play. Particularly relevant here is Ap. Rh. Arg. 3.117–118 (Ἀμφ’ ἀστραγάλοισι
δὲ τώ γε | χρυσείοις, ἅ τε κοῦροι ὁμήθεες, ἑψιόωντο) of Eros and Ganymedes at play.
52 Winkler (1981) remains a seminal study of reading sexuality in elevated poetry.
53 Cf. 10.344–346, 351–352, 357–360. Descriptions of two bodies wrestling is apt to be very
physically vivid (Il. 23.700–734 is an outstanding early example), but Nonnus’ treatment is
a distinctly erotic one: see Chrétien (1985) 74–77.
526 Acosta-HugHes
καὶ Σατύρῳ παίζοντι συνέπλεκε χεῖρα χορεύων, 240

δόχμιον ἐκ ταρσοῖο μετήλυδα ταρσὸν ἀμείβων,
Βάκχος ὀπιπεύων φθονερῇ δεδόνητο μερίμνῃ. —
Εἴ ποτε Σιληνοῖσιν ὁμίλεεν, εἴ τινι κούρῳ
ἥλικι θηρητῆρι συνέτρεχεν ἐς δρόμον ἄγρης,
ζηλήμων Διόνυσος ἐρήτυε, μή τις ὀιστῷ 245
βλήμενος ἰσοτύπῳ φρενοθελγέι λάτρις Ἐρώτων
παιδὸς ἐλαφρονόοιο παραπλάγξειε μενοινήν,
καὶ νέον ἱμερόεντα μεταστήσειε Λυαίου,
ἀρτιθαλὴς ἅτε κοῦρος ὁμόχρονον ἥλικα τέρπων.
And if when driven by the sting for high-leaping desire, Ampelus twirled
with dancing sole of his feet, and in dancing he wove his hand with that of
playful satyr, changing as he went succeeding foot upon foot, Bacchus as
he gazed upon him was shaken with devastating concern. If he ever asso-
ciated with the Sileni, if he pursued the chase with companion hunter of
his own age, jealous Dionysus restrained him, lest someone struck by a
mind-charming sting of equal imprint, now a slave of Love, should drive
the boy’s deer-like mind from its course, and turn the desirous youth
from Lyaios, as a just blooming boy might turn a youth of his own age.
Lines 245–246 immediately recall two Apollonian passages, Arg. 1.1269 of

Heracles at the loss of Hylas,54 κακῷ βεβολημένος οἴστρῳ, and Arg. 3.275–277
of Eros.55 In the former, unlike Theocritus’ treatment of the Heracles/Hylas
episode at Idyll 13, the relationship between Heracles and Hylas is not explic-
itly erotic in Apollonius (the erotic experience is rather transferred onto a
local nymph, esp. Arg. 1.1229–1232), where Hylas’ beauty seen in the light of
the moon is a noteworthy parallel with Nonnus’ association of Ampelus with
Selene (Dion. 10.186–187, 191–192, 215–216). The association with the moon is
typical of young girls, but also of ephebes, as is the partial whiteness of their
skin. The Nonnian passage is of course entirely erotic, with the gadfly, here
associated with Ampelus himself, leading a possible rival to mislead the boy’s
54 Ap. Rh. Arg. 1.1265–1272: Ὡς δ’ ὅτε τίς τε μύωπι τετυμμένος ἔσσυτο ταῦρος | πείσεά τε προλιπὼν
καὶ ἑλεσπίδας, οὐδὲ νομήων | οὐδ’ ἀγέλης ὄθεται, πρήσσει δ’ ὁδὸν ἄλλοτ’ ἄπαυστος, | ἄλλοτε
δ’ ἱστάμενος καὶ ἀνὰ πλατὺν αὐχέν’ ἀείρων | ἵησιν μύκημα, κακῷ βεβολημένος οἴστρῳ· | ὣς ὅ
γε μαιμώων ὁτὲ μὲν θοὰ γούνατ’ ἔπαλλε | συνεχέως, ὁτὲ δ’ αὖτε μεταλλήγων καμάτοιο | τῆλε
διαπρύσιον μεγάλῃ βοάασκεν ἀυτῇ.
55 Ap. Rh. Arg. 3.275–277 Τόφρα δ’ Ἔρως πολιοῖο δι’ ἠέρος ἷξεν ἄφαντος, | τετρηχώς, οἷόν τε νέαις
ἐπὶ φορβάσιν οἶστρος | τέλλεται, ὅν τε μύωπα βοῶν κλείουσι νομῆες.
easily persuaded mind—in the manner of eromenoi of paiderastic epigram,

the boy is, in Callimachus’ terms, a περίφοιτος ἐρώμενος,56 of labile psyche and
so easily charmed. Line 247 παιδὸς ἐλαφρονόοιο παραπλάγξειε μενοινήν is a par-
ticularly striking example of Nonnian characterization. Striking too in this
context is ἀρτιθαλής (line 249), which can only refer to a very brief period.
Nonnus’ implicit comparisons of Ampelus to Hylas, and Dionysus’ own con-
textualization of his beloved in mythological comparisons with Hyacinthus
and Ganymedes, serve to underline the necessarily short period of ephebic
eros, and also to pre-figure the tragedy that will soon ensue. In the former case
Nonnus’ play on Theocritus’ text at Idyll 13.36 ff. is especially revealing (Dion.
10.226–229):
Εἴ ποτε Πακτωλοῖο παρ’ ἀνθεμόεντι ῥεέθρῳ

δηθύνων ἀνέμιμνεν, ὅπως ἐπιδόρπιον εἴη
αὐτὸς ἑῷ βασιλῆι φέρων γλυκερώτερον ὕδωρ,
κούρου νόσφι μένοντος, ἱμάσσετο Βάκχος ἀνίῃ.
If ever by the flowering stream of Pactolos he remained for long, that

there might be sweet water for after his king’s dinner, water that he
brought himself, Bacchus was lashed with anxiety as the boy remained
so long apart.
The keyword here is ἐπιδόρπιον (line 227), a direct quote or ‘motto’ from the
Theocritus text (lines 36–37):57
κᾤχεθ’ Ὕλας ὁ ξανθὸς ὕδωρ ἐπιδόρπιον οἴσων

αὐτῷ θ’ Ἡρακλῆι καὶ ἀστεμφεῖ Τελαμῶνι
And blond Hylas went to bring water for after dinner for Heracles himself
and for unflinching Telamon.
ἐπιδόρπιον (line 36) is a rare word: Nonnus’ use of it in this context immedi-
ately recalls the Theocritean source, as does the repetition of phrasing αὐτὸς
ἑῷ βασιλῆι φέρων ~ οἴσων | αὐτῷ θ’ Ἡρακλῆι (line 37), though with careful vari-
ation: αὐτός is Ampelus, and he actually brings the water—Hylas’ intention
to do so is never fulfilled. Theocritus’ carefully delineated bucolic setting is
reduced to a simple phrase (and collective allusion) in παρ’ ἀνθεμόεντι ῥεέθρῳ
56 Call. ep. 1 GP = 32 Pf.

57 See Fayant (2012) §§ 9–11. On the use of the ‘motto’ a classic now is Cavarzere (1996).
528 Acosta-HugHes
(line 226). Nonnus’ reader knows that Dionysus has reason for concern (line
229 ἱμάσσετο . . . ἀνίῃ, a play on both Sappho and erotic epigram), as Hylas never
returned—in his case κούρου νόσφι μένοντος (line 229) is what finally became of
Heracles’ beloved. Nonnus is effectively here not only alluding to Theocritus’
text on multiple levels, but creating his own through his reading of Theocritus’
poem.
3 Conclusions
At the opening of Dion. 25, the proem to the second half of his long hexam-
eter poem, Nonnus positions his narrative of the Indian War famously in
terms of Homer’s Iliad, of Pindar’s Theban poetry,58 and of a vast swath of
mythological narrative material. In the same context there is an extraordinary
moment where Nonnus defines his own poetic eris, the epigraph of this article
(Dion. 25.27–28):
Ἀλλὰ νέοισι καὶ ἀρχεγόνοισιν ἐρίζων,

εὐκαμάτους ἱδρῶτας ἀναστήσω Διονύσου
Yet contending with new and those born before I will set up the sweaty
toils of Dionysus.
Apollonius toward the conclusion of his proem (Arg. 1.18) contrasts his own
treatment with ‘singers of old’ (οἱ πρόσθεν . . . ἀοιδοί) whether actual hexam-
eter singers or a fictional ‘other’ with which to contrast his own novel treat-
ment. Nonnus here takes this contrast much further. In contending with both
older and newer poets, in a programmatic opening to the second part of his
poem that includes Homer and Pindar on the one hand, and the Hydaspes, the
Indian War and the long, unwinding poetic recreation of Alexander’s Indian
campaign that is to come, Nonnus exhibits a polymathia of earlier Greek cul-
ture that is truly remarkable—and at the same time, truly Hellenistic.
58 See Gigli Piccardi in this volume.

Chapter 24
Nonnus and Imperial Greek Poetry

1 Introduction
Nonnus is traditionally viewed as standing at the end of a tradition in the

Imperial period of traditional, cyclical-type epic,1 and, in particular, is marked
out as one who creates his own type of poetics and literary aesthetics in con-
trast to the set parameters found in earlier Imperial Greek epic—to the extent
that he spawns a whole school of imitators, the so-called school of Nonnus.2
Like the earlier poets of the Imperial age, Nonnus writes what is avowedly
Homeric poetry, but in contrast he marks out his own epic as a new mode
of Homeric reception, an epic that admits, programmatically, this (inevitable)
indebtedness but at the same time points to emulation of Homer, a leaving
behind of the skin of the dead seal (used to characterize Homeric poetry) in
favour of the endlessly transforming protean guise used to characterize his
Dionysiaca.3 Nonnus blazes a new trail, and often this novelty obscures any
notion that the poet writes within a previous tradition of an evolving series of
(rather more modest) innovations.4
Some recent studies have gone some way to point to similarities between
earlier Imperial Greek epics and Nonnus, especially in reference to the influ-
ence of rhetoric in education (especially ethopoeia),5 but the most important
study is still Whitby’s analysis of the evolution of style from Moschus through
to Nonnus.6 Whitby has shown that in metrical tendencies (especially in the
1 I would like to thank Domenico Accorinti for the invitation to contribute to this volume, and
for his success in bringing Nonnus to the Brill companion series—surely an indication of
Nonnus’ integration within the classical canon at last. Translation of Nonnus is from Rouse
(1940), occasionally modified; all other translations are my own.
2 On the inaccuracy of this term, see Miguélez Cavero (2008) passim and esp. chapter 1. On
Nonnus as at the end of a tradition and beginning of a new one, see Whitby (1994) 122–123
(but note her caution).
3 Dion. 1.11–44 with Vian (1976) 7–10. On Nonnus and Homer see Bannert/Kröll in this volume.
4 But write within a tradition he nevertheless did, as Whitby (1994) has demonstrated. Cf.
Shorrock (2001) 19–20.
5 Above all Miguélez Cavero (2008) esp. 316–339.
6 Whitby (1994).

530 Maciver
greater use of dactyls), positioning of monosyllabic words, neo-formulaic vari-

ations and aspects of style, both Oppians, Quintus and (to much lesser extent)
Triphiodorus all have a part to play in the slow evolution towards the metrical
and stylistic innovations of Nonnus.7 In contrast to Latin poetry of a similar
period, however, Nonnus and his Imperial Greek predecessors do not name
each other.8 The fount and centerpiece of inspiration and lineage is always
Homer, whether named or not, and each poet avoids explicitly acknowledging
post-Homeric poets. Thus Triphiodorus may allude to Quintus Smyrnaeus, but
he does not name him:9 in the same way Nonnus may allude, for example, to
Oppian, but such allusion is tucked hidden away within overt Homeric engage-
ment. If someone without intimate knowledge of Imperial Greek poetry were
to pick up Nonnus’ Dionysiaca, they could, with reason, assume that Nonnus
had not read any of them.
In this chapter I will provide a brief survey of the pre-Nonnian hexame-
ter poetry, concentrating on Oppian, Quintus Smyrnaeus and Triphiodorus,10
and the problems entailed in seeking to establish a coherent (and transpar-
ent) relationship between the Dionysiaca and its Imperial epic forbears. I will
then analyse some key Imperial epic intertexts from these authors in some of
the programmatic passages in Nonnus, which demonstrate that Nonnus inte-
grates the earlier poetics of Imperial Greek poetry within the macrostructure
of naming the overshadowing figures of Homer, Hesiod and Pindar. In contrast
to most previous studies on the development of epic poetry in the Imperial
period, up to Nonnus, I will seek to establish poetic and aesthetic interactions
between Nonnus and his chronologically closer predecessors, beyond similari-
ties in metre, diction and style.
2 Bridging the Divides
In the introduction to a collection of essays on later Greek hexameter poetry

from 2008,11 Carvounis and Hunter emphasize the difficulty of bringing these
7 One marked difference between Nonnus and his epic predecessors is the deployment of
the long simile, which is in markedly short supply in the Dionysiaca. On Nonnus’ metrical
‘revolution’ see Magnelli in this volume.
8 On the Latin side, Sidonius Apollinaris is especially fond of naming his predecessors.
9 On the relationship and dates of Quintus Smyrnaeus and Triphiodorus, see Maciver
(2012) 3.
10 A useful exercise would be to cast the net more widely to include Dionysius Periegetes,
the Bassarica, Claudian and the Blemyomachia, but unfortunately outside the range of
this essay. See, still, Whitby (1994) 106–109 and 123–129.
11 Signs of Life: Studies in Later Greek Hexameter Poetry (Carvounis/Hunter 2008).
Nonnus and Imperial Greek Poetry 531
epics together within a uniform template of poetics or even of arguing for

intertextual relationships between the texts (though they do concede that
Triphiodorus and Quintus Smyrnaeus have close and clear verbal interac-
tions). The temporal and geographical separations between texts, it is argued,
are so vast that it is unsurprising that there are fewer intertexts from Imperial
epic than we should expect.12 Vian, in his introduction to volume 1 of the Budé
Nonnus, lists the number of Imperial Greek poetic influences found in the
Dionysiaca,13 and throughout the other volumes of the Budé commentary, in
the notes, echoes to earlier Greek poetry, especially Quintus and Oppian, are
given. Yet in a poem of the vast size of the Dionysiaca, it is rather Hellenistic
poetry, a lens through which Homer is so often refracted by Nonnus, which
is the more pervasive presence.14 It is no coincidence, in that connection,
that Oppian, of all of the pre-Nonnian Imperial hexameter poets a text that is
prevalently Alexandrian in its style within its Homeric template, seems to be
alluded to most in the Dionysiaca.
The closest surviving epic predecessor of Nonnus is Triphiodorus, and a
number of pregnant intertexts are found in the Dionysiaca, some of which I dis-
cuss below.15 Quintus Smyrnaeus, probably pre-dating Triphiodorus by about a
century,16 and the largest surviving Imperial Greek text before Nonnus, seems
to have had less of an influence on the Dionysiaca. In his 2001 monograph on
Nonnus, Shorrock adduces and discusses parallels from Quintus only in five
short footnotes,17 an oblique indication, surely, of the exclusion of Quintean
aesthetics in Nonnus’ programme of allusive engagement. Quintus is the most
12 It should be remembered too that much of the literary material does not survive, includ-
ing the vast epic of Peisander of Laranda. Even with that in mind, Shorrock (2001) 19–20
notes that ‘it seems difficult to pretend that Nonnus’ Dionysiaca did not stand like a colos-
sus above the works of Triphiodorus and Colluthus, Olympiodorus, Pamprepius and
their ilk.’
13 Vian (1976) xli–l gives a full excursus on Nonnus’ sources (including Latin authors).
14 Cf. Hopkinson (1994d) 2 (‘Introduction’): Nonnus is ‘firmly in the Alexandrian tradition.’
On Nonnus and Hellenistic poetry, the piece by Hollis (1994) is still instructive. Vian
(1976) xlvi points to the clear influence of Hellenistic poetry and especially Callimachus,
but plays down any direct connection between the two authors in favour instead of
knowledge through the indirect, scholiastic and rhetorical, tradition (an unlikely sce-
nario). Hopkinson (1994c) 15 notes that Nonnus balks the trend in the Imperial period
of including widespread Homeric hapax legomena within his poem—contrast Quintus,
for example, whose overall vocabulary contains a remarkable ratio of 1:10 for Homeric
hapaxes.
15 On Nonnus and the Orphic Argonautica, see most recently the cogent essay of Livrea
(2014a) who settles for a pre-Nonnian date for the text, contra Vian.
16 See Gerlaud (1982) 8 and Maciver (2012) 3, and for a contrary view, Gärtner (2005) 25.
17 Shorrock (2001) 88 n. 179, 90 n. 188, 99 n. 208, 99 n. 209 and 163 n. 184.
532 Maciver
Homeric of Imperial poets, in language, style and subject matter, to the extent
that he begins with no proem but seamlessly manufactures an opening to the
poem which continues the end of the narrative of Iliad 24.18 Similarly, the
Quintean intertexts which Shorrock discusses in his 2007 article on Nonnus and
Quintus are far from convincing, many of which seem to derive rather from the
Iliad than via the Posthomerica.19 Nonnus’ epic is a neo-Homeric experiment
in contrast to Quintus’ more conservative approach to Homeric reception,20
in that whereas Quintus’ epic is designed to be ‘still the Iliad’, Nonnus’ poem
projects itself as an alternative epic, the one Homer should have composed.21
As Whitby has so succinctly put it, ‘Nonnus did not find much in him to imi-
tate. This is scarcely surprising, since Quintus consciously sought to create a
Homeric flavour in a poem designed to form a bridge between the Homeric
poems, whereas Nonnus’ objective was novelty.’22 It is no accident that of the
Imperial epic poets predating Nonnus, only Oppian, in the Halieutica, has the
adjective ποικίλος. Nonnus has deployed one of the few Homeric terms that is
entirely absent from the 14-book Posthomerica of Quintus Smyrnaeus.23
The closest Nonnus comes to naming his Imperial epic predecessors is in the
second proem of Book 25, at line 27, where he prefaces his catalogue of heroes
who cannot rival the prowess of his hero Dionysus: νέοισι καὶ ἀρχεγόνοισιν ἐρίζων
(‘in rivalry with both new and ancient [sc. poets]’).24 The expression follows on
from Nonnus’ assertion that the forces he will describe are far greater than
those that came to Troy (οὐδὲ τόσος στρατὸς ἦλθεν ἐς Ἴλιον, 26). ἐρίζω conjures
up the contests and wrangling of the Iliad, from Iliad 1.6 onwards, including in
18 On the Homeric nature of the Posthomerica, and for discussion of the meta-poetics of the
proem, see Maciver (2012) 27–38.
19 Shorrock (2007).
20 That is not to say that within this type of reception Quintus does not attempt something
new: as I have tried to show elsewhere (2012), Quintus’ task is much more difficult in that
he must construct his own poetic identity under a mask of traditional Homericism. For
the mix of philosophical and poetic voices in the Posthomerica, see Maciver (2012) esp.
chapter 3.
21 Dion. 25.253–263. For recent discussion of the programmatic Book 25, see Chuvin (2014)
5–7 and Gigli Piccardi in this volume.
22 Whitby (1994) 118.
23 It occurs twice in Oppian, Halieutica, at 3.173 and 4.443, but both are descriptors of spe-
cific fish. Vian (1976) xliv quotes the Suda in attributing the adjective as a descriptor of
Peisander of Laranda’s vast epic yet we have no evidence that Peisander used the adjec-
tive in his poem.
24 I follow Vian (1990) 239–240 in that this statement points to poets modern and ancient,
and not heroes. See also Agosti (2004c) 74 (on Dion. 25.27).
rivalry over speech-making (one thinks of Odysseus at 3.223, or general state-

ments about flyting such as that at 15.284). The primacy of the forces and battles
Nonnus will describe refers not simply to the size and nature of the forces, or
to the prowess of Dionysus, who are far beyond the prowess of Homer’s heroes
(Dion. 25.255–260—Homer sang the wrong song, in fact). Nonnus will outclass
the other poets in how he sings, in the nature of his song, both those who have
tried more recently to describe epic battle, and even Homer himself (though
the Nonnian narrator requires Homer’s divinely sent inspiration: 25.261 ἄσθμα
θεόσσυτον).25 Quintus had tried his hand at recreating Homeric battle, and first
Penthesileia, then Memnon and then finally Eurypylus came to Troy with great
forces to defeat the Greeks:26 Nonnus’ forces, and his poetic representations of
them, are superior to those neoi narratives, too. Nonnus’ epic is one which is
superior to the original, Homer, and to the later imitations.
3 Thundering Epic
Despite the relative paucity of Imperial epic intertexts in the 48 books of the
poem, those that do exist crop up in crucial parts of the text. To set the tone for
the rest of this essay, I will begin by analyzing two analogous passages in Nonnus
and Triphiodorus, first identified (without further discussion) by Shorrock.27 In
Book 1, Typhon attempts to overthrow cosmic order, against the forces of Zeus
and Cadmus. He attempts two-hundred-handedly to wield the thunderbolts of
two-handed Zeus, but eventually must give up (Dion. 1.294–320). Shorrock has
shown, rightly, that this misfiring attempt to wield the thunderbolts signifies
the dangers of taking on the thundering of epic, and failing. Not for Nonnus
is this dangerous path of Typhon, but rather the Cadmean way of the alter-
nate, pastoral song which succeeds in overcoming the monstrous Typhon.28
This pastoral mode has dangers of its own though, in bewitching all hearers,
and thus Nonnus (and his reader) must be careful to plot a path between the
25 θεόσσυτος is found elsewhere in the Dionysiaca only at 47.610, referring to Hera’s fire in
battle, where she (clearly) tries to recreate Zeus’ fire against Semele, but this time to
destroy the fire-born offspring.
26 Emphasized at Q.S. 1.18–20, 33–37 (Penthesileia), 2.100–102 (Memnon) and 6.119–120
(Eurypylus).
27 Shorrock (2001) 122. Brief discussion and further intertexts for the passage at Vian (1976)
154–155.
28 Shorrock (2001) 121–125, who persuasively argues for Typhon as an anti-type to Nonnus,
not a doublet.
534 Maciver
thunder of epic and the alluring byways of non-heroic verse, the Scylla and
Charybdis lying in wait of wayward poetic construction.29
The monster’s inability, as a nothos Zeus, to wield the lightning bolts (which
personified miss the touch of their true master) is compared to that of an
untaught stranger who tries to control a horse which, missing its trained rider,
resists and rears out of control (Dion. 1.310–320):
Ὡς δ’ ὅτε τις πλήξιππος ἀποπτυστῆρα χαλινοῦ 310

ξεῖνος ἀνὴρ ἀδίδακτος ἀπειθέα πῶλον ἱμάσσων
πυκνὰ μάτην μογέεσκεν, ὁ δὲ θρασὺς ἔμφρονι θυμῷ
χεῖρα νόθην γίνωσκεν ἀήθεος ἡνιοχῆος,
οἰστρηθεὶς δ’ ἀνέπαλτο, καὶ ὄρθιος ὑψόσε βαίνων,
στηρίξας ἀτίνακτον ὀπισθιδίου ποδὸς ὁπλήν, 315
προσθιδίους προβλῆτας ἐκούφισε γούνατα κάμπτων,
καὶ λόφον ᾐώρησεν, ἐπ’ ἀμφοτέρων δέ οἱ ὤμων
ἀμφιλαφὴς δεδόνητο παρήορος αὐχένι χαίτη·
ὣς ὅ γε χερσὶν ἔκαμνεν ἀμοιβαίῃσιν ἀείρων
μαρμαρυγὴν φύξηλιν ἀλωομένοιο κεραυνοῦ. 320
As a man beats a horse that loathes the bit,—some stranger, a novice

untaught, flogging a restive nag, as he tries again and again in vain, and
the defiant beast knows by instinct the changeling hand of an unfamil-
iar driver, leaping madly, rearing straight into the air with hind-hooves
planted immoveable, lifting the forelegs and bending its knees, raising
the neck till the mane is shaken abroad over both shoulders at once:
so the monster laboured with this hand or that to lift the fugitive flashing
of the roving thunderbolt.
Typhon’s fumbling attempts to control the thunderbolts of Zeus represent the

threats to the Dionysiaca, as the poem struggles to prevent itself from becoming
a Typhoniaca.30 Typhon’s failure is compared to that of an untaught rider, a
nothos figure as Typhon is called a bastard Zeus, trying to control what is not
his. Triphiodorus includes a very similar passage as his programmatic ending
to his Sack of Troy (664–667), but this particular horse is very much controlled:
Πᾶσαν δ’ οὐκ ἂν ἔγωγε μόθου χύσιν ἀείσαιμι

κρινάμενος τὰ ἕκαστα καὶ ἄλγεα νυκτὸς ἐκείνης. 665
29 On the tension see, above all, Harries (1994) esp. 68–69.
30 Shorrock (2001) 123.
Μουσάων ὅδε μόχθος· ἐγὼ δ’ ἅπερ ἵππον ἐλάσσω

τέρματος ἀμφιέλισσαν ἐπιψαύουσαν ἀοιδήν.
I for one would not sing the whole gushing forth of battle, judging
each and every sorrow of that night. Τhis is the burdensome task of the
Muses; but I shall drive, like a horse, my wavering song as it touches the
finishing post.
In Triphiodorus the horse is explicitly compared to the poem that Triphiodorus

has sung, an equivalence strung out throughout the narrative.31 The narrator’s
song/horse has reached its τέρμα (667), the desired stopping point—the rest
of the tale, what happened in the aftermath of the sack of Troy, is not his task,
but is rather the wearisome toil of the Muses (666)—a task—a gushing forth
(χύσιν, 664) he would not perform.32 Unlike epic predecessors such as Quintus,
Triphiodorus has chosen only to choose a segment of the war, not the μόχθος
(666). In his proem the narrator points to the poem’s conclusion with the very
first word: Τέρμα πολυκμήτοιο μεταχρόνιον πολέμοιο (‘the postponed end of the
war which brought great weariness’, 1) was the aim, specifically ‘the horse-
driven work of Argive Athena’ (Ἀργείης ἱππήλατον ἔργον Ἀθήνης, 2). The wooden
horse is the centre-piece of the poem, its construction and description taking
up over 50 lines, and the debates and narrative of its entry into Troy more than
250 lines.33 This focus as the τέρμα, underlined by the echo of ἱππήλατον (2) in
the programmatic ending of the poem (ἵππον ἐλάσσω | τέρματος, 666–667) is
also what the narrator states is the song which he is directing past the finishing
post, as in a chariot race.34 Nonnus’ horse and rider simile, and this passage in
Triphiodorus, both implicitly refer back to Callimachus’ poetics of the narrow
path at Aet. fr. 1.25–27 Pfeiffer (do not drive your chariot on the same paths of
others).35 Triphiodorus avoided the large-scale, cyclic epic which Callimachus
so railed against in epigram 28, but still choose an epic theme from the Trojan
31 See Miguélez Cavero (2013c) 128–129, 462–465. I discuss at length the poetics of the horse
in a forthcoming article on Triphiodorus.
32 Nonnus too refers to the poetic toil of the Muses, at 25.1: πτολέμιζε σοφὸν μόθον; cf. 1.2
μογοστόκον ἄσθμα.
33 Construction of the wooden horse: 57–107; debates among Greeks and then Trojans and
then final entry into Troy: 108–357. See Miguélez Cavero (2013c) 10–11 for an outline of the
general design of the poem.
34 For the finishing post and the relevant intertexts, see Miguélez Cavero (2013c) 464.
35 Further, brief, discussion at Shorrock (2001) 122.
536 Maciver
War without singing of the whole war,36 within a typically Hellenistic frame,
the epyllion form.37 Nonnus’s epic is 48 books long,38 and cannot be said to con-
form to the strict parameters of Callimachean literary form,39 but he can write
his epic according to Callimachean aesthetics, especially given that his epic is
essentially a series of little epics and episodes.
As mentioned above, Shorrock goes on to argue that Typhon’s attempt to
steal Zeus’ thunder symbolizes the danger of trying epic, basing his case on
the famous Callimachean passage at Aet. fr. 1.20 Pfeiffer (‘thundering is not for
me, but Zeus’).40 More recently, Philip Hardie has constructed a more subtle
reading which sees Typhon less as a monster out of control with his task but
rather an equal adversary of Zeus who is overcome only by guile, a many-
guised figure who is made to mimic the protean variety promoted by Nonnus.41
Further Triphiodorean intertexts in Nonnus, however, go some way to rescue
Shorrock’s original interpretation. Triphiodorus closely links thunder with ease
and effectiveness of speech, in particular the flashing of the wooden horse with
the oratory of Odysseus, both through the inspiration of Athena. This is most
clearly seen after the completion of the horse (103–119). The horse, high and
wide, flashed (ἐξήστραπτε) with terror and great beauty (103–104)—it looked
so realistic that Ares would have driven it (ἐλαυνέμεν, 105). As mentioned, the
wooden horse is emblematic for the poem which Triphiodorus rides to the
turning post, emphasized by the horse metaphor towards the end of the poem.
At 111, Athena stands beside Odysseus and anoints his voice with honeyed nec-
tar (μελίχροϊ νέκταρι, 113). In a passage very reminiscent of the famous Iliad 3
passage where Odysseus’ oratorical style is described by Antenor,42 Odysseus
is then described (115–119):
36 Cf. Dion. 25.6–9—in imitation of Homer, the narrator states, he will not sing of the first six
years of the war while the Indians remained within the walls, but rather of the last year.
37 This is a complicated topic: I am not arguing that the Alexandrians invented epyllion, but
certainly by the time of Triphiodorus epyllion was a signifier above all of Alexandrian epic
innovations. Nor am I arguing that Triphiodorus follows all of the norms for Alexandrian
epyllion—he has instead married the two traditions, traditional epic, and epyllion. For
further discussion see Miguélez Cavero (2013c) 10 and the introduction in Baumbach/Bär
(2012) ix–xvi.
38 His narrator does state, of course, that he will not remember the Trojan War (25.255).
39 I agree, contra Shorrock, with Hardie (2007) 117 that the size negates a close alliance
between the Dionysiaca and the narrow, non-cyclical paths of Alexandrian form.
40 Shorrock (2001) 122–123.
41 Hardie (2007) esp. 117–121.
42 Iliad 3.216–224.
πρῶτα μὲν εἱστήκει κενεόφρονι φωτὶ ἐοικὼς 115

ὄμματος ἀστρέπτοιο βολὴν ἐπὶ γαῖαν ἐρείσας,
ἄφνω δ’ ἀενάων ἐπέων ὠδῖνας ἀνοίξας
δεινὸν ἀνεβρόντησε καὶ ἠερίης ἅ τε πηγῆς
ἐξέχεεν μέγα λαῖτμα μελισταγέος νιφετοῖο.
He stood there first like an empty-headed man, training down towards

the ground the gaze of his unturning eye, and suddenly giving birth to
ever-flowing words thundered terribly and poured out as though from a
spring in the air a great torrent of honey-dropping snow.
Odysseus is the counterpart creation of Athena, following so closely on from

the description of the wooden horse. He in essence is its mouthpiece, as his
head is filled with oratorical inspiration. Just as the horse thundered, Odysseus
thunders terribly (118) and poured out not just words like snow this time, as
in the Iliad 3 passage, but a torrent of honey-dropping snow (μελισταγέος
νιφετοῖο, 119).43 A few lines prior to the horse and rider simile in Nonnus,
we are told (1.299–302) that the thunder sent out an empty sounding echo
in the hands of the giant, and scarcely did a drop of snow-dew drip down:
302 ἀσταγέος νιφετοῖο κατείβετο διψὰς ἐέρση.44 ἀσταγέος νιφετοῖο picks up on
μελισταγέος νιφετοῖο at Triphiodorus 119, and the intertext is strengthened by
the similar placement (but contrasting states) of the air in the lines preceding
each expression (Triphiodorus 118 ἠερίης ἅ τε πηγῆς ~ Nonnus, Dion. 1.301 ἠέρος
αὐχμῷ).45 Whereas Odysseus is an emblem of poetic dexterity and copious-
ness, in correlation to the wooden horse (and therefore poem as a whole), and
pours forth a torrent resulting from his thundering, Typhon cannot get even
a drop as he inexpertly wields the thunder of Zeus. Triphiodorus can do epic,
and thunder like Zeus, when he keeps the compass small, and avoids the more
43 In a forthcoming article I discuss the potential Callimachean intertexts in this passage, in
particular Callimachus, Hymn to Zeus 28–32 with its reference both to birth-pangs and to
the great flood of water which pours out of the rock, once struck. Similarly here Odysseus
releases the birth-pangs of ever-flowing words and pours out his copious speech.
44 This is the only occurrence of ἀσταγές in Nonnus. It occurs in epic at Apollonius Rhodius
3.805, of Medea’s tears, but is also found at Callimachus, Hecale fr. 317 Pfeiffer (= 124
Hollis): ἀσταγὲς ὕδωρ, which denotes abundance, in contrast to the privative alpha signi-
fication of Nonnus’ application of the adjective. See the note of Hollis (2009) 307.
45 μελισταγές is used first by Triphiodorus, and imitated often by Nonnus, especially in rela-
tion to the river of honey transformed by Dionysus (14.434). Cf. too Nonnus, Par. 19.155
which strikingly resembles the Triphiodorean phrase.
538 Maciver
arduous task of large-scale epic poetry. In contrast, Typhon, unhonied and

uninspired, is not in control and has no τέρμα even if he was able to reach it.
Triphiodorus provides a key intertext for interpretation of this meta-poetic
passage in Dionysiaca 1. Nonnus has posited allusions to two key, program-
matic passages central to Triphodorus’ epic-come-epyllion. Even despite the
contrasts in size between Nonnus and Triphiodorus, or even Nonnus and
Callimachus, the aesthetics propounded in Triphiodorus, harnassing as they
do the Alexandrian prescription for poetic construction, point to what Typhon
does not do, and what therefore, by extension, Nonnus must avoid if he is to
fulfil his poetic, protean project successfully.
4 The Poet’s Didactic Art
Thus Nonnus employs earlier Imperial epic intertexts as a lens for refract-
ing Hellenistic texts, just as he often does with Hellenistic poetry to refract
Homer.46 As is the case with Triphiodorus, Nonnus also applies Oppianic
intertexts in critical textual locations. An important intertext from Oppian is
included in the concluding narrative at the end of Nonnus’ shield description
at Dion. 25.563–567:
Τοῖα μὲν ἐργοπόνοιο πολύτροπα δαίδαλα τέχνης

εἶχεν ἐνυαλίη πολυπίδακος ἀσπὶς Ὀλύμπου
Βακχιάς, ἣν ὁρόωντες ἐθάμβεον ἄλλος ἐπ’ ἄλλῳ, 565
καὶ σάκεος τροχόεντος ἐκυκλώσαντο φορῆα,
ἔμπυρον αἰνήσαντες Ὀλύμπιον ἐσχαρεῶνα.
Such were the varied scenes depicted by the artist’s clever hand upon the
warshield, brought for Lyaios from Olympos with its becks and brooks.
All thronged about to see the bearer of the round shield, admiring each
in turn, and praising the fiery Olympian forge.
The conclusion of the ekphrasis echoes, in ring-composition, the preliminary

description of the shield: multitudes gathered to look at the shield’s art (ποικίλα
παπταίνοντες Ὀλύμπια θαύματα τέχνης, 385), just as, after the ekphrasis, one after
another gather to marvel at the shield (ἣν ὁρόωντες ἐθάμβεον ἄλλος ἐπ’ ἄλλῳ, 565);
similarly, the polydaidalos nature of the artifact (σάκος . . . πολυδαίδαλον, 383)
46 See Acosta-Hughes in this volume.

is echoed by πολύτροπα (563) and πολυπίδακος (564).47 There are a number

of meta-poetic aspects to these passages. As Shorrock has noted,48 25.563
πολύτροπα δαίδαλα leads the reader back to the first proem, in Book 1 (especially
when one brings too the echoed πολυδαίδαλον from 25.383), where Proteus
and his tendency to variation are described both as πολύτροπον (1.15) and
πολυδαίδαλον (1.23). With this framing narrative around the ekphrasis, Nonnus
conjures up in the reader’s mind his own poetic art, and harmonizes the shield
of Dionysus with his own poem: the one art-form is emblematic of the other
art-form,49 and against the proem’s invocation but also emulation of Homer,
this shield description is to be seen as a Homeric inheritance, but essentially a
new art-form for all to wonder at in astonishment at its innovations.50 This is
all the more the case given Nonnus’ deployment of τέχνη, which points espe-
cially to the chief artificer, the poet, and his skill in devising this poetic cre-
ation, shield (as/and) poem.51
Oppian adds an extra dimension. 25.563, πολύτροπα δαίδαλα τέχνης, alludes
to the proem of the Halieutica (1.6–9):
καὶ βίον ἰχθυόεντα καὶ ἔχθεα καὶ φιλότητας

καὶ βουλάς, ἁλίης τε πολύτροπα δήνεα τέχνης
κερδαλέης, ὅσα φῶτες ἐπ’ ἰχθύσι μητίσαντο
ἀφράστοις.
And the life of fish, their hates, their loves and their desires, and the
crafty devices of the cunning fisherman’s art, as many things as they have
devised against the incomprehensible fish.
47 On πολυδαίδαλος see Shorrock (2001) 174 n. 218, esp. for its Homeric pedigree.
48 Shorrock (2001) 175 n. 221.
49 Cf. Miguélez Cavero (2008) 298. I argue for something similar for the shield of Achilles in
Posthomerica 5—the innovation and distancing from Homer, but through the framework
of Homeric imitation, is symbolic of the whole poem’s innovations within the Homeric
framework which constitutes the Posthomerica: see Maciver (2012) 39–48.
50 Cf. Shorrock (2001) 174–175: ‘Readers of the Dionysiaca are presented with an opportunity
to marvel at the τέχνη of Nonnus in his handling not just of the Homeric set-piece, but of
the epic as a whole.’ For the ‘hidden meaning’ of the shield of Dionysus see Spanoudakis
(2014b).
51 Cf. Hopkinson (1994c) 24: ‘[I]n a telling variation of 385, the scenes are called πολύτροπα
δαίδαλα τέχνης (562). The τέχνη is equally that of the artificer poet, who, though he might
brandish the shield of Homer in singing the Indian defeat, contrives to forge a quite
different shield with which symbolically to arm his hero.’
540 Maciver
πολύτροπα δήνεα τέχνης (1.7) is what Nonnus is leading the reader to with his
reference to the skill displayed in the production of the shield. Oppian begins
his poem with a promise to explicate the unknown: the Emperor Antoninus,
the dedicatee of the poem, may be lord of the earth, but Oppian, in control
of the realms of the sea (Ἔθνεά τοι πόντοιο, 1.1) has the task of elucidating the
incomprehensible fish (ἀφράστοις, 1.9). No one has ever arrived at the τέρμα of
the sea, and so myriad are the tribes of fish in the depths, that no one could list
them accurately (1.80–82). No mortal can accurately speak of things unseen
and hidden (85). In the passage quoted above, Oppian promises to speak of the
fisherman’s cunning art to catch the fish that they cannot see (1.7–8). The fish-
erman’s task mimics that of the poet, or rather, vice versa: Oppian must deploy
strategies of the type that the fishermen use to catch their unseen adversaries.
Their τέχνη correlates with the poet’s own art, and is of the sort which charac-
terized the wiles of Odysseus. This is the only occurrence of πολύτροπος, -ον in
Oppian, and occuring as it does in the proem is of pronounced poetological
value. The narrator promises to make known the unknown, and the Odyssean
adjective used in conjunction with τέχνη both means that Oppian writes a
Homeric type of narrative, but also implies that he as poet will write a text that
is Odysseus-like in its cunning, and which demands of the reader, therefore, a
similar outlook.52
Nonnus’ poetics of ekphrasis is characterized by parallel attributes: his pro-
tean poem contains a protean ekphrasis, of many turns and wiles, all of which
collude to define Nonnus’ τέχνη.53 It is of consequence that Nonnus has appro-
priated an Imperial poem which is designedly didactic to close his ekphrasis
of the shield. Homer’s shield of Achilles throughout antiquity was interpreted
as an allegorical representation of the cosmos at large. Not only did allegorists
write about the shield in this way, but later poets, in their ekphrastic descrip-
tions (especially shield descriptions) built in allegorical readings of the origi-
nal Homeric shield.54 The famous scholion on Aratus describes the Homeric
shield as a κόσμου μίμημα,55 and unsurprisingly Nonnus acknowledges his debt
to the original ekphrasis by inscribing Homer into the first words of his own
shield description (ἐν μὲν γαῖαν ἔτευξε, 25.388). The opening of the ekphrasis
52 The best discussion of Oppian’s didactic art is the thorough article of Kneebone (2008),
though she does not discuss this passage. Rebuffat (2001) 147–158 discusses the didactic
and rhetorical nature of the Halieutica.
53 See the chapter by Faber in this volume.
54 For a full and scholarly survey of cosmic interpretations of the shield of Achilles, see
Hardie (1985).
55 Scholion on Aratus, Phaen. 26 (quoted in Hardie 1985, 15).
in Nonnus, as in Quintus’ re-description of Achilles’ shield, begins with a cos-

mological opening which essentially inscribes the allegorists’ reception of the
shield, such as that found in Ps.-Heraclitus’ Homeric Problems:56 where Homer
(Il. 18.483–489) summarizes the shield by dividing the whole into the catego-
ries earth, heaven (including the constellations and the sun and moon) and
sea, Quintus at 5.6–10 similarly digests what will follow in his ekphrasis by out-
lining the categories of heavens, earth and sea, and all of the constellations in
the heavens.57 Nonnus goes further and expands specifically the astronomi-
cal aspects of the shield of Achilles (Il. 18.485–489) into 23 lines (389–412),
repeating some of the astrological figures of the Homeric shield (the Wagons
and Bears constellations) but adding others. Hardie has noted that in other
references to the shield in Book 25 it is the ‘cosmological and astronomical
content that is stressed’:58 at 337 Attis describes the shield as having the sea
with the land and the heavens and the chorus of stars; more significantly, at
352, Attis describes the apotropaic qualities of this starry shield (ἀστερόεσσαν
ἀνούτατον ἀσπίδα).59
Why has Nonnus chosen to emphasize the astrological aspects of the shield
of Achilles in his own shield of Dionysus? Hardie is right to underline the fact
that the shield reflects the wearer, and, following Stegemann, suggests the
astrological nature of the shield as implying the power of the god.60 Dionysus
himself, in Book 46, retorts to Pentheus that his home is in the sky, with its
seven zones surpassing the seven-gated Thebes (46.64, 67).61 Astrology has a
large part to play too elsewhere in the Dionysiaca.62 The tablets of Harmonia
in Book 12 with their astrological designs, for example, have been subject to
a variety of interpretations as to their place within the overall plan of the
56 On which see the succinct discussion of Hardie (1985) 15.
57 Πρῶτα μὲν εὖ ἤσκητο θεοκμήτῳ ἐπὶ ἔργῳ | οὐρανὸς ἠδ’ αἰθήρ· γαίῃ δ’ ἅμα κεῖτο θάλασσα. | Ἐν
δ’ ἄνεμοι νεφέλαι τε σελήνη τ’ ἠέλιός τε | κεκριμέν’ ἄλλυδις ἄλλα· τέτυκτο δὲ τείρεα πάντα |
ὁππόσα δινήεντα κατ’ οὐρανὸν ἀμφιφέρονται. On this opening as an allegorical epitome of
the Homeric shield, see Maciver (2012) 41.
58 Hardie (1985) 28.
59 It seems that Nonnus extracts one of the specific features of shield designs in the Iliad,
namely, astrological. See Hardie (1985) 11–13, and in particular the description of the
θώρηξ of Achilles at 16.133–134, where the breastplate is described as ποικίλον ἀστερόεντα.
60 Hardie (1985) 28 following Stegemann (1930) 85. On astrology in Nonnus, see too Feraboli
(1985); Shorrock (2001) 13–14; Komorowska (2004).
61 Dionysus, on visiting Tyre, also calls upon the star-clad Heracles, and prays to the celestial
bodies, in the ancestral origins of Thebes (40.369–391).
62 See, too, the attachment (‘Planisphère céleste’) as an appendix to Vian (1976) with the
sketch of the constellations which occur in the Dionysiaca.
542 Maciver
Dionysiaca,63 but one can at least admit that their interlinked patterns, and
the clear allegory of the Seasons have a further cosmological impact on how
we as readers are to approach the cosmological and didactic significations of
the Dionysiaca as a whole. The season autumn reads these tablets, especially
tablet three (12.64–89) with its heavenly connections to earthly tales of meta-
morphosis told in Nonnus’ poem;64 a goddess is taught from the depictions of
myths. The cosmological personifications learn from stories of the sort told in
the Dionysiaca: the corollary is that the reader can attain greater understand-
ing of cosmology through reading the interwoven tales of Nonnus’ poem, with
Dionysus as its centerpiece, the god who symbolically carries the astrological
designs on the back of his shield.65
To return to the original intertext from Oppian, Nonnus appropriates the
didacticism from the proem of the Halieutica to reflect the didactic tenor of his
ekphrasis of the shield. Just as Oppian implies that he will reveal the hidden
secrets of the sea, Nonnus’ cosmological shield description reveals the secrets
of the heavens, to the extent that it is an emulation of the original shield of
Achilles, but now a protean, multi-faceted poetic object, markedly astrological
in its focus. Oppian may control the sea and have the guile to trap the fish and
their habits for the sake of his readership, but Nonnus too can elaborate the
signs of the heavens, just as he has the privileged knowledge to sing truly of
the deeds of Dionysus. Nonnus has taken the cunning used by Oppian (δήνεα)
and replaced it with a near-synonym for cunning but one which belongs by
rights to ekphrastic description, because of its use at Iliad 18.482 (ποίει δαίδαλα
πολλὰ ἰδυίῃσι πραπίδεσσιν). This shield of Dionysus is ornate and intricate, but
instructive too.66
5 Poetic Continuity
Nonnus fosters the paradigm of son and father to denote his relationship with
Homer. At 25.265 ἔμπνοον ἔγχος ἔχοντα καὶ ἀσπίδα πατρὸς Ὀμήρου Nonnus asks
for inspiration from the Muses as he holds the inspired spear and shield of
63 Arguments summarized by Vian (1995) 55–65. He sums up the difficulty of assigning a
specific purpose to the tablets with (59): ‘Nonnos ne donne de ces tables qu’une idée
assez vague.’ See also Lightfoot in this volume.
64 See Vian (1995) 63–64.
65 Cf. Shorrock (2001) 14 who adopts a more tentative stance: ‘Nonnus’ epic does preserve
traces of an astrological system, which alludes to some extent to a new phase of cosmic
world order, inaugurated by the saviour god Dionysus.’
66 Cf. the ‘Final Remarks’ in Spanoudakis (2014b) 369–371.
father Homer. Nonnus acknowledges his profound indebtedness, even if he

more than any of his predecessors breaks free from Homer.67 The reception
and transformation of what started with Homer is how Nonnus most consis-
tently characterizes this succession, but elsewhere in his epic poetic continu-
ity despite chronological separation is sometimes implicitly stressed. In Book
40, when Dionysus arrives in the city of Tyre, the ancestral origin of Thebes,
through Cadmus, Dionysus surveys the scenes before him (353–365), and
thinks of his own forefather Cadmus, and even visiting the once ill-guarded
house of Europa (357) reminds him of his own (horned) father Zeus (359).
Then his attention switches to something still more wonderful (359–362):
ἀρχεγόνους δέ
πηγὰς θάμβεε μᾶλλον, ὅπῃ χθονίου διὰ κόλπου 360
νάματος ἐκχυμένου παλινάγρετον εἰς μίαν ὥρην
χεύμασιν αὐτογόνοισι πολυτρεφὲς ἔβλυεν ὕδωρ·
Still more he wondered at those primeval fountains, where a stream

comes pouring out through the bosom of the earth, and after one hour
plenty of water bubbles up again with flood self-produced.
Just as the multitudes wondered at the signs on the shield of Dionysus, an

aesthetic reaction to artistry which symbolizes the reader’s aesthetic reaction
to Nonnus’ poetic artistry, so too now does Dionysus marvel at this natural
wonder in the origin of all Theban narratives, Tyre. Even his recollection of
his father’s exploits hints at the literary past, as he remembers Europa who
once upon a time was abducted (ἁρπαμένης ποτὲ νύμφης, 357).68 The ever recy-
cled water which bubbles up again and again, set at the end of this survey of
Dionysus of what is essentially the literary past, within which he himself is set,
is almost certainly full of meta-poetic significance. This water, like the pure
water at the end of Callimachus’ Hymn to Apollo which is carried by the bees,69
stands not only for poetry of quality, but poetry with literary pedigree, empha-
sized by Nonnus’ πολυτρεφές, greatly fed (a hapax). Perhaps more significant
is Nonnus’ adjective for streams here: ἀρχεγόνους δέ | πηγὰς θάμβεε μᾶλλον.
Dionysus’ wonder is at streams born long ago, and therefore long ago in the
literary tradition, in which Nonnus stands at the far end. As discussed above,
67 Cf. Hopkinson (1994c) 23, Miguélez Cavero (2008) 154–155, and above all Shorrock (2001)
117. See also the chapter by Bannert/Kröll in this volume.
68 For a similar, pertinent, use of ποτε in this connection, cf. Moschus, Europa 1.
69 Hymn to Apollo 110–112 and the most recent discussion of Hunter (2006) 14–16, in connec-
tion with Propertius.
544 Maciver
Nonnus sets up rivalry between his new poetic creation and the heroic poetry
both of more recent times and of ancient origin (νέοισι καὶ ἀρχεγόνοισιν ἐρίζων,
25.27). Dionysus, a mise-en-abîme of the poet Nonnus, as discussed above, sees
for himself the poetic process at work, one which never stops, but is an ever-
recycling of material first tried long ago, ποτε. Nonnus himself is a part of that
epic continuum.
It is not only the ancient archetypes that Nonnus hints at in these types
of passages. In the final book of the Dionysiaca, Artemis in rage against Aura
goes to Nemesis to seek petrification of her insulter. Nemesis asks if Artemis’
furious countenance is down to a slighting of the sort Niobe had dished out,
and boasts that she can make the culprit a rock on Sipylus to weep beside her
previous victim Niobe (48.406–408):
Εἰ δὲ γυνὴ πολύτεκνος ἀνιάζει σέο Λητώ,

ἄλλη λαϊνέη Νιόβη κλαύσειε γενέθλην·
τίς φθόνος, εἰ λίθον ἄλλον ὑπὲρ Σιπύλοιο τελέσσω;
If some prolific wife provokes your mother Leto, let her weep for her chil-
dren, another Niobe of stone. Why should not I make another stone on
Sipylos?
Nonnus localizes the location of the Niobe rock to Sipylus, which is further
verified by Artemis’ answer to Nemesis at 428–429, affirming that Niobe still
weeps (καὶ εἰσέτι δάκρυα λείβει | ὄμμασι πετραίοισιν, ‘and she still weeps with
stony eyes’). A new victim can be petrified and put on Sipylus: thus Nonnus, like
Homer, can immortalize his poetry by setting it in the landscape to sit beside
the proof of the Niobe story from Iliad 24. The still (εἰσέτι, 428) is a hint in the
text that even in the time of Nonnus’ contemporary readers this rock of Niobe
still weeps and can be seen to do so. At 2.159–160, too, a mourning Hadryad
nymph declares that such is her weeping that she will be a stony Niobe that
passers-by (ὁδῖται) may pity her.70 Nonnus’ emphasis on the physical setting is
found too in Quintus, within a vignette describing the death of Dresaeus struck
down by Polypoetes (Q.S. 1.293–304):71
ὑπαὶ Σιπύλῳ νιφόεντι,

ἧχι θεοὶ Νιόβην λᾶαν θέσαν, ἧς ἔτι δάκρυ
70 The other references to Niobe are 12.79 (third tablet of Harmonia), and 12.131 (the breath-
less rock mourns heart-broken Dionysus).
71 I discuss this passage from Quintus in a forthcoming essay in Brill’s Companion to Epic
Continuations (ed. by R. Simms).
πουλὺ μάλα στυφελῆς καταλείβεται ὑψόθε πέτρης, 295

καί οἱ συστοναχοῦσι ῥοαὶ πολυηχέος Ἕρμου
καὶ κορυφαὶ Σιπύλου περιμήκεες ὧν καθύπερθεν
ἐχθρὴ μηλονόμοισιν ἀεὶ περιπέπτατ’ ὀμίχλη·
ἣ δὲ πέλει μέγα θαῦμα παρεσσυμένοισι βροτοῖσιν,
οὕνεκ’ ἔοικε γυναικὶ πολυστόνῳ ἥ τ’ ἐπὶ λυγρῷ 300
πένθεϊ μυρομένη μάλα μυρία δάκρυα χεύει·
καὶ τὸ μὲν ἀτρεκέως φῂς ἔμμεναι, ὁππότ’ ἄρ’ αὐτὴν
τηλόθεν ἀθρήσειας· ἐπὴν δέ οἱ ἐγγὺς ἵκηαι,
φαίνεται αἰπήεσσα πέτρη Σιπύλοιό τ’ ἀπορρώξ.
Under snowy Sipylus, where the gods turned Niobe into stone, whose
great tear still flows out from the hard rock above, and the streams of
resounding Hermus groan out in response and the broad peaks of Sipylus,
down from above which a mist, hateful to shepherds, always flies about.
And she is a great marvel to all mortals who pass that way, because like
a woman in great grief she pours forth countless tears, mourning as she
does in her bitter sorrow. And you would say that it truly was the case,
were you at some point to view her from afar. But when you come close,
the sheer rock of Sipylus, broken off, appears.
Quintus invites the reader to test his assertion (302): you, the reader would
say it was real (καὶ τὸ μὲν ἀτρεκέως φῂς ἔμμεναι), if you looked at it afar off. This
geographical feature is spoke of at Pausanias 1.21.3 in a very similar fashion.
Quintus, and then Nonnus in imitation of him, verify what is only supposed
in Homer by Achilles (νῦν δέ που ἐν πέτρῃσιν, ἐν οὔρεσιν οἰοπόλοισιν, | ἐν Σιπύλῳ,
24.614–615), but Nonnus goes one step more than Quintus. Where Quintus ver-
ifies the Homeric story of Achilles, and, as Nonnus does, then asserts that she
is still crying (ἔτι δάκρυ, 294), just as he is still writing Homeric narrative like
Homer, about Niobe, Nonnus, through the mouth of Nemesis, asserts that he
can create another figure to weep beside Niobe, and thus have a Homeric εἰκών
and a Nonnian εἰκών sit side by side, as his Dionysiaca continues but comple-
ments or even rivals his original epic archetype.
6 Further Echoes
I have concentrated on thematic and meta-poetic aspects of Nonnus’ engage-

ment (or disengagement) with his Imperial epic predecessors. Within the short
compass of the rest of this essay, I wish, briefly, to highlight another aspect of
Nonnus’ connection with his Imperial predecessors, namely how he adopts
546 Maciver
rare vocabulary peculiar to Imperial poetry; to do so I turn to another ekphras-

tic passage in Nonnus, the preamble to the description of the necklace made
by Hephaestus (5.135–144; the extended ekphrasis of the object is found at 145–
189). The associated ancestry and purpose of this necklace have an important
place in the discourse about the Dionysiaca’s poetics and literary inheritance,
but I will concentrate instead on the one adjective. Aphrodite gives Harmonia
the necklace made for her by Hephestus (135–144):72
Πολυφράδμων <δ’> Ἀφροδίτη 135

χρύσεον ὅρμον ἔχοντα λίθων πολυδαίδαλον αἴγλην
λευκὸν ἐρευθιόωντι συνήρμοσεν αὐχένι κούρης,
Ἡφαίστου σοφὸν ἔργον, ὅ περ κάμε Κυπρογενείῃ,
τοξευτῆρος Ἔρωτος ὅπως ὀπτήριον εἴη.
Ἔλπετο γὰρ Κυθέρειαν ἀεὶ βαρύγουνος ἀκοίτης 140
υἷα τεκεῖν σκάζοντα, ποδῶν μίμημα τοκῆος·
ἀλλὰ μάτην ἐδόκησε, καὶ ἀρτίπον υἷα νοήσας
λαμπόμενον πτερύγεσσιν ὁμοίιον υἱέι Μαίης
ποικίλον ὅρμον ἔτευξεν.
In the deep shrewdness of her mind, Aphrodite clasped a golden necklace

showing pale about the girl’s blushing neck, a clever work of Hephaistos
set with sparkling gems in masterly refinement. This he had made for his
Cyprian bride, a gift for his first glimpse of Archer Eros. For the heavy
knee bridegroom always expected that Cythereia would bear him a hob-
bling son, having the image of his father in his feet. But his thought was
mistaken; and when he beheld a whole-footed son brilliant with wings
like Maia’s son Hermes, he made this magnificent necklace.
Dionysiaca 5 centres around the story of Actaeon, but begins with the wedding
of Cadmus and Harmonia.73 The gods bestow wedding gifts on the bride, and
Harmonia receives this necklace. Aphrodite is described as πολυφράδμων (135),
which occurs only here in Nonnus.74 The epithet is first used by Apollonius at
Argonautica 1.1311, and elsewhere only by Oppian 4.28, Triphiodorus 455 (the
72 For my purposes, it is irrelevant whether the first half of line 135 (Ἄρεα κυδαίνουσα)
belongs with this section or with the preceding sentence in which Hera is the subject. See
Shorrock (2001) 53 for further discussion, and the note of Chuvin (1976) ad loc. (the latter’s
arguments are more convincing).
73 For a cogent, recent study of Peitho’s role in Books 3 and 4, see Carvounis (2014).
74 Cf. Shorrock (2001) 54, who also notes (without further discussion) the Oppian reference.
latter two also of Aphrodite) and at AP 9.816. Shorrock has argued that the
adjective emphasizes the goddess’s cunning in that, in some traditions, Eros
was in fact sired by Ares, not Hephaestus, and thus accounts for Eros’ lack of
lameness.75 The pre-Nonnian uses of the adjective help to shed more light on
the adjective’s application in the Dionysiaca. Shorrock has already identified
the intertext from Oppian, Halieutica 4.28:76 Oppian covers all bases in his invo-
cation of Eros for his fourth book on the amorous habits of fish—either Eros is
the oldest of the gods, born from Chaos, or Aphrodite gave birth to him—the
primordial account or the literary account of πολυφράδμων Aphrodite’s wiles.
In Triphiodorus the adjective is applied to Aphrodite as she convinces Helen
to call out the names of the heroes in the wooden horse, a reenactment of the
tale told by Menelaus in Odyssey 4.77 Her guile in getting Helen to carry out her
wishes is emphasized by the adjective pairing as epithet for the goddess: ἦλθε
δολοφρονέουσα πολυφράδμων Ἀφροδίτη (455). As Miguélez-Cavero has shown,
in Homer it is usually Hera who is δολοφρονέουσα,78 yet Triphiodorus applies
the adjective to Aphrodite to highlight her scheming. The only occurence of
δολοφρονέουσα in the Dionysiaca, at 33.201, also an erotic context, describes
the guile of Chalcomede as she lures the Indian Morrheus away from battle,
Morrheus who has been shot by Eros (190–192). Nonnus then, twice in the
Dionysiaca (4.68 and 32.1), combines δολοφρονέουσα and πολυφράδμων to
coin δολοφράδμων, recognizing the singular characterization of Aphrodite
in Triphiodorus at that juncture in the Trojan tale, but adopting it as a new
Nonnian attribute when the narrative of the Dionysiaca requires.79
7 Conclusions
In this chapter my intention was to go beyond the excellent studies on Nonnus’

connection with his epic predecessors in style, metre and diction, and to high-
light poetological interactions and contrasts with three poets in particular,
75 Shorrock (2001) 54–55. Cf. too Hephaestus’ trapping of Ares and Aphrodite, described at
5.581–582.
76 Following Chuvin’s note in his Budé commentary (1976).
77 Further references and discussion in Miguélez Cavero (2013c) 366.
78 Miguélez Cavero (2013c) 365–366.
79 The two uses of the Nonnian δολοφράδμων apply both to Aphrodite, and in each instance
to her role in sexual activity. In the first (4.68), to convince bed-shy Harmonia (177) to
forsake her home and follow Cadmus, and in the second (32.1) she lends her cestus belt
to Hera as the latter, as in Iliad 14, to trap Zeus.
548 Maciver
Oppian, Quintus and Triphiodorus. Nonnus, in key programmatic sections of

his poem, interweaves earlier, Imperial intertexts to vary reading of his poetic
intentions. This is especially clear in his adoption of a section of the proem of
the Halieutica at the end of his ekphrastic section on the shield of Dionysus.
It remains to be stated that the net could be cast further: how does Nonnus
appropriate developments in the construction of similes in poets such as
Quintus? What function do intertexts from other poets, especially Dionysius
Periegetes, have on our reading of the Dionysiaca? These, and other avenues,
deserve further investigation to determine Nonnus’ true debt to his Imperial
poetic forbears.
Chapter 25
Nonnus and the Novel

Nonnus’ productive interaction with the novel has been a given in Nonnian
studies since Rohde related the descriptions of the rape of Europa (Nonn. Dion.
1.46–136 ~ AT 1.1.2–13) and the discovery of the purple (Nonn. Dion. 40.304–310
~ AT 2.11.4–8) by Nonnus and Achilles Tatius (AT).1 The twentieth century was
fertile in joint approaches to Nonnus and his novelistic readings, coming to a
number of general conclusions: Nonnus’ poetics of poikilia, as launched in the
proem (esp. 1.13–15), are put into practice by interspersing in the epic narra-
tive samples of fashionable genres such as the novel;2 Nonnus shows a distinct
preference for AT when treating erotic episodes,3 as well as for his excursuses
of geographic or historical content,4 natural history or paradoxography.5 The
connection is not restricted to specific passages. Some shared stylistic and nar-
rative strategies have emerged: emotional speeches (with the rhetorical pro-
gymnasma of the ethopoeia perhaps as an intermediary),6 the interweaving of
primary and secondary narratives,7 the deployment of description under the
influence of rhetorical ekphrasis,8 the generous use of (paradoxical) antithesis,9
1 Rohde (1914) 504, 512 n. 4. Rohde thought that Achilles Tatius had imitated Nonnus.
2 Collart (1930) 60, 271; Gerstinger (1943–1947) 86–87.
3 Collart (1930) 99, 193, 197, 198, 238; Castiglioni (1932) 328–333; Keydell (1936) 906–907;
Gerstinger (1943–1947) 83; Vian (1976) xlviii; Gigli (1978); Gigli Piccardi (1985) 21–27. D’Ippolito
(1964) 29–30, 41–42, 139, 192 downplays the influence of the novel.
4 Tyre in AT 2.14.1–6 and Nonn. Dion. 40.311–365 (see Chuvin 1991, 224–228 and 2013); the Nile
in AT 4.12.1–8, Hld. 9.22, Nonn. Dion. 26.222–249. See Keydell (1932) 188; Dostálová-Jeništová
(1962) 203–204.
5 E.g. the discovery of the purple (Nonn. Dion. 40.304–310 ~ AT 2.11.4–8), descriptions of the
elephant (AT 4.4.1–4.5.3 ~ Nonn. Dion. 26.295–333), the hippopotamus (AT 4.2.1–4.3.5 ~ Nonn.
Dion. 26.236–244). See Keydell (1934) 448; Dostálová-Jeništová (1962) 203–204; Gigli (1978)
433; Frangoulis (2014) 131–144.
6 Wifstrand (1933) 145–148; Keydell (1934) 447–448.
7 Cataudella (1936) 177, 181; Gerstinger (1943–1947) 85–86; Vian (1976) xlviii. Also Frangoulis
(2014) 93–129, on novelistic paradigms.
8 Castiglioni (1932) 332; Gerstinger (1943–1947) 83–85; Dostálová-Jeništová (1962) 204–206;
Gigli (1978) 433.
9 Wifstrand (1933) 145; Dostálová-Jeništová (1962) 204.

550 Miguélez-Cavero
and the insertion of contemporary morsels in the literary recreation of the dis-
tant past.10 The twenty-first century has seen a notable improvement in the
studies on the topic with the detailed commentaries on relevant passages in the
now complete Budé edition and in the Italian series BUR Classici Greci e Latini,11
to which we should add the publications by Faber (2013), Fayant (2003a),
Frangoulis (2006, 2009, 2013b, 2014), Giraudet (2011, 2012) and Hadjittofi (2014).
This chapter offers an introduction to the subject, focusing primarily on AT’s
Leucippe and Clitophon (L&C), the main novelistic referent of the Dionysiaca,
as well as Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe (D&C) and Heliodorus’ Aethiopica.12 The
influence of the last two seems at first less visible, but they are essential to an
understanding of the novelistic discourse that forms the background of the
Dion.13 I shall proceed from the analysis of how Nonnus relies on the novel
in his initial programmatic space, especially in the episode of Europa (1), to
two more general topics: the reception of the novel as the genre of narrative
eros (2),14 and Nonnus’ use of the novels as models for rhetorical and literary
success (3).
1 The Proem and Episode of Europa: Programmatic Spaces
The proem of the Dion. establishes ποικιλία (‘variety’) as its stylistic motto and
the changing Proteus as its symbol (1.13–33), before abruptly transitioning
to the episode of the rape of Europa (1.45–139, 321–361). Poikilia is a touch-stone
10 Chuvin (1991) 13, 271–272.

11 Vian et al. (1976–2006) and Gigli Piccardi (2003), Gonnelli (2003), Agosti (2004c), Accorinti
(2004), respectively.
12 For AT: Garnaud (1991); Whitmarsh (2001). For Longus: Morgan (2004). For Heliodorus:
Lumb/Maillon/Rattenbury (1960–1994); the English translation is from Morgan (2008).
For the Dion.: Vian et al. (1976–2006); the English translation is from Rouse (1940).
13 For lack of space I leave out the possible influence of novelistic narrative strategies on
the Paraphrase, and of Christian narratives on e.g. Dion. 30.209–225 (Morrheus kills
a group of Bacchantes), 34.223–248 (torment of the Bacchantes), 35.204–222 (a snake
protects Chalcomede’s virginity—see Gerlaud 2005, 254–255; Giraudet 2012; Hadjittofi
2014; Accorinti 2015, 55–61), 35.223–241 (Hermes rescues the Bacchantes), 45.273–285
(Bacchantes jailed in Thebes flee unharmed). Again, for the sake of brevity, I will refrain
from quoting the commentaries of the Budé and BUR editions, which should in any case
be consulted for a full understanding of any passage of the Dion.
14 See also Frangoulis (2014) 43–84.
Nonnus and The Novel 551
of the poetic virtues appreciated in Late Antiquity,15 but Proteus was also an
image of a sophist whose meandering narrative fits well with the novelistic
mesh of plots and subplots, as Heliodorus indicates in his Aethiopica,16 which
gives a clear starting point to the study of the Dion. as an epic seeped in novel-
istic paradigms.
Poikilia is enacted in the first episode (Zeus and Europa 1.46–136, 321–362)
with the combination of poetic sources, mainly Moschus, Apollonius Rhodius,17
and AT’s initial description of a painting on the same topic (1.1.2–13).18 Nonnus
does not initiate his narrative with a proper ekphrasis, but his first episode
can be understood as a narrativised version of AT’s ekphrasis.19 A compari-
son of the two passages serves to illustrate the stylistic differences between
the two authors. In AT the two onlookers read the painting as an image of the
power of love, suggesting that under the tyranny of Eros men and gods cannot
control their erotic passions, and that women enjoy the attention they receive
(both Europa and her friends seem to find the whole episode an advantageous
affair, though the girls also look scared). In the Dion., by contrast, Europa is
scared,20 and the multiple focalisation21 dramatises a variety of interpreta-
tions: the transformation of Zeus into a bull is an image of the power of Eros,
15 Roberts (1989) 12–24, 36–38, 45–57. For a detailed analysis of how the episode of Europa
reflects contemporary stylistics, see Schmiel (1998b) esp. 397–400.
16 Hld. 2.24.4 ‘You very nearly succeeded in bringing me straight to the ending of the story
with your talk, before I realized what you were up to, wheeling on this subplot which, so
the saying goes, has nothing to do with Dionysos. So take your narrative back to what you
promised. So far I have found you just like Proteus of Pharos, not that you take on false
and shifting forms as he did, but you are forever trying to lead me in the wrong direction!’
17 For Moschus, see Whitby (1994) 101–105. For Ap. Rh.: Dion. 1.48a γλυκὺν εἶχε μύωπα ~ Ap.
Rh. 3.275–277; Dion. 1.56a δείματι παλλομένη ~ Ap. Rh. 4.752; Dion. 1.58b εὐνέτιν Ἐννοσιγαίου
~ Ap. Rh. 4.96 Διὸς εὐνέτις; Dion. 1.84a παρθενίην πόρφυρε παρηίδα ~ Ap. Rh. 1.791 παρθενικὴ
ἐρύθηνε παρηίδας; Dion. 1.133a Μητέρι βόστρυχα ταῦτα κομίσσατε ~ Ap. Rh. 4.27–31 (offering
of a lock of hair to her mother).
18 Dion. 1.50 βαιὸς Ἔρως ~ AT 1.1.13 Ἔρως, μικρὸν παιδίον; Dion. 1.51 ἐπιβήτορι κούρῃ ~ AT 1.1.10
ὥσπερ ἡνίοχος χαλινοῦ; Dion. 1.64 θαῦμα φόβῳ κεράσας ~ AT 1.1.7 τὸ σχῆμα ταῖς παρθένοις καὶ
χαρᾶς καὶ φόβου; Dion. 1.65–71, 89–90 (sailing) ~ AT 1.1.12; Dion. 1.79–83 (Eros) ~ AT 1.1.13.
19 A ‘notional ekphrasis’ (based on an imagined work of art) or a ‘metadescriptive ekphrasis’
(based on a textual description of a work of art which may or may not exist): de Armas
(2005) 21–22.
20 Nonn. Dion. 1.56 δείματι παλλομένη, 67 τρομέουσα, 128–136 (speech). Frangoulis (2014) 171–
172 suggests that Europa’s fear preludes later women’s negative attitudes towards Eros.
21 Focalisers: anonymous (57b–59 Ἰδὼν δέ μιν ἦ τάχα φαίης . . .), marine deities (60–64),
Athena (83b–85), Greek sailor (90–126a), Hera (326–343).
pothos (‘desire’) and himeros (‘longing’);22 it causes wonder and fear because
it is unnatural (60–65, 90b–126a), jealousy because of Europa’s beauty (69–71),
and embarrassment to the family of the demeaned lover.23 Nonnus’ chorus of
viewers offers independent, disconnected views,24 presenting the narrative
as a polyphonic construct and implying that the adoption of an external van-
tage impedes the (re)construction of the inner motivations of the characters.25
Where AT’s ekphrasis inaugurates a narrative dominated by the erotic satura-
tion of the eye,26 Nonnus’ narrative saturates the reader’s eye with its multifo-
cality, a different form of poikilia.
With his initial ekphrasis AT tempts the readers to speculate on the paint-
ings’ relation to the events that follow,27 forcing them to revise constantly their
interpretation of the painting and the whole narrative. In the Dion. the ini-
tial episode anticipates the regular pattern of Zeus’ human loves,28 it justifies
and prefigures the erotic conduct of the gods,29 and presents Zeus as an erotic
model for Dionysus. We could even develop a metaliterary reading of the pas-
sage: Zeus is offered as a model for Dionysus just as AT becomes a referent for
Nonnus, but both Dionysus and Nonnus need to find their own style. Presented
early in the narrative, the episode of Europa can be read as a narratorial state-
ment on the significance of the novel (especially AT’s) as the literary back-
ground and source of fictional credibility of the Dion., while at the same time a
starting point to create something completely new.30
22 Dion. 1.68b Ἵμερος ἔπλετο ναύτης; 79–83a (Eros), 324 Καὶ Κρονίδην ὁρόωσα πόθῳ δεδονημένον
Ἥρη. Nonnus makes up Eros’ initial intervention (1.48b–53a lifting Europa and accommo-
dating her on the bull’s back), but relies on AT 1.1.13 for Dion. 1.80–83, and when comment-
ing on Eros’ power over Zeus in the episode of Semele (7.268–279).
23 Nonn. Dion. 1.83b–85 (Athena); 324–344a (Hera mixes shame and jealousy).
24 Kuhlmann (2012) 487, 489 talks of a competition of narrating instances.
25 Whitby (1994) 102 comments on this passage: ‘The speeches are transformed into witty
and ingenious displays, which stimulate admiration rather than identification with the
speaker.’
26 Bartsch (1989) 49, 155–156, 158; broadly Morales (2004).
27 Bartsch (1989) 37–38; Reeves (2007).
28 Persephone in 5.562–6.205; Semele in 7.110–8.33. Catalogues of Zeus’ lovers: 5.609b–621;
7.117–128; 8.132–151, 290–305, 361–366; 9.208–242; 31.212–227; 32.63–75 (after Il. 14.315–327);
47.694–704.
29 Europa is aware of the pattern of male gods as ravishers of mortal maidens: she asks Boreas
for help, but stays her voice in case Boreas does the same as the bull/Zeus (1.134–136).
30 Nonnus often begins a text-unit with a bold overture to an important model, from which
then he departs: e.g. the description of the shield of Dionysus (25.384–567), analysed in
Hopkinson (1994c) 22–24.
Nonnus draws on the same descriptive techniques typical of AT,31 who has
a notorious penchant for blurring distinctions that should normally be clear-
cut, as illustrated in the ekphrasis of Europa by the intermingling and inter-
penetration of land and sea (in the Dion. on land we have a seafaring bull, 1.50
ὑγροπόρος βοῦς; on the sea the bull makes furrows as if on land, 54–55, and the
girl does not get wet, 57 ἀδίαντος)32 and the ambivalent presentation of Europa
as victim of rape and acquiescent kidnappee (~ Dion. 1.65b–68, 89–90). Though
it is not so clear in this passage,33 AT often combines expressions of surprise
and the rhetorical figure of antithesis34 as a means to engage his readers, just as
Nonnus does: the anonymous Achaean sailor (90–126a) expresses his wonder35
at the novelty/strangeness of the phenomenon he is witnessing—the blur-
ring of boundaries between land and sea as a bull ploughs the sea (92–97a,
110–117)—while adducing a number of similar situations (97b–109, 118–124),
which illustrates how unnatural, irrational and repetitive the mythological
context is. These stylistic features are, of course, common in both the Latin
and Greek literature of Late Antiquity (as Michael Roberts’ magisterial 1989
book, The Jeweled Style, has indicated), but the thematic connection suggests
that Nonnus links them particularly with AT.
2 The Novel as the Genre of Narrative Eros
The influence of the novel on the Dion. is particularly visible in all elements
related to eros, understood as a socio-cultural construct that is articulated in
literary form in D&C, L&C and the Aethiopica.
31 For what follows see De Temmerman (2012) 518–523.

32 The picture is introduced as 1.1.2 γραφὴν ἀνακειμένην γῆς ἅμα καὶ θαλάττης (‘a votive picture,
a landscape and a seascape in one’). The boundary between the meadow (1.1.3–8) and the
sea (1.1.8–13) is not clear and the position of the maidens in the border emphasises the
absence of a clear separation between the two: see De Temmerman (2012) 518–519. More
generally see Giraudet (2011). Tim Whitmarsh notes to me that this intermingling is char-
acteristically sophistic and particularly visible in the fragments of Hadrian of Tyre and in
Polemo.
33 AT presents the painting as that of Europa (1.1.2 Εὐρώπης ἡ γραφή), a well-known icono-
graphic motif which does not require an exegetes to interpret it.
34 De Temmerman (2012) 523 (on AT 4.12.1–4, but generally valid for all descriptions in L&C):
‘This description is again built around antithetical poles to convey awe at the novelty of
the spectacle’.
35 Nonn. Dion. 1.93 Ὀφθαλμοί, τί τὸ θαῦμα; (cf. 126a θαμβαλέος).
Take for instance the gnomai (Lat. sententiae): they were Homeric enough,36
but AT’s sententiousness and general authorial comments on love and love-
making37 changed the perception of their literary use and made the novelistic
connection more direct. Thus, when we read (Dion. 42.178–181)
πάντων γὰρ κόρος ἐστὶ παρ’ ἀνδράσιν, ἡδέος ὕπνου

μολπῆς τ’ εὐκελάδοιο καὶ ὁππότε κάμπτεται ἀνήρ
εἰς δρόμον ὀρχηστῆρα· γυναιμανέοντι δὲ μούνῳ 180
οὐ κόρος ἐστὶ πόθων· ἐψεύσατο βίβλος Ὁμήρου.
for men can have enough of all things, of sweet sleep and melodious song,
and when one turns in the moving dance—but only the man mad for
love never has enough of his longing; Homer’s book did not tell the truth!
we notice Nonnus responding to the well-known Iliadic statement that men

reach satiety of sleep and love (Il. 16.636), but he also points towards Hld. 4.4.3
‘I cannot agree with Homer . . . when he says that there is satiety of all things,
including love. In my estimation, one can never have a surfeit of love, whether
one is engaged in its pleasures or listening to tales of it.’
The case is even clearer in the references to the power of love in nature. In
AT 1.17–18 Clitophon reports different instances of the power of Eros in nature
for the benefit of Leucippe who is listening nearby: the love of the viper and the
lamprey (AT 1.18.3–5) makes its way to Nonn. Dion. 1.281–283, a much shorter
reference and in a different context, the world in turmoil after Typhoeus’
attack; the magnet and the iron (AT 1.17.2) resurface in Nonn. Dion. 2.493–495,
a comparison with the production of lightning in a thunderstorm, and 32.24
(in an erotic context). What is a central element in AT’s novel appears in the
Dion. as secondary material, in summary form, proving: a) that the text of the
novels (at least AT’s) was popular enough to be referred to even in brief motifs;
b) that individual elements of Clitophon’s display of erotic paideia were suit-
able vehicles of display of epic paideia when framed differently.
Moving up the scale of difficulty we have erotic character typification:38
i.e. one particular character of the Dion. responds to a novelistic type, with-
out which it is difficult to understand his/her behaviour. For instance, when
Cadmus arrives at Electra’s palace in Samothrace, Harmonia refuses to marry
36 See Lardinois (1997) and (2000).

37 Morales (2000) and (2004) 106–130. On their influence in the Dion., see Frangoulis (2014)
104–109.
38 For the notion see De Temmerman (2007) 97 ff.
him on account of his poverty, and needs to be convinced that he is a desirable

husband by Aphrodite, who takes the shape of Peisinoe, a girl from the neigh-
bourhood (4.4–178). Her name (a derivative of Πειθώ, ‘Persuasion’) points us
to her generic function and Frangoulis has rightly noted that Peisinoe adopts
with Harmonia the role of the (novelistic) masculine praeceptor amoris, and
that her proactive behaviour and inquisitive gaze are similar to those of well-
intentioned predatory older female characters of the novel who manage to
have sex once with the protagonist (Melite in L&C, Lycenion in D&C).39 The
success of both referents (i.e. of the praeceptor amoris in convincing his lis-
tener to use his method and of the predatory woman in achieving her desire)
functions as a literary justification for the instant success of Peisinoe’s speech
on Harmonia.40
Nonnus also resorts to novelistic ‘type-scenes’ to sustain the epic plot, for
example in his use of dreams of love and marriage. AT41 explores the onei-
ric impressions of love first when Clitophon cannot sleep after first seeing
Leucippe (the rationale behind it is that without the diurnal distractions,
during the night the soul is particularly affected by the wound of love)42 and,
when he finally falls asleep, he dreams of Leucippe, touching and kissing her
as he desired to do during the day (1.6.2–6). In the Dion. the notion is simpli-
fied (33.264b–265 ἐν γὰρ ὀμίχλῃ | θερμότεροι γεγάασιν ἀεὶ σπινθῆρες ἐρώτων, ‘for
in the darkness the sparks of the loves are always hotter’) and lovers’ dreams
are never prophetic:43
10.264–266 Dionysus dreams of Ampelus, but he will die.

34.89–101 Morrheus dreams that Chalcomede acquiesces to his advances,
but she will only do so in appearance.
39 Frangoulis (2006) 43–45. We should not forget Od. 6.2b-47: Athena takes the shape of the
daughter of Dymas, a close friend of Nausicaa’s, to visit her in her dreams and suggest that
she washes the clothing of the members of her family in view of her impending marriage.
Nausicaa does as she has been told (48–84) and meets Odysseus while tending to her
washing (85 ff.).
40 The verbal strategy is then complemented with Aphrodite’s use of the cestus: 4.177–180.
41 On dreams in L&C, see Bartsch (1989) 80–108. On dreams in the Dion., see Auger (2003).
42 This is Clitophon’s interpretation, which we may be encouraged to think rather preten-
tious, but which seems to be grounded on common knowledge. Cf. Hld. 1.8.1: ‘In my opin-
ion, the very darkness aggravated their misery, for there was no sight or sound to distract
them, and they could devote themselves solely to their grief.’
43 Compare Artemidorus, Oneirocritica 1.1 differentiating prophetic dreams (ὄνειροι) and
those that reflect momentary physical and mental conditions (ἐνύπνια).
42.325b–34544 on a bed of perishable anemones Dionysus dreams that he

marries Beroe, and when he wakes up he keeps trying to have the same
dream again and making it more durable by sleeping by Aphrodite’s myr-
tle, but Beroe will marry Poseidon.
47.320–329 Ariadne dreams of her wedding to Theseus, but when she
wakes up Theseus is gone and she realises that she can only possibly
marry him in her dreams (345–349).
The rationale of these dreams is that what the person does during the day, s/he
dreams during the night (42.325–332), and that marriage is nice even in dreams
(34.96–97, 42.345–349). It is against the novelistic background and the internal
development of the motif that we need to read Aura’s dream (48.258–301): by
chaste Daphne’s laurel she is said to have a delectable dream of a forthcoming
marriage (262b–263 ἐσσομένων ὑμεναίων | ἱμερτὴν ἐνόησε προμάντιος ὄψιν ὀνείρου)
and she is presented submitting her previous farouche nature to Aphrodite
and Eros to govern. Aura herself says that this dream is inappropriate for a
virgin. We are supposed to deduce: 1) that Aura is (unconsciously) thinking
of marriage when she is awake and this is intensified in her sleep; 2) that the
delectable marriage will not happen (indeed, she will be raped by Dionysus in
her sleep).45
In different ways the plots of D&C, L&C and the Aethiopica are built on the
polarity of loving well and loving badly (or pure love conditioned by sophro-
syne and illicit desire).46 This is illustrated by the (implicit) comparison
between the protagonist couple and their suitors (a third person falls madly
in love with one of the lovers and tries to have him/her by force),47 arranged
marriages where the incumbents are not asked for their opinion,48 secondary
44 Analysis in Chuvin/Fayant (2006) 64–65.

45 A second oneiric paradigm shared by the novels and the Dion. is that of a divinity appear-
ing in dreams to guarantee protection to the lovers: AT 4.1.3–4 (Artemis to Leucippe); Hld.
8.11 (Calasiris to both Theagenes and Chariclea); Nonn. Dion. 33.346 ff. (Thetis appears to
Chalcomede).
46 This is particularly visible in Hld.: see Morgan (1989) 107–111; Anderson (1997);
Papadimitropoulos (2013); De Temmerman (2014) 258–277. The paradigm is also invoked
in L&C, where Clitophon constantly falls short of the heroic standard: De Temmerman
(2014) 152–205.
47 Hld.: Arsace’s infatuation with Theagenes, and Chariclea’s numerous suitors. In D&C:
Dorcon (1.19–20), Gnaton (4.11–12), Lampis (4.7–8). In L&C: Callisthenes (2.13–18),
Charmides (4.2–14), Gorgias (4.15), Chaereas (5.3–7), Thersander (6.3–8.13).
48 L&C: Clitophon’s father arranges his marriage to Calligone (1.11, 2.11–12); Charicles is
engaged to a maiden (1.7–8). D&C: Chloe’s adoptive father is under pressure to choose
narratives that exemplify less noble forms of attraction,49 and images or narra-
tives of mythical loves in which passions are out of control.50
The main difference with the Dion. is that we do not have a protagonist cou-
ple, but a main character, Dionysus, who does not stick to one partner. In fact,
the initial episode of Europa elevates Zeus’ ‘unproblematic’ sex with young
maidens51 to a paradigm for divine practitioners of love, at odds with the nov-
elistic pattern of reciprocal love. And the erotic characterisation of Dionysus
is multi-faceted: he is a lover of boys (Ampelus); a lover of maidens with some
of whom he is instantly successful (Ariadne), with others he fails and admits
his failure (Beroe), while others he defeats in combat (Pallene); and a rapist
(Nicaea and Aura).
Dionysus gets closer to the main novelistic pattern (boy and girl meet, fall
in love at first sight, overcome a series of obstacles and enjoy marital bliss) in
his relationship with Ariadne (Book 47): he falls in love with her at first sight
when she is asleep on the beach in Naxos (47.272b–294); Ariadne wakes up
to discover that she has been abandoned by Theseus (295–418), but when
Dionysus courts her (419–452), she joins him in a happy and prolific marriage
(453–471) . . . that lasts only until the next episode, when Perseus turns her into
stone (665–666). Dionysus is at first extremely angry (667–672), but in the fol-
lowing book he launches strategies to seduce first Pallene (48.90–240) and then
Aura (241 ff.), much to Ariadne’s horror, as she appears to him in his dreams
(530–564). Dionysus is not interested in becoming a competent novelistic
lover: the novelistic paradigm of ideal love that Nonnus evokes intertextually
is perverted.
Nonnus also draws consistently on novelistic secondary plots. Take the
homoerotic subplot in L&C.52 In the Dion. Dionysus first falls in love with
a satyr boy of his same age, Ampelus (10.175–176). Nonnus develops a full
from a number of suitors and her adoptive mother insists in marrying her off to the high-
est bidder (3.25). Hld.: Charicles tries to get Charicleia married to his nephew Alcamenes
(4.7, 11, 13); Hydaspes wants her to marry his nephew Meroebus (10.24).
49 Particularly visible in the relationships described in Cnemon’s Athens in Hld.: see Morgan
(1989).
50 L&C: painting of Europa (1.1); painting of Philomela, Procne and Tereus (5.3, 5). D&C:
mythical narratives (1.27.1–4, 2.34.1–3, 3.23.1–5).
51 Mainly Europa (1.46–136, 321–362), Persephone (5.563–6.168) and Semele (7.110–8.33). It
is ‘unproblematic’ in the sense that, whenever he sees a female he fancies, he approaches
her and she acquiesces to have sex with him. In all three episodes he is said to follow Eros’
instructions (1.48b–53a, 5.591–592 Aphrodite, 7.110–136, 190–209); in none are the female’s
feelings mentioned.
52 Unhappy relationships of Clinias (1.7–8, 1.12–14) and Menelaus (2.33–38).
arrative of homoerotic courtship with a number of contests in which the

n
young lover excels, inviting constant comparison with the mythical paradigm
of the young handsome man loved by a god who perishes in tragic circum-
stances (10.321–11.55). The death of Ampelus (11.185–350) clearly parallels that
of Charicles, Clinias’ eromenos (L&C 1.12.1–1.13.4):53 Ampelus rides a bull which,
pricked by a gadfly, runs into a frenzied gallop like a horse until Ampelus hits
the ground, breaks his neck and is trampled by the animal, just as Charicles
loses control of his horse, scared by a sudden noise, is tossed about until he
hits a tree and is trampled by the animal.54 Dionysus’ response to the news of
Ampelus’ death is built upon Clinias’.55 But where AT emphasises the unrec-
ognisable state of Charicles’ body,56 Nonnus insists that Ampelus has retained
all of his beauty after death, in fact not looking dead at all (11.244–252). The
subsequent transformation of the young satyr into a vine makes Dionysus con-
sider himself luckier and more powerful than those gods who lost their lovers
without compensation (12.193–291).57 The novelistic motif enriches the epic
thread embedded with mythical comparisons and calls readers to search for
wide literary connections.
Where the tweaking with novelistic paradigms is more visible is in how
Nonnus plays with novelistic narratives of feminine virginity. The legend of
Rhodopis in AT 8.12.1–8 is a good example of this type of narrative: a maiden
takes pleasure in hunting, she is a member of Artemis’ circle and committed
to remain a virgin (8.12.1–2); Aphrodite feels slighted and promises to retaliate
53 And ultimately Hippolytus’ death in the homonymous play by Euripides: 1218–1248.
Nonnus could be referring to Euripides ‘through’ AT, in a form of ‘conflation’ or ‘multiple
reference’: Thomas (1986) 193–198. I should like to thank Tim Whitmarsh for this notion.
54 AT 1.12.3 ψόφος κατόπιν γίνεται, καὶ ὁ ἵππος ἐκταραχθεὶς πηδᾷ ὄρθιον ἀρθεὶς καὶ ἀλογίστως
ἐφέρετο ~ Dion. 11.191–193 καί οἱ πέμπε μύωπα βοοσσόον. Αὐτὰρ ὁ πικρῷ | ἄστατα φοιτητῆρι
δέμας κεχαραγμένος οἴστρῳ | δύσβατον ἀμφὶ τένοντα κατέτρεχεν εἴκελος ἵππῳ; description of
the gallop of the animal and how it affects its driver in both AT 1.12.3–6 ~ Dion. 11.194–195,
215–223 (esp. AT 1.12.6 κατεπάτει τὸν ἄθλιον, ἐκλακτίζων τὸν δεσμὸν τῆς φυγῆς ~ Dion. 220–
221 Καί μιν ὑπὲρ δαπέδοιο παλινδίνητον ἑλίξας | θηγαλέῃ γλωχῖνι κατεπρήνιξε κεραίης).
55 AT 1.13.1 διωλύγιον ἐκώκυσε καὶ ἐκδραμεῖν ἐπὶ τὸ σῶμα μὲν ἠπείγετο ~ Dion. 11.226 Καὶ θεὸς
εἰσαΐων ταχὺς ἔδραμεν εἴκελος αὔραις, 230b–231 Ἐν δὲ κονίῃ | κείμενον ἔστενε κοῦρον ἅτε
ζώοντα δοκεύων.
56 AT 1.12.6 ὥστε οὐκ ἂν αὐτόν τις ἰδὼν οὐδὲ γνωρίσειεν, 1.13.2 ὅλος γὰρ τραῦμα ἦν, ὥστε μηδένα
τῶν παρόντων κατασχεῖν τὰ δάκρυα, and his father’s speech (1.13.2–4).
57 The idea is amplified in the episode of Hymenaeus, whom Dionysus manages to keep
alive despite his being wounded (29.15–178): Dionysus transcends the paradigm of the lost
male lover.
(8.12.2); Aphrodite recruits Eros (8.12.4–6); a handsome young man in the area
is also described (8.12.3); they experience love at first sight (8.12.7); they break
the oath (8.12.7); in response to this triumph of Aphrodite, Artemis punishes
the girl with loss of her human form (8.12.8).58
The mythical scheme is to be read against the main narrative: Clitophon
narrates how he falls in love with Leucippe at first sight; she is beautiful but
not committed to preserving her virginity (Clitophon goes into her room at
night and only her mother’s sudden appearance prevents her from losing her
virginity—2.23.4–6); after their elopement her virginity is compromised a
number of times, but Leucippe finds the means to preserve it, under the pro-
tection of Artemis, who appears in a dream to her (4.1.1–4). Rhodopis’ tale is
inserted at the end of the novel, before Leucippe undergoes a virginity test:
if she is proved a virgin, she will be free, back to his father, who will allow
her to marry Clitophon; if not, she will remain a slave, subject to her master’s
sexual whim. Both Artemis’ and Aphrodite’s powers are to be feared and the
myth illustrates the difficulties of the transition from the former’s to the latter’s
patronage and commends Leucippe’s success by highlighting in how many
turning points her narrative could have gone astray.
The episode of the Dion. which best reflects this novelistic pattern of vir-
ginity and marriage is that of Beroe: she is a beautiful girl (41.230–262) whose
mother Aphrodite recruits Eros to bewitch Poseidon and Dionysus to love
her (41.400–42.39). Dionysus, who happens to be in the area, sees the girl and
falls in love instantly with her (42.40–137). He tries to seduce Beroe by com-
paring her with the goddesses, but in her innocence she does not understand
what he means (138–174). Dionysus suffers in silence and does not know how
to proceed (175–195), then asks Pan for counselling about courtship, just as
Clitophon had requested Clinias’ help to court Leucippe (AT 1.10 ~ Nonn.
Dion. 42.196–274):59
58 The narrative of Chariclea’s virginity in Hld. follows a similar pattern: both Chariclea
(2.33.4–5) and Theagenes (2.35.1–2) cherish their chastity; they fall in love at first sight
(3.5.4–3.6.1), but then they choose to channel their love through chastity towards lawful
marriage (1.25.4, 4.10.5–6, 5.4.4–5). The Aphrodite/Artemis polarity is again channelling
Euripides’ Hippolytus (esp. lines 10–28, 1282–1439).
59 In D&C the protagonist couple are first theoretically instructed by Philetas on the nature
of love, and later Lycaenion introduces Daphnis to sex.
AT’s theory AT’s practice Nonnus’ theory Nonnus’ practice
1.10.1–2 Lovers need Seeking advice

no instruction, on love (42.199,
except the general 202–203)
rules in order not Advice on
to depend on luck deception in love
given (42.208)
1.10.2–4 Do not 1.16–18 Rhetorical 42.209–216a 42.275–314 Speech
talk of sex to display on the Women hide desire with sexual doubles
maidens—they power of love in entendres60
find it shameful nature
[2.4–5 Clitophon’s [2.6.1 Clitophon 42.216b–220 42.124–120 Dionysus
timidity corrected blushes before Deceptive shame/ looks shameful
by Satyrus] Leucippe] modesty before Beroe
1.10.5 ‘Maintain for 42.231–237 Charm
the most part the the maiden to love
silence of a mystery in silence with
cult’ meaning signs61
1.5.4–7 Clitophon 42.251–271 Sing of 42.363–428 Dionysus
inflamed by mythical loves, e.g. warns Beroe about
hearing about Daphne despising love, with
Apollo and Daphne mythical examples
Dionysus puts into practice Pan’s counselling, addressing Beroe a speech

plagued with sexual innuendos (42.275–312), which the girl, again, does not
understand (314–315), thus illustrating the gap in knowledge and intentions
between them. A third, final strategy follows: he abandons all disguise and
tells her who he is, invoking the power of Eros over all beings to encourage
60 Compare the bottom-line of Dionysus’ speech (‘I shall provide your every need’) and Hld.
6.3.2 ‘[A]t the moment my whole life is directed towards a single end—namely, doing as I
am bidden in the service of my lady, Isias of Chemmis: I work my land for her; I supply her
every need; she allows me no rest by day or night; whatever service Isias demands of me,
be it great or small, I accept, whatever the cost to me in money and hardship.’
61 Also Hld. 1.11.3 ‘And although she had often rejected my advances, she now began to lead
me on in every way she could, with looks, gestures, and various other tokens.’
her to acquiesce to his desire and avoid Eros’ retribution.62 Now Beroe under-
stands (because the speech is plain enough or because she too has learned
about courtship?) and her rejection identifies her generically as a maiden who
pledges long-term virginity.63 The narrator’s subsequent commentary runs as
follows (42.432b–437):
Ποθοβλήτῳ δὲ Λυαίῳ
μόχθῳ μόχθον ἔμιξε. Τί κύντερόν ἐστιν ἐρώτων,
ἢ ὅτε θυμοβόροιο πόθου λυσσώδεϊ κέντρῳ
ἀνέρας ἱμείροντας ἀλυσκάζουσι γυναῖκες 435
καὶ πλέον οἶστρον ἄγουσι σαόφρονες; Ἐνδόμυχος δέ
διπλόος ἐστὶν ἔρως, ὅτε παρθένος ἀνέρα φεύγει.
So she made trouble upon trouble for lovestricken Lyaios. What is

more shameless than love, or when women avoid men who yearn with
the heart-eating maddening urge of desire, and only make them more
passionate by their modesty? The love within them is doubled when a
maiden flees from a man.64
This seems to justify the mythical tradition of rape, as illustrated by the sec-
ondary narratives in the novel, but, instead, Dionysus detaches himself from
the commonplace and keeps away from the girl (42.438–439). The novelistic
62 42.380–393 ‘[S]ave yourself from the dangerous wrath of the bridal Loves! Harsh are the
Loves when there’s need, when they exact from women the penalty for love unfulfilled
[381–382 Νηλέες εἰσὶν Ἔρωτες, ὅτε χρέος, ὁππότε ποινήν | ἀπρήκτου φιλότητος ἀπαιτίζουσι
γυναῖκας]. For you know how Syrinx disregarded fiery Cythera, and what price she paid
for her too-great pride and love for virginity [384 μισθὸν ἀγηνορίης φιλοπάρθενος ὤπασε
Σύριγξ]; how she turned into a plant with reedy growth substituted for her own, when
she had fled from Pan’s love, and how she still sings Pan’s desire! And how the daughter
of Ladon [Daphne], that celebrated river, hated the works of marriage and the nymph
became a tree with inspired whispers, she escaped the bed of Phoibos but she crowned
his hair with prophetic clusters. You too should beware of a god’s horrid anger, lest hot
Love should afflict you in heavy wrath. Spare not your girdle, but attend Bacchos both as
comrade and bedfellow.’ Disobedience to Eros is enough for the nymphs of Tyre to attract
his punishment: 40.538–573.
63 42.429b–432a καὶ οὔατος ἔνδοθι κούρη | χεῖρας ἐρεισαμένη διδύμας ἔφραξεν ἀκουάς, | μὴ πάλιν
ἄλλον ἔρωτι μεμηλότα μῦθον ἀκούσῃ, | ἔργα γάμου στυγέουσα (‘and the girl pressed the fingers
of her two hands into her ears to keep the words away from her hearing, lest she might
hear again another speech concerned with love, and she hated the works of marriage’).
64 Escalating the comment on Beroe’s reaction to Dionysus’ first speech to her: 42.169–174.
intertext is completely abandoned as Aphrodite asks the two lovers to compete

in a naval battle for her daughter’s hand (42.497–525).
Also relevant here are the three aetiological myths which Longus inserts in
his novel (all three concerning a beautiful maiden who undergoes metamor-
phosis as a result of the actions of a male; Pan is involved in the three stories)65
for how they stage a crescendo movement of eroticism and violence linked to
virginity and gender gap:66
(a) The first story lacks a reference to eroticism (there is only a musical com-
petition, no rape, voluntary transformation into an animal) reflecting the
innocence of Daphnis and Chloe at the initial stages of the novel; it is said
to be known by everybody but Daphnis has to tell Chloe about it (1.27.1),
revealing their asymmetry of knowledge, just as the story stresses the dis-
similarity in strength between the boy and the girl in their competition
(which serves as a contrast to the cooperation of Daphnis and Chloe).
(b) Daphnis and Chloe re-enact the tale of Pan and Syrinx (2.37.1–3) sup-
pressing the reference to Pan’s violence (they are aware of the existence
of love, but not of sex). The inequality of the mythical couple (Pan cuts
reeds ‘unequal as their love had been unequal’) warns of the disastrous
consequences for a maid of disregarding male sexuality (men outrun
women and take by force what they have not been willingly given)67 and
for both partners ‘of a sexual desire not grounded in mutual love’.68
65 1.27.1–4 a beautiful girl who keeps cows in a wood, controls them with her music, singing
of Pan and Pitys; a boy enters in musical competition with her and steals her eight best
cows because his song, being a male, is stronger than hers; she asks to be transformed into
a wood-dove (φάττα) to avoid punishment.
2.34.1–3 Philetas tells the tale of Syrinx, a beautiful maiden, whom Pan offered a gift in
exchange for her virginity; she rejected him on account of his deformity and he resorted
to violence; when Pan was about to catch her, she was transformed into the reeds; Pan cut
reeds of different lengths and bound them together to form the syrinx.
3.23.1–5 Daphnis teaches Chloe the tale of Echo. She was beautiful and excelled in music,
but shunned all males because she loved virginity. Pan gets angry at the girl, envying her
musical talent and for failing to win her beauty, and casts madness on the shepherds who
tear her limb by limb.
66 Analysis in Hunter (1983) 52–57; Morgan (2004) 171–172, 195–197, 214–215.
67 Compare Alciphron, Letters 2.35 (a young widow who rejected a suitor in numerous
occasions), § 2: ‘I didn’t know that, in refusing him, I was to bring upon myself a forced
bridal and to find my marriage chamber in a wooded dell [ἐλάνθανον δὲ ὑβριστὴν ὑμέναιον
ἀναμένουσα καὶ θάλαμον νάπην εὑρίσκουσα]’ (trans. Benner/Fobes 1949).
68 Morgan (2004) 196.
(c) In the third tale, Pan gives Echo a terrible death, warning of the dangers
of uncontrolled masculine sexuality, especially when opposed to a femi-
nine emphasis on virginity.69 Daphnis, again, narrates the third story to
Chloe, illustrating the gap in the knowledge between them, broader now
that he has been initiated into sex (3.15.1–3.20.3).
A rejection of a suitor who cannot restrain his passion seems enough reason
for him to rely on violence to get what he wants (sex, not mutual love), but cer-
tain elements can add further motives for the rape: in the third tale, Pan envies
Echo’s musical abilities (3.23.3), and the commitment to virginity contributes
to a harsher punishment than in the previous narrative, where the maiden
rejected one suitor on account of his deformity.
These narratives and that of Rhodopis are key to understand the episodes
of Nicaea (Books 15–16) and Aura (Book 48).70 Nicaea is young and beauti-
ful (15.160–203), and leads the life of a hunting virgin, and (this is important
for her characterisation as a person dominated by hybris) thinks herself better
than Artemis because, unlike her, she hunts big animals (15.187–189).71 Enter
Hymnus, an attractive lad who falls in love with Nicaea at first sight, under the
auspices of Eros, who, however, does not make Nicaea fall in love with him
(15.209–243). Hymnus courts Nicaea in the usual pastoral fashion: staying close
to her (233–243), he pronounces a speech in which he says that he would like
to be one of her weapons in order to be close to her (258–276), and asks her
to accept him as a lover, just as some goddesses had got engaged with young
shepherds (277–286). No response follows. Hymnus takes her weapons away,
utters a second sorrowful speech playing on mythical narratives (290–302) and
plays a wedding tune to her (303–304). As Hadjittofi notes, Hymnus’ behaviour
evokes the amorous pastoral behaviour of Daphnis and Chloe in D&C Book 1,
with the difference that what in the novel is an expression of mutual love in
the Dion. is one-sided infatuation.72
69 Echo’s denial of her sexuality contrasts Chloe’s readiness to accept hers (3.24.2–3),
Daphnis’ self-restraint contrasts Pan’s lack of it, and emphasises the difference between
rape (enforced by Pan, but also human characters such as Lampis or Gnathon) and
mutual affection.
70 Basic bibliography: Schmiel (1993); Gerlaud (1994) 102–107; Lightfoot (1998); Hadjittofi
(2008).
71 She compares herself with Artemis and Athena: 16.148–154a. See Gerlaud (1994) 55–56.
72 Hadjittofi (2008) 119–120. Daphnis and Chloe neglect their flocks (1.13.6, 1.17.4), as does
Hymnus (Dion. 15.214). Daphnis and Chloe see each other naked while bathing (1.13,
1.32), as does Hymnus with Nicaea (Dion. 15.249, 270–272). Daphnis and Chloe touch
Nicaea refuses to be assimilated into Hymnus’ marital version of the pasto-

ral genre and reminds him of the unhappy loves of Pan and Echo, the oxherd
Daphnis, and Apollo and Daphne (305–311). Hymnus draws on the line ‘if you
cannot love me you might as well kill me’ (313–362), but Nicaea takes it literally
and kills him (363–370). Nature mourns Hymnus and several divinities take
active steps to have Nicaea punished for her crime (killing Hymnus pointlessly,
not choosing virginity as a form of life).73
Book 16 follows the same narrative pattern as Book 15: Eros sends an arrow
to Dionysus (16.1–11a), who, passing nearby while Nicaea swims naked, falls
madly in love with her (11b–18). He makes two long speeches full of amatory
topoi (21–70, 75–143), ostensibly in the air, and finally catches up with Nicaea
with a short message: 145b Μένε, παρθένε, Βάκχον ἀκοίτην (‘Wait, maiden, for
Bacchos your bedfellow!’). Dionysus’ behaviour is similar to Hymnus’ in the
previous book, but Nicaea’s verbal response escalates the violence, as com-
pared to her speech of rejection to Hymnus (15.305–311): she now puts herself
on a par with Artemis and Athena (16.148–154a), threatens to kill Dionysus as
she killed Hymnus (even though aware that Dionysus is a god: 154b–169), and
refuses Dionysus because he is not manly enough (171–175), just as Pan was
rejected by Syrinx for his deformity in Longus’ novel (2.34.1–3). Nicaea finishes
her speech rejecting the possibility that the god may chase her and rape her as
usual in virginity narratives (179–182):
Τί σπεύδεις; Ἀκίχητον ἔχεις δρόμον, ὥς ποτε Δάφνην

Λητοΐδης ἐδίωκε καὶ ὡς Ἥφαιστος Ἀθήνην. 180
Τί σπεύδεις; Δρόμος οὗτος ἐτώσιος· ἐν σκοπέλοις γάρ
ἐνδρομίδες πολὺ μᾶλλον ἀρείονές εἰσι κοθόρνων.
Why all this haste? This race is not for you to win; so Latoïdes once pur-
sued Daphne, so Hephaistos Athena. Why this haste? This race is vain; for
among the rocks, buskins are far better than slippers.
and try each other’s accoutrements (1.24.2), while Hymnus touches Nicaea’s weapons
(Dion. 15.234) and takes them away (15.290–296).
73 Eros decides to punish her with being raped by Dionysus (Nonn. Dion. 15.383–385).
Adrastea/Nemesis (15.392–394), Pan and Apollo (15.416b–419) call Eros and Aphrodite
into action. Even Artemis takes pity on the dead shepherd (420–422). Note the whisper-
ing of the trees against the maiden: 15.390b–391 Τί σοι τόσον ἤλιτε βούτης; | Μή ποτέ σοι
Κυθέρεια, μὴ Ἄρτεμις ἵλαος εἴη (‘How did the oxherd offend you so much? May Cythereia
never be merciful to you, Artemis never!’).
I.e. she rejects the paradigm maiden-raped-by-despised-god, noting the mythi-

cal exceptions of the paradigm and that Dionysus cannot possibly outrun her.
Dionysus keeps pursuing Nicaea (245b–247a), and would have continued to
do so if she had not drunk of the waters of a river polluted with wine, which
causes her to fall into a drunken sleep (247b–262). Eros gives Dionysus the order
to rape her in punishment for killing Hymnus (263–264). The pastoral setting
is then perverted: Hymnus taunts Nicaea in her drunken stupor (292–305),74
and, although the natural elements tower up to give Dionysus some privacy
(270–280), Pan and a satyr peek at the scene, aware of its unnatural elements.75
Both give speeches (satyr 312–319; Pan 321–338) in which they present Dionysus
as the ultimate seducer, because thanks to wine no maiden will escape from
him.76 Nonnus seems to be alluding to the myths in Longus’ novel, when he has
Pan mentioning Syrinx and Echo (332–335):
Σύριγξ Πανὸς ἔφευγεν ἀνυμφεύτους ὑμεναίους

καὶ γάμον ἀρτιτέλεστον ἀνευάζει Διονύσου
αὐτομάτοις μελέεσσι· τὸ δὲ πλέον ἠθάδι μολπῇ
φθεγγομένης Σύριγγος ἀμείβετο σύνθροος Ἠχώ. 335
Syrinx escaped from Pan’s marriage and left him without a bride, and now
she cries Euoi to the newly-made marriage of Dionysos with m elodies
74 He is envious of Dionysus’ victory (16.305) and does not draw a line between a consensual
long-term relationship and casual sex without the consent of the lady.
75 16.306–311 Καὶ λιγυροῖς δονάκεσσι γαμήλιον ἦχον ἀράσσων, | ζῆλον ὑποκλέπτων ὑποκάρδιον,
ὑμνοπόλος Πάν | μεμφόμενον μέλος εἶπεν ἐς ἀλλοτρίους ὑμεναίους. | Καί τις ἐρωμανέων Σατύρων
παρὰ γείτονι λόχμῃ | θηητὴρ ἀκόρητος ἀθηήτων ὑμεναίων | Βακχείην ἀγόρευεν ἰδὼν εὐπάρθενον
εὐνήν (‘Pan also piped a bridal tune on the shrill reeds, hiding secret envy deep in his
heart, Pan the master of music; and made a defaming lay for the unnatural union. And one
of the lovemad Satyrs in a thicket hard by, staring insatiate upon the wedding, a forbidden
sight, declaimed thus, when he saw the bed of Bacchos with his fair maiden’; emphasis
is mine).
76 Esp. the final lines in Pan’s speech (16.336–338 Νυμφιδίης Διόνυσε μέθης θελξίμβροτε ποιμήν,
| ὄλβιος ἔπλεο μοῦνος, ἀναινομένης ὅτι Νύμφης | εὗρες ἀοσσητῆρα γαμοστόλον οἶνον Ἐρώτων,
‘O Dionysos, charmer of mortals, shepherd of the bridal intoxication! you alone are happy,
because when the nymph denied, you found out wine, love’s helper to deck out the mar-
riage’) and the narrative conclusion of his speech (339–340 Τοῖον ἔπος κατέλεξε δυσίμερος
ἀχνύμενος Πάν, | ζῆλον ἔχων καὶ ἔρωτα τελεσσιγάμοιο Λυαίου, ‘Such were the words of Pan, in
sorrow for his thwarted desire, and in envy and love of Lyaios, the achiever of marriage’).
unasked: while Syrinx gives voice, and to crown all, Echo chimes in with
her familiar note.77
When Nicaea wakes up, she immediately realises that she has been raped
and that Dionysus is the rapist (343–351). She mourns her lost maidenhood
(352–365), and thinks of suicide and revenge (366–392); but when her preg-
nancy starts to be visible she leaves the forest to give birth to Dionysus’ daugh-
ter (393–402).78
The twin episodes of Nicaea–Hymnus and Nicaea–Dionysus cover a similar
ground as the narratives of Phatta and Syrinx in Longus, illustrating the grad-
ual loss of (pastoral) innocence and the dangers of uncontrolled masculine
sexuality allowed to the gods. There is no mention of the feelings of Syrinx,
and no reference to the horrible dismembering of Echo, nor is there any sign of
commiseration with Nicaea. Nonnus transfers the violence from the novelistic
secondary narratives into his own primary one: where the novels use myth to
reveal fantasies of violence that are repressed in the ‘real’ story,79 in the Dion.
the reality is myth and violent elements of myth are exposed without remorse
or restraint or palliative comment.
Violence and eroticism escalate further in the episode of Aura in Book 48,
both in the behaviour of the maiden and in the divine retribution for her ‘sin’,
just as in D&C the narrative of Pan and Echo builds upon the narrative of Pan
and Syrinx. Aura (48.241–257) is a beautiful maiden of Artemis’ circle, who
hunts lions like Nicaea and not small prey like Artemis. The main differences
with Nicaea are 1) that Aura is the daughter of Titan Lelantos (245–247), which
gives readers an idea of the rebellious, riotous blood running in her veins, and
2) that, despite being Artemis’ companion, one day she dreams that she submits
to Eros and to Aphrodite (258–301), which in the narrative economy of the Dion.
means that she is considering love/sex during the day, even if unconsciously.
Aura is not punished for killing a male suitor: in a scene with a homoerotic air,
she touches the naked breasts of Artemis and accuses her of having the breasts
of a matron and not those of a maiden (349–369). Extremely offended, Artemis
betakes herself to Nemesis and asks for the maximum punishment (370–438).
Nemesis offers to deprive her of her virginity and turn her into a fountain per-
petually weeping for the loss of her maidenhood (445b–448).
77 For Syrinx, see also 42.383–386.

78 Compare Alciphron, Letters 2.35 (young widow raped by dejected suitor), § 4: ‘It is well
not to experience undesired things; but whoever has not that good fortune must keep his
affliction to himself’ (trans. Benner/Fobes 1949).
79 Morales (2004) 178–184.
Nemesis then curses Aura (449–471a) and Eros causes Dionysus to fall
in love with her (471b–473). Dionysus does not talk to Aura (only his suffer-
ing is recorded: 474–513) and Aura does not even reject Dionysus: her insult
to Artemis and intractable nature seem to be a sufficient narrative justifica-
tion for her rape (497–509), mostly because the episode replicates Nicaea’s
narrative.80 At the same time, Nonnus works on Aura’s behaviour after the
rape as a justification for her punishment: she kills all possible suspects of the
rape (690–702); she desecrates the temple of Aphrodite and insults all the gods
(703–722); when she discovers herself pregnant, she seeks suicide unsuccess-
fully (723–748), delays the birth of her children and curses virgin goddesses
(786–810); and when her twins are born, she tries to get them killed and finally
she herself kills one of them and cannibalises him (890–924a). Only then does
she throw herself into the river Sangarios, where she becomes part of the river
bank, her breasts perpetually jetting water, and still remorseful for the loss of
her maidenhood (928–942).
The end of the narrative is a brutal expansion of the shorter virginity tales
accounted for in the novels, with the aggravating circumstance that Dionysus
expresses pride in the rapes of Aura and Nicaea (48.866–889). But here we
are not dealing with cautionary tales about what may happen when maidens
do not balance the protection of their virginity before marriage with the need
to acquiesce to the right man in marriage (i.e. when they lose their virginity
before marrying or when they reject marriage altogether), and when men can-
not control their sexuality and destroy unattainable females. In the Dion. this
is the main narrative and contrasts the success of Zeus with other females (he
does not need to rape them when they are asleep—Dionysus falls short of
his father’s model in this regard) with Dionysus’ behaviour towards Beroe (he
courts her following the ‘standard’ etiquette of courtship) and Ariadne, whom
he seduces on the spot (47.265–471).
The transference of the narrative of virginity with a mixed cast of divine
and mortal characters from secondary novelistic plot to the main epic plot
comments on the unsweetened elements of both epic and myth in contrast
with the (at least superficial) happy end of the novels and other narratives with
mortal protagonists. The inevitable question of what is a Christian poet mak-
ing of all of this (and the concomitant one of how his at least partially Christian
audience received it) remains a thorny one, but from a literary point of view
Nonnus comments on the impossibility of assuming novelistic p aradigms as
80 Dionysus says ‘I think Athena will listen sooner; and not intrepid Artemis avoids me so
much as prudish Aura’ (48.510–511), picking up on Nicaea’s comment that Artemis and
Athena are likelier to submit to his desires than herself (16.149–154a).
they appear in their original literary context without distorting them with the
brutal/perverse elements inherent to the epic.
Nonnus pushes further the novelistic paradigm by embedding a secondary
narrative on virginity with two mortal protagonists, the so-called ‘novella’ of
Morrheus (the black Indian chieftain, son-in-law of the Indian king) and the
Bacchante Chalcomede (Books 33–35). Aphrodite recruits Eros for an erotic
mission (33.55–180a) and he inspires in Morrheus an unwelcome desire for
Chalcomede (180b–194); Morrheus is instantly afflicted by love (195–200), but
his eye is not met by Chalcomede, who deludes him into believing that she is
in love with him, but cites as a model Apollo’s unsuccessful love for Daphne
(201–224); Thetis promises to help Chalcomede in preserving her virgin-
ity from the assault of the Indian chieftain (33.346–387);81 Morrheus confers
with his servant Hyssacos and tries to find a cure for love (34.5–88), just as
Arsake confesses her passion for Theagenes to her servant Cybele (Hld. 7.10) or
the Great King confesses he is in love with Callirhoe to his eunuch Artaxates
(Chariton 6.3). The chase of the maiden by the potential rapist is transformed
by Chalcomede into a strategy to lure Morrheus out of the battle, where he is
massacring the Bacchic army (34.269–358, 35.98–159), and when he is about to
rape her a snake magically darts out of her bosom to put him in flight (35.185–
226). This episode is similar to those of the novels in which the female pro-
tagonist manages to keep an unwanted suitor at bay while using her beauty to
conjure the dangers he poses for herself and her beloved,82 but 1) here there
is no beloved and Chalcomede preserves her virginity in the service of a god
(just as Christian virgins preserved theirs for God) and 2) the final element
(the protective snake) seems to be borrowed from a Christian narrative.83 This
shows how the canon of the novel had opened to encompass Christian texts.
3 The Novel as a Model for Rhetorical and Literary Success
Nonnus also draws on the novels as successful texts, i.e. as literary creations
that seduced his fellow pepaideumenoi with their mastering of rhetorical and
literary techniques.
A good example of Nonnus’ borrowing of the rhetorical strategies of the
novel is the episode of Tyre (40.298–580). The initial, brief account of the dis-
81 For novelistic instances of a divinity protecting the feminine protagonist, see above n. 45.
82 E.g. in Hld., Chariclea plays on Thyamis’ expectations (1.18–26) and seduces Pelorus to
conjure Trachinus’ advances (5.29–31).
83 The Acts of John 63–86: see Gerlaud (2005) 254–255; Giraudet (2012); Hadjittoffi (2014);
Accorinti (2015) 55–61.
covery of the purple in the town (40.304–310) sums up AT’s longer narrative
(2.11.4–8),84 and the description of the site (40.311–326)85 looks to AT for his
application of the precepts for the encomium of a town, as transmitted by
Menander Rhetor. In particular he develops AT’s competition between the sea
and the land and the surprise this causes to the viewer (as suggested by Men.
Rh. for towns in coastal areas: 348.30–349.1, 351.13–19):
AT 2.14.2–3 ἐρίζει δὲ περὶ ταύτης γῆ καὶ θάλασσα. Ἕλκει δὲ ἡ γῆ, ἡ δὲ εἰς

ἀμφότερα αὑτὴν ἥρμοσε. Καὶ γὰρ ἐν θαλάσσῃ κάθηται καὶ οὐκ ἀφῆκε τὴν
γῆν ~ Nonn. Dion. 40.316b–317 ἐπεὶ Τύρος εἰν ἁλὶ κεῖται | εἰς χθόνα μοιρηθεῖσα,
συναπτομένη δὲ θαλάσσῃ
AT 2.14.4 καὶ γίνεται τὸ θέαμα καινόν, πόλις ἐν θαλάσσῃ καὶ νῆσος ἐν

γῇ86 ~ Nonn. Dion. 40.315–316a Καί οἱ ὀπιπεύοντι μέσην χθόνα σύζυγον ἅλμῃ
| διπλόον ἔλλαχε θάμβος, 338a Νῆσον ἐν ἠπείρῳ πόθεν ἔδρακον;
The same happens with the identification of geographical accidents and

human body parts (the anthropomorphic metaphor is already present in Men.
Rh. 345.31–346.1, 351.30–352.1):
AT 2.14.3 συνδεῖ γὰρ αὐτὴν πρὸς τὴν ἤπειρον στενὸς αὐχήν, καὶ ἔστιν ὥσπερ
τῆς νήσου τράχηλος ~ Nonn. Dion. 40.318–326 (developed into a complete
anthropomorphic description, see especially 320 καὶ κεφαλὴν καὶ στέρνα
καὶ αὐχένα δῶκε θαλάσσῃ, 326b αὐχένα νύμφης).87
84 AT 2.11.4 οἵον μυθολογοῦσι Τύριοι ~ Nonn. Dion. 40.304 Τυρίῃ . . . κόχλῳ; AT 2.11.4 τοῦ ποιμένος
εὑρεῖν τὸν κύνα (and 5 ἁλιεὺς ἀγρεύει τὴν ἄγραν ταύτην) ~ Nonn. Dion. 40.306 ἧχι κύων
ἁλιεργὸς ἐπ’ αἰγιαλοῖσιν; AT 2.11.5 εὑρίσκει δὲ κύων τὸ ἕρμαιον καὶ καταθραύει τοῖς ὀδοῦσι ~
Nonn. Dion. 40.306b–307 ἐρέπτων | ἐνδόμυχον χαροπῇσι γενειάσι θέσκελον ἰχθύν; AT 2.11.5 καὶ
τῷ στόματι τοῦ κυνὸς περιρρέει τοῦ ἄνθους τὸ αἷμα, καὶ βάπτει τὸ αἷμα τὴν γένυν καὶ ὑφαίνει
τοῖς χείλεσι τὴν πορφύραν ~ Nonn. Dion. 40.308–309 χιονέας πόρφυρε παρηίδας αἵματι κόχλου,
| χείλεα φοινίξας διερῷ πυρί.
85 Analysis in Simon (1999) 137–138.
86 Later also in AT 4.14.7–8. Compare Longus 1.1.1 ‘There is a city on Lesbos called Mitylene,
of great size and beauty; it is transected by channels which bring the sea right into the
city, and graced by bridges of polished marble. It will give you the impression of an island
rather than a city [Νομίσαις οὐ πόλιν ὁρᾶν ἀλλὰ νῆσον]’. The opposition land-water is absent
in the description of the marshes of the Nile in Hld. 1.5–6, 30, but developed in Hld. 9.5.5.
87 For Berytus, Nonnus rejects the image isthmus = neck (41.15b–17), but later introduces an
equally anthropomorphic description (41.28–31).
The theme of the closeness of sailor and shepherd, first introduced by the
narrator (40.327–336) and then amplified in Dionysus’ speech (337–352),88
recalls the paradoxical nature of the Nile as described by AT (4.12.1). More
generally, Dionysus’ wonder before Tyre is similar to Clitophon’s on arriving to
Alexandria,89 and the combination of verbs of sight and wonder in Clitophon’s
approach to this city (AT 5.1.4–5) recurs in Dionysus’ approach to Tyre (Nonn.
Dion. 40.353–365).
Nonnus makes also use of one of AT’s Tyrian myths. The transfer of the
vine and wine into human hands in Tyre, similar to the Athenian myth of
Icarius (2.2.1–6),90 becomes the matrix for a number of passages in the Dion.:
Dionysus’ visit to the shepherd Brongus, to whom the god also gives the wine
as antidoron for his hospitality (17.37–86), and the Indians’ and Aura’s reaction
on first trying wine (14.417–437, 48.602–606).91
Nonnus’ capacity to see the literary and rhetorical potential of a given
text is not limited to longer episodes, but also applied to the construction of
brief scenes. A good example of this is the description of Electra’s palace in
Samothrace (3.131–179).92 The garden is similar to that in which Clitophon
stages a seductive speech for the sake of Leucippe: they share the interlacing
88 Analysis in Simon (1999) 139–140; Accorinti (2004) ad loc.; Chuvin (2013) 544–545. This
disordered mix of land and sea is ‘corrected’ in the description of Berytus (41.14–49),
where Nonnus applies the rhetorical principle of description of a country’s position by
orientation: Men. Rh. 344.29–30, 345.22–31, 347.2–7, 347.14–20, 349.2–13, 349.31–351.18.
89 AT 5.1.1 ἀνιόντι δέ μοι κατὰ τὰς Ἡλίου καλουμένας πύλας συνηντᾶτο εὐθὺς τῆς πόλεως
ἀστράπτον τὸ κάλλος καί μου τοὺς ὀφθαλμοὺς ἐγέμισεν ἡδονῆς ~ Nonn. Dion. 40.337–339 Καὶ
τάδε παπταίνων πολυθαμβέα ῥήξατο φωνήν· | ‘Νῆσον ἐν ἠπείρῳ πόθεν ἔδρακον; Εἰ θέμις εἰπεῖν,
| τηλίκον οὔ ποτε κάλλος ἐσέδρακον’.
90 Fayant (2000) 16, 38–43; Frangoulis (2014) 115–118.
91 AT 2.2.1 ~ Nonn. Dion. 17.42–61a (Brongus receives Dionysus) and 47.38b–41a (Icarius and
Erigone entertain Dionysus). AT 2.2.4 ‘Dionysus complimented the shepherd on the
warmth of his welcome, and proffered him the cup of friendship. The drink was wine’ ~
Nonn. Dion. 47.41b–44a. AT 2.2.4 Πόθεν, ὦ ξένε, σοὶ τὸ ὕδωρ τοῦτο τὸ πορφυροῦν; ~ Nonn.
Dion. 47.78 and 48.602. AT 2.2.4 οὐ γάρ ἐστιν ἐκεῖνο τὸ χαμαὶ ῥέον ~ Nonn. Dion. 47.79–82
(+ 83–88, comparison with honey, milk, kykeon; also 14.419b–422, comparison with other
drinks). AT. 2.2.5 (effect on drinker) ~ Nonn. Dion. 14.423–429 (the Indians trying wine),
47.106–115 (Athenian farmers), 48.605–606 (Aura, on first trying wine).
92 Analysed in Faber (2013; see also the chapter by the same author in this volume);
Frangoulis (2014) 179–182. I shall stress the parallels with the novel, but the passage is rich
in interactions with the description of the palace of Alcinous (Od. 7.81–133) and Cadmus’
arrival to the palace recalls Ap. Rh. 3.927–938. The dogs wag their tales like the tame ani-
mals in Circe’s forest (Od. 10.210–219).
of the plants93 (which in AT anticipates Clitophon’s success).94 The reference

to the songs of the cicadas (myth of Eos and Tithonus) and swallows (myth of
Tereus, Procne and Philomela)95 as a reminder of the disgraces of love is the
same strategy followed by Nonnus when he introduces Hyacinth in the garden
and develops a longer account of the aition (3.153–163). To add to this, the fig-
ure of the gardener opening a channel to irrigate the plants (Nonn. Dion. 3.164–
169) is imported from the initial painting of the novel (AT 1.1.6).96 However, the
final result of the description is completely different, as Nonnus transforms the
luscious description into a typology of love and erotic interactions described
through their vegetal counterparts:97
142b–143 Καὶ ἄρσενα φύλλα πελάσσας | θηλυτέρῳ φοίνικι πόθον πιστώσατο

φοῖνιξ (‘Male palm stretched his leaves over female palm, pledging his
love’): courtship, no reference to outcome.
144–146 ὄγχνη τ’ ἀγλαόκαρπος ὁμήλικι σύμφυτος ὄγχνῃ . . . (‘Pear growing by
pear, all of one age with glorious fruit . . .’): two youngsters of a similar age,
happily married and having children.
147b–148a ἀναινομένῃ παρὰ δάφνῃ | σείετο μύρσινα φύλλα (‘the myrtle waved
his leaves by the reluctant laurel’): the myrtle (Aphrodite’s tree) lusts after
the laurel (Daphne’s tree), just as a lusty young man chases a reluctant
maiden—different species—no reference to the outcome.
150–152a ‘On the fig-tree, mother of sweets, and the juicy pomegranate,
red fruit grew rich over purple fruit beside it’: images of feminine fertility
associated with sweetness.
153–163: the hyacinth triggers a digression on Apollo in love with the
name-sake youth, killed by Zephyr out of jealousy—disgraceful
homo-erotic loves, ending with the death of the eromenos and the mourn-
ing of the erastes.
93 Nonn. Dion. 3.140–153 amorous behaviour of palm and myrtle ~ AT 1.1.2 interlocking of
plants in the garden inserted in the initial painting of Europa, 1.15.2 interlocking of plants
in Clitophon’s garden, 1.17.3–4 Clitophon interprets the behaviour of the male palm lust-
ing after the female (see Bartsch 1989, 156–157). The interlacing of plants is mentioned
in Longus 4.2.5 οἱ κλάδοι συνέπιπτον ἀλλήλοις καὶ ἐπήλλαττον τὰς κόμας (Dionysophanes’
park), but not in Philetas’ garden (2.3.3–2.4.1).
94 Bartsch (1989) 51–53. On spatial erotization in AT see De Temmerman (2012) 526–531.
95 1.15.7 ‘The singers were cicadas and swallows, and they sang respectively of the love of Eos
and the feast of Tereus.’
96 Also in D&C 4.4.1 Lamon works as a gardener irrigating the plants.
97 Also recalling the garden in Alcinous’ palace (Od. 7.114–131, esp. 115–116 ὄγχναι καὶ ῥοιαὶ καὶ
μηλέαι ἀγλαόκαρποι | συκέαι τε γλυκεραὶ καὶ ἐλαῖαι τηλεθόωσαι and 120–121 ὄγχνη ἐπ’ ὄγχνῃ
γηράσκει, μῆλον δ’ ἐπὶ μήλῳ, | αὐτὰρ ἐπὶ σταφυλῇ σταφυλή, σῦκον δ’ ἐπὶ σύκῳ).
The cultivated audience is called to appreciate Nonnus’ ‘improvement’ of AT.

The novels are also part of the general literary background of the Dion. For
instance, Nonnus relies on geographical notions spread by the novel in the way
he describes India (and its main river the Hydaspes) as a prolongation of Egypt
(and the Nile). There may be no direct connection between Heliodorus’ and
Nonnus’ explanation of the sources of the Nile (Hld. 2.28; Nonn. Dion. 26.222–
249), the image of the marriage of the river waters and the land exploited in
both is a common Egyptian image (Hld. 9.9.4–5; Nonn. Dion. 26.231–235) and
the etymology of the Nile as νέη ἰλύς (‘new silt’) mentioned by both (Hld. 9.22.5;
Nonn. Dion. 3.275–278) is trite enough, but the parallels talk of the literary and
‘scientific’ ground shared by Heliodorus and Nonnus.
Heliodorus emphasises the similarity between Egypt and Ethiopia,98 and
Ethiopia is ‘Indianised’ by the use of war elephants (9.16.3–9.17.8, 9.22.2),99 the
description of enormous animals and plants and exotic peoples,100 and the
figure of the gymnosophists (esp. 10.2.1 ff.), a transposition of the Indian gym-
nosophists. Hld.’s Ethiopia makes Nonnus’ India more credible: exotic peoples
(26.52–64, 170–182); strange trees and exotic fauna including the elephant
(183–211, 295–328); the enormous Indian champion Morrheus (34.168–191),
who makes us think of the Ethiopian champion of the novel (Hld. 10.24.3–25.2,
10.30.7–32.2); Nonnus’ Brahmanes, depicted as naked sages (i.e. gymnoso-
phists) with medical skills.101
The descriptions of animals in L&C and Hld. are key elements in the con-
struction of the scenery (in the former Egypt, in the latter Ethiopia).102 From
98 9.22.1–7 according to Hydaspes Syene’s local particularities are shared with Ethiopia. Also
suggested in AT 3.9.2 ‘The banks were suddenly filled with terrifying savages [the Egyptian
boukoloi (‘herdsmen’)]. All were huge, black-skinned (not the pure black of the Indians, more
as you would imagine a half-case Ethiopian), bare-headed, light of foot but broad of body.’
99 After the archetype of the Indian kings: Ael. NA 7.37, 13.22, 16.25, 17.29; Philostr. VA 2.12.
Analysis in Schneider (2004) 353–357, 412–418.
100 Hld. 10.5.1–2, 10.25.2–10.27.4. See Schneider (2004) 45–48.
101 Nonn. Dion. 24.162–163 (σοφοὺς Βραχμῆνας), 36.344–349 Ἀλλὰ σοφοὺς Βραχμῆνας ἀτευχέας
εἰς σὲ κορύσσω· | γυμνοὶ γὰρ γεγάασι . . . (‘Well then, I muster against you my wise Brahmans,
unarmed. For they go naked . . .), 39.357–359 (curative skills).
102 The main literary model for Egyptian animals is Herodotus’ Βook 2, including descrip-
tions of the crocodile (2.68–70), hippopotamus (71), phoenix (73) and ibis (76), which
became school models for the exercise of the ekphrasis (Theon 118.15–17, 120.3–8).
AT joins the fictional tradition by mentioning the phoenix (3.24.3–3.25.7) and the hip-
popotamus (4.2.1–4.3.5), even though he also describes the crocodile (4.19.1–6), where
Heliodorus more realistically mentions the crocodile (6.1.2) and the ibis (6.3.1–3). In
general the Ethiopian fauna is described as enormous and exotic: Hld. 9.22.6–7, 10.5.1–2,
10.25.2, 10.26.2, 10.27.1–4.
AT’s much longer description of the hippopotamus Nonnus selects a few

body parts and a reference to the animal’s voracity.103 On the contrary, for the
elephant104 AT mentions a couple of curious snippets of information (4.4.2–3
pregnancy and life expectancy), focuses on the physical description of the tusks
and trunk (4.4.4–5), and mentions its docility with his jockey (4.4.6), to finish
with an anecdote related to the animal’s foraging habits (4.4.7–4.5.3), whereas
Nonnus gives a brief description of the different parts of the animal, compar-
ing them with those of better known animals to enhance the resulting image
(26.301–315),105 mentions its longevity (296–299) and black skin (300—to match
the equally dark Indians). Nonnus insists on its aggressive behaviour in battle
(316–328), in contrast with the peaceful nature described by AT, but in conso-
nance with Hld. 9.18. In fact Nonnus’ Indian War is described as a confrontation
between Dionysus’ felines and Indian elephants,106 just as in the Aethiopica the
war between the Persians and the Ethiopians becomes a confrontation between
the armoured Persian horses and the Ethiopian elephants (9.12–20).
4 Conclusions
As a reader of novels (at least D&C, L&C, the Aethiopica and some Christian nar-
ratives), Nonnus testifies to the success of the genre, now classical enough to be
incorporated as a major literary referent to the core Greek genre, epic. Nonnus’
choices illustrate what the novel was perceived to do best: constructing erotic
plots and subplots, dissecting eros in mythical and (pseudo-)philosophical
or gnomic contexts, and seducing the pepaideumenoi with the narrative
exploitation of rhetorical patterns and canonical showpieces such as descrip-
tions or paradoxographical morsels.107
103 Body parts: hoof (Nonn. Dion. 26.236 διαξύων . . . ὁπλῇ ~ AT 4.2.2 πλὴν ὅσον ἐν χηλῇ σχίζει τὴν
ὁπλήν), jaws (Nonn. Dion. 26.240 μηκεδαναῖς γενύεσσιν, 242 διερὴν ἀχάρακτον . . . γένυν ~ AT
4.2.3 γένυς εὐρεῖα, ὅση καὶ παρειά), teeth (Nonn. Dion. 26.241 αἰχμῇ καρχαρόδοντι ~ AT 4.2.3
κυνόδοντας καμπύλους). Voracity: Nonn. Dion. 26.242–244 καὶ διερὴν ἀχάρακτον ἔχων γένυν
ἅρπαγα καρπῶν | μιμηλῇ δρεπάνῃ σταχυηφόρα λήια τέμνει, | ἀμητὴρ ἀσίδηρος ἀμαλλοφόρου
τοκετοῖο ~ AT 4.3.2 ὡς ἔστι μὲν ἀδηφαγώτατον καὶ ποιεῖται τροφὴν ὅλον λήϊον.
104 Vian (1990) 285–290; Miguélez Cavero (2014a) 265–277.
105 Compare Hld. 10.27 (giraffe).
106 1.22–25, 18.235–236, 27.132–135, 27.237–238, 36.184–188, 36.313–318.
107 I should like to thank Domenico Accorinti for his patience and encouragement, Tim
Whitmarsh for constructive comments on this paper and my father for improving my
English.
PART 6
An Interpretation of Nonnus’ Work
∵
Chapter 26
Christian Themes in the Dionysiaca

Robert Shorrock
1 Introduction
The Dionysiaca appears, at first sight, to be a text that would be better placed
in the fifth century bc, not the fifth century ad. Nonnus’ epic parades and cel-
ebrates its relationship with the preceding thousand years of Greek literature;
at the same time it seems to go to great lengths to avoid making allusion to
the contemporary world of Late Antiquity, in particular Egypt where the book
was written.1 It is Homer—not Christ—whom Nonnus invokes as his liter-
ary inspiration and ‘father’ (Dion. 25.265), and it is the combined forty-eight
books of Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey—not the books of the Bible—that serve
as a clear stimulus for Nonnus’ forty-eight-book epic.2 Its dogged adherence to
classical form, language and myth has encouraged many to conclude that the
Dionysiaca has little to do with the late antique world that brought it to birth.3
Although there exists a rich tradition of dialogue between the narratives
and iconography of Christ and Dionysus in Late Antiquity, it has been a char-
acteristic of critics working within the classical tradition of Nonnian studies
to downplay the connections between them. Francis Vian, for example, in his
commentary on the concluding book of the epic, rebuts any possibility of a
meaningful interaction between Nonnus’ Dionysiaca and the Christian milieu
of Late Antiquity:
Le poète n’entend pas établir une confrontation entre Dionysos et le

Christ, soit pour présenter le premier comme le rival du second, soit au
contraire pour en faire l’image ou la préfiguration, bien que l’auteur de
la Paraphrase de l’Évangile selon saint Jean ne dédaigne pas de jouer à
1 For attempts to draw out allusions to Nonnus’ contemporary world see esp. Riemschneider
(1968) 73–83; Gigli Piccardi (1998) 61–82, 161–181 and (2003) 60–66.
2 On Nonnus’ relationship with Homer see Hopkinson (1994c); Shorrock (2001) passim;
Bannert/Kröll in this volume.
3 Critics have, however, been prepared to acknowledge the influence of contemporary astrol-
ogy: see Stegemann (1930); Lesky (1971) 915 comments that Nonnus’ interest in magic and
astronomy reflect the mood of the time.

578 Shorrock
l’occasion dans ses deux œuvres sur des thèmes similaires. Mais ce n’est
que par jeu de mots qu’on peut utiliser la terminologie chrétienne en
parlant de l’‘ascension’ de Dionysos, de l’‘assomption’ d’Ariadne ou de
la ‘trinité’ bacchique. La figure d’Aura n’est pas la caricature de la Vierge
Marie, mais son exacte antithèse: vierge violée et infanticide, elle est tout
le contraire de la mère aimante de Jésus qui l’a enfanté par immaculée
conception. . . . Il [sc. Dionysos] se présent avant tout comme une création
littéraire au même titre que l’Ulysse d’Homère ou le Jason d’Apollonios.4
For Vian, then, although parallels may be acknowledged with Christian

texts, they amount to nothing more wordplay and do not alter the way that
the Dionysiaca is read and interpreted. This same position has been recently
restated by Alan Cameron. Though he acknowledges the production of the
epic within a Christian framework, he forcefully resists any attempt to see
a meaningful relationship between text and context. For Cameron, it is not
the case that Nonnus has constructed Dionysus ‘as a rival of Christ’; ‘nor’, he
goes on, ‘is he even . . . trying to assimilate Dionysos and Christ.’5 His reading of
Egyptian material culture is similarly clear: though late antique funerary sculp-
ture, together with silver plate adorned with scenes from mythology has been
interpreted as Christian allegory, ‘another, no less plausible, possibility is that
it was seen as purely decorative.’6
Wolfgang Liebeschuetz has, on the face of it, been more willing to admit that
the context of the poem may have an influence on how it is read. His work has
4 Vian (2003) 94–95; see also the first chapter by Accorinti in this volume. In her Budé com-
mentary on Books 44–46 (the three books which renarrate Euripides’ Bacchae) Simon fol-
lows Vian in rejecting the possibility (put forward by Tissoni 1998) that Dionysus functions as
a ‘figura Christi’: ‘Il nous semble que cela ne correspond pas aux intentions du poète’ (Simon
2004, 133).
5 Al. Cameron (2007) 37.
6 Al. Cameron (2007) 38; compare Leader-Newby’s discussion of the significance of traditional
mythological images on late antique silver plate: the traditional mythological images were
used to disguise cultural change and were part of an elite display of paideia. Leader-Newby
(2004) 123: ‘The surviving display plates of the fourth and early fifth centuries are decorated
lavishly with a range of mythological images . . . What significance did this traditional ico-
nography have for its late antique viewers in a period in which the context in which it had
existed for centuries was being transformed, not least by the establishment of a new reli-
gion, Christianity, which called into question the validity of the mythological tradition? One
answer was that it disguised such changes by maintaining continuity with the past’; on the
communication of paideia through material culture see Leader-Newby (2004) 123–171. See
also Al. Cameron (2011) 698–706 and Agosti in this volume.
Christian Themes in the Dionysiaca 579
identified certain specific allusions that suggest that Nonnus’ Dionysiaca was
indeed engaging with Christian themes; and he has acknowledged that Nonnus’
‘point of view inevitably reflects the concerns of his own times.’7 However, for
Liebeschuetz, the concerns that Nonnus’ text reflects seem to have little to do
with late antique religion and society; instead Liebeschuetz draws attention
to areas of contemporary antiquarian interest, such as the interest in the cus-
toms and traditions of specific cities as expressed by the genre of patria poems.
Ultimately Liebeschuetz sees the Dionysiaca as little more than an extended
exercise in literary-allusion spotting: ‘A principal aim of Nonnus . . . was surely
to give readers the pleasure of recognizing as many as possible of the vast num-
ber of literary allusions—even occasionally to Christian writings—embodied
in the text. If the poem has a message, it is to celebrate the ancient literature
which he has gathered together in his own way into a kind of encyclopaedia.
His text is not committed to any doctrine, religious or otherwise. The poem
illustrates the long survival in the East of the traditional autonomy of secular
literature.’8
Allusions to Christianity that are acknowledged within the Dionysiaca are
interpreted by Liebeschuetz as humorous, but in no way profound: ‘Nonnus
is . . . writing in a spirit of fun . . . he . . . sometimes allows himself to joke about
Christian doctrine’.9 In the same vein he notes ‘light-hearted allusions to simi-
larities between Dionysus and Jesus in respect of divine paternity’.10 The appeal
to ‘humour’ has become something of a trope for Nonnian criticism. In his 2007
article on the death of Icarius and the passion of Christ, Spanoudakis notes
that Nonnus’ approach ‘is defined by covert parody and a great deal of idiosyn-
cratic, if not, at times, perverted wit’.11 One may also compare Miguélez-Cavero:
‘The humorous approach towards the iconography of the gods is used to dis-
mantle their ostensible power, especially in the case of Dionysus and other
male deities. With it Nonnus provides his readers with many opportunities for
7 Liebeschuetz (2001) 234.

8 Liebeschuetz (2001) 234; see Liebeschuetz (1995) 207: ‘the poem would have been read as
essentially non-religious’; Liebeschuetz (2001) 231: ‘But does the glorification of Dionysus
and his fellows really mean that the epic is a religious poem in the sense that the author is
actually presenting Dionysus as an all powerful saviour god, and that his audience would
have recognised the poem as advocating the traditional religion with Dionysus as its
supreme deity?’
11 Spanoudakis (2007) 87; see also 88–89: ‘It is also worthy of note that, whereas there is no
trace of mockery of the Christian God in the Paraphrasis, Nonnus plays with Christian
ideas under the safe cover of the pagan gods.’
580 Shorrock
laughter at the expense of ridiculous images.’12 Most recently Pierre Chuvin, in

his brief discussion of ‘echoes from the Gospels [which] filtered through into
[Nonnus’] secular work’ (including Dionysus’ tearful reaction to the death of
Ampelus which will be discussed further below), chose to characterise these
points of Christian resonance as ‘witticisms’ which ‘come from the mere rhe-
torical tradition’.13
Although some critics have chosen to laugh off analogies between Christ
and Dionysus in the Dionysiaca not everyone has taken Nonnus’ humour so
lightly. For Glen Bowersock, Nonnus’ epic was clearly affected by the Christian
world of Late Antiquity: ‘Christian perspectives impinged just as powerfully
upon pagan thought and imagery as pagan perspectives had earlier shaped
Christian doctrine and iconography.’14 As a result, Nonnus’ Dionysus takes
on the guise of a Christianised pagan deity, ‘a polytheistic Christ’.15 The broad
brush strokes of this picture of the Dionysiaca have been complemented more
recently by critics whose work on the Dionysiaca has grown out of, or been
profoundly informed by, the Paraphrase. Most significant in this respect is the
four-volume BUR text, translation and commentary by Daria Gigli Piccardi
(1–12), Fabrizio Gonnelli (13–24), Gianfranco Agosti (25–39) and Domenico
Accorinti (40–48).16 This commentary provides an invaluable starting point
for any investigation into the Christian texts and subtexts that underpin and
inform the Dionysiaca. What any commentary is unable to provide is a detailed
reading of specific episodes in order to explore the ways in which Christian
themes and resonances play out within the text.
In what follows I wish to focus on two obvious points of intersection
between the narratives of Dionysus and Christ, as played out within the pages
of the Dionysiaca, and to think a little about their potential resonance. I begin
with the birth narrative (including the salutations of Mary and Elisabeth) that
occupies such a significant position in the stories of both Dionysus and Christ;
attention will then shift to the theme of resurrection (both bodily and meta-
phorical), with a specific emphasis on the rebirth of the young satyr Ampelus
as the vine (ampelus).17
12 Miguélez Cavero (2009) 582.

13 Chuvin (2014) 14–15.
14 Bowersock (1994a) 162.
15 As he says in the conclusion to his essay (Bowersock 1994a, 164), ‘Dionysus was the
embodiment of Christianised polytheism, and Nonnus his evangelist.’
16 Gigli Piccardi (2003); Gonnelli (2003); Agosti (2004c); Accorinti (2004).
17 The following analysis is largely extracted from a longer exploration of Christian imagery
within the Dionysiaca of Nonnus from Shorrock (2011) esp. chapter 4, 79–115 (‘Dionysus
and Christ: Nonnus’ Dionysiaca’).
2 A Child is Born
Tell, goddess, of the agent of Cronides’ blazing bed, the breath of the
thunderbolt, assisting in childbirth with its bridal spark, and the flash of
lightning, Semele’s chambermaid; tell of the birth of Bacchus twice-born,
whom Zeus plucked wet from the fire, a half-finished baby, from a mother
who lacked a midwife’s help; with merciful hands he cut an incision in
his thigh and carried him in a male womb, at once his father and lady
mother, with a clear recollection of another birth, when previously in his
fecund head he carried an incredible lump in his pregnant brow and shot
out glinting with her weapons Athena.
A ‘traditional’ reading of this opening scene of the Dionysiaca (1.1–10) would

place a clear emphasis on Nonnus’ engagement with Homer (through the use of
the word ‘goddess’, θεά, in line 1),18 together with connections to the Hellenistic
poetry of Callimachus and Theocritus through the opening formula ‘tell, god-
dess’ (Εἰπέ, θεά).19 From the first word onwards, through its self-conscious use
of Homeric and Hellenistic literary allusion, the Dionysiaca presents itself as a
continuation of classical culture. At the same time, however, for the fifth-cen-
tury ad reader at least, the story of the birth of a child from mortal mother and
immortal father is one that has a particular topicality: as a central part of the
story of Christ, it was narrated in two of the four Gospels and was the subject
of frequent exegesis within the Church Fathers.20 Elsewhere, a clear connec-
tion between the birth of Dionysus and the birth of Christ can be found, for
example, in the representation of the baby Dionysus on the Nea Paphos mosa-
ics in Cyprus.21 A question remains, however, about the extent to which the
18 Vian (1976); see also Gigli Piccardi (2003) 116–117.

19 Callimachus, Dian. 186; Theoc. 22.116; the use of the formula by Nonnus clearly inspired
Musaeus at the opening of his epyllion Hero and Leander: ‘Tell, goddess (Εἰπέ, θεά), of the
witness of hidden love, of the lamp.’ See also Bannert/Kröll in this volume.
20 Luke 2:1–7; Matthew 1:18–25; cf. Or. Sib. 8.456–479, Gregory of Nazianzus, or. 38. On the
virgin birth in the Church Fathers see Gambero (1999); Gromacki (2002) 97–100. On
the theme of miraculous birth see Diogenes Laertius 3.1–2; Iamblicus, VP 5; Pausanias
2.26.3–4; Diodorus Siculus 4.20.2–3, [Herod.] V. Hom. 3; [Plut.] V. Hom. 2; Proclus, V. Hom.
2; Philostratus, V. Ap. 1.4–5 (with thanks to Konstantinos Spanoudakis for the references).
21 See Bowersock (1990) 49–53 and (2006) 39–41; Elsner (1998) 220: ‘And just as some within
early Christianity strove to make their faith accessible through assimilations with pagan-
ism, so some polytheists began to appropriate aspects of Christian iconography to present
their gods in pseudo-Christian terms. In the fourth-century mosaic from Nea Paphos in
Cyprus, the infant Dionysus (looking to all appearances like a baby Jesus) is represented
seated in the lap of Hermes, surrounded by various personifications. The appropriation
582 Shorrock
story of Christ connects with and resonates within the narrative of Dionysus as
it is presented in the Dionysiaca.
One of the first images to confront the reader of the Dionysiaca is that of the
premature foetus of Dionysus, ‘whom Zeus plucked wet from the fire’ (τὸν ἐκ
πυρὸς ὑγρὸν ἀείρας, 1.4). A possible classical intertext for this scene is supplied
by Quintus Smyrnaeus at the beginning of Posthomerica 4, when Apollo lifts
the body of Glaucus from the funeral pyre at Troy for burial in Lycia (lines 4–6):
Τὸν δ’ αὐτὸς Ἀπόλλων

ἐκ πυρὸς αἰθομένοιο μάλ’ ἐσσυμένως ἀναείρας 5
δῶκε θοοῖς Ἀνέμοισι φέρειν Λυκίης σχεδὸν αἴης·
Apollo himself swiftly lifted him up out of the blazing fire and gave him
to the swift winds to take to the land of Lycia.
Nonnus appears to have lifted the words of another classical poet and recon-
textualised them within his own epic. The intertext certainly create a striking
parallel between the two texts: in Quintus a dead body is lifted from a burn-
ing pyre by the god Apollo; in Nonnus a living foetus is lifted from a burning
womb by the god Zeus. From a ‘Christian’ perspective, however, it is possible
to construct a different intertextual narrative. At Par. 3.46–47, during a con-
versation between Jesus and the Jewish leader Nicodemus about the need for
second birth, once physically and again spiritually, we read: ‘Thus is the image
of every man brought to birth—from the wet fire/wet from the fire (ἐκ πυρὸς
ὑγροῦ)22—by the spirit and not by a whirl of dust.’ The image of a man born
from fire clearly intersects with the birth of Dionysus from the fiery womb of
his mother.23 The further detail of ‘wet’, exploiting the paradoxical relationship
between water and fire (and here connected with the water of baptism) makes
of the thematics of the Virgin and Child to a Dionysiac iconography is paralleled by the
equally striking assimilation of Christ and his Mother to Isis suckling the baby Horus’;
cf. Grant (1990) 61 on the second-century Justin Martyr: ‘[W]hat seems to have troubled
him most was the resemblance of the gospel story to myths about Greek gods’. See also
Kristensen in this volume.
22 The phrase may be translated either as ‘wet from the fire’ (following Dion. 1.4), or as ‘from
the wet/liquid fire’. On the paradoxical conceit of ‘wet fire’ see further Dion. 24.55–56.
Konstantinos Spanoudakis notes (pers. comm.) that ὑγρός may appropriate the semantic
field of διερός—meaning both ‘wet’ and ‘living’: see Williams (1981).
23 The allusion is noted and discussed by Gigli Piccardi (2003) 51; 118: ‘Mi pare evidente
che Nonno abbia rivissuto il tema della doppia nascita di Dioniso, pensando alla doppia
nascita in carne e in spirito (e fuoco) del Vangelo giovanneo’.
the intersection all the more powerful. The connection between these two
texts is not simply linguistic, however, but also thematic. Baptism, that is, the
need for a man to be born twice—once from flesh/dust, once from the Holy
Spirit—is a central concern of the third book of the Paraphrase (lines 16–18):
Unless, after the pangs that brought his birth to completion, a mortal
man is born a second time this man will not be able to see the eternal
kingdom.
The double birth of the Christian suggests an obvious parallel with the dou-
ble birth of Dionysus, once from a mortal mother and once from an immortal
father.
A further striking intersection with the world of Late Antiquity comes in line
seven of Book 1, where Zeus is described as both ‘father and mistress mother’
(πατὴρ καὶ πότνια μήτηρ). The phrase derives ultimately from Homer, who
deploys it on some twelve different occasions.24 Vian in his 1976 commentary
refers readers to the occurrence of the phrase at Iliad 11.452, where it is used
in a ‘sens différent’.25 Arguably, however, it is the use of this Homeric phrase
at Iliad 6.429—where Andromache addresses her husband Hector (with the
infant Astyanax close by)—that is more worthy of note (lines 429–430):
Ἕκτορ ἀτὰρ σύ μοί ἐσσι πατὴρ καὶ πότνια μήτηρ

ἡδὲ κασίγνητος, σὺ δέ μοι θαλερὸς παρακοίτης 430
But Hector, you are my father and mistress mother, and brother, and you
are my vigorous husband.
It is striking that of all the occurrences of this phrase in Homer, this is the
only time when a single person (Hector) is imagined as fulfilling the role of
both father and mother. As such, the scene in Iliad 6 affords the closest parallel
with Nonnus’ use of the phrase, since it is Zeus alone who is forced to play the
part of both parents with regard to the foetus Dionysus. The Homeric phrase
addressed by Andromache to Hector shortly before his death is redeployed
within the Dionysiaca to describe the role that Zeus has to play shortly after
the death of Semele; but whereas Homer’s description of Hector as ‘mother
and father’ was purely metaphorical, Nonnus’ description of Zeus has become
a paradoxical reality.
24 Eight times in the Iliad; four in the Odyssey.

25 Vian (1976) 46 n. 3.
584 Shorrock
Though it might seem that Nonnus’ use of this allusion can be sufficiently
‘explained’ in terms of its classical resonance we must again be wary of ignor-
ing the late antique context within which such an allusion was formulated. For
the notion of a single figure representing both mother and father is not ‘simply’
a matter of literary interest, but touches on an important late antique debate
about the way that the figure of Christ himself was understood. For Origen,
Christ is himself explicitly imagined in the paradoxical position of both the
mother and father: ‘And Christ can be called father and mother (πατὴρ καὶ
μήτηρ): a father for those who possess the spirit of adoption as sons; a mother
for those who need milk and not solid food’.26 For Clement of Alexandria it
is not Christ, but the divine logos who is imagined in the role of father and
mother to an infant Christ: ‘The logos is everything to the infant: father and
mother (καὶ πατὴρ καὶ μήτηρ) and teacher and nurse’.27
In his third homily, John Chrysostom applies the same formula to the rela-
tionship between himself and his congregation: ‘You are everything to me:
both father and mother (καὶ πατὴρ καὶ μήτηρ), brothers, children’.28 Though
Chrysostom shares a clear frame of reference with Origen and Clement, struc-
turally at least, his choice of words (‘you are . . . to me father, mother, broth-
ers’) takes us right back to Andromache’s emotional farewell to Hector.29 The
complex overlap of Christian and traditional imagery here reminds us once
again that we must resist the temptation to read Nonnus’ use of the phrase
as if it existed in a direct and unmediated relationship with the classical liter-
ary past.30 When the perspective of writers such as Origen, Clement, and John
Chrysostom is also considered we are forced to confront a much richer inter-
textual picture.
26 Expositio in Proverbia, PG 17.212.9–12; see also Synesius, Hymns 5.63–65: ‘You are father,
you are mother (σὺ πατὴρ, σὺ δ’ ἐσσὶ μάτηρ), you are male and female, you are speech and
silence’; see Gruber/Strohm (1991) ad loc.
27 Paedagogus 1.6.42.3.2–3.
28 In Acta apostolorum, PG 60.42.28–31.
29 See also Themistius, Peri philias 268b.1–2: ‘But to each one he is father and mother (καὶ
πατὴρ καὶ μήτηρ ἐστί) and brother and in the same way kin.’
30 For a sophisticated discussion of the ‘meaning’ of classical quotations within late antique
biblical epic see Stella (2007).
3 Salutations
Liebeschuetz has argued that a number of references in the Dionysiaca ‘allude

to the salutations of Mary or Elisabeth (Luke 1:28, 42), unmistakably pointing
to a parallel between the birth of Jesus and Dionysus’.31 Since he does not go
into detail, it will be worthwhile to examine his assertions a little more closely
in order to consider the possibility of further parallels between the birth sto-
ries of Dionysus and Christ.
The salutation of Mary refers to the visitation of the angel who comes to
give her the news that she is to be the mother of the son of God. It is described
in detail at Luke 1:28–33:
28 And the angel came in unto her, and said, Hail (χαῖρε, κεχαριτωμένη),
thou that art highly favoured, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou
among women (εὐλογημένη σὺ ἐν γυναιξίν).32
29 And when she saw him, she was troubled at his saying, and cast in her
mind what manner of salutation this should be.
30 And the angel said unto her, Fear not, Mary: for thou hast found favour
with God.
31 And, behold, thou shalt conceive in thy womb, and bring forth a son,
and shalt call his name JESUS.
32 He shall be great, and shall be called the Son of the Highest: and the
Lord God shall give unto him the throne of his father David:
33 And he shall reign over the house of Jacob for ever; and of his kingdom
there shall be no end.33
This scene presents broad parallels with the ‘salutations’ that the messenger
god Hermes gives to Electra, the mother of Harmonia, at Dion. 3.425–427, in
order to persuade her to allow her daughter to go to Cadmus: ‘Hail (χαῖρε), my
mother’s sister, bedfellow of Zeus! Hail, most blessed of all women of future
times (χαῖρε, γυναικῶν | πασάων μετόπισθε μακαρτάτη), because Zeus keeps the
sovereignty of the world for your children’.34 Alongside the (not altogether
31 Liebeschuetz (2001) 234 n. 43; see Golega (1930) 68–74.

32 These words are omitted in the earliest Greek MSS, see Nestle-Aland28 in app. crit.
33 All biblical quotations are from KJV.
34 The correspondence is also noted by Gigli Piccardi (2003) 323–324. See also 4.77–78 where
Aphrodite addresses Harmonia: ‘Blessed girl (Ὀλβίη)! What a handsome stranger you
have in the house! What a man to court you, most blessed of women (μακαρτάτη)!’; at
586 Shorrock
s urprising) parallel of the greeting χαῖρε, there is, however, a further similar-
ity in the way that both women are described: where Mary is ‘blessed among
women’ (εὐλογημένη σὺ ἐν γυναιξίν), Electra is ‘most blessed of all women’
(γυναικῶν | πασάων . . . μακαρτάτη); and while the angel promises kingly rule for
Mary’s son for all eternity (καὶ τῆς βασιλείας αὐτοῦ οὐκ ἔσται τέλος, Luke 1:33),
Electra’s offspring are promised the ‘sovereignty of the world’ (κοιρανίην κόσμοιο,
3.427). A faint echo of Nonnus’ ‘salutation’ of Electra may even be detected in
a Christian epigram ‘on the Annunciation’ by the sixth-century poet and histo-
rian Agathias (a poet who was clearly influenced by Nonnus)35 at AP 1.44.1–2:
‘Hail (χαῖρε), maiden full of grace, most blessed (μακαρτάτη), Bride immacu-
late, you will have in your womb the son of God conceived without a father.’
As the salutation of Mary leads to the birth of Christ, so the salutation of
Electra leads to the birth of Semele, the mother-to-be of Dionysus. In due
course, Semele is given her own salutation from none other than Zeus, the
father of the child himself in the closing lines of Book 7 (366–368): ‘Bring forth
a son who will not die, and I shall call you immortal. Blessed woman (Ὀλβίη),
you will bring forth joy for gods and men, having conceived a son who will
make mortals forget their troubles’. As with Mary, Semele’s happiness is here
directly attributed to the future greatness of her son.36 The positive effect that
Semele’s son is destined to have on the world parallels the description of the
future impact of Mary’s son at Matthew 1:21: ‘And she shall bring forth a son,
and thou shalt call his name JESUS: for he shall save his people from their sins.’37
In Mary’s song of praise to God at Luke 1:48–52 further details are provided
about the relationship between the happiness of Mary and the actions of
her son:
48 For he hath regarded the low estate of his handmaiden: for, behold,
from henceforth all generations shall call me blessed (μακαριοῦσίν με
πᾶσαι αἱ γενεαί).
49 For he that is mighty hath done to me great things; and holy is his name.
9.72 Hermes gives salutations to Ino, to whom he entrusts the care of the baby Dionysus:
‘blessed (Ὀλβίη) are you among all the daughters of Cadmus’.
35 For Agathias’ relationship with Nonnus see Av. Cameron (1970) esp. 25–26; for a recent
discussion of the poets of the so-called ‘school of Nonnus’ see Miguélez Cavero (2008).
36 Compare also the proud boasts of Semele from her position in heaven at 9.208–243; espe-
cially 9.237: ‘Semele is happiest (Ὀλβίστη) because of her son’.
37 Matthew plays here on the fact that Jesus means ‘saviour’ in Hebrew; elsewhere Jesus’
appellation as Christ is explained etymologically from χριστός meaning ‘anointed’;
Nonnus exploits the significance of Dionysus’ own name at Dion. 9.18–20 ‘[Zeus] gave the
newborn Lyaios a surname to suit his birth, and called him Dionysus . . .’.
50 And his mercy is on them that fear him from generation to

generation.
51 He hath shewed strength with his arm; he hath scattered the proud
(ὑπερηφάνους) in the imagination of their hearts.
52 He hath put down the mighty from their seats, and exalted them of low
degree.
This double mission of punishment and mercy complements the mission

statement of Dion. 13 when Zeus sends a message to Dionysus instructing him
to ‘drive out of Asia . . . the race of arrogant (ὑπερφιάλων) Indians . . . sweep
from the sea Deriades the king and teach all nations the sacred dances of the
vigil and the purple fruit of vintage’ (lines 13–17).
According to the Gospel of Luke, after Mary has received the news that she is
to give birth, she hurries off to the house of Zacharias to pay a visit to Elisabeth.
Mary now delivers her own salutation to Elisabeth (Luke 1:39–45):
39 And Mary arose in those days, and went into the hill country with
haste, into a city of Juda;
40 And entered into the house of Zacharias, and saluted Elisabeth.
41 And it came to pass, that, when Elisabeth heard the salutation of Mary,
the babe leaped in her womb (ἐσκίρτησεν τὸ βρέφος); and Elisabeth was
filled with the Holy Ghost:
42 And she spake out with a loud voice, and said, Blessed art thou among
women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb (ὁ καρπὸς τῆς κοιλίας σου).
43 And whence is this to me, that the mother of my Lord should come to
me?
44 For, lo, as soon as the voice of thy salutation sounded in mine ears, the
babe leaped in my womb for joy (ἐσκίρτησεν ἐν ἀγαλλιάσει τὸ βρέφος ἐν τῇ
κοιλίᾳ μου).
45 And blessed is she that believed (καὶ μακαρία ἡ πιστεύσασα): for there
shall be a performance of those things which were told her from the Lord.
What is of interest here is not so much the salutation itself, but its effect:
Mary’s words cause Elisabeth’s unborn child to ‘leap in her womb’ (ἐσκίρτησεν
τὸ βρέφος), something that is given extra emphasis in the Gospel story through
the repetition of the phrase.38 In fact, the leaping foetus finds an obvious
38 It is first described by the narrator (Luke 1:41.2–3), then a few lines later it is repeated by
Elisabeth herself (1:44.2–3).
588 Shorrock
arallel in the Dionysiaca, where we read the following description of the

p
unborn Dionysus (8.27–32):39
The child40—cognisant, but not yet born—joined in his mother’s dance

(συνεσκίρτησε τεκούσῃ) as if he also were maddened by the pipes, and
although only half made sounded a self-taught echo of tune from within
the womb (ὑποκόλπιον ἠχώ). So in the burden (ὄγκῳ) of the manchilding
womb grew the messenger of good cheer, that intelligent baby (νοερὸν
βρέφος).
Within the classical tradition, the topos of the sentient foetus can be traced
back at least as far as Callimachus: at Del. 86–99 Apollo, as yet ‘in the womb’
(ὑποκόλπιος), becomes angry and utters threats from within the womb. It
seems quite likely that Nonnus has this Callimachean passage in mind when
he described the ‘echo from the womb’ (ὑποκόλπιον ἠχώ);41 at the same time,
it is difficult to ignore the intersection between Dionysus leaping in Semele’s
womb and John the Baptist leaping in Elisabeth’s womb. The connection would
no dount have been apparent to Agathias, who wrote his own epigram ‘on the
Visitation’ (AP 1.45.1–2): ‘The prophet, inside the womb, saw and showed by
leaping (σκιρτήμασιν) that your child was God, and his mistress mother (πότνια
μήτηρ) gave praise’. Agathias’ lines clearly originate in the text of Luke, but it is
noteworthy that he should describe Mary as ‘mistress mother’ (πότνια μήτηρ).
The phrase is Homeric, but (as noted above) it is also to be found at Dion. 1.7
(and nowhere else in the whole of Nonnus), where it is used to describe Zeus
in his role as the surrogate mother of Dionysus.
A linguistic relationship between Nonnus and Luke is most obviously dis-
cernible in Nonnus’ use of the compound form of σκιρτέω (‘to dance’). A brief
analysis of two nouns βρέφος (‘new-born child’, ‘foetus’) and ὄγκος (‘mass’,
‘lump’)—both used to describe Dionysus whilst still inside his mother’s
womb will help to illuminate the extent to which the wider vocabulary of the
Dionysiaca is grounded in and drawn from late antique theological discourses,
39 See Golega (1930) 71; Gigli Piccardi (2003) 576.

40 Rouse (1940) translates πάις here not as ‘child’ but as ‘fruit of the womb’, suggesting that
he too had the salutation of Elisabeth in his mind at this point (see Luke 1:42).
41 At Del. 4.160 ff. the pregnant Leto arrives on the island of Cos and is advised by her unborn
baby that he should not be born there; the foetus Apollo goes on to address Ptolemy
Philadelphus ‘greatly you will praise for all the days hereafter he who was a prophet while
still in the womb’ (lines 189–190).
rather than being drawn exclusively from the word-hoard of the classical
tradition.
The word βρέφος first occurs in the Dionysiaca in the fifth line of the proem
when it is used to describe the premature Dionysus. The word features hardly
at all in the epic tradition, neither in the sense of ‘baby in the womb/foetus’
nor more generally in the sense of ‘new-born child’.42 In fact, Nonnus’ use of
the word accounts for twenty-nine out of thirty-five citations in extant epic
poetry, with only a single occurrence in the whole of Homer.43 Drawing con-
clusions from word frequency can be a dangerous exercise, not simply because
of the vast gaps that exist in our knowledge, but also because an author such
as Nonnus is so voluminous that his statistics for the use of a specific word
can look impressive without necessarily being significant. It is nevertheless of
interest to observe that in between Homer and Nonnus the noun βρέφος takes
on a distinctively Christian resonance. The wider Christian use of the word
may be derived from its occurrence in the Gospel of Luke: it is used by Luke
twice with reference to Christ as a ‘baby lying in a manger’ (βρέφος . . . κείμενον
ἐν φάτνῃ) and twice with reference to the John the Baptist as a ‘foetus in the
womb’ (τὸ βρέφος ἐν τῇ κοιλίᾳ).44 After Luke the word is used frequently among
the Church Fathers, both in specific quotations from the Gospel and with refer-
ence to Christ and John more generally.45 Its use in a scene from the Dionysiaca
that already appears to intersect with the Gospel of Luke can only increase the
potential for interplay between the two passages.
The basic meaning of the word ὄγκος is the ‘bulk, size, mass (of a body)’.46
Nonnus uses the word in this general sense in thirty out of total of thirty-
five occasions; on the remaining five occasions the word is used to describe
the child in the womb.47 In three of these instances the description is quali-
fied by specific reference to the ‘stomach’.48 In the passage quoted above,
for example, the foetus of Dionysus is described as the ‘lump/weight in the
stomach’ (γαστέρος ὄγκῳ, 8.31). In surviving literary sources before the fourth
42 L SJ, s.v. ‘βρέφος’.

43 At Iliad 23.266 it is used to describe the foetus of a mule that is to be given as a prize at
the funeral games for Patroclus; Nonnus alludes to this scene (but not this line) at Dion.
19.120–121.
44 For Christ see Luke 2:12; 2:16; for John see Luke 1:41; 1:44.
45 See, for example, Origen, In Jo. 6.49.253; John Chrysostom, In natalem Christi diem, PG
56.392; Theodoret, De incarnatione domini, PG 75.1472.
46 L SJ, s.v. ‘ὄγκος’ (B) I.1.
47 L SJ, s.v. ‘ὄγκος’ (B) I.2. The word first occurs at Dion. 1.9 (with reference to the birth of
Athena from the head of Zeus); see also 5.193; 8.13; 8.31; 24.210; 41.74.
48 See Dion. 24.210; 41.74.
590 Shorrock
century ad this specific phrase is virtually unknown;49 but from the fourth
century onwards the phrase begins to gain currency. What is interesting about
this is that the phrase occurs primarily within theological texts—almost exclu-
sively with reference to Mary’s unborn child.50 Nonnus’ own use of the phrase
γαστέρος ὄγκῳ in the context of the pregnancy of Semele seems hard to divorce
from its prevalent usage within contemporary theological discourse. Or to put
it in a slightly different way, when Nonnus writes about the pregnant form of
Semele or Aura or Athena he does so using vocabulary that is inescapably and
inevitably connected to the story of the birth of Christ.
4 Death and Resurrection
‘Among the most conspicuous features of the fiction of the Roman empire,’
writes Glen Bowersock, ‘not only the prose romances but the mythological
confections as well, is resurrection after death in the original body.’51 He goes
on: ‘The widespread use of the resurrection motif in many forms of Roman
imperial fictional writing—erotic romance, hagiography, mythological revi-
sionism, and satire—suggests an unusually great interest in this subject, far
beyond any interest documented for earlier periods.’52 The explanation that
Bowersock puts forward for this phenomenon is that the stories of the Gospels
had a direct influence on the production of Imperial literature. In what fol-
lows I want to consider the influence of the Christian scene of resurrection on
the Ampelus episode in Dion. 11–12—the most prominent and extensive treat-
ments of the resurrection theme within the epic.53
49 The earliest citation occurs at Euripides, Ion 15.

50 For the use of this phraseology with reference to the Virgin birth see Theodoret, De incar-
natione domini, PG 75.1461.16: τὸν ὄγκον τῆς γαστρός; Pseudo-John Chrysostom, In natale
domini nostri Jesu Christi, PG 61.764.70: ὁ ὄγκος τῆς γαστρός; Peccata fratrum non evulganda,
PG 51.361.4: ὁ τῆς γαστρός ὄγκος; see also Basil, Homiliae super Psalmos, PG 29.488.9: γαστρὸς
ὄγκον; Gregory of Nazianzus, carm. 1.2.10.446 Crimi (PG 37.712.10), 1.2.32.35 (PG 37.918.13).
Athanasius records Mary’s question to Joseph at Sermo de descriptione deiparae, PG
28.952.41: ‘why do you look at my bump (τὸν ὄγκον τῆς γαστρός μου) with insolent eyes?’
51 Bowersock (1994b) 99.
52 Bowersock (1994b) 113.
53 For a number of characters in the Dionysiaca death is not the end, but represents the
beginning of a new life: in Book 47 Icarius, Erigone (and her dog) are turned into stars
following their tragic deaths (lines 246–264); Ariadne achieves a similar catasterism after
her own death (47.700–704); Semele is welcomed into Olympus after her own fiery death
(9.206–207; 47.697–700). For the story of the ‘resurrection’ of Tylus at Dion. 25.451–552 see
The story of the young satyr Ampelus—his death and rebirth in the form of
a vine will have a profound and far-reaching effect on Dionysus who changes in
the space of two short books from a happy-go-lucky young man to a hero with a
divine mission to fulfil. In Book 11 Dionysus enjoys a charmed and carefree life
in the company of his young lover Ampelus. This comes to an abrupt end when
Ampelus is thrown from the back of a bull, trampled, gored and decapitated.
Dionysus is overcome with emotion at the death of his young friend.54 His grief
is particularly strong because he is aware that for Ampelus death is the end
and that it is not possible for him to raise Ampelus from the dead (11.304–306):
‘Alas that Hades is never kind and does not in exchange for a corpse accept any
glorious gifts of rich metals, so that I can make dead Ampelus alive once more
(Ἄμπελον ὄφρα θανόντα πάλιν ζώοντα τελέσσω)’.
Dionysus is given some consolation by the god Eros (in disguise as the old
satyr Silenus) who recounts to him the story of two doomed lovers Calamus
and Carpus (Dion. 11.369–483). In this story two young friends compete against
each other in races first on land and then in the nearby river. Carpus is tragi-
cally drowned; Calamus gets safely to shore, but overcome by grief, he throws
himself into the water to join his friend. However, death is not the end for either
of them: Calamus gives his form to the reeds (καλάμοισιν) and Carpus grows up
as the fruit (καρπός) of the earth (11.480–481). This story is clearly designed to
mirror that of Ampelus, anticipating Ampelus’ later rebirth in the form of a
vine. Calamus, Carpus and Ampelus are all transformed into eponymous sub-
stances (reeds, fruit and vines respectively) and so manage to escape the final-
ity of death and live on in a new form. At the beginning of Book 12 the season
Autumn gains access to an oracle preserved in the tablets of Harmonia that
confirms the direct link between the story of Calamus and that of Ampelus
(12.99–102): ‘From young Calamus will spring a reed rising straight and bending
to the breeze, a delicate sprout of the fruitful soil, to support the tame vine.55
Ampelus shall change form into a plant and give his name to the fruit of the
vine (Ἄμπελος ἀμπελόεντι χαρίζεται οὔνομα καρπῷ).’56
Shorrock (2011) 97–98; Spanoudakis (2013b). On the resurrection theme in the Dionysiaca
see also Accorinti (2015) 61–67.
54 A leading literary model here is, of course, the relationship between Achilles and
Patroclus—Patroclus’ death brings Achilles back into the war; Ampelus’ death will pre-
cipitate Dionysus’ own entry into war against the Indians; see further Shorrock (2001) 58,
esp. n. 100.
55 As Calamus (the reed) supports Ampelus (the vine) so the story of Calamus supports the
story of Ampelus.
56 A crucial difference between the stories of Ampelus/Dionysus and Carpus/Calamus is, of
course, that Calamus drowns himself in order to be with his dead friend, whilst Dionysus
is unable to suffer a mortal death.
592 Shorrock
For the moment, however, Ampelus’ transformation still lies in the future.
Lacking a ‘healing physic’ (φάρμακον) for his fallen comrade (12.118), Dionysus
continues in his grief: the tambourines fall silent, rivers cease flowing and
trees mourn. It is at this point, however, that something miraculous takes
place (12.139): ‘the Fate unraveled and turned back the awful threads’ (φρικτὰ
μετετρέψαντο παλίλλυτα νήματα Μοῖραι).57 The Fate Atropus confirms the mir-
acle in emphatic terms (12.142–145): ‘He lives, I declare (Ζώει τοι), Dionysus—
your boy; and he will not pass the bitter water of Acheron. Your lamentation
has found out how to undo the inflexible threads of unturning fate, it has
turned back the irrevocable. Ampelus is not dead, even if he died (Ἄμπελος οὐ
τέθνηκε, καὶ εἰ θάνεν).’
After Atropus has spoken, a ‘great miracle’ (μέγα θάμβος) appears to
Dionysus (12.173) as confirmation of her fateful words (12.174–176): ‘For the
lovely corpse rose up (καὶ γὰρ ἀναΐξας ἐρόεις νέκυς) and took the form of a creep-
ing snake, and became the heal-trouble flower [i.e. the vine].’ Dionysus himself
places clear emphasis on the paradoxical miracle of Ampelus’ resurrection:
‘Persephone . . . saved you alive in death (καὶ σὲ νέκυν ζώγρησε) for brother
Bacchus. You did not die as Atymnius is dead (Οὐ θάνες, ὡς τέθνηκεν Ἀτύμνιος)’
(12.215–216); ‘You are still alive my boy, even if you have died (ζώεις δ’ <εἰσ>έτι,
κοῦρε, καὶ εἰ θάνες)’ (12.219).
Although there is no bodily resurrection that would create a perfect ‘fit’
with the story of Christ, the resurrection of Ampelus appears nevertheless to
intersect significantly with a wider Christian interest in the theme of life after
death: Christ and Lazarus both suffer bodily death before being raised up to
life again in the same form; Ampelus dies bodily but gains new life through
metamorphosis. It should be emphasised that Ampelus does not achieve res-
urrection in the same bodily form as before, but this can hardly disguise the
broad parallels with the resurrection of Lazarus and Christ. Such parallels
are supported by the correspondence and interaction between the ἄμπελος
of Par. 15 and the Ἄμπελος of Dion. 11, explored elsewhere.58 It seems hard to
deny that there is a prominent overlap—and suggestive interplay—between
the two texts: where Christ uses metaphor to describe his own similarity to a
vine, in the Dionysiaca, the young satyr called Ampelus is actually transformed
into the plant that bears his name; Christ the metaphorical vine will suffer
death, but will be bodily resurrected and will then return to heaven; Ampelus,
the satyr will die, but will enjoy resurrection and new life as the vine.59
57 Cf. Par. 11.177; 20.44.

58 See Shorrock (2011) 72–75.
59 Compare the double metamorphosis of Ampelus (first as snake, then as vine) with the
two stages of Christ’s own resurrection (first in bodily form, then in his heavenly aspect).
The figure of Lazarus as portrayed in the Paraphrase suggests further cor-

respondence with Ampelus: the one is a friend of Jesus, the other a friend of
Dionysus; both suffer death; both enjoy new life—one in his original body, the
other in the form of a vine. By a happy numerical coincidence—as if to con-
solidate the connection—both Ampelus and Lazarus die in the eleventh book
of their respective epic poems. The coincidence does not end there: just as the
number eleven is imbued with significance within the Christian tradition on
account of the presentation of the Lazarus episode in the eleventh chapter of
the Gospel of John,60 so within the classical tradition the number eleven takes
on a particular significance of its own: it is in the eleventh book of Homer’s
Odyssey (the so-called Nekyia) that Odysseus has his celebrated encounter
with the spirits of the Underworld. A reader who approaches the story of the
death and resurrection of Ampelus might well consider the numerical coinci-
dence that brings together the story of Lazarus and that of Homer’s ‘book of
the dead’ into view at the same time. Ironically, in the eleventh book of both
the Paraphrase and the Dionysiaca both Lazarus and Ampelus respectively
manage to achieve what none of the shades of the Underworld encountered
by Odysseus is able to achieve: a return from Hades.61
5 The Tears of Dionysus
Throughout the Dionysiaca Dionysus is presented as a hero who does not cry,
as Pan asks at 19.170: ‘what have tears to do with Dionysus?’ (τί δάκρυσι καὶ
Διονύσῳ;). However upset he may be, the son of Zeus remains steadfastly ‘tear-
less’ (ἀδακρύτος),62 with ‘unweeping eyes’ (ὄμμασιν ἀκλαύτοισιν).63 It is all the
more remarkable therefore that following the death of Ampelus Dionysus is
actually described as shedding tears. At 11.321, the thought of tears is already
clearly pressing upon him when Dionysus himself says (imagining himself in
The transformation of the crushed grape into wine itself marks a symbolic performance
of death followed by resurrection; see Rech (1998) 34–35.
60 Compare Bulatkin (1972) 36: ‘In Christian allegory, eleven was called the number of excess
because it exceeded ten, which had come to symbolize the law of the Ten Commandments.
Thus, Saint Augustine interprets the number eleven as a “going beyond” or transgression
of the law, and therefore, sin.’
61 Lazarus is explicitly imagined as having returned from ‘Hades’ at 11.22, 163, 165; reference
is also made to ‘Lethe’ at 165. These are the only references to the Underworld in the entire
Paraphrase. On Ampelus descent to, and return from, Hades see Dion. 11.214, 304–307;
12.214.
62 See Dion. 11.208; 12.138; 30.110.
63 See Dion. 25.310; 29.99; 29.275; 29.318; 37.42.
594 Shorrock
the role of the now dead Ampelus): ‘Dionysus who does not mourn, do not
shed tears for me’ (Νηπενθὴς Διόνυσος, ἐμοὶ μὴ δάκρυα λείβῃς). But it is the con-
cluding line of Atropus’ speech (announcing the resurrection of Ampelus)
that provides us with the clearest indication that Dionysus has failed to keep
his composure (12.171): Βάκχος ἄναξ δάκρυσε, βροτῶν ἵνα δάκρυα λύσῃ (‘Lord
Bacchus wept, in order to put an end to the tears of mankind’).
The contested significance of Dionysus’ tears at this point has turned
this one line into perhaps the most quoted, even notorious, of all of lines of
Nonnus’ poetry.64 The hinge of the debate turns on the possible ‘tonalité chré-
tienne’ of this line.65 As has long been observed the imagery used by Atropus
at Dion. 12.171 finds a close parallel in a passage of the Commentary of Cyril of
Alexandria on John 11:35 (the Lazarus episode); it has also been noted that the
tears of Dionysus intersect strikingly with a description of Christ’s reaction to
the death of Lazarus at Par. 11.123–124.66
Vian has little to say about the effect that such a resonance might have on
our reading of Dionysus. Liebeschuetz is more categorical in his rejection of
any meaningful resonance at this point: the implication that this line sug-
gests the Christianisation of Dionysus, he argues, is simply ‘not right’.67 More
recently Alan Cameron has expressed scepticism over the Christian overtones
of this line: ‘Dionysos grieves for the death of his young friend Ampelus, who
is turned into a living vine-shoot. For all its trappings, this is simply an old-
fashioned aetiology. For all its Christian resonance, the line in question is just
a formula that came naturally to the pen of a Christian, without any wider
implications beyond its immediate context.’68 Cameron’s uncompromising
pronouncement seems designed as a final word on the matter, yet I do not
think that this line can be dismissed as readily as he suggests as ‘simply’ an
aetiology and ‘just’ a formula. As will be seen the resonance of the line and its
64 See, for example, Bowersock (1994a) 162.

65 Noted by Vian (1995) 195; see also Gigli Piccardi (2003) 835.
66 The correspondence between Cyril’s words, In Jo. ΙΙ, 281.18–282.2 Pusey, and Dionysiaca
12.171 was pointed out by Joseph Golega in his 1930 study of the Paraphrase (Golega 1930,
69), an observation developed four years later by Bogner (1934) 332 who suggested that
the only explanation for the similarity in phraseology was that Dionysus was here being
established as an opponent and rival of Christ. Vian (1995) 68 n. 2 notes that Bogner’s
conclusion was over-hasty, though he does not elaborate on this judgement.
68 Al. Cameron (2007) 37 (cf. Al. Cameron 2000, 180–181); he continues ‘Dionysos is not
portrayed as a saviour or redeemer. His mission is simply to bring men and (especially)
women joy in the form of wine . . . Nonnus is not trying to portray Dionysos as a rival of
Christ, nor is he even (as sometimes suggested) trying to assimilate Dionysos and Christ.’
intersection with Christian discourse is far deeper and more nuanced than has
been appreciated by recent critics.
It must first be observed that this line when discussed has tended to be
treated in isolation, without reference to its wider context. It is important
to note that the line forms the conclusion of a thirty-line speech by the fate
Atropus that is, in its entirety, directly concerned with the triumphant res-
urrection of Ampelus.69 As the very last line of the speech of Atropus, the
description of the tears of Dionysus are afforded especial prominence. This
prominence is further enhanced by the line’s striking rhetorical composition.
It is divided into two contrasting, but interrelated, halves:
Βάκχος ἄναξ δάκρυσε, / βροτῶν ἵνα δάκρυα λύση.
In addition to the polyptoton of δάκρυ—in each half (emphasising the theme

of tears), the opening of each clause suggests a clear antithesis between the
world of gods (Βάκχος) and the world of men (βροτῶν). Furthermore, the end of
each clause is marked by a verb—the first implying grief (δάκρυσε), the second
implying release (λύση).70
I want now to look more closely at the apparent intertextual relation-
ship between Dion. 12.171 and both the story of Lazarus (as presented in the
Paraphrase) and Cyril’s commentary. Nonnus’ account of the tearful reaction
of Christ to the news of the death of Lazarus at Par. 11.123–124 takes its inspi-
ration from John 11:35: ‘Jesus wept’ (ἐδάκρυσεν ὁ Ἰησοῦς).71 In Nonnus’ version
this brief statement of fact is expanded thus: ‘Jesus himself began to groan,
69 Dion. 12.142–171.

70 The verbal form λύσῃ itself emphasises an important feature of Dionysus as a god who
sets free/liberates—as his cult title Λυαῖος implies; see Shorrock (2011) 78.
71 On the tears induced by the death of Lazarus see Wiles (1960) 88. This passage attracts
comments from a number of Church Fathers, e.g., Gregory of Nyssa, De virginitate,
PG 14.3.12–13; Theodoret, De incarnatione domini, PG 75.1457.41–43; compare Concilium
universale Ephesenum anno 431 (ACO I.5.1) 1.1.6.136.26–30 where a ‘deliverance from
tears’ (δακρύων ἀπαλλαγή) is balanced by the delivery of ‘joy’ (εὐφροσύνη). Christ’s
tears at Bethany intersect with another biblical scene in which tears play a prominent
metaphorical role. At Revelation 7:17 we read of those who stand in white before the
throne of God, no longer feeling hungry or thirsty: ‘And God will wipe away every tear
(πᾶν δάκρυον) from their eyes’. And again, towards the climax of the same book (21:4): ‘And
God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither
sorrow nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain; for the former things are passed
away.’ As with Christ’s tears at Bethany, the actions of God will cause humans to cease
their crying and prepares them for the promise of immortal life.
596 Shorrock
shedding unaccustomed tears from his eyes that never weep’ (καὶ ἔστενεν αὐτος
Ἰησοῦς | ὄμμασιν ἀκλαύτοισιν ἀήθεα δάκρυα λείβων). The Paraphrase replaces
ἐδάκρυσεν with the variant δάκρυα λείβων,72 but it is interesting to note that
it is Dionysus’ weeping at Dion. 12.171 that forms a more direct verbal parallel
with John 11:35, through the use of δάκρυσε (‘he wept’). Moreover, the use of
(ἐ)δάκρυσε though common in the Church Fathers73—with frequent allusion
to Christ’s tears at Bethany—does not appear to figure at all within epic poetry
before Nonnus.74
As mentioned above, in addition to the Paraphrase intertext, a striking anal-
ogy with the concluding line of Atropus’ speech at Dion. 12.171 is supplied by
a line from Cyril’s Commentary on John 11:35 (again with reference to Christ’s
tears on the death of Lazarus): ‘the Lord weeps so that he may put an end to our
tears’ (δακρύει δὲ ὁ Κύριος, . . ., ἵνα τὸ ἡμῶν περιστείλῃ δάκρυον). All we are told
about Christ’s tears by the Gospel of John (11:36), beyond the bald statement
that ‘Jesus wept’, is that the Jews reacted to the tears with the words ‘See how he
loves him [Lazarus]’. In his Commentary Cyril puts flesh on the bare bones of
John and offers his own interpretation of the enigmatic tears of Christ. Cyril’s
explanation suggests that the Jews had only a limited understanding of Christ’s
tears and their significance: ‘the Jews thought that He wept on account of the
death of Lazarus, but He wept out of compassion for all humanity, not bewail-
ing Lazarus only, but understanding that which happens to all, that the whole
of humanity is made subject to death, having justly fallen under so great a
penalty.’75 A similar interpretation is offered by John Chrysostom on the same
72 The phrase is found only here in the Paraphrase; in the Dionysiaca it occurs at 6.224;
13.530; 28.143; 36.379; 38.191; 43.137; 47.228; see also δάκρυα λείβω (5.351; 19.16); δάκρυα
λείβῃς (11.321); δάκρυα λείβει (48.428); δάκρυα λείβειν (14.282; 30.113).
73 Basil of Caesarea, Homilia de gratiarum actione, PG 31.225.17–18: ‘But even the Lord wept
for Lazarus, and he wept for Jerusalem’ (ἀλλ’ ἐδάκρυσε καὶ ὁ Κύριος ἐπὶ Λαζάρῳ, ἐδάκρυσε
καὶ ἐπι Ἱερουσαλήμ); John Chrysostom, De Lazaro, PG 48.1019.56–57: ‘weep just as your
master wept for Lazarus’ (δάκρυσον ὡς ὁ Δεσπότης σου ἐδάκρυσε τὸν Λάζαρον); De proditione
Judae, PG 49.382.46: ‘at the sight of Judas, Jesus was perturbed and wept’ (Χριστὸς ἰδὼν τὸν
Ἰούδαν ἐταράχθη καὶ ἐδάκρυσεν); In Matthaeum, PG 57.69.44–46: ‘And indeed he himself
wept, both about Lazarus and about the city, and he was perturbed about Judas’ (καὶ γὰρ
καὶ αὐτὸς ἐδάκρυσε, καὶ ἐπὶ Λαζάρου καὶ ἐπὶ τῆς πόλεως, καὶ ἐπὶ τοῦ Ἰούδα διεταράχθη); In
Joannem, PG 59.347.53: ‘for he wept for Lazarus’ (ἐδάκρυσε γὰρ ἐπὶ τοῦ Λαζάρου); In epistu-
lam ad Romanos, PG 60.465.63: ‘And your master wept for Judas’ (καὶ ὁ σὸς Δεσπότης τον
Ἰούδαν ἐδάκρυσεν).
74 Used five times in Nonnus; but note Callimachus, fr. 491 Pfeiffer.
75 Other Church Fathers suggest that Christ sheds tears not just for Lazarus, but also for
Jerusalem; and in some accounts for Judas (see note 73). For a brief introduction to the
Cyril’s Commentary on John see Russell (2000) 96–129.
topic: ‘But Jesus wept (ἀλλ’ ἐδάκρυσεν ὁ Ἰησοῦς) in order to show us his compas-
sion and love for his fellow men’.76
The gap between the ‘misguided’ perceptions of the Jewish crowd and the
‘true’ interpretation of Cyril (and between the private and public nature of the
tears), suggests a further intersection with the tears of Dionysus. An analo-
gous gap exists between the way that Dionysus appears to behave through-
out the Ampelus episode in terms of his private grief for his young friend and
how Atropus interprets that same scene in terms of the wider impact of the
tears on humanity. In other words, before Atropus speaks we are encouraged
to view Dionysus’ grief much as the Jews viewed Christ’s grief (‘See how he
loves him’); but then Atropus—fulfilling much the same role in the Dionysiaca
as Cyril plays in his Commentary—offers his own interpretation of the scene
and thereby transforms our understanding of the significance of the tears of
Dionysus. To paraphrase Cyril, what Atropus is saying is: ‘Dionysus wept out of
compassion for all humanity, not bewailing Ampelus only, but understanding
that which happens to all.’
The important distinction made by the proto-commentator Atropus
between Dionysus’ private grief for Ampelus and the compassion that Dionysus
feels for humanity has yet to be grasped. Liebeschuetz objected to the idea that
line 12.171 contains significant Christian resonance on the grounds that the pre-
sentation of Dionysus throughout the Ampelus episode remains ‘traditional’
in its outlook: Dionysus weeps for an individual in the manner of a ‘traditional
Greek’, not for mankind like Christ.77 This fails to take account of the fact that
although Dionysus behaves in a ‘traditional Greek manner’ throughout the
Ampelus episode (playing the part of Achilles to Ampelus’ Patroclus), he is
nevertheless explicitly presented—by Atropus—as weeping for mankind, just
as Cyril imagines that Christ weeps for humanity.
Although Liebeschuetz does acknowledge that the transformation of
Ampelus into the vine was itself ‘a solace to grieving mankind’, he goes on
to say that, unlike the story of Christ, ‘this was the result, not the purpose, of
Dionysus’ tears.’78 But once again this argument ignores the implications of
the commentary that is supplied by Atropus. Atropus’ final line clearly rein-
terprets Dionysus’ tears in the light of their effect, post hoc ergo propter hoc.79
Accordingly, Dionysus’ grief is presented as a purposeful action, consciously
76 In Lazarum, PG 62.777.35–37.

78 Ibid.
79 A technique further exploited in the opening of the Dionysiaca where an implicit connec-
tion is made between the erotic encounter between Zeus and Europa and the theft of the
divine thunderbolts by the monster Typhon: see Braden (1974) 851–879.
598 Shorrock
designed to relieve the suffering of the world, not simply consequent upon
it. What is more, this presentation does not simply emerge out of the blue, in
the final line of the speech, but develops the position of the preceding lines
when it is precisely described that Ampelus has brought mourning to Dionysus
‘so that (ὄφρα) when your honey-dropping wine shall grow, you may bring its
delight (τερπωλήν) to all the four quarters of the world, a libation (σπονδήν) for
the Blessed, and for Dionysus a heart of good cheer (εὐφροσύνην)’(12.168–170).
Alongside the attempt to analyse the significance of Christ’s tears at
Bethany by Cyril and other Church Fathers stands a wider, related, question
about whether or not it was appropriate for Christ to cry at all. For Cyril in
his Commentary on John (II, 281.16–282.11 Pusey) the question centres on the
essential duality of Christ as both God and man—as God he must not cry, but
in his mortal form it is appropriate that he shares mortal tears:
Certainly the Evangelist, seeing the tearless Nature weeping [i.e. Christ],
is astonished, although the suffering was peculiar to the flesh, and not
suitable to the Godhead . . . And He weeps a little, and straightway checks
His tears; lest He might seem to be at all cruel and inhuman, and at the
same time instructing us not to give way overmuch in grief for the dead.
For it is one thing to be influenced by sympathy, and another to be effem-
inate and unmanly. For this cause therefore He permitted His own flesh
to weep a little, although it was in its nature tearless and incapable of any
grief, so far as regards its own nature. And even they who hate the Lord,
admire His tears.80
The paradox of a figure who is ‘tearless’ and ‘incapable of grief’ shedding tears
presented by Cyril relates closely to the way that Christ is characterised in the
Paraphrase, shedding unfamiliar tears ‘from eyes that do not weep’ (ὄμμασιν
ἀκλαύτοισιν, 11.124). This same unweeping representation is shared by Nonnus’
Dionysus. See, for example, Dion. 29.318: ‘Dionysus mourned with unweeping
eyes’ (ὄμμασιν ἀκλαύτοισιν ὀδυρομένου Διονύσου).81 According to Cyril there is a
fine balance to be struck in order to show enough grief to demonstrate human-
ity, while at the same time avoiding an excessive display of emotion: ‘For it
is one thing to be influenced by sympathy, and another to be effeminate and
unmanly’. Here the figure of Dionysus presents an interesting foil to that of
80 Trans. Randell (1885) 123; on Cyril’s description of the tearless nature of Christ see Hardy
(1954) 34.
81 On the relationship between the tears of Christ and Dionysus see further Agosti (2004c)
299–301.
Christ, since Dionysus is frequently represented within the classical tradition,

and in the Dionysiaca itself, as effeminate and unmanly.82
The precise interpretation put forward in the Commentary of Cyril that
Christ weeps over Lazarus in order to put an end to the tears of mankind is
one that is itself mirrored in the work of other Church Fathers. Gregory of
Nazianzus writes that, ‘he weeps, but makes tears stop’ (δακρύει, ἀλλὰ παύει
δάκρυον).83 Here emphasis falls on both the human and divine aspects of
Christ: he weeps as a man and makes tears stop as a god. This duality is made
more explicit in the following line: ‘he asks where Lazarus was buried, for he
was a man (ἄνθρωπος γὰρ ἦν);84 but he roused Lazarus, for he was a god (θεὸς
γὰρ ἦν).’ It is interesting to set this exploration of the human and divine aspects
of Christ alongside the presentation of Dionysus in Dion. 11, where emphasis
falls with particular prominence on the fact that Dionysus has a single divine
nature. Dionysus draws attention to his divinity when expressing his grief that
he is unable to accompany Ampelus to the Underworld (11.325): ‘Alas, that my
father did not beget me as a mortal’.
Whatever the differences, this analysis has pointed to suggestive points of
intersection between the story of Lazarus and the story of Ampelus. Dionysus
like Christ is pictured weeping for the death of a friend. This is an action that
was interpreted by both the Church Fathers and Atropus as having a wider
soteriological significance than was explicitly stated in the narratives of John
and Nonnus. In both cases a rare display of divine grief leads to a miraculous
act of resurrection (bodily in the case of Lazarus; into the new form of the vine
for Ampelus).
Analysis of the episodes of the birth of Dionysus and the death and res-
urrection of Ampelus reveals that Nonnus’ poem does not merely draw its
inspiration from the sacred spring of the classical tradition, but is firmly
embedded within the Christian milieu of Late Antiquity. This is not a classi-
cal text dipping its toes uncertainly into a dark pool, but a late antique text
with both feet planted firmly in the water. Given the widely-accepted attribu-
tion of the Paraphrase to the author of the Dionysiaca, a close correspondence
between the two texts should not give much cause for surprise. As noted above,
however, there remains a general critical reluctance to the idea of a meaningful
interplay between the worlds of Christ and Dionysus in the poetry of Nonnus.
82 See, for example, Diodorus 4.4.2; see further Shorrock (2001) 57–58.
83 De filio 20.16.
84 I.e. in his human form Christ did not enjoy ‘divine’ knowledge about the whereabouts of
Lazarus.
600 Shorrock
Parallelism between the world of Christ and Dionysus does not necessar-
ily imply, as some have suggested, that the Dionysiaca espouses a particular
position, for example by encouraging readers to view Dionysus as an explicit
rival or parody of Christ. Rather, the rich intertextual connections that unite
the worlds of Christ and Dionysus and—more specifically—the worlds of
the Paraphrase and the Dionysiaca inevitably encourage readers to interro-
gate their own ideas about life, the universe and everything. The author of the
Paraphrase and the Dionysiaca offers us a vision of a Christian epic and classi-
cal Gospel and encourages us to see that the ‘Classical’ and the ‘Christian’ are
categories that are unable to exist in isolation. In the poetry of Nonnus there is
no Mary without Athena, no Athena without Mary.85
Nonnus’ texts are not, however, simply ‘good to think with’. It is important to
remember that in the late antique world Christian discourse was still evolving
and that the boundaries of that discourse were not yet fixed. Nonnus plunges
his readers into the midst of provocative and challenging debates concerning
the (often) paradoxical relationship between classical and Christian culture—
including questions about the nature of divinity, the interplay between the
realms of the divine and the terrestrial, inspiration and the control of divine
knowledge, and sexuality and self-restraint.86 These are not debates from
which we should expect any clear answers—what we get instead is a rich
insight into the concerns of the age from texts that contribute on a profound
level to the making and meaning of Late Antiquity.
85 The fact that critics have had such difficulty in determining the order of the Paraphrase
and the Dionysiaca underlines the point exactly: Dionysus follows Christ as inevitably as
Christ follows Dionysus. Like the chicken and the egg, the texts refuse to yield ultimate
priority. On the relative chronology of Nonnus’ works see the first chapter by Accorinti in
this volume.
86 In many significant details Dionysus resembles a perverse and provocative anti-Christ: a
charismatic god of excess who preaches a gospel of drunkenness and unrestrained prom-
iscuity, with a predilection for the drugging and raping of young virgins. As Liebeschuetz
(2001) 232 describes, ‘It was a fundamental development of Late Antiquity that religion
had become moralized. Gods were thought of as moral beings, and they were believed
to demand above all moral behaviour from their worshippers. The moralizing of divinity
was as marked in late paganism as in Christianity. Moreover late Roman morality, whether
Christian or pagan, placed great value on sexual restraint, on the need for man’s soul to
achieve the greatest possible degree of control over the body. Dionysus as represented by
Nonnus is the opposite of this.’
Chapter 27
Pagan Themes in the Paraphrase

The gods now became art and Homer mere verse.

Anthony Kaldellis, Hellenism in Byzantium
1 Tampering with the Holy Word
The author of a fourth-century ad cento epitaph possibly from Phrygia about

a man baptised on his death-bed, concluded his little poem with a distich cel-
ebrating the salvation of the deceased, SGO 19/21/02.8–9:
τὸν καὶ τεθνειϊοῦτα θεῶν ὑπ’ ἀμύμονᾳ πομπ̣ [ήν]

μοῖρα καλὴ σάωσεν ’Ïορδάνου ἀμφὶ ῥέεθρ[α].
A good share of death saved this man at the waters of Jordan, even as he
was dying under the blameless escort of the gods.1
The scenario of a just-before-the-end conversion could be suggestive to a

Christian poet as a metaphor for the salvation of mankind ‘at the last hour’. In
these lines the Peloponnesian river Ἰάρδανος of Homer (*Il. 7.135 Ἰαρδάνου ἀμφὶ
ῥέεθρα) is appropriately converted into the Palestinian river Jordan.2 However,
the plural θεῶν of *Il. 6.171 θεῶν ὑπ’ ἀμύμονι πομπῇ is remarkably left unaltered.3
The epigram is a fine instance of converting classical verse into Christian
poetry and the felix error (if at all) of θεῶν creates a subtle juxtaposition of
1 Translations are by the author unless otherwise indicated. * = in eadem versus sede or, in
John’s text, varia lectio.
2 Ἰορδάνου is already a v.l. in part of the tradition in Il. 7.135 and the scholia A ad loc. The for-
mula was widely exploited in the Homerocentones and other early Christian poetry: Agosti
(2007) 43–44.
3 See Chaniotis (2001) 218. ‘Die Götter im Plural (Vers 8) sind erstaunlich oder einfach verkehrt’
noted Merkelbach and Stauber (SGO, IV, 231). The inscription is discussed in detail by Agosti
(2007) 41–44.

602 Spanoudakis
polytheistic ‘death’ unpredictably turning into a Christian ‘salvation’. It is a tes-

timony of times in transition.
When it comes to Nonnus’ Paraphrasis of the Gospel of John in polished
hexameters the extent and nature of the intrusion of ‘pagan’ elements in the
poem strikes a fine balance between literary embellishment and fidelity to the
creed. A verse-paraphrase by definition alters the form but keeps faithful to
the content: Quint. IO 1.9.2 qua et breviare quaedam et exornare salvo modo
poetae sensu permittitur. In particular, a paraphrase of a holy text can dignify it,
mediate it to a wider or specific audience and guide its ‘proper’ (technically or
ideologically) understanding. But such projects were not welcome to everyone.
The story of Theodectes allegedly blinded for his indiscretion of putting an Old
Testament story into verse intended for performance on stage was well known
(Letter of Aristeas 316 = Theodect. TrGF 72 T 17). Generally, the lower Mönchtum
and conservative Christian intelligentsia did not approve of experimenting
with the holy texts. The common denominator of such inhibitions is the alle-
gation that attention to the form would alienate the new text from the essence
of the sacred model. The paraphrastic principle of salvo sensu is ignored or
deemed non-applicable by these Christians. The divine word is regarded to
be non-translatable, its transformation to any other form alien to its nature.4
Fidelity to it in a poetic rendition would be all the more unattainable. Should
the classics be worth anything, that would be to gain the means to refute the
‘pagan’ folly. A more extreme view would even consider the association of
‘pagan’ language and scriptural text as blasphemous in principle. Indeed some
of the detractors of biblical versifications focus on the ‘Hellenic’ form no less
than the misrepresentation of the content. In the fifth century the theologi-
cally educated ascetic Nilus of Ancyra in a letter to a certain monk Alexander
ἀπὸ τῶν γραμματικῶν, an aspirant Christian poet, dissuades Alexander from
composing verse (epist. 2.49) citing Paul’s verdict ἡ σοφία τοῦ κόσμου τούτου
μωρία παρὰ τῷ θεῷ ἐστιν.5 Nilus holds the versification of biblical texts as child-
ish (βρεφοπρεπῶς) and insulting to God. In his argumentation he associates
the καλλιέπεια τῶν Ἑλλήνων with the honey flowing from the lips of a whore
(Prov 5:3). Like the honey, the appealing form of the Greek letters entices their
victim to perdition, epist. 2.49 (PG 79.220D):
Μὴ τοίνυν θέλε προσανέχειν τῷ μέτρῳ, κἄν εἰ λίαν πρὸς αὐτὸ συνήθειαν καὶ
ἵμερον κέκτησαι, ἵνα μὴ ἀφανίσας τῶν ἁλιέων τὸν θεῖον χαρακτῆρα, ὃνπερ σὺν
4 Jerome, epist. 57.5 declares that even the order of the words in the Bible constitutes a mystery;
see Faulkner (2014) 199.
5 See Norden (1915) 842; further, Golega (1960) 36.
Pagan Themes in the Paraphrase 603
πόθῳ πολλῷ πρώην ἀναμάξασθαι προείλω, πρὸς τὴν ἐσχάτην μὲν ἐκπέσῃς
ἀμορφίαν, δῆλος δὲ γένῃ ἀμελῶν τῆς σαὐτοῦ σωτηρίας διὰ τῆς περὶ τὰ ἔπη
σπουδῆς.
Avoid devoting yourself to metrical compositions, even if you are tal-

ented and desire it, lest you fall into extreme formlessness by obliterat-
ing the divine character of the fishermen, which you were too eager to
express previously, and be caught to neglect your own salvation for the
pursuit of poetry.
In the Latin West Sedulius produced the Opus Paschale, a prosaic redaction of
his Carmen Paschale, to defend his poem against accusations of infidelity to the
holy model. Even enlightened Christians approve of fidelity. The Metaphrasis
Psalmorum wrongly attributed to Apollinarius of Laodicea generally keeps
close to the source text. Later Photius praises Eudocia above all for her faith-
ful versions of the Octateuch and Daniel.6 Heresy and Apollinarius’ heretic
poetry in particular play a role in this, even if provoking markedly differing
reactions. Nilus (PG 79.221B–C) cites the poetry of Apollinarius, τὸν δυσσεβῆ
καὶ καινοτόμον, as an example illustrating his point to resist a poetic retelling
of the Bible. Gregory of Nazianzus, on the other hand, declares the orthodox
ready to fight heretic verse with orthodox verse: epist. 101.73 ‘but if the new
Psalters . . . and the grace of metre are considered to be the third Testament, we
too shall compose psalms and write many things and put them in verse’. This
indicates once more the prestige poetry had in carrying out doctrinal debate
especially within a Christian framework.
Others felt uncomfortable with an outright rejection of biblical poetry. All
kinds of reasons were contrived to justify the creation of a Christian poetry.
The Psalm paraphrast claims that epic language, as all language, has been fash-
ioned by God,7 whereas others, including Eusebius and Jerome, advance the
claim that classical metres hail from the Bible.8 The Psalm paraphrast explic-
itly sets as one of his aims to lend back to the Psalms ‘the grace of metre’ which
was lost in the Greek rendition confected under Ptolemy (Proth. 15–21). For
some few, like Nonnus, there would be no question. It is clear, however, that the
desirability and legitimization of poetry rendering the Bible was hotly debated
6 Photius, Bibl. cod. 183 (II, 195.18–19 Henry) Τὰς μὲν γὰρ διανοίας οὔτε παρατείνων οὔτε συστέλλων
ἀεὶ φυλάσσει κυρίας. Οὔτε παρατείνων, though, is exactly what Nonnus did not do.
7 Ps.-Apollin. Met. Ps. Proth. 105–107 (106 ἐκ παλαχῆς θεότευκτος). Cf. Gonnelli in Agosti/
Gonnelli (1995–1996) 359–361; Agosti (2001b) 89; Faulkner (2014) 204–205.
8 See Norden (1915) 526.
604 Spanoudakis
at that time. Could the Paraphrasis have played a role in this debate? On the
Apollinarii project to rewrite the Bible into Classics such as the Gospels into
‘Platonic’ dialogues or the Pentateuch into hexameters, Socrates Scholasticus
(HE 3.16) wrote that ‘divine providence’ saw to it that their work came ‘to be
thought as amounting to null and void’. Only a decade later Sozomen (HE 5.18)
presents a diametrically friendlier view declaring Apollinarius the Elder’s
books ‘equal . . . to the works most celebrated among the Hellenes’. Within the
parameters of this ongoing debate, at least one modern critic attributed this
shift of opinion to the publication of Nonnus’ Paraphrasis.9
2 A Greek Paraphrasis
Choices probably made by Nonnus himself suggest that the Paraphrasis was
intended to be receptive of the classical culture. The very term Μεταβολή
transmitted as the title of the work in most manuscripts (MPVN),10 rather than
Παράφρασις (such as is the Μετάφρασις τοῦ Ψαλτῆρος by Ps.-Apollinarius), might
acknowledge a greater degree of involvement of classical culture in the rendi-
tion of the Gospel of John.11 Understood by the letter, Μεταβολή would work
both ways: it would imply the transmutation of the holy text into a Hellenic
reading and vice versa. Besides, Nonnus chooses to paraphrase the most ‘Greek’
of the Gospels and the one endowed with a spirituality that detaches it from any
given nation or ambience.12 John’s Gospel with its Logos-doctrine was a privi-
leged text in Nonnus’ (and Cyril’s) contemporary Alexandria. Furthermore, the
Gospel of John attracted some interest outside Christianity. Amelius, a disciple
of Plotinus τῆς Πλάτωνος . . . εἰ καί τις ἄλλος ζηλωτὴς φιλοσοφίας, composed a
commentary on John’s Prologue.13
9 Livrea (1989) 26–28. Al. Cameron (1982) 282–284 attributes it to a difference of opinion
about ‘the desirability of a first hand knowledge of pagan literature’ against the promo-
tion of ‘safe Christian “classics” ’. Johnson (2006) 104 is undecided.
10 The manuscripts referred to are Mosquensis Synodalis gr. 442 (M), Vaticanus Palatinus gr.
90 (P), Vaticanus gr. 989 (V), Marcianus gr. 481, coll. 863 (N). See the chapter by De Stefani
in this volume.
11 See Keydell (1936) 918; Gonnelli in Agosti/Gonnelli (1995–1996) 368–369; Faulkner
(2014) 298.
12 The loftiness and spirituality of John’s Gospel with regard to the synoptics is a topos with
the Fathers: cf., e.g., Orig. In Jo. 1.23, Cyr. In Jo. I, 12.6 Pusey. See also the chapter by Franchi
in this volume.
13 Eusebius, PE 11.18.26–19.2. See Dörrie (1972); Brisson (1987) 840–843.
Even as a project the versification of John’s Gospel is to be set against the

poetic biographies of holy men and Neoplatonic ‘Saints’. The earliest exam-
ple of these may be Soterichus of Oasis’ Life of Apollonius Tyaneus (FGrH 1080
T 1 = 153 F 14a) dealing with a wonder-worker and holy man who progressed to
become a rival of Christ. This was probably composed in verse as Soterichus is
described as an ἐποποιός.14 Later Marinus of Neapolis wrote a Life of Proclus καὶ
καταλογάδην καὶ ἐπικῶς. The formulation conceivably implies a versification of
the prose version in the form of a paraphrase.15 Such biographies would hold
the place of a γέρας and required composition in metre. Christodorus who like
Nonnus was a Christian is very much a case in point: he wrote a monobiblos, a
poem On Proclus’ Disciples possibly honouring friendships made during his dis-
cipleship at the Neoplatonic school in Athens.16 It must be conceded, though,
that a paraphrase as such is more at home with Christian textuality. As Scott
Johnson pertinently observed ‘paraphrase and rewriting, even on a very literal
level, was more common, and more integral, to Jewish and Christian textual-
ity than has previously been recognized, or than, most importantly, is repre-
sented by surviving exempla.’17 A lost poem on the miracles of the protomartyr
Thecla apparently by Basil of Seleucia versifies a prose version of the mid-fifth
century.18 The three books of Eudocia’s poem on the life of Cyprianus para-
phrase an hagiographic dossier of three works, the Conversio, the Confessio and
the Passio Cypriani.19
Evidence supplied by one of the witnesses to the poem suggests that the
‘Hellenic’ aspects of the Paraphrasis became a subject of lasting debate beyond
the poem’s immediate historical and cultural ambience. Marcianus gr. 481,
coll. 863 (N in modern editions), the renowned manuscript of the Planudean
Anthology, was written in 1301 by the hand of Maximus Planudes. In the inscriptio
of that manuscript the poem is ascribed to Ammonius ‘philosopher and rhetor’
(Ἀμμωνίου φιλοσόφου καὶ ῥήτο[ρος]), usually identified with Ammonius the son
of Hermias (435/445–517/526), a native of Alexandria. Paul Maas postulated a
dedication of the Paraphrasis to Ammonius which is at least chronologically
14 See Christ/Schmid/Stählin (1924) 673; Radicke (1999) 256.

15 Marinus, FGrH 1084 T 1, cf. Schissel (1930) 1764–1766; Saffrey/Segonds (2002) x–xi.
16 Περὶ τῶν ἀκροατῶν τοῦ μεγάλου Πρόκλου (FGrH 1084 F 2 = GDRK S 8 F 2). See Al. Cameron
(1965) 475; Tissoni (2000) 18; Agosti (2009b) 36–38.
17 Johnson (2006) 103–104. See also the chapter by the same author in this volume.
18 Photius, Bibl. cod. 168 (II, 161.41–43 Henry); Johnson (2006) 100. The poem could, however,
be anonymous. On other Christian poetry versifying prosaic models see Franchi (2013)
163–165.
19 See Bevegni (2006) 28–30.
606 Spanoudakis
doubtful (Ammonius was later acquainted with Pamprepius).20 Yet this must
be the time Nonnus’ work reached Constantinople which Ammonius visited
for a time (Damasc. V. Isid. fr. 173 Zintzen = fr. 78 E Athanassiadi). The false
attribution in the Marcianus is put right by Planudes’ subsequent annotation
suggesting that the poem is penned by Nonnus of Panopolis.21 It must be borne
in mind that Planudes, who also copied the Laurentianus plut. 32.16 transmit-
ting the Dionysiaca, was reading the longer poem as an adespoton. In any case
the attribution to Ammonius may be taken as a recognition of the Neoplatonic
spirituality nurturing the Paraphrasis. Incidentally, Ammonius’ attitude to
Christianity comes along the lines of reconciliation rather than animos-
ity. Ammonius, φιλοπονώτατος (Damasc. V. Isid. epit. Phot. 79 Zintzen = fr. 57
C Athanassiadi) yet αἰσχροκερδής (Damasc. V. Isid. epit. Phot. 179 and fr. 316
Zintzen = fr. 118 B Athanassiadi), seems to have reached some kind of agree-
ment with Patriarch Athanasius in the 490s: ‘presumably he must have agreed
to tone down some of the most objectionably pagan elements in his teaching
in return for the continued maintenance of his chair’.22 His role in Zachariah
of Mytilene’s dialogue bearing his name clearly indicates that Ammonius was
considered to have come to terms with Christian dogmas.
An annotation below the subscription in the same manuscript classifies
the work among the Hellenic letters in the Homeric tradition aiming at the
delectare:
ὅτι ἀεὶ πρὸς ἔτι τοῖς φιλομαθέσι ποθινὸν καὶ ἐράσμιον ἡ τῶν ἑλληνικῶν
συγγραμμάτων ἀνάγνωσις· | καὶ μάλιστα ἡ τῶν ὁμηρικῶν, διὰ τὸ εὐφραδὲς
καὶ ποικίλον τῶν λέξεων· οὗ ἕνεκεν καὶ ἡ παροῦσα μετάφρασις | ἐμμέτρως ἐν
ἡρωικοῖς ἐγεγράφη στίχοις, πρὸς τέρψιν τοῖς φιλομαθέσι καὶ φιλολόγοις.
Because always the reading of Greek books is desirable and enjoyable to

those fond of learning; and above all the reading of the Homeric books
because of their eloquence and variety of expression. This is why the
present metaphrasis was written in metre, in heroic verses, to the plea-
sure of those fond of learning and to the lovers of literature.
20 Maas (1923) 267.

21 Καὶ παρά τισι μὲν | λέγεται εἶναι ἡ μεταβολὴ Ἀμμωνίου Ἀλεξανδρέως φιλοσόφου, παρ’ ἄλλοις
δὲ Νόννου ποιητοῦ {τοῦ} Πανοπολίτου. For the deletion of τοῦ in an autographon cf. the
rubric in the Vaticanus Palatinus gr. 90 (P) of the fourteenth century (Νόννου ποιητοῦ
Πανοπολίτου Μεταβολή κτλ.).
22 The quotation is from Al. Cameron (1969) 14, cf. Martindale (1980) 71.
The Paraphrasis is here envisaged as a work giving pleasure to those who by

education appreciate Hellenic letters. The φιλομαθεῖς to whom the annotation
refers are apparently educated dignitaries of the Church who normally read
the Bible and ‘serious’ Christian literature. The Homeric character of the work
breaks down to beauty of expression, variety of diction and rhythm (metre).
This looks much like what Christian readers generally valued in the finest
Greek literature. The possibility that ποικίλον τῶν λέξεων alludes to the prin-
ciple of ποικιλία advocated in the proem of the Dionysiaca should remain a
tantalising, if doubtful, possibility. This, should it be the case, would rely not
on the identity of the poet but on the approximation of style, which Planudes
mastered.23 Above all, the note on the Marcianus amounts to an ideological
declaration bearing the brand of Planudes’ laboratory: the work is classified
as archaizing poetry of the Homeric type and the allegation that it has no
exegetical value (and does not substitute the model) is implicit. It is poetry
before anything else. It is therefore not stated or indicated that the value of the
work consists in combining Hellenic eloquence with Christian wisdom, which
would probably be closer to the work’s historical context. A few centuries later
in the enlightened West things appear different when Hedeneccius, a ‘doctor
of medicine’, produced his 1571 edition and Latin translation of the Paraphrasis
proclaiming that his work is intended in gratiam studiosorum, qui Sacram
lectionem cum Graecæa linguæ cognitione coniungere cupiunt.24 The spirit in
Hedeneccius’ title differs from the one exhibited in Planudes’ annotation in as
much as Hedeneccius, as other Renaissance editors of the Paraphrasis,25 takes
fidelity to the Gospel as granted (sacram lectionem).
3 Greek and Christian
The versification of a holy text, because of the stature of both the source text
and the hexameter poetry produced out of it, almost inevitably finds itself in
antagonistic relation to the model. There is little harm when the verses para-
phrase a Christian narrative such as the Life of a Saint. But when it comes to
a scriptural source a paraphrase, by means of expression and refinement, can
even assume an authority that tends to become dominant over the model.
Moreover, between the model and the poetic paraphrase subtexts of sundry
23 Planudes notoriously interpolated Dion. 17.73 and 48.909 in the text of the Dionysiaca. His
poems exhibit Nonnian features too.
24 Hedeneccius (1571).
25 See Agosti (1999).
608 Spanoudakis
character can add new layers of meaning according to the cultural and ideo-
logical currents that form the identity of the paraphrast. These are always dig-
nified literary, philosophical and theological sources. However, as a result of
such proceedings, a paraphrase can become a prohibitive text, one obscuring
the ‘independent’ appreciation of the model and lending it a novel character.
If this novel character can be considered to involve the Hellenic heritage it
would certainly lend not only linguistic bliss but also a ‘universal’ identity to
the rendition missing from the source text. This ‘universality’ is meaningful
at a time when Christians and ‘others’ are envisaged as potential audience or
readership of the derivative yet new text. The notion of universality also rests
on sound theological foundations since it transfers in the field of literature the
Christian ‘universal’ perspective of mankind’s history (and all activities associ-
ated with it) as a predestined course of events approximating man to God.
The incarnation of Christ, preached by the Gospels, concludes and verifies
the ancient traditions. Therefore, even beyond literature, underneath Christ’s
miracles in John’s Gospel now lurk the corresponding miracles of ‘pagan’ dei-
ties in a manner at the same time evocative and effacing. The miracle at Cana
(John 2) invites comparison with other deities who have turned water into wine
and above all with Dionysus.26 Christ walking the waters (Par. 6.75–83) recalls
similar miracles from the ‘pagan’ tradition and most notably the great goddess
Isis ‘riding over the waves’ (Hymnus in Isim Andrius 154 οἶδμα καθιππεύουσα,
ed. Peek 1930; cf. Totti 1985, no. 2 and SEG 46.1159).27 Also the healing of the
man born blind (John 9) would recall corresponding miracles by Asclepius or
Sarapis.28 Miracles of resurrection enjoy a certain currency in Late Antiquity
and are known at least from Asclepius, Apollonius of Tyana, even Plato.29 The
representation of the Raising of Lazarus (at least) in art, which exercised con-
siderable influence on Nonnus’ very visual treatment, may well be influenced
by Osiris’ re-composition in the form of a mummy after his dismemberment
by Typhon, and his subsequent raising by Isis.30 Even the two appearances
of risen Christ to the disciples recall traditions associated with Hermes (in
26 See Golega (1930) 62–63; Livrea (2000) 76–92 with a collection of testimonies. An over-
view is offered by Accorinti (2013c) 1125–1126 (‘Heidnisches in der Paraphrase?’).
27 As was first observed by Kuiper (1918) 254. See Agosti (2003) 92; Franchi (2013) 148–154.
28 See Golega (1930) 78 (Asclepius), 83 (Sarapis).
29 Asclepius was an antagonist of Dionysus in the salvation of dying Hymenaeus (Dionysus:
Dion. 29.151–161; Asclepius: OF 365, Apollod. Bibl. 3.10.3); Apollonius of Tyana: Philostr.
V. Apoll. 4.45; Plato: Aen. Gaz. Theophr. 64.8 Colonna. See Agosti (2003) 81–89 (‘Asclepio
nella tarda antichità’).
30 Albertson (1995). For Nonnus’ visual treatment of the Lazarus miracle see Spanoudakis
(2014a) 60–68.
particular Par. 20.84–89 ~ HHom. Herm. 145–147) with whom (as Logos) Christ
Logos shares a notional affinity.31 A careful reader of John would not fail to take
notice of the Dionysiac characteristics of a God who turned water into wine
and identified himself as ‘the true Vine’ (John 15:1).32 Certain soteriological
characteristics of Dionysus in traditions such as the Orphic would also recall
the more perfect God to come.
Affinities of this kind, fascinating though they may be, should not obscure
the fact that for a Christian mind miracles by pagan ‘sorcerers’ when com-
pared to those by Christ differ toto coelo: pagan miracles are not considered
as endowed with the qualities which Christ’s miracles were considered to dis-
play. They are devoid of the lofty spirituality, the creatorship that characterises
Christ’s miracles, His gift for eternal life and the seal of eternity in His indi-
vidual acts. Christ’s σημεῖα attest the divinity of the thaumaturge and prog-
nosticate the future state of things. Remarkably, in Nonnus’ poem the latent
‘pagan’ miracle-traditions such as those mentioned above, are hardly directly
referred to. This is surely a well-calculated caution. It is thereby avoided that
direct affinities can be reduced to precision. It is rather the whole that raises
implicit associations. In addition, ‘pagan’ miracle-traditions are evoked to a
subversive end: their presence becomes dimmer and dimmer and their effac-
ing ‘real’ even at a literary level.
The Paraphrasis makes qualified use of earlier traditions at a linguistic and
semantic level. Sharp critics like Kuiper and Golega noticed the presence of
‘pagan’ notions in Nonnus’ Christian poem. For Kuiper, seduced by the old
theory of Nonnus’ conversion to Christianity, this was an opposition to—, for
Golega, more constructively, an osmosis with the Hellenic tradition.33 The
old, unworkable theory of antithesis to prove the superiority of Christ,34 per-
haps influenced by the antagonistic approach to Hellenic religion by the first
Christian apologists, profoundly misconstrues the characteristics of Nonnus’
circle in Alexandria if not of his time altogether. It is often the case that Nonnus
31 See Accorinti (1995). Also Agosti (2003) 339 (on Par. 5.22 φῶτα διάκτορον); Accorinti
(2013c) 1125–1126.
32 On Jesus and Dionysus see Wick (2004); Herrero de Jáuregui (2010) 329–335 (‘The savior
gods’); Massa (2014).
33 ‘[T]andem autem hic illic auget textum evangelistae ea ratione ut consulto inter se
opponantur prisca Graecorum superstitio atque religio Cristiana cui nuper se addix-
erat’ (Kuiper 1918, 228); ‘es ist ein ständiges Hinüber und Herüber von Christlichem
und Heidnischem in beiden Gedichten’ (Golega 1930, 67, with evidence produced on
pp. 71–77). For Dioscorus of Aphrodite, Fournet (1999) II, 681 notices ‘la bigarrure qui
résulte de cette coexistence pacifique de motifs païens et de thèmes chrétiens.’
34 Espoused by e.g. Bogner (1934) 332 and Keydell (1936) 915, 919.
610 Spanoudakis
integrates in his Christian poem concepts of markedly ‘pagan’ origin: Golega in

valuable pages discusses in this respect Aion, Physis, Horae and Hades.35 Let us
approach the first and last from Golega’s dossier.
Aion impersonates eternity in the sense of ever-regenerating time.
Epiphanius (Panar. 51.22) reports of rites at the Koreion in Alexandria ending
with the triumphant birth of Aion from Virgin Kore but there is no trace of
them in Nonnus.36 The figure of Aion is imagined with the same character-
istics in both Nonnian poems: he is an old man with a white long beard.37 As
the representation of infinitely extending time he moves swiftly coiling like
a serpent, a symbol of regeneration.38 This mystic image of Aion comes up
several times in the Paraphrasis (3.79, 8.93–94, 13.37–38) but remarkably it is
pronounced by Christ himself in Par. 6.146–147:
οὔποτε διψήσειεν, ἕως ἔτι καμπύλος ἕρπων

Αἰὼν εὐρυγένειος ἀτέρμονα νύσσαν ἀμείβει.
[sc. the faithful] would never thirst, as long as broad-bearded Aion creeps
along with bent-over and keeps moving by the boundless starting point.39
This contributes to the spirituality of the rendition but these concepts clearly
do not carry the onus they convey in theurgic or gnostic contexts. In this
respect their value provides no philosophical or theological profundity but
appears to be restricted to a formalistic embellishment. Nonetheless, one can
not avoid the impression that Aion is a reflection of materiality, a construct
of achronous God bound with creation (Par. 9.9 = Dion. 24.267 ἡνίοχος βιότοιο,
Dion. 40.430 ὁμόσπορος ἀενάοιο κόσμοιο). It is not surprising, therefore, that
Aion becomes a mere synonym of Chronos (‘Time’) in later Nonnian poets.40
The potential is illustrated by a Christian Aion known at least from Theos. Tub.
13 Erbse (= Beatrice 1.2).41 A question related to Aion in the Paraphrasis is its
spelling. Editors of the Dionysiaca usually spell Αἰών with a capital Α- but in
the Paraphrasis Aion has seemed out of place and his presence is neutralised
35 Golega (1930) 63–67.

36 See Chuvin (1992) 67–71.
37 See Golega (1930) 63–65.
38 For this mystic image cf. Procl. In Tim. III, 20.22–23 Diehl; Lewy (2011) 102 n. 151.
39 Translations of the Paraphrasis are sourced from Sherry (1991), occasionally modified.
40 Cf. Tissoni (2000) 147; Franchi (2013) 436–437 citing Christodorus, AP 2.135 and John of
Gaza, Ecphr. 1.142.
41 See Livrea (1998c). For this fragment see also Beatrice (2001) 49.
with an αἰών spelling. Scheindler in his 1881 Teubneriana printed Αἰών only in
the compelling Par. 6.179–180 ἕως δολιχοῖο γενείου | ἀμφιλαφὴς πολιῇσι κόμην
λευκαίνεται Αἰών. However, the spelling with a capital Α- should be applied
beyond preconceptions in passages where attributes suggest that it is the per-
sonified entity rather than the concept that is envisaged. Such passages would
include Par. 3.79 εἰς ὅσον εὐρυγένειος ἑλίσσεται ἔμπεδος Αἰών, 6.146 and 179 (both
cited above), 8.94, 9.9 ἡνίοχος βιότοιο φυτοσπόρος ἤγαγεν Αἰών, 12.198, 13.38.
From Aion to Hades: the eleventh canto features a personified Hades vainly
seeking for Lazarus by the river Lethe (165–166):
Ἀίδης δὲ μάτην παρὰ γείτονι Λήθῃ 165

πανδαμάτωρ ἀδάμαστον ἐδίζετο νεκρὸν ἀλήτην.
In vain did Hades the all-tamer seek by neighbouring Lethe for the
untamed corpse un-leashed.
Preller was astonished: ‘Itaque servavit memoriam atque imaginem infero-

rum Nonnus christianus, quali ethnicus fuerat imbutus. Verum, utrum infe-
ros revera tales esse cogitaverit an more poëtarum tantum tales esse finxerit,
dijudicare non ausim.’42 In this case it is the context that encourages these
bold introductions. Personified Hades, humiliated by the Force of life, is a stan-
dard feature in the popular tradition about Lazarus. He appears in the apoc-
ryphal and influential Descensus Christi ad inferos (Acta Pilati B) 20–21, in the
Homerocentones II 1194–1195 Schembra and widely in the artistic and homiletic
tradition from the fourth century onwards.43 Lethe, on the other hand, comes
up only in this passage in the Paraphrasis but it is an integral part of Nonnus’
topography of Hades in the Dionysiaca where it is often coupled with Hades.44
The reference relies on the Neoplatonic interpretation of Lethe as represent-
ing the world of matter into which the soul is submerged and lured by its
attractions into forgetting her identity and her divine origin.45 This fits in well
with the widespread interpretation of Lazarus ‘man’, once a friend of God, who
forgot his divine origin and lapsed into sin/death whence Christ calls him back
to ‘life’. So the ‘conversion’ of concepts is not violent but rather a smooth shift
within the laxity these notions had already acquired in late antique spirituality.
42 Preller (1918) 114.

43 See Spanoudakis (2014a) 287–288.
44 Cf. Dion. 11.326, 30.122–124, 36.200–203; see Golega (1930) 66.
45 Cf. Procl. In Remp. II, 354.15 Kroll (τὸν τῆς Λήθης ποταμόν) τὴν γένεσιν πᾶσαν αὖθις
αἰνισσόμενος, ἀφ’ ἧς ἡ δεινὴ λήθη ταῖς ψυχαῖς τῶν τε θείων καὶ ἑαυτῶν; see Lewy (2011) 190 n. 53.
612 Spanoudakis
From a more literary point of view, there are two aspects of the poem which
openly (and perhaps inevitably) draw their origins in the ‘pagan’ heritage: on
the one hand a formalistic aspect with the exploitation of the poetic language,
rhythm and motifs, and on the other hand the lofty philosophical discourse,
particularly that of Neoplatonism. When St Basil of Caesarea (Ad adolesc. 3)
discusses the value of Greek literature for the education of young Christians he
compares the effect Greek letters have on the soul to leafage embellishing and
sheltering the ‘true crop’. If this could be taken to imply a distinction between
form and content, Basil’s metaphor would apply well to biblical poetry—
including cento biblical poetry. For the poetic language, it is a locus communis
to evoke Homer as the main model and in many respects not unjustifiably so.
In the Dionysiaca the poet calls Homer a ‘father’ (25.265) requested to breathe
into him divine inspiration qua the Muse (πνεῦσον ἐμοὶ τεὸν ἄσθμα θεόσσυτον,
25.261) and just before Nonnus enumerates the catalogue of Dionysus’ allies
coming from the ends of the world he calls Homer ‘the anchorage of all good
poetry’ (13.51). In Late Antiquity Homeric reception is associated with school-
training. Pupils were asked to compose hexameters following the model they
had learned by reading Homer. Therefore Homeric reception is truly Homeric
only in as much as it is supported by intertextual links; if not, it is simply the way
(pupils and) poets compose hexameters at the time. Another important point
associated with Homeric reception in Christian poetry (and the Paraphrasis)
is resemanticization at a vast scale. The reception of epic means of expression
is given a thorough turnaround. The semantic onus of all words is baptised in
Christian waters. So αὐλή which in Homer and elsewhere can denote a pen for
sheep or a king’s (and Zeus’) court, in the Paraphrasis signifies God’s abode or
the paradise.46 Examples of this kind can be easily multiplied. The point is not
pedantic but critical because this comprehensive organic appropriation serves
to create the new Christian poetry.
Along with Homer the legacy of Hellenistic (Callimachus, Apollonius
Rhodius) and later poetry (Oppian’s Halieutica) contribute to the formation of
Nonnus’ poetic expression. As a matter of fact, though, the breadth of recep-
tion of ‘pagan’ literature in the Paraphrasis extends far beyond Homer or other
epic models even to the least expected authors. Sappho making her way into a
Christian poem rendering the Gospel of John is certainly a remarkable step.47
In the third canto of the Paraphrasis John the Baptist talks of himself as the
46 See Livrea (1989) 147–148 (on Par. 18.77).

47 In the Dionysiaca singer Leucos, Λέσβιος αὐτοδίδακτος (24.231) who ἱμερόφωνον
ἀνέπλεκε . . . ἀοιδήν (24.327), is usually taken as an allusion to Sappho’s monodic lyric:
Gonnelli (2003) 573; Kröll (2011) 37. On Sappho’s reception in Nonnus and in other late
friend of the bridegroom (144–148 ~ John 3:29 ὁ δὲ φίλος τοῦ νυμφίου ὁ ἑστηκὼς
καὶ ἀκούων αὐτοῦ χαρᾷ χαίρει διὰ τὴν φωνὴν τοῦ νυμφίου. αὕτη οὖν ἡ χαρὰ ἡ ἐμὴ
πεπλήρωται):
ἀγχιφανὴς δέ
κείνου φθεγγομένοιο καὶ ἱστάμενος καὶ ἀκούων, 145
οὔασι θελγομένοισι δεδεγμένος ἠθάδα φωνήν,
χάρματι πιστὸς ἑταῖρος ἀγάλλεται· ἡμετέρη δέ
τερπωλὴ τετέλεστο πολύλλιτος·
A faithful comrade, who stands nearby and listens to the bridegroom as

he speaks and receives the familiar voice with charmed ears and exalts
with joy. Our much-prayed-for pleasure has been fulfilled.
The lines echo a celebrated fragment of Sappho, fr. 31.1–5 Voigt:
Φαίνεταί μοι κῆνος ἴσος θέοισιν

ἔμμεν’ ὤνηρ, ὄττις ἐνάντιός τοι
ἰσδάνει καὶ πλάσιον ἆδυ φωνεί-
σας ὐπακούει
καὶ γελαίσας ἰμέροεν . . . 5
He seems to me to be equal to the gods, the man who sits opposite you
and listens nearby as you speak softly and smile desirably.
The text of Sappho is interwined into Nonnus’ rendition as an important inter-

text which serves to augment and embellish Nonnus’ verses but also becomes
essential in bringing out the exegesis of John’s verse. A number of details in
Nonnus are sourced from Sappho rather than John. Ἀγχιφανής is not in John
but glances at Sappho’s πλάσιον. Nonnus’ κείνου φθεγγομένοιο is inspired by
Sappho’s ἆδυ φωνείσας. The immediately ensuing ἱστάμενος καὶ ἀκούων fol-
lows closely John’s ὁ ἑστηκὼς καὶ ἀκούων but is also comparable with Sappho’s
ἰσδάνει καὶ . . . ὐπακούει. Nonnus’ next verse (οὔασι θελγομένοισι δεδεγμένος ἠθάδα
φωνήν, 146), an augmentatio of the model, seems to develop notions inspired
by Sappho’s context and to be based on ὑπακούει. Χάρματι . . . ἀγάλλεται closely
renders John’s χαρᾷ χαίρει but it is also implicit in Sappho’s comparison of a
man to the fortunate gods (ἴσος θέοισιν . . . ὤνηρ) which suits the Baptist context.
antique poetry see Accorinti (2009) 88 with further literature; cf. also Acosta-Hughes in
this volume.
614 Spanoudakis
According to Ps.-Longinus (Subl. 10.1) who transmits Sappho’s fragment,

the lines describe ‘the emotions incident to erotic passion’ (τὰ συμβαίνοντα
ταῖς ἐρωτικαῖς μανίαις παθήματα). Here, however, the fragment is exploited for
Christian baptism in the sense of a ‘spiritual wedding’ (πνευματικὸς γάμος), as
the Johannine verse is interpreted by Cyril (In Jo. I, 237.24 Pusey). In fact, the
Sapphic appropriation may be licenced by Cyril’s comment ad loc. (In Jo. I,
236.21 Pusey) suggesting that bodily effects often demonstrate in precise way
spiritual reactions:
τῶν σωματικῶν παραδειγμάτων παχύτης ἀκριβεστάτην εἰσφέρει πολλάκις τῶν

πνευματικῶν τὴν ἀπόδειξιν
the coarseness of corporeal examples often introduces a very precise

proof of spiritual matters.48
Two lines from the longer poem may be cited to corroborate the case of
amatory concepts having a bearing on the Paraphrasis passage in question:
Dion. 42.227–228 κούρη δ’ εἰσαΐουσα . . . | αἴνῳ τερπομένη πλέον ἵσταται. Direct
influence of either Sappho or the Paraphrasis passage is hard to claim, although
that part of the poem seems to contain other Sapphic echoes.49 It is apparent,
at any rate, that the same notions are here employed in an erotodidaxis con-
text: Pan indoctrinates Dionysus on how to court young and beautiful Beroe.
Even if the semantics of the Paraphrasis passage are formulated on a
Sapphic recollection, they express genuinely Christian practices. In general,
appropriations of the kind are not shocking because Christian ‘love’ exploits
the full array of traditional amatory motifs.50 More precisely, the practice of
baptismal indoctrination at night is known from Nicodemus (John 3:2) and
according to Hippolytus, Trad. Apost. 20.9 catechumens spent the whole night
before their baptism ‘being read to and instructed’. John Chrysostom’s com-
ment ad loc. (In Jo. hom., PG 59.170.16–18) associated wedding with voice and
preach: Ἐπειδὴ γὰρ νυμφίου καὶ νύμφης ἐμνημόνευσε, δείκνυσιν, ἡ νυμφαγωγία πῶς
γίνεται, ὅτι διὰ φωνῆς καὶ διδασκαλίας (‘Since he mentioned a bride and a groom,
he demonstrates how the bridal procession is taking place, namely with voice
and instruction’). It is a moment of devoutness and elevation. All love, even
that of a dubious nature, is superseded and subordinated to the love for Christ.
48 Trans. Maxwell in Maxwell/Elowsky (2013).

49 In Dion. 42.153, 441 γλυκύπικρος is borrowed from Sappho, fr. 130.2 Voigt (Accorinti 2009,
88); 42.270 is also likely to echo Sappho, fr. 1.21 Voigt (Accorinti 2004, 257).
50 See Thraede (2008) 570–573.
The broader spiritual influence of the Hellenic heritage on the Paraphrasis

may be illustrated with two examples, one from the beginning and one from
the end of the poem. At the beginning of the poem a programmatic distinction
between ἄφρων ‘senseless, foolish (unbeliever)’ and ἔμφρων ‘sensible (believer,
granted the honour to be called son of God)’ is introduced, Par. 1.30–32 (~ John
1:11–12 εἰς τὰ ἴδια ἦλθεν, καὶ οἱ ἴδιοι αὐτὸν οὐ παρέλαβον. ὅσοι δὲ ἔλαβον αὐτόν . . .):
ἐγγὺς ἔην ἰδίων, ἴδιοι δέ μιν ἄφρονι λύσσῃ 30

ὡς ξένον οὐκ ἐγέραιρον· ὅσοι δέ μιν ἔμφρονι θυμῷ
ἀπλανέες δέξαντο καὶ οὐ νόον εἶχον ἀλήτην
. . .
Near was he to his own people, but his own people in senseless frenzy
would not honor him as if he were a stranger. But all who with sensible
mind without error received him and did not have an erring mind . . .
The association of an ἄφρων with rejection of the true God may be thought to
rely on Ps 13:1 (= 52:2) Εἶπεν ἄφρων ἐν καρδίᾳ αὐτοῦ Οὐκ ἔστιν θεός. Theodoret of
Cyrus explains (Interpr. in XII Proph. min., PG 81.1940A–B): ἄφρονα . . . ὀνομάζει,
ὡς ἐξαπατώμενον μὲν ὑπὸ τῆς διαβολικῆς ἐνεργείας . . . ἄφρονα δὲ ἡ θεία Γραφὴ καὶ
τὸν δυσσεβῆ εἴωθεν ὀνομάζειν (‘he [i.e. Zach. 11:15] calls [an incompetent leader
of Jews] “senseless” because he is deceived by diabolical operation . . . the holy
Scripture is used to calling senseless also the impious’).51 On the other hand
the programmatic character of the distinction recalls Neoplatonic treatises (in
the wider sense) dealing with the gods. Such treatises programmatically fea-
ture a list of presuppositions which their auditor must be fulfilling in order to
comprehend what he hears. Among these presuppositions the virtue of being
ἔμφρων features prominently. So Sallustius (4th century) in the exordium of his
treatise On Gods and the Universe states (1.1):
Τοὺς περὶ θεῶν ἀκούειν ἐθέλοντας δεῖ μὲν . . . μὴ ἀνοήτοις συντρέφεσθαι δόξαις·
δεῖ δὲ καὶ τὴν φύσιν ἀγαθοὺς εἶναι καὶ ἔμφρονας, ἵνα ὅμοιόν τι ἔχωσι τοῖς λόγοις.
Those who would learn about the gods . . . must not be bred up among
foolish ideas; they must also be good and intelligent by nature, in order
that may have something in common with the subject.52
51 See, further, Lampe, s.v. ‘ἄφρων’.

52 Trans. Nock (1926).
616 Spanoudakis
Proclus near the opening of the Platonic Theology 1.2 makes a comparable
claim about the hearer of his treatise: πρὸς ἓν τὸ τῆς φρονήσεως εἶδος ἁρμόσας
(1.2.15 Saffrey/Westerink). The Sibylline Oracles also widely employ ‘vocabulary
of wisdom and folly’ to contrast those receptive to those unreceptive of the
Sibyl’s message.53 In the third, oldest book of the collection the latter are des-
ignated as ἄφρονες in passages such as Or. Sib. 3.686–688:
. . . ἀνδρῶν δυσμενέων, ὅτι τὸν νόμον οὐκ ἔγνωσαν

οὐδὲ κρίσιν μεγάλοιο θεοῦ, ἀλλ’ ἄφρονι θυμῷ
πάντες ἐφορμηθέντες ἐφ’ Ἱερὸν ἤρατε λόγχας
. . . of hostile men because they have not recognized the law or the judge-
ment of the great god, but all in erring mind rushed upon and raised
spears against the Temple
or Or. Sib. 3.722–723:
ἡμεῖς δ’ ἀθανάτοιο τρίβου πεπλανημένοι ἦμεν,

ἔργα δὲ χειροποίητα σεβάσμεθα ἄφρονι θυμῷ.
We have strayed from the immortal path and worship hand-made arte-
facts with erring mind.
Passages such as the above, drawn from different contexts, demonstrate the
rich intertextuality of Nonnus’ verses. It may not be wise to attach his verses
to a single tradition when sundry intertexts appear operative under the same
terminology.
In the last canto of the Paraphrasis Peter dives into the sea to come near
Christ waiting on the shore (Par. 21.44–48 ~ John 21:7 καὶ ἔβαλεν ἑαυτὸν εἰς τὴν
θάλασσαν).54 It is a dive into the sea of spirituality:
καὶ ταχὺς εἰς ῥόον ἆλτο καὶ ἠθάδα πόντον ἀμείβων

χεῖρας ἐρετμώσας, κεφαλὴν εἰς ὕψος ἀείρων, 45
ποσσὶν ἀμοιβαίοισιν ὀπίστερον ὤθεεν ὕδωρ·
ἀκτῆς δ’ ἐγγὺς ἵκανε θεηδόχον ᾐόνα βαίνων,
Ἰησοῦς ὅθι μίμνε δεδεγμένος.
53 See Lightfoot (2007) 63, whence the citation.

54 For Nonnus’ Vorlage cf. Scheindler (1881a) 222–223 (καὶ *ἥλατο εἰς τὴν θάλασσαν *καὶ
[ἐνήχετο καὶ Syrus Lewisianus] ἦλθεν πρὸς τὸν Ἰησοῦν); Janssen (1903) 78 (καὶ ἥλατο εἰς τὴν
θάλασσαν καὶ ἦλθεν πρὸς τὸν Ἰησοῦν).
and quicly he leapt into the stream and moving along the familiar sea,
having plied his hands as oars, lifting his head high, he pushed the water
behind with alternating feet. He arrived near the beach walking along the
god-receiving shore, where Christ remained waiting him.
John’s concise description is here augmented in picturesque detail: Peter

swims with all his might, hands stretched, head lifted, feet pushing back the
water. His effort is motivated in order to reach the divine shore where sub-
lime Christ is waiting. Peter σπεύδει to the divinity, through a ‘sea’ representing
the abyss of unredeemed creatures. In Par. 1.155 Peter is introduced as εὐώδινος
ἐρευνητῆρα θαλάσσης and in 21.35 he is described as βυθοῦ διφήτορι πόντου, in
both cases employing reminiscences from the same passage of the sea-poem
par excellence so close to Nonnus’ heart, Oppian’s Halieutica.55 The image is
symbolic of the mortal ineffably attracted to the godhead and reaching the
sacred shores of his realm. The symbolism of the sacred shores is well attested
in early Christian imagery56 but it originates in– and is shared with Neoplatonic
imagery. To articulate his elaborate scene, it is just possible that Nonnus takes
up Porphyry’s portrayal of Plotinus’ post-mortem flight to the divine realm in
the oracle demanded by Amelius. Porphyry reworks in a lofty, spiritual manner
Odysseus’ naufrage in Od. 5.438–439. These are the lines in V. Plot. 22.26–30:
ῥωσάμενος πραπίδεσσιν ἐς ᾐόνα νηχύτου ἀκτῆς 26

νήχετ’ ἐπειγόμενος . . .
ἧχι θεοῖο σέλας περιλάμπεται, ἧχι θέμιστες 29

ἐν καθαρῷ ἀπάτερθεν ἀλιτροσύνης ἀθεμίστου.
strong in heart, you swam swiftly . . . to that coast where the stream flows
strong . . . where the splendour of God shines round you and the divine
law abides in purity far from the lawless wickedness.57
In Musaeus’ Hero and Leander the animated swimming of Leander unfolds in

the same spiritual context. After Leander divests his limbs of his cloths (μελέων
55 Opp. Hal. 2.437 and 2.435, respectively: see De Stefani (2002) 206 (on Par. 1.155); on
Nonnus and Oppian see also Maciver in this volume. Note that εὐώδιν (‘fecund’) of the sea
implicitly but meaningfully constrasts to the sea’s Homeric attribute ἀτρύγετος (‘barren’).
56 Cf. the εὐκτικόν in AP 1.118.6–7 σύ, Χριστέ, δείξαις ἀβρόχους ἁμαρτίας | τῷ σῷ πρὸς ὅρμῳ
προσφόρως προσορμίσας; Vis. Dor. 175 ἐν λιμέσι μαλακοῖσι with Livrea (1986) 698 n. 30.
57 Translation by Armstrong (1966). The lines have been studied in association with Nonnus’
passage by Agosti (2005a) 26–28.
618 Spanoudakis
ἐρατῶν ἀπεδύσατο πέπλα, 251), he swims towards the torch-light beaming from
the tower where Hero is waiting (253–255):
ἠιόνος δ’ ἐξῶρτο, δέμας δ’ ἔρριψε θαλάσσῃ.

λαμπομένου δ’ ἔσπευδεν ἀεὶ κατεναντία λύχνου,
αὐτὸς ἐὼν ἐρέτης, αὐτόστολος, αὐτόματος νηῦς. 255
Rushed from the strand and flung his body into the sea. Always he strove
in his course straight on for the flaring lamp, his own oarsman, his own
escort, himself his ship.58
What’s more, Peter swims ‘lifting his head high’ (κεφαλὴν εἰς ὕψος ἀείρων),
notionally recalling the image of man sticking his head out of the ‘sea’ in Plato,
Phd. 109d ἐκδὺς καὶ ἀνακύψας ἐκ τῆς θαλάττης εἰς τὸν ἐνθάδε τόπον. Likewise, in
Plato, Phdr. 248a the charioteer of human soul needs to stick his head out of
the celestial dome in order to contemplate the forms of the transcendental
world, an image recurring in Plotinus, Enn. 4.3.12.5–6 of the fallen soul still
keeping its ‘head’ in heaven. A similar metaphor is used in a riddle-epigram
Νοῦς ἢ ψυχή by Basileios Megalomytes (10th century?), AP App. 7.76.5 ending
καὶ γῆθεν ὑψοῦ τὴν κεφαλὴν ἀνάγω.
An important source of spirituality in the Paraphrasis are the Chaldean
Oracles, a mystic text written in inspired hexameters. This poem was in vogue
with post-Porphyrian philosophers and an emblematic work of reference for
pagan intelligentsia.59 Marinus concludes his Life of Proclus (V. Procl. 38) by
disclosing that Proclus, of all works, would wish to preserve Plato’s Timaeus
and the Chaldean Oracles. Porphyry, Iamblichus and Proclus wrote commen-
taries on the Chaldean Oracles (Marin. V. Procl. 20.17–28). Efforts to legiti-
mise the obscure text included attempts to win agreement with Plato.60 The
Chaldean Oracles largely consist of a set of instructions about human contact
with the divine aiming at salvation. It is sometimes considered as the ‘pagan’
counterpart of the Christian Bible and loans from such a source in Nonnus’
Christian poem are all the more remarkable. The Chaldean Oracles would
provide Nonnus with a broad spiritualising linguistic and semantic basis to
58 Trans. Whitman in Gelzer (1975).

59 Collections of fragments: des Places (1996), whence the citations; Majercik (1989). The
fundamental work on the Chaldean Oracles is still by Lewy (2011). A fine analysis is offered
by Tanaseanu-Döbler (2013) 23–44 (‘Theurgy and the Chaldean Oracles’).
60 See Saffrey (1992); Schibli (2002) 24; Bernabé in OF II, 86.
draw on.61 Concepts such as ‘Father’, ‘ascent’, ‘immortalization’, ‘demiurgy’

(creatorship) could be thought, if erroneously, to share common ground with
corresponding Christian concepts. The following list collects some possible,
as of yet unnoticed reminiscences of the Chaldean Oracles in the Paraphrasis:
– The paradox of Christ walking the waters is described in Par. 6.76

as βατῆς ἁλὸς ὀξὺν ὁδίτην. The formulation βατῆς ἁλός is appropriate
to a paradox (*Dion. 1.54 = 40.444) and is comparable to the miracle of
incarnation as expressed in Par. 1.131 Χριστὸν ἰδὼν στείχοντα βατὴν χθόνα
πεζὸν ὁδίτην. Could it involve a reminiscence of the Chaldean terrestrial
demons ὑδροβατῆρας (Or. Chald. 92)?
– When Christ responds to the Jews in John 10:25 He claims to perform
His miracles ἐν τῷ ὀνόματι τοῦ πατρός μου. Nonnus elaborately renders
with Par. 10.92 καλέων πατρῴιον ἀλκήν. Linguistically, this seems to reflect
Aion plucking the flower of nous from the strength of the Chaldean
Father in Or. Chald. 49.1–2 ἐκ πατρὸς ἀλκῆς | δρεψάμενος νόου ἄνθος.62
– In the healing of the man born blind, in which the creation of the
blind man’s eye de novo is a conspicuous feature of Nonnus’ treatment,
the formulation in Par. 9.5–6 ὀπωπήν, | ἣν φύσις οὐκ ἐτύπωσε may be using
terminology drawn from the creatorship of the Chaldean Father in Or.
Chald. 144 τὰ ἀτύπωτα τυποῦσθαι.
– The demise of Lazarus due to his complete immersion in sin is elabo-
rately described at the beginning of canto eleven. Par. 11.22 Λάζαρος Ἄϊδι
νεύων seems to be modelled on *Or. Chald. 141 (ἔκλυσίς ἐστι θεοῦ) βροτὸς ἐς
τάδε νεύων. The Chaldean expression is in eadem versus sede and refers to
the distraction from devotion to the conjured deity effected when the
theurgist diverts his attention to earthly matters. The equation βροτός =
Λάζαρος and Ἄϊδι = ἐς τάδε corroborates the verbal and contextual affilia-
tion. Gregory Nazianzen’s address to the soul in his elegiac poem De
humana natura is similarly formulated, carm. 1.2.14.83 εἰ γὰρ τοῖον ἔχουσα
βοηθόον ἐς χθόνα νεύεις.
– In the celebration of resurrection opening chapter twelve of the
Gospel of John, raised Lazarus’ presence is qualified in Nonnus with cryp-
tic attributes, Par. 12.9–10 Λάζαρος, ἶσος ὀνείρῳ | πασιφανής. Πασιφανής
might be thought to gain its meaning from the fact that the raising of
61 On the Dionysiaca and the Chaldean Oracles see Gigli Piccardi (1985) 220–233 and (2009);
Hernández de la Fuente (2014a) 232, 248–249. The Chaldean Oracles are not registered
among Ps.-Apollinarius’ models in the Index by Golega (1960) exhaustively exploring his
literary and theological models.
62 On ἀλκή designating divine force in Chaldean ambience see Gigli Piccardi (1990) 88.
620 Spanoudakis
Lazarus was confirmed by so many witnesses so that later it could not be

set in doubt. On the other hand, Nonnus seems to precisely pick up Or.
Chald. 163.5 ἀφανὲς δέμας ἀργὸν ἄπνευμον to emphasize the reality (‘visi-
bility’) of the resurrectional body. The Oracles’ δέμας . . . ἄπνευμον would
also recall Lazarus’ ἄπνοον . . . δέμας (Par. 11.159).
4 The Broader Context
In building on classical materials to produce a novel construction literature

conforms with other aspects of late antique culture. Relics left behind from
a ‘mythologized’ antiquity are now re-used or simply preserved deprived of
their original connotations. The ancient identity fades away and a new belief
is attached to these monuments. A whole culture of making use of spolia is
developped. As Gianfranco Agosti observed, ‘In the fifth century the short sea-
son of Greek Biblical poetry . . . created Christian classicizing poetry, reusing
the literary past in a way that was not so different from the reuse of spolia
in the Christian reorganization of civic spaces.’63 Such practices experiment
with the limits of appropriation.
A comparable perspective arises from Theodosius I’s (346–395) laws con-
cerning the preservation of ‘pagan’ temples, which were later incorporated in
the Theodosian Code. The first law in question (C. Th. 16.10.3) allows gatherings
in the ancient temples but is careful to prohibit a revival of the rites associ-
ated with them by expressly forbidding sacrifices.64 As all laws, this one too is
likely to have been motivated by a practical need but the reasoning is anyhow
remarkable. It preserves the ancient temples for the sake of entertainment said
to have originated in those monuments and to be still important to the Roman
people:
Quamquam omnis superstitio penitus eruenda sit, tamen volumus, ut

aedes templorum, quae extra muros sunt positae, intactae incorrupta-
eque consistant. Nam cum ex nonnullis vel ludorum vel circensium vel
agonum origo fuerit exorta, non convenit ea convelli, ex quibus populo
Romano praebeatur priscarum sollemnitas voluptatum.
63 Agosti (2014a) 161–162. He (160 n. 96) also cites Liverani (2011) ‘pointing out the difference
between literary citation and reuse of spolia.’
64 See Leone (2013) 59 and n. 99; Hahn (2015) 120 and n. 16.
Though we must completely eradicate every superstition, we neverthe-

less demand that the buildings of temples outside the city wall remain
untouched and uncorrupted. In fact, since games, plays and agones,
come from some of them, it’s not opportune that we eradicate those cel-
ebrations that amuse the Roman people according to an ancient custom.
Another decree (C. Th. 16.10.8), originally addressed to Palladius dux of

Osrhoene,65 allowed local authorities to continue to keep pagan temples open
and to preserve works of art in them ‘for the value of art rather than divinity’:
Aedem olim frequentiae dedicatam coetui et iam populo quoque com-

munem, in qua simulacra feruntur posita artis pretio quam divinitate
metienda iugiter patere publici consilii auctoritate decernimus.
We decree, for the authority of the public Council, that temples once
used for gatherings and already for common use, can stay open, if there
are statues in them more appreciable for their artistic value than for the
deity depicted.66
Attitudes such as these display a general tendency to respect for the valued
legacy of the past which can still be useful to Roman citizens. Since the crite-
ria advocated are value and utility, they would apply to literature even more
emphatically. In the field of poetry there was virtually no alternative to the
‘pagan’ heritage.
In visual arts things evolve analogously. Early Christian art adopts trends,
modes and figures from earlier non-Christian art. To choose a conspicuous
example, Orpheus playing the lyre and surrounded by spellbound animals
appears variously as Adam, David or another biblical figure and above all as
Christ.67 The appropriation of this figure in literature and art provoked no reac-
tion but was rather considered to demonstrate Christ’s power to overshadow
earlier ‘false’ traditions.
Even within this context, the question of pagan themes in the Paraphrasis
is the one side of the coin. The other is the question of Christian themes in
the Dionysiaca treated in this volume by Robert Shorrock. The certainty that
Nonnus does not take seriously the gods of old is commonly shared. There is
65 See Leone (2013) 130.

66 Trans. by M. Simeoni (url: http://www.giornopaganomemoria.it/theodosian1610.html).
For the question see Jones (2013).
67 See Jensen (2000) 41–44; Herrero de Jáuregui (2010) 118–125, 286–293.
622 Spanoudakis
an attitude of bemusement and detached irony towards the ‘pagan’ set of gods.
What has not been observed is that the two poems seem to be bound together
inextricably, in a manner so far uncodified yet extant. In his fine contribution
‘Nonnos und seine Tradition’ Schmitz associated the Paraphrasis proem with
the impersonal style of the poem’s conclusion against the Dionysiaca proems
(1.1–45 and 25.1–30, 264–270) bearing the brand of Nonnus’ personal, innova-
tive art.68 It has also been observed that echoes from the first proem of the
Dionysiaca are pointedly present in the Dionysiaca coda (Dion. 1.1–2 ~ 48.731–
733).69 To this set of correspondences or contrasts one might add that it is just
as likely that the conclusion of the Dionysiaca is antagonistically picking up
themes from the proem of the Paraphrasis. The question of chronological pri-
ority aside, the two poems would thus acquire some kind of communality. The
Paraphrasis, in particular, gains the appearance of a ‘historical’ continuation
and prospective consummation of the longer poem. The Dionysiaca ends with
the formal reception of Dionysus in heaven, next to his father Zeus, to join
the polytheistic pantheon. The lines invite a string of comparisons of inferior-
ity to Christ: Dion. 48.974 θεὸς ἀμπελόεις contrasts to the spiritual θεὸς . . . λόγος
(Par. 1.5); in Dion. 48.975 πατρὶ σὺν εὐώδινι μιῆς ἔψαυσε τραπέζης, the ‘next to
Zeus’ table’ looks inferior to the ‘undivided from the Father’ sharing His ‘never-
ending seat’ of Par. 1.4 πατρὸς ἔην ἀμέριστος, ἀτέρμονι σύνθρονος ἕδρῃ, 24–25 ἑοῦ
μετὰ πατρὸς ἐτήτυμον ἀρχέγονον φῶς | μουνογενὴς λόγος. The image functions as
a ‘bridge’ linking the two poems. Dionysus ἔψαυσε τραπέζης, even if not meant
literally, contrasts to Christ being himself the food of life in the Paraphrasis
Prologue, 1.11 ζωὴ παντρόφος. In Dion. 48.976 βροτέην μετὰ δαῖτα, μετὰ προτέρην
χύσιν οἴνου the reference to accomplishments realised in definite time and the
earlier birth of Iacchus to succeed Dionysus on earth contrast to the ἄχρονος
(Par. 1.1) eternity of Christ, ἀτέρμονι σύνθρονος ἕδρῃ (Par. 1.4), shining ἀπ’ ἀρχῆς
(Par. 1.5), πρεσβύτερος κόσμοιο (Par. 1.7). Such a link would enjoy some ideo-
logical foundation. Justin approximated ‘pagan’ (including Dionysus’) and
Christian ascents in 1 Apol. 21.1–2: ‘When we say . . . Jesus Christ, our teacher,
was crucified and died, and rose again, and ascended into heaven, we propose
nothing different from what you believe about those whom you consider sons
of Zeus . . . Hermes . . . Asclepius . . . was fulminated and ascended into heaven,
and Dionysus after he was torn to pieces’. The association would stress the
unity of Nonnus’ work in conception and execution.
68 Schmitz (2005); cf. Accorinti (2013c) 1123.

69 See Accorinti (2009) 73–79.
None of this happens without consideration of the intended audience.70

As Nonnus does not explicitly speak about it, it is the poem itself that reveals
what kind of audience the author had in mind. The attitude is by all means
far from the apartheid advocated by some Christian bishops. As the language
and the content are very demanding, neither poem was destined for the broad
masses. The fabric of the poem presupposes a highly educated elite as its desti-
natarii. In the Dionysiaca the audience’s contribution in the poet’s re-shaping
the old myths in meaningful fashion is decisive. They would be expected to be
able to discern subtle allusions. This community of cultivated members valued
cultural identity more than religious affiliation. Its members were not simply
tolerant, they were mystic. The poet, of course, firmly believes in the superior-
ity of the Christian God but not as an apocalyptic or axiomatic truth but rather
as a form of cultural progress. It is, therefore, such a God that wholeheartedly
espouses the literary riches of the Greek past.
While the poem absorbs and transforms this wide range of Hellenic tradi-
tions, all suspicion of dependence is dismissed by its insistence on novelty.
On this matter poetry and theology go hand in hand. Attention to novelty is
theologically well-founded but in Nonnus’ rendition comes up far beyond
scriptural basis. The inauguration of an era of spiritual worship in John 4:21
ὅτι ἔρχεται ὥρα becomes Par. 4.98 ὅττι νέου βιότοιο διάκτορος ἔρχεται ὥρη. The
inauguration of a new era for mankind is manifested above all in miracles. The
eye of the man born blind is recreated afresh (ὀφθαλμοὺς νεοτευχέας, Par. 9.33)
unlike previous healings which lack the faculty of creatorship exhibited by
Christ. Lazarus’ new life is also a fresh start (ἀρχή) that goes beyond his former
mortality to an ever-lasting reality (ἀθρήσας μετὰ τέρμα βίου παλινάγρετον ἀρχήν
| θαμβαλέην, Par. 11.164–165). Likewise, the place prepared by Christ to welcome
his disciples in the abode of his Father is described as νεοτευχέα χῶρον ὑφαίνων
(Par. 14.9, for John 14:2 ἑτοιμάσαι τόπον). Any known vision for an afterlife bliss
is thereby dismissed. When Christ rides a colt to enter Jerusalem (ἐκάθισεν ἐπ’
αὐτό [sc. ὀνάριον], John 12:14) Nonnus renders with Par. 12.65 ἑζόμενος νώτοισι
ἀπειρήτοιο φορῆος. Ἀπειρήτοιο is happily introduced from Luke 19:30 ἐφ’ ὃν
οὐδεὶς πώποτε ἀνθρώπων ἐκάθισεν.71 In Par. 19.216–217 Christ’s tomb is also a
τύμβος . . . | . . . νεότευκτος, following John 19:41 μνημεῖον καινόν, because His
tomb paradoxically becomes a symbol of everlasting life. Attention to novelty,
though, reaches a climactic point at the very end of the poem with a reference
70 On the audience of Nonnus see McClure (1981); Chuvin (1986) 394; Agosti (2003) 95–102;
Springer (1988) 29–32 for Sedulius.
71 See Greco (2014) 311–312. Cf. also Cyril’s comment ad loc. in whom the colt represents the
λαός of the nations: ἀγύμναστος ἦν τῆς εἰς εὐσέβειαν ἀγούσης πίστεως (In Jo. II, 306.19 Pusey).
624 Spanoudakis
to ‘newly fashioned books’ (βίβλους . . . νεοτευχέας, Par. 20.142). This may well

harbour a self-reflective hint at the novelty of Nonnus’ poetry which is in
agreement with theological ‘newness’.72 Looking for a precedent, the notion
of a ‘new’ Christian song might be thought to rely on the Psalms. In Ps 39:4 the
author claims to have been inspired an ᾆσμα καινόν by God. The augmentatio
in Ps.-Apollin. Met. Ps. 39.6 χείλεσι δ’ ἡμετέροισι νέην ὑπεθήκατο μολπήν might
suggest a degree of self-awareness.73
Be this as it may, poetry would not evade the universal law: εἴ τις ἐν Χριστῷ,
καινὴ κτίσις. τὰ ἀρχαῖα παρῆλθεν, ἰδοὺ γέγονεν καινά (2 Cor 5:17). This is no
no-man’s land. The land belongs to the true God and is purely Christian.
72 See Agosti (2001b) 95–96 citing Timoth. Pers. 203 and Theoc. 1.28; contra Faulkner (2014)
207–208.
73 See Golega (1960) 111 on χείλεσι δ’ ἡμετέροισι (which is also a Nonnian expression) of
inspired poetry exalting God.
Chapter 28
Nonnus and Prophecy: Between ‘Pagan’

and ‘Christian’ Voices
Jane L. Lightfoot
1 Introduction
In his two great poems Nonnus offers many opportunities to compare pagan
and Christian systems and to explore the extent of their common ground, or
rather the common ground which Nonnus’ literary treatments are prepared to
accord them. The one I shall focus on in this chapter is prophecy and its vari-
ous aspects: anticipations and foreshadowings, prefigurations, portents, ora-
cles and predictions. The subject seems a particularly important one because,
while it provides the opportunity for close focus on aspects of diction, narra-
tive technique, and so on, what is at stake is no less than pagan and Christian
expositions of the notions of futurity, of fate, of a divine plan for the world,
in short, of the destiny of the cosmos. And precisely because Nonnus’ idiom
remains so similar in the two poems, we are encouraged to reflect on ques-
tions which are currently at the heart of Nonnian scholarship. If we discover
shared features in their conception of prophecy, should we attribute this to a
late antique environment of conscious or unconscious syncretism, of shared
cultural patterns, or might we accommodate it in other frameworks which
have been proposed for the interpretation of the poems—for instance, Livrea’s
notion that the Dionysiaca was designed, by a Christian author, to demonstrate
that paganism anticipated some aspects of Christianity avant la lettre; or that
of Kontrastimitation, which suggests that Christianity appropriated matter
from paganism in order to deprive the latter of its power?1
The place to begin is the obvious fact that both poems have long literary
histories behind them which have heavily influenced their attitudes to the
future. Behind the Dionysiaca stand the classic works of paganism, now con-
secrated and canonised in Greek paideia—the Iliad, a long war with a fated
outcome; the Orphic poems (which provide the background for the theoga-
mies, the generation of proto-Dionysus and his successor, and a ‘soteriological’
function for the latter; perhaps also the role of prophecy in guaranteeing a
1 Livrea (2000) 71–76; on Kontrastimitation, see van der Laan (1993) 152; Agosti (2003) 89, 94.

626 Lightfoot
new divine regime); and depictions of Delphi, especially in Euripides’ Ion and
the Iphigenia in Tauris, and Callimachus’ hymns. Possibly relevant, too, is the
Aeneid, insofar as the Dionysiaca has a double teleology, not only anticipat-
ing, and then realising, the various facets of Dionysus and his cult, but also
looking further forward to the coming of the Romans and the establishment
of their kingship and justice and especially the law school at Berytus. On the
other hand, behind the Paraphrasis, and perhaps even more fundamental to
it because of the very nature of a paraphrase, is a Gospel tradition that sees
Jesus’ career as the fulfilment of the predictions of scriptural prophets, which
are now read precisely as long-distance prophets,2 and as the precursor to a
further series of predestined eschatological events.
The Paraphrasis is thus to a large extent constrained by the Gospel which
underpins it. There are constant back-references to the Old Testament, some in
the form of ‘fulfilment citations’ which allude to a passage of scripture à propos
of what is presumed to be its realisation in the present, and further prophecies
by John and by Jesus of his imminent fate and of the eschatological crisis that
is to come. The Dionysiaca—a poem which massively expands the Homeric
devices of prolepsis (and to a lesser extent analepsis) to incorporate universal
history into a more restricted framework—is altogether more elaborate. Here,
Nonnus has deployed a number of overlapping techniques for anticipating the
future as well as incorporating the past.
2 The Dionysiaca (and the Paraphrasis)
Following its epic models, the Dionysiaca anticipates both events within the
time-frame of the poem and those external to it. Internal prolepses anticipate
the highlights of Dionysus’ family history, starting with Cadmus’ marriage (3.88–
89, 97–122) and the foundation of Thebes (2.690–691, 4.304–305, 348–349), the
birth of his precursor Zagreus from Zeus’ union with Persephone (6.15–103),
and his own birth (7.141–155, 201–202, 318–343, 8.6–33), followed by the emer-
gence of his cult, his specialisms (viticulture, 12.113; the wine-press, 12.328–330;
irrigation systems for the vine, 11.164–166) and associates (Ampelus, 11.91–93,
12.101–102, 145–171; Telete, 16.399–402). Once Dionysus has been well and truly
born, the next task is to get him to win the Indian War, so the next main series
of anticipations concerns that victory (14.407, 18.312, 25.361–367, 26.3, 30.294–
295, 36.413–416, 38.15–45, 62–63, 39.107). In light of the significance attached to
the births of the first two Dionysi, it is passingly curious that the birth of the
2 Barton (1986) esp. 152–153, 179–213, 214–234.

Nonnus and Prophecy 627
third and last Dionysus is not foreshadowed,3 much less accorded a ‘cosmic
prelude’ (Vian’s term for the grand scenes of oracular consultation in Books 6,
7, 12, and 41 which anticipate major innovations in the cosmos)4 as the others
are. On the other hand, the conception of Iacchus as the third Dionysus seems
to be an Athenian, specifically Eleusinian, notion (48.962–968), while Nonnus
himself treats the birth of Iacchus as a complement to the birth of Telete from
his earlier rape of Nicaea: both rapes are morceaux de bravoure, but the refusal
to impart a cosmic dimension to their consequences implies that they are seen
as serving an ancillary function to the god himself.
External prolepses are less frequent than internal ones. A handful refer to
mythological events outside the scope of the poem;5 several refer to the trans-
formation of Cadmus;6 one anticipates the encirclement of the Persian ships
at Salamis (39.135–137); most remarkable, as we have seen, there is a cluster at
either end of the poem looking as far ahead as the establishment of Roman
rule and law. In Book three, the coming of the Romans, and their association
with kingliness and justice, is incorporated à propos of Dardanus, brother of
the reigning king of Samothrace whither Cadmus has gone to fetch his bride
(3.196–199): in other words, a prolepsis (and a massive one) occurs à propos of
an analepsis. Book forty-one, meanwhile, prefigures and includes an explicit
prophecy of the Roman law school at Berytus, which is supposedly instituted
to commemorate the city’s support for Augustus at Actium, and which institu-
tionalises the justice which put an end to the tumult of the civil wars (41.160,
180–182, 273–398). Indeed, we are perhaps the more justified in according a
double teleology to the poem because, in the two parallel and complemen-
tary scenes involving inscribed tablets of fate, one introduces Dionysus and
his product, wine, which is realised in the course of the poem, while the other
contains a strong forward projection to something only realised in the contem-
porary reader’s experience.
3 There is a reference to Iacchus in 31.66–69, but it is confusing, since it suggests that the first
Dionysus was Iacchus, not that Iacchus still remains to come. The only prolepsis is in 48.883–
886, where Dionysus foresees that Aura will kill one of the twins and the other will live on as
Iacchus, with Telete as his servant.
4 Vian (1993); Lightfoot (2014b) 48–52.
5 Dion. 9.319–321, the infanticide committed by Athamas’ second wife; 13.241–252, Asterius’
post-war migration to Colchis; cf. the list of metamorphoses in the future tense in 12.70–89,
whose relation to the chronology of the main frame of the poem is unclear.
6 The mechanisms are noteworthily various: prophecy by Zeus (2.677–679), direct narratorial
comment (4.417–421, 46.366–367), astronomical prefiguration (5.123–125), animal portent
(44.115–118). See Frangoulis (2013a).
628 Lightfoot
But it is not particularly enlightening to talk about prolepsis and anticipa-

tion without distinguishing various kinds. Three categories we might want to
distinguish are narratorial prolepses, prefigurations, and prophecies. In the
first of these, the narrator himself is the speaker. Prophecies are outright pre-
dictions, a speaking to b or the equivalent (for instance, b consulting a written
tablet). Prefigurations, on the other hand, are episodes that implicitly antici-
pate something else, usually through a straight one-for-one correspondence
that, for those who have eyes to see, is not difficult to read. The difference
between prophecy and prefiguration in the Dionysiaca corresponds more or
less to the difference between the use of simplex θεσπίζειν (used of the articu-
late speech of prophets) and compound προθεσπίζειν (used of signs and inar-
ticulate sounds, animal noises, etc., in portents and prefigurations).7 The few
counterexamples do not seriously disturb the pattern.8 In Par., it does not
apply, for both θεσπίζειν and προθεσπίζειν are used to make explicit the predic-
tive quality of the original.9 Instead, a different pattern asserts itself: when the
predictions are Jesus’, the participles accompany a main verb of speech; other-
wise, a finite verb is used (with the sole exception of 13.88).
Prefigurations can take the form of significantly shaped events in the nar-
rative (for instance, at 3.83–89, Peitho carrying a water-jug presages the bath
of the bride-groom);10 or they can take the form of devices long familiar from
epic, such as prophetic dreams, or animal and celestial portents.11 Here the
relationship, where it is not one of direct correspondence (such as the rising
7 θεσπίζειν: Dion. 3.122 (the prophetic crow), 4.292 (the articulate Delphic ἄξων), 13.373
(Zeus Asbystes), 26.280 (an unnamed Indian interpreter), 33.358 (Prometheus), 41.318 (an
imperative addressed to Harmonia). προθεσπίζειν: 2.557 (thunder); 7.288 (the moon’s light
foreshadowing Dionysus’ torch); 7.349 (thunder); 17.354 (the scales of war); 22.47 (bird-
song); 22.387 (Peleus’ actions); 25.299 (a scent); 26.212 (the catreus bird); 39.163 (an eagle);
44.49 (a dream), 44.264 (Stygian drops), 48.110 (Peitho’s investiture of Pallene).
8 7.304 (θεσπίζει of the marriage of Zeus and Semele foreshadowing Dionysus’ birth); 38.166
(προθεσπίζων of Oceanus, but in fact confirming the pattern, since what he would be
revealing would be a prefiguration of Phaethon’s fall); 39.139 (προθεσπίζων of Aeacus).
9 θεσπίζειν: participles in Par. 7.125; main verbs in 11.209, 12.166, 13.88, 14.119. προθεσπίζειν:
participles in Par. 7.149, 16.1, 117, 18.155, 21.114; main verbs in 16.42.
10 Other examples: 7.202 (the arrow of desire grazes Zeus’ thigh); 7.339, 8.6–33, 9.11–15
(Dionysus’ attributes), 11.91–93 (blood on an altar presaging the vintage), 164–166 (bulls
turning the capstan), 38.155–166 (Phaethon plunges into the waters), 41.160 (Hermes
holds Latin tablet at the birth of Beroe), 44.44–45 (statue of Ares runs with blood, prefig-
uring death of Pentheus).
11 In addition to the examples discussed, add 4.348–349 (the cow sinks to the ground on the
site of Thebes); 11.83–98 (snake carries off fawn, portending death of Ampelus); 13.238–241
(the planet Ares, harbinger of victory for Asterius); 38.26–29 (eagle and snake portend
of the constellation Draco in 5.121–125 heralding the snakey metamorphosis

of Cadmus and Harmonia), may involve simple substitution (for instance, a
series of dreams in which a lion represents the chief human actor: in 18.176–
195, Dionysus’ combat with Lycurgus, in 44.54–79 Agave and Pentheus, in
48.262–286 Aura’s rape) or perspicuous metaphor (for instance, in 26.268–278
fish representing dumbness; in 38.15–25 the darkness of an eclipse represent-
ing the colour of the Indians’ skin, and the sun the triumph of Dionysus) or
something in between the two (in 7.141–154, a dream in which the pregnant
Semele is represented as a tree with swelling fruit).
These prefigurations are often flagged by phrases like ἄγγελος (αὐτάγγελος,
προάγγελος, πρωτάγγελος) ἐσσομένων, also κῆρυξ and μάντις with future partici-
ple—a considerably commoner idiom in Dion. than in Par. precisely because
it is associated mainly with prefigurations which are so important a literary
technique in the former and not the latter.12 As in Par. there is also liberal use
of the future participle of the verb ‘to be’ used adjectivally (the coming harvest,
the coming vintage, the advent of the god, his coming victory), strengthening
the impression that a future dimension impinges, or even bears down imperi-
ously, upon the present.13 The same impression is created by narratorial pro-
lepses, which often use the epic idiom μέλλειν14 (especially the phrase in 20.142
Καὶ τὰ μὲν ὣς ἤμελλε μετὰ χρόνον ὀψὲ τελέσσαι vel sim.). These are prospectives
conclusion of Indian War); 42.534–538 (bird portent indicates defeat for Dionysus in the
contest for Beroe).
12 In Dion. ἄγγελος ἐσσομένων: 3.88, 5.123, 7.339, 44.45; αὐτάγγελος: 11.91; προάγγελος: 4.349, 390,
7.202, 44.38; πρωτάγγελος: 13.241, 38.63, 46.363; κῆρυξ: 7.107, 9.13, 41.160; μάντις/πρόμαντις:
2.397, 8.11 (without future participle), 11.164, 26.270, 41.180, 44.83, 48.262–263. In Par. 1.75
ἄγγελος ἐσσομένων is attached to προφήτης and in 1.181 ἐσσομένων κήρυκες to προφῆται, but
neither is a prefiguration.
13 Such participles are used especially of Dionysus (7.107, 202, 351), his attributes and asso-
ciates (7.165, 339, 9.13, 11.91, 164, 12.29), members of his family (5.559), and his victory in
the Indian War (14.407, 18.311–312, 25.366–367, 26.3, 30.294, 37.440–441, 38.45, 63, 39.106–
107); also of the founding of Thebes (4.349, 404, 5.66), cf. 40.506, of its metropolis Tyre.
Other examples: Dion. 1.514–515, 523, 6.57, 104–105, 13.111, 17.395, 26.270, 280, 37.588, 42.173;
nominally, 2.711. The Paraphrasis uses ἐσσόμενος in eschatological contexts (the Messiah:
12.165–166; the coming kingdom: 3.30–31; judgement: 5.92, 116; eternal life: 6.161, 10.37,
10.100); of prophecy (5.106–107); and of the future in general (16.41–42, and as a noun in
13.88, 14.119).
14 The majority, but not all, are narratorial: note also 7.183, 41.211, focalised by a character,
and 7.364 in direct speech by Zeus. This use of μέλλειν is not found in the Paraphrasis,
where it occurs frequently enough in virtue of its frequency in the original, but never to
introduce a long-range perspective which is absent from the original (except in 2.103, a
suppletive reference to the resurrection).
630 Lightfoot
which generally look beyond the conclusion of the poem (though not 44.274,
the death of Pentheus), and have none of the tragic irony, the gap between
expectation and outcome with which they are so often associated in Homer.
Rather, they reflect Nonnus’ concern, to present events in a grand pageant, the
triumph of Dionysus, and the grand unfurling of Greek mythology in general,
which is pre-ordained (or canonised by tradition) and from which there is to
be no diversion.
As for prophecies proper, these are mobilised by a variety of seers, oracles,
and oracular deities. Teiresias appears in connection with the Theban royal
family (7.159–161, 44.82–95, cf. also 5.337–342); portents are interpreted by an
unnamed Indian interpreter (26.279–284) and by the Phrygian seer Idmon
(38.31–71). Traditional oracle centres figure to a limited extent. The oracles of
Ammon at Siwa and of Zeus at Dodona are mentioned very much en passant
(3.292–294, 13.370–373, 40.392). Delphi is mentioned most often, but portrayed
idiosyncratically. Its Leitmotiven are the ἄξων,15 and a special association with
sound, with which Nonnus endows the tripod, the rock, the axon, and the
very ground from which a voice emerges—yet not the Pythia herself, whose
words and resonant voice are so central to the depiction of Delphi in other
traditions.16 Nonnus seems not to have understood the role of the Pythia, and
indeed is remarkably reserved about the role of Apollo himself, owing perhaps
to a sense of rivalry with his brother. When Ino runs amock in Delphi, she dis-
rupts the existing cults, driving away the Pythia, appropriating the Delphic ser-
pent to her own ends, and prefiguring the new rites of the Thyiades; the choroi
Ino founds for Dionysus are right beside the rock of prophecy (9.284–286). The
two brothers share Parnassus in 13.129–131, and have a joint interest in it again
in 27.253–254; but a sense of competition emerges again in 38.56, and Dionysus
appropriates Parnassian imagery in 40.82–83.
15
Dion. 2.697, 4.290, 7.72, 27.252. Apparently without parallel, except in Iamblichus, Myst.
3.11, speaking of the prophetess at Didyma, who ἐπὶ ἄξονος καθημένη προλέγει τὸ μέλλον.
16
Dion. 4.289–292 (the ἄξων speaks with a hollow voice), 307 τριπόδων . . . θυιάδα φωνήν, 308
Φοιβάδος ἠχοῦς, 350 Πύθιον οὐδαίης . . . θέσφατον ἠχοῦς, 9.270 χθονίης . . . βοῆς ἀλλόθροον ἠχώ,
13.132–134 (sounds emitted by the Pythian rock, tripod, and the Castalian spring), 27.252
ἄξονος ὀμφαίοιο θεηγόρε κοίρανε Πυθοῦς, 41.222 λάλον . . . ὕδωρ. This association of Delphi
with sound is long-standing. In earlier sources it is associated with Apollo himself (Eur. IT
976–977, Or. 162–165; TrGF II adesp. *61a; Posidipp. SH 705.12–13; Antip. Thess. AP 6.10.4 =
GPh 286; Sen. Oed. 232), with the tripod (Bouché-Leclercq 1880, 92 n. 3, for Alcman read-
ing Alcaeus, fr. 307c Voigt, and adding Nonn. Dion. 4.307), the spring (Nonn. Dion. 4.310,
13.134), the Pythia (Eur. Ion 92–93; Virg. Aen. 6.44, 50, 99; Val. Max. 1.8.10; Luc. BC 5.190–193;
Stat. Theb. 3.613), and the natural resonance of the site itself (Justin, Epit. 24.6.8). Hence
the significance attached to this shrine (and others) falling silent: Clem. Al. Protr. 2.11.1.
If Apollo is downgraded, many other oracular deities appear. Zeus himself

appears partly as a controller and dispenser of providence, as when he is sup-
plicated by Aion and his ratiocinations apparently determine and ratify the
outcome, and partly as a mediator who offers insight into the Fates but does
not claim to control them.17 Hermes delivers prophecies on two occasions, and
interprets a celestial portent on a third.18 Rhea is twice mentioned as the author
of oracles (12.330, 36.413–416), and her acolyte Attis brings Dionysus helpful
information about the duration of the Indian War (25.361–367). The Hesiodic
Astraeus is recycled as an astrologer in Book 6, and Heracles Astrochiton rein-
vented as a god who gives colonisation oracles in 40.429–534.
These prophecies, portents, seers and oracles are all dominated by the same
characteristics as the whole of the Dionysiaca—a preference for colourful vari-
ety over and above system, order, and consistency, and the pursuit of striking
effect in a particular context. In the cultivation of variatio, Nonnus—well read
as he is—does not necessarily stay faithful to tradition, nor keep categories
stable and clearly defined. Teiresias turns into an interpreter of dreams (a new
departure for him),19 Hesiod’s Astraeus into an astrologer (although his name
and his Hesiodic progeny easily facilitate that development).20 The episode in
which Idmon interprets a portent presaging the end of the war rewrites the
portent the Greek host received at Aulis, but now has a celestial as well as orni-
thomantic component (38.15–30), and two separate figures share its interpre-
tation (38.31–74 + 78–89). When Dionysus visits Tyre and addresses a hymn
to Heracles Astrochiton in which he assimilates him to just about every chief
deity one can think of, Heracles replies with a narrative in which he presents
himself, not as a cosmocrator or solar deity or general culture-patron (like
Sarapis), but as a colonisation deity (like a Phoenician version of Apollo), quot-
ing his own colonisation oracle; he combines this with the function of city-
holder (φιλόκτιτον ἦθος ἀέξων | ἐσσόμενος πτολιοῦχος, 40.505–506). The paradox
is that the foundation is of a place that already exists; the colonists return to
the very spot from which they had set out and which had existed all along, and
17 To Cadmus, 2.660–698; the doubt implied by 679 εἰ λίνα Μοιράων ἐπιπείθεται is warranted,
because not even Zeus can avert Cadmus’ fate.
18 Prophecies: 3.426–431, a passage which recalls both God’s promises to Abraham and
Gabriel’s salutation to Mary; 9.70–91. Celestial portent: 38.78–95.
19 Roscher (1884–1937), s.v. ‘Teiresias’, cols. 188.64–189.65.
20 Hes. Th. 376, 378–382: father by Eos of Zephyr, Boreas, Notos, the Morning star, and the
stars in general (cf. Aratus, Phaen. 98–99).
632 Lightfoot
the journey is one through time rather than space.21 Each passage is played for
effect, and sometimes for paradox: for instance, while oracles are repeatedly
associated with divine voice (αὐδή, ὀμφή), Teiresias knows the meaning of the
dream he is called upon to interpret but is silent (ἐν ἀφθόγγῳ δὲ σιωπῇ, 44.92);
or the rhetorical conceit of Ino, behaving like a maenad in Delphi, repurposing
the serpent coiled round the tripod as a Bacchic serpent to wreathe her hair
(9.257–260).
And finally, the presentation of the gods who preside over this system, the
deities of time and cosmic history itself, is governed by just the same principles.
The Fates themselves are inherited from epic, save that the old Homeric reti-
cence has dropped away, and they emerge from character-text into narrative as
fully fleshed-out characters with threads and spindles and a speaking part for
Atropus. An astrologer, casting a horoscope, can combine them with his tech-
nical apparatus and mathematical calculations (6.94). It is entirely vain to look
for intellectual coherence in these rhetorical jeux d’esprit and games of conceit:
now the Fates are subordinated to Zeus and his associates (1.366–367) or to
Aphrodite (41.316–317); now they act in tandem with Zeus (7.106, 25.365); now
he is powerless to avert them, or refuses to struggle against them (2.672–679,
8.367–368); and now Atropus herself is able to roll them back, so that Dionysus’
tears and grief are able to achieve an effect of which Zeus himself is incapable
(12.138 ff.).
If the Fates are a rhetor’s baroque realisation of his epic heritage, they are
complemented by scenes involving personifications of time and the cosmos—
Aion, Chronos, the Horae (both the four Seasons and the twelve Months).
In general these scenes are more akin to late antique cosmological mosaics
than to anything literature has to offer, although there is a partial exception
at the end of the second book of Claudian’s Laudes Stilichonis, where Helios
encounters a figural representation of Aion or Aevum, personified time, in the
form of a serpent coiled back on itself (ll. 424–453).22 There is no doubt that
Nonnus should be read in the contexts of both contemporary ideas and lit-
erary history: at the beginning of the Orphic Rhapsodies stood the figure of
Chronos, Unaging Time,23 and Orphic influence on Nonnus is confirmed by
the appearance of Phanes, Ophion, and Eurynome—figures whose origins are
21 Simon (1999) 160. Perhaps compare Philo of Byblos, FGrH 790 F 2 (10), where Hypsouranios
founds Tyre and his brother, Ousoos, builds the first sea-going ship—but in practice does
not leave Tyre, let alone lead a colonisation expedition.
22 Lightfoot (2014b) 51.
23 West (1983) 70, 104, 190–193; OF 76 F, 96 T; cf. OH 12.9–10 (West 1983, 231).
in the Orphic poems—in his showpiece scenes of oracular consultation and

elsewhere.24 These scenes, the so-called cosmic preludes, envisage typically
diverse mechanisms both for fixing and for interpreting and communicating
fate—Zeus’ liberum arbitrium, the interpretation of the stars, the consultation
of tablets inscribed by primordial deities. But the rationale for the inclusion of
Orphic gods alongside personifications of time is never buried underneath the
elaborate variatio and ornamentation: their presence suggests the magnitude,
grandeur, and cosmic significance of the events involved.
Time in these scenes is viewed from different perspectives. Vian contrasts
Chronos (measured time) and associated deities (the Horae, daughters of the
Lykabas) with Aion (affective, human-centred time), although in practice
the distinction is not entirely clear-cut: Helios, for instance, who ought to
be the very principle of the mathematical demarcation of time, is in fact asso-
ciated with the epochs of human life (40.370 ff.).25 Now, it is for fairly obvious
reasons that deities of time so frequently appear at prophetic moments in the
poem; they are the very medium in which prophecies are realised. Aion him-
self, who is perhaps the most fully fleshed-out god in this category, looks both
backwards and forwards. His big scene with Zeus in the seventh book, in which
he receives the promise of the new Dionysus, is but the forward perspective of
‘the dark backward and abysm of time’ with which he is equally connected.
The two versions of the birth story of Beroe make this clear: in the first, he
and she were born together at the same time as the earth itself (41.83–84, 144),
but in the alternative version, which makes her younger, he was present at her
birth and swaddled her with robes prophetic of her future career and of his
own rejuvenation (41.178–182). In prophetic passages throughout the poem, it
is little surprise that it is the more ‘humanistic’ conception of time and its dei-
ties that is in question, for instance the personified Aion with his emotive plea
to Zeus in Book 7, or again, the equally emotive portrayal of Autumn in the
scene of the consultation of Harmonia’s tablets in Book 12 (contrasting with
24 Phanes: 9.141, 12.34; Ophion: 2.573, 8.161, 41.352, 362, 399; Eurynome: 2.573, 41.312; Lightfoot
(2014b) 42–43.
25 Vian (1993) 46–48. In practice, measured time is not necessarily impersonal; nor is
‘human’, affective, time quite free from calibration. On the one hand, the Hours are asso-
ciated with childbirth (3.198–199, 7.107, 179, 9.12–13, 41.184); on the other, both Aion and
the Hours mark the measured progress of the war (36.422–423, 38.15), and by a common
metaphor Aion is endowed with a chariot and associated with the notion of a racetrack.
See Hopkinson (1994b) 278 (on Dion. 24.267); further on Aion, Chuvin (1992) 67–71;
Spanoudakis (2012) and the chapter by the same author in this volume.
634 Lightfoot
the entirely colourless Horae, daughters of Time and attendants of Helios, who
remain in the background after 12.15–20). Yet the conception of the roles and
agencies of these deities is not a settled one. Sometimes they are the passive
recipients of prophecies which pre-exist or are handed down to them; at other
times they have more active agency, or at least act in concert with a major
power (Zeus) to ratify and confirm.26 Once again, any quest for consistency of
conception in Nonnus is bound to be frustrated.
3 Both Poems Together
Suppose we cease to study the two poems separately and start to make com-
parisons. For it is true, on the one hand, that each poem has its own distinc-
tive system—ποικιλία and the rhetor’s tricks in the one, verbal elaboration
round a pre-determined base in the other. But on the other, critics have natu-
rally been drawn to their undeniable common ground, to the pagan elements
in Par. and the apparent or possible anticipations of Christianity in Dion.
Golega’s monograph on the Paraphrasis put these questions on the agenda
already in 1930, and at a time when multiculturalism, pluralism versus sec-
tarianism, and so on, are very much on the agenda the driving questions
in Nonnian scholarship centre around the appropriate model(s) to explain
these similarities.
Where prophecy and anticipations of the future are concerned, it is easy to
draw up a balance sheet. A list of shared lexical items would include the verbs
θεσπίζειν and προθεσπίζειν27 as well as the future participle of the verb ‘to be’ and
phrases on the general model of ἄγγελος ἐσσομένων.28 Both poems lay enormous
emphasis on the notion of voice in inspired prophecy, with ‘vocal’ words like
αὐδή and ὀμφή alongside the more standard φωνή;29 epithets such as ἀσίγητος,30
26 3.196–199: at the birth of Dardanus the Horae run to the mansion of Electra with the scep-
tre of Zeus, the robe of Chronos, and the staff of Olympus to prophesy Roman domina-
tion; 7.179: the Horae lead Semele to the stream where Zeus will see her bathing. At 38.90,
Aion ‘brings’ a future marvel to match a past one, and at the same time is the medium in
which the event—foreshadowed by a portent, interpreted by Hermes—will come to pass.
27 Above, n. 7.
28 Above, n. 12.
29 Rotondo (2008). For ὀμφή see also Gigli Piccardi (2012a) § 8.
30 Among many other uses in both poems, Par. applies it to scripture (6.218), with which
may be compared Dion.’s conceit of Cadmus’ speaking silent letters (4.263); Dion. also
applies it to Delphi (4.290) and Castalia (13.133).
θεηγόρος,31 λάλος,32 and -θροος33 and -μυθος compounds;34 and the verb
ἐρεύγομαι employed, not only for emphatic speech (a usage which had become
fairly common, even banal, by the time Nonnus was writing), but often for spe-
cifically prophetic utterances, a usage with antecedents in LXX and the New
Testament.35 Nor is it possible to distinguish between lexicon/idiom and an
underlying intellectual system, as between form and content or superstruc-
ture and base, for some shared items also suggest deeper conceptual affinities.
31 Epithet of John: Par. 1.21, 89; of προφήτης: 1.74, 4.88; in scriptural citations: 7.162, 19.128;
particularly frequently used for Jesus (11.229), especially in speech incipits (6.141, 8.47, 67,
13.33, 127, 18.160, 21.83). In Dion. the word also figures in prophetic contexts: of Zeus (7.71),
Teiresias (7.159, 44.82), the rock (13.132) and axon (27.252) in Delphi, the prophet Agreus
(14.90), the anonymous Indian seer (26.279), the seer Idmon (38.70), Orpheus (41.375).
The Paraphrasis is fonder than Dion. of formulaic patterns (4× θεηγόρον ἀνθερεῶνα; 3×
θεηγόρος εἶπεν Ἰησοῦς), but compare Dion. 7.71 and Par. 21.83 θεηγόρον ἴαχε φωνήν; Dion.
13.132 θεηγόρος ἔκλαγε πέτρη; Par. 7.162 θεηγόρος ἔννεπεν ὀμφή, 19.128 θεηγόρος ἔννεπε μολπή.
See D’Ippolito in this volume.
32 Par. 1.134 λάλος ἀμνός (of the Lamb of God) and 20.51 λάλον νέκυν (of Jesus’ body) achieve
the kind of paradoxical effect beloved by Nonnus in Dion. (λάλος of articulate birds in
2.134, 3.13, 123, 47.32; λάλος νέκυς of a drunken carcass in 15.107). Note also 13.134 λάλον
οἶδμα, 41.222 λάλον . . . ὕδωρ of the waters of the Castalian spring, though this usage both
precedes and survives Nonnus (Anacreontea 12.7; AP App. VI, Oracula 122.3; implied also
by Ignatius, Rom. 7 ὕδωρ δὲ ζῶν καὶ λαλοῦν ἐν ἐμοί).
33 Par. is rich in these. While ἀλλο-, ἀντί-, πολύ-, σύν- have pre-existences, αὐτο-, ἐτυμο-, and
πρωτό-, are unique to this text, while διδυμό- and ὁμό- are shared with Dion.; the emphasis
is on veracity and on the ‘you heard it here first’ quality of prophecy. While Dion. is fond of
-θροος compounds, many pertain to music or to Echo and only 9.270 (of the Delphic voice)
occurs in a prophetic context.
34 In Par. ἐμπεδόμυθος (of John, 1.17, 5.131, 10.145, and qualifying ἀμήν in 1.209, 3.52, 5.89, 13.89,
16.68) is a guarantee of ratification; the same is suggested in Dion. 38.43 (the seer Idmon)
and 12.141 (Atropus). In both poems ποικιλόμυθος is applied to the speakers of inspired
words (Par. 3.9, applied by Nicodemus to Jesus, and 7.193, epithet of προφήτης; Dion. 3.423,
epithet of Hermes introducing a partly-prophetic speech, and 12.68, of Phanes).
35 The catachrestic, or banalised, sense is illustrated by Gigli Piccardi (1985) 106–107; Livrea
(2000) 276–277 (on Par. 2.91); De Stefani (2002) 227–228 (on Par. 1.194); Agosti (2003)
513 (on Par. 5.144). Nevertheless, Nonnus uses it frequently for speech that is not merely
emphatic or bold, but prophetic or marvellous in some way, and it is often Jesus’ words
that are so designated (2.94, 7.58, 13.97, 14.40, cf. 5.144, of his deeds); of oracular or pro-
phetic speech in Dion. 6.89 (Astraeus), 12.141 (Atropus), 38.57 (Idmon), 40.442 and 501
(Heracles Astrochiton). The best scriptural parallel is Matthew 13:35 ἐρεύξομαι κεκρυμμένα
(in parallel with ἀνοίξω ἐν παραβολαῖς τὸ στόμα μου), rendering LXX Ps 77(78):2 φθέγξομαι
προβλήματα, which is expressly a question of prophetic utterance (Matthew has ὅπως
πληρωθῇ τὸ ῥηθὲν διὰ τοῦ προφήτου λέγοντος).
636 Lightfoot
For example, both poems speaks of prophetic inspiration in terms of spiritual

pregnancy;36 the metaphor is ultimately Platonic, though what Plato has in
mind is not the prophetic faculty, but the cultivation of civic and domestic
virtue—what he calls φρόνησις and its best parts, σωφροσύνη and δικαιοσύνη.37
Words like νοερός and νοήμων suggest Neoplatonic influence in both poems too,
but since they refer to exceptional keenness, insight, or spiritual enlightenment,
rather than specifically to prophecy, they will not be discussed further here.38
In comparing the two texts it might be desirable to make at least a theo-
retical distinction between types of contiguities and the level at which they
occur. For instance, one might want to identify certain classical idioms and
clichés which, insofar as they can be regarded as dead metaphors, seem to
be of little further consequence—for example, the use of χέω and ῥέω for flu-
ent, sometimes specifically inspired or prophetic, speech, which in fact has
a history that stretches as far back as early Greek hexameter poetry.39 They
would differ from shared notions—such as that of the divine voice resonating
in prophecy, and its relation to text40—or aspects of late antique sensibility
and culture held in common by the two religions; and would differ again from
ideas which are more irreducibly characteristic of the tradition from which
they derive (for instance, the teleology and eschatology which the Paraphrasis
derives from the Gospel, and which it carefully reproduces in the form of ful-
filment citations from scripture). Recent scholarship on the Paraphrasis has
tended to stress the second of these factors, the culture-patterns that the two
poems share; perhaps this is a response to the pluralist and ecumenical values
of contemporary society, but it risks marginalising the third category, those
respects in which the two poems remain culturally distinct. Whether one puts
36 Dion. 41.263 νοήμονος ἔγκυος ὀμφῆς, of Aphrodite surveying world history; 14.90 μαντιπόλου
σπέρμηνε θεηγόρον ἔμπλεον ὀμφῆς (see Norden 1957, 145–146, on the pseudo-Virgilian plena
deo); Par. 1.93 θεοδινέος ἔγκυος ὀμφῆς, of a prophet; 3.53 ἐτήτυμον ἔγκυον ὀμφῆς, of inspired
knowledge; 5.127 θεοδέγμονος ἔγκυον ὀμφῆς, of John, cf. 16.55 ἔγκυον αὐδῆς.
37 Symp. 209a–b; he speaks of poets and creative demiourgoi. See Gigli Piccardi (1985) 228–
229, and De Stefani (2002) 170 (on Par. 1.93).
38 On Neoplatonic influence, see Golega (1930) 55 n. 2, 101–102; Gigli Piccardi (1985) 211–
245 and the same author in this volume; De Stefani (2002) 122–123 (on Par. 1.20 νοερὸν
φάος), 255 (index, s.v. ‘neoplatonismo’); Agosti (2003) 501 (on Par. 5.135 νοεροὺς σπινθῆρας).
In general the pattern is for spirituality to be at issue in Par., and unusual intelligence in
Dion., though note Dion. 13.494 νοερῷ πυρί, of the psychic gifts of a Lydian priest.
39 ῥεῖν: Il. 1.249 (Nestor), Hes. Th. 39–40 (the Muses), 84 and 97 (the king loved by the Muses).
χεῖν: Od. 19.521 (the nightingale).
40 See the discussion by Agosti (2004c) 22–32.
the emphasis on concords or dissonances is a measure of which of these vari-

ous aspects or levels one chooses to stress.
Of course, it is not as straightforward as this.
First, it is rarely possible to assign a given feature to a single category and
expect it to stay there. For instance, even the banal and barely-perceptible met-
aphor of ‘pouring’ and ‘flowing’ for fluent speech is related to other elements
in the respective cultural systems of the two poems. On the pagan side, it both
develops into far more self-conscious imagery of streams and fountains for
literary proficiency,41 and connects with the frequent association of classical
prophecy with water as an element, the inspired springs at Delphi and Didyma
from which, on some accounts, the prophets drank.42 On the Judaeo-Christian
side, it suggests the originally Old Testament notion of living waters43 as well
as the Gospel theme of baptism. Drawing on both aspects of this inheritance,
the poet of the Paraphrasis deploys a number of striking images of prophecy
as a stream, current, or welling-up of inspired words.44 (It is worth noting that
whereas, for Plato, the flood of a poet’s inspiration was essentially irrational,
for Nonnus the inspired poet is fully sapient, cognisant, his inspiration simul-
taneously describable in Neoplatonic terms as νοήμων and νοερός.)
Second, any given passage may, in practice, contain a indisseverable mixture
of ideas and idioms. For instance, Par. 12.151–152 renders a fulfilment-citation
of the prophet Isaiah in John 12:38 (‘That the saying of Esaias the prophet might
be fulfilled, which he spake’), which is introduced as follows: ὅπως πληρούμενον
εἴη, | Ἡσαΐας τόπερ εἶπε χέων πρωτόθροον ὀμφήν. Here we have the authentic
note of early Jewish Christianity, conceiving all aspects of Christ’s career as ful-
filment of what long-sighted early prophets had foreseen; but Isaiah expresses
himself using the classical ‘liquid’ metaphor for inspired speech, and the words
of his written scripture are now recast according to the favourite late antique
notion of voice endowed with divine power. The very essence of Nonnus’ ren-
dering is the multiplicity of backgrounds on which he draws.
41 Ar. Ran. 1005, Plat. Leg. 719c, Cratinus, fr. 198 PCG; Dion. Hal. Dem. 28.
42 For springs in Delphi, see Amandry (1950) 135–139, Fontenrose (1978) 474 (index, s.v.
‘springs, sacred and mantic’); for Didyma, Fontenrose (1988) 40, 82.
43 In the Word Bible Commentary series, see Beasley-Murray (1987) 60, on John 4:10, and
Aune (1998) 478–479, on Rev 7:17b, for the phrase in the OT, NT, and the metaphorical
applications of the ‘water of life’ in the early church.
44 1.92–93 προφήτης | πνεύματι παφλάζων (compare Dion. 4.310, 13.134, where παφλάζε is used
of Castalia); 3.162 πατρῴης σοφίης αὐτόσσυτον ὄμβρον ἰάλλει; 3.164 ἀειλιβέος ῥόον ὀμφῆς and
6.195 μύθων δ’ ἡμετέρων ῥόος ἔνθεος.
638 Lightfoot
And, third, the very application of classical idiom to biblical formulations

may, in the process, transform them. An example of that is its frequent ‘con-
cretising’ effect. One source of variation is that the pagan religious sphere is
often more grounded in some immediate geophysical context than the Judaeo-
Christian one, which floats free of space and landscape; consider, within St
John’s Gospel itself, the contrast between Jacob’s well in ‘pagan’ Samaria and
Jesus’ purely spiritual water. The materiality or physicality of classical pagan-
ism is particularly clear at certain points in the Dionysiaca’s presentation of
local oracles where an inspired voice is imagined as emanating from some
physical source.45 Yet the classical idiom of the Paraphrasis itself works to
concretise and give specific, physical, even physiological, form to that which
in the Gospel was wholly spiritual—with the result that the different idiom
itself gives a different complexion to the underlying theological system. The
prophetic voice is not a purely transcendental affair, but bonded to the throat
and lips which articulate it, and to the hearts in which it is conceived and to
which it is transmitted.46
4 Inspired Voice and Written Word
Let us concentrate a little longer on the example of inspired voice, and on the
relationship between it and the written word, the conceit of speaking letters,
scripture and sound. This nexus of ideas is particular prominent in two very
different milieux in the Dionysiaca, indeed, in settings that might be located
at opposite ends of the spectrum in that poem’s enormously varied world of
oracles and prophets. The first is the presentation of Delphi, old Greece’s most
prestigious shrine; the second is on the inscribed tablets of fate (discussed
more fully in my ‘Oracles in the Dionysiaca’).47 We have already seen that
Delphi figures as a place which resonates with supernatural sound; the imagi-
native development is Nonnus’, but it rests on a long-standing association of
45 For example, in Delphi, Dion. 4.292 κοιλάδι φωνῇ, 7.72 ἄξονος ὀμφήεντος, 9.284 ὀμφαίῃ παρὰ
πέτρῃ, 13.132 Πυθιὰς ὀμφήεσσα θεηγόρος ἔκλαγε πέτρη; 3.292, the ὀμφή emitted by the sands
of Ammon’s oracle; 13.68, Amphiaraeus’ oracle sunk beneath the plains of Boeotia.
46 6.58 ὑποκάρδιον ὀμφήν, 13.94 ὀμφῆεν στόμα, 15.27–28 εἰ . . . ἡμετέρης ῥόος αὐδῆς | ὑμέας
ἀρδεύων ὑποκάρδιος ἔμπεδος εἴη; 1.21 θεηγόρον ἀνθερεῶνα, 194 ὀμφήεντος ἀνήρυγεν ἀνθερεῶνος,
3.157–158 ὃς δέ οἱ ἀνήρ | μάρτυρα μῦθον ἔδεκτο θεηγόρον ἀνθερεῶνος, 6.141–142 Ἰησοῦς δ’
ἐπέτασσε θεηγόρον ἀνθερεῶνα (also 8.47) | καὶ χάριτος πλήθουσαν ἀνήρυγε χείλεσι φωνήν. See,
however, Franchi (2013) 355 (on Par. 6.58) for the importance of καρδία as seat of thought
and emotions already in the NT.
47 Lightfoot (2014b).
the word ὀμφή, which already meant ‘divine voice’ in the Iliad, with oracu-
lar Apollo himself.48 But the tablets of fate, containing oracles inscribed by
Phanes and Ophion at the beginning of the world, are also imagined as speak-
ing, loquacious scripture.49 It is interesting and suggestive that the nexus of
text and voice occurs precisely in connection with those oracles which are uni-
versal in scope and have a teleological thrust. The first one anticipates, not the
birth of Dionysus per se, but his patronage of that universal panacea, the vine;
the second, the establishment of the Roman law school at Berytus, presented
as the acme of civilised values.
This in turn forms a bridge to the Paraphrasis, where the Gospel had already
laid a premium on the fulfilment of written scripture, and where Nonnus
devises his own set of conceits based on the notion of articulate prophecy.
The Gospel’s references to scripture are generally rendered with reference to
books, but also to voice and to music (used for references to the Psalms, pre-
supposing David’s psaltery), and the voice and the book may be combined.50
There is a comparison to be drawn with the written Fates in the pagan poem:
while in the latter the tablets guarantee, on the one hand, the connection of
the saviour god with his elixir, and, on the other, the coming of the high noon
of Roman civilisation, in the Christian poem it is of course written prophecy
that sets out the whole teleology of universal history. In other words, in both
poems it underwrites what is at the heart of their respective systems, for all the
conceptual gulf between them—a nicely counterpoised, characteristic dyad.
Gianfranco Agosti, who has written eloquently on the text-speech nexus in
prophecy, draws particular attention to the almost exact phraseological paral-
lel between the description of the tablets inscribed by Ophion in the palace
of Harmonia and an allusion to a scriptural prophecy about the birthplace
48 Theogn. 807; HHom. Herm. 566; Eur. Ion 908; Soph. OC 102; Ps.-Lucian, Nero 10; Philostr.
Imag. 2.19.1; OF 102.4 F; Apolline oracles quoted by Porphyry, 322 F; Or. Sib. 11.323 (the
only occurrence of ὀμφή in the Sibylline corpus, precisely where the Sibyl announces her
intention to go to Delphi); cf. Wiegand (1958), no. 497.5.
49 Dion. 12.42 ὀμφαίῳ παρὰ τοίχῳ, 107 χαρασσομένων ἐπέων τετράζυγος ὀμφή, 41.399
Ὀφιονίην . . . ὀμφήν.
50 Books are referred to in 1.53 (~ 1:17), 82, 86, 87 (~ 1:23), 179 (~ 1:46), 2.89 (~ 2:17), 108 (~ 2:22),
5.154 (~ 5:39), 7.55 (~ 7:15), 156 (~ 7:40), 160 (~ 7:41–42), 191 (~ 7:52), 12.73 (~ 12:16), 17.43
(~ 17:12), 18.151 (~ 18:31), 19.34 (~ 19:7), 20.138 (~ 20:30), 21.138 (~ 21:24), 142 (~ 21:25). A refer-
ence to the written word is explicitated from the original in 6.218 (~ 6:69), 21.117 (~ 21:17).
References to scripture are rendered by the spoken word at 7.146 (~ 7:38), 162 (~ 7:42),
19.189 (~ 19:37). The written word is rendered by both the spoken and the written word at
8.22 (~ 8:17), 10.127–128 (~ 10:35), 12.163–166 (~ 12:41), 15.103 (~ 15:25), cf. 7.55 ἔγγραφον αὐδήν
~ 7:15, of scriptural exegesis.
640 Lightfoot
of the Messiah (Dion. 12.66–67 θέσφατα . . . σοφῇ κεχαραγμένα μίλτῳ ~ Par.

7.160 θέσφατα . . . σοφῇ κεχαραγμένα βίβλῳ).51 However, an equally salient dif-
ference is to be observed in the way this written scripture is deployed. In the
Dionysiaca, where, uniquely, the oracles are inscribed in the Imperial colour
purple, in other words have a certain political connotation, they are presented
as a fait accompli, an unchallengeable and immediate fact. In the Paraphrasis,
on the other hand, where they are cited there is an argumentative point to
their citation, some measureable gap between the scripture and the here-and-
now: Jesus challenges his auditors to remember it, or they fail to remember
it until later, or there is an apparent gap between the scripture and present
circumstances. In the pagan fiction, they are writ large, and bold, and are an
objective fact. In the Gospel paraphrase, they are a text which is subject to
memory, interpretation, and challenge. That it is that way round is interest-
ing, and perhaps deserves further reflection: it is pagan scripture which is
immune from challenge, and biblical where a gap opens up between formula-
tion and realisation.
5 Aion
Let us consider one more element shared by both poems and sometimes cred-
ited to their supposedly syncretistic character. This is the presence of Aion.
He is ‘allowable’ in the Paraphrasis because based on the Gospel’s frequent
eschatological references to eternity, which Nonnus then personifies and
elaborates; the great majority of the passages where Nonnus introduces the
figure are erected on the substructure of prophetic references to eternal life
(ζωὴν αἰώνιον) or a promise of something enduring till eternity (εἰς τὸν αἰῶνα).52
Certainly, the presentation of the ancient god of Time has shared features in
both poems: he is old and grey-bearded; he may be imagined as a charioteer;
he is associated with the imagery of crawling, or twisting, serpentine motion.53
51 Agosti (2004c) 22–23.

52 In Jesus’ words: Par. 3.79 (~ John 3:15), 6.146 (~ John 6:35, the only instance lacking αἰών in
the original), 178–179 (~ John 6:58), 8.94–95 (~ John 8:35), 157 (~ John 8:51), 10.102 (~ John
10:28), 11.87 (~ John 11:26), 12.198 (~ John 12:50). In John’s words: Par. 3.169 (~ John 3:36);
cf. 13.8, in the words of Simon Peter; in narrative only in Par. 9.9, where it is an import into
the Gospel original (9:1).
53 Golega (1930) 63–65. He also notes the presence of the Horae, who, as in the Dionysiaca,
are associated with the rhythms of human life (9.2–3, 11.15–16; they introduce the times
of festivals in 4.204–205 and 12.6). My discussion focuses on Aion, however, since they are
not connected with prophecy.
In the Paraphrasis, as in the Dionysiaca, he is associated with prophecies and

predictions, as well as with promises (10.102) and asseverations of future intent
(13.37–38); again, this is complemented by a backward-reaching perspective
that extends to the beginning of the world (9.8–9, 154). Nevertheless, the sys-
temic difference is not to be overlooked. Whereas the Aion of the Dionysiaca
is the anthropopathic deity of ‘lived’, human time that we have already consid-
ered, in the Paraphrasis this affectivity is most pronounced in precisely those
two passages which interpolate into the Gospel the idea of his oversight of
human life and history (9.8–9, 154, cf. Dion. 24.267, 38.90; John 9:1, 32). Where
he renders Jesus’ prophetic guarantees of eternal life, he interestingly superim-
poses on the Gospel’s featureless infinity the associations of a race-track that
doubles back on itself (6.146–147, 8.94–95), cyclicality (10.102; compare also
the στροφάλιγξ in 12.198 and Dion. 36.422), and renewability (3.169, cf. Dion.
3.255), but the ‘humanistic’ conception of the Dionysiaca has vanished, as has
his agency and directive capacity. Essentially reduced to a set of pictorial con-
ventions, he is subordinated to God’s time.
6 Conclusions
In sum, there are grounds on which to build an assimilationist case, stressing the
common ground between the late antique, arguably Christian-inflected, world
of the Dionysiaca, and the pagan-inflected Christianity of the Paraphrasis. But
in the rush to depict a world where all is comfortable tolerance and bridge-
building, one must not lose sight of the need to make the case for difference.
Take the threefold figure of Dionysus himself and the prefigurations of at
least the first two manifestations of the god. His soteriological character54 has
proved enormously suggestive for the advocates of cultural borrowings, but we
should also reflect on the remarkable teleological set-up, the fact that cosmic
history looks forward to the advent of a particular deity, and to the establish-
ment of his place within the divine hierarchy. Within paganism, the Orphic
poems provide some precedent, with a series of divine generations that, as
already in Hesiod, culminate in Zeus (though the crescendo effect is lack-
ing in the Dionysiaca); an idea of destiny which plays out in the scene where
Zeus consults oracular Gaia in the cave of the Night;55 perhaps the sense of
54 Vian (1994b).

55 O F 6 F, with Bernabé’s comments on 6.2; P.Derv. col. 11.1 [τ]ῆ̣ς Ν̣ υκτός. ‘ἐξ ἀ�̣[δύτοι]ο’ δ’
αὐτὴν [λέγει] ‘χρῆσ̣ αι’; West (1983) 72, 86, 213; Betegh (2004) 110–111. See also the chapter by
Bernabé/García-Gasco in this volume.
642 Lightfoot
a completion of a world-order that was hitherto lacking; and certainly the

fathering of a number of subsidiary, ancillary, regime-friendly deities. But
what of Christianity, where exegesis of the Old Testament might seem to
have made teleology fundamental to the entire system? In practice, I propose
that Christian teleology offers little in the way of convincing similarity to the
Dionysiaca. Ancient scriptures are realised in the present; there are anticipa-
tions of Christ’s passion and return; and promises relating to some future state.
Typology is present, whereby schemes inaugurated long ago are brought to
fulfillment; characters are aware of them, and act to bring them about. In con-
trast, the second Dionysus hardly ‘realises’ the first; Aion pleads for the allevia-
tion of misery, a source of solace and joy, but not the fulfilment of a pattern.
The way the Nonnian scheme is mobilised confirms the difference. The scenes
involving oracles and prophecies are arranged in a literary pageant; they are
concatenated, variegated, and have self-promoting interconnections.56 While
prophecy in both cases concerns matters of cosmic consequence, the Gospels
offer a solemn pattern of past, present, and future pertaining to the deep struc-
ture of human salvation; the Dionysiaca provides a myriad of colourful pat-
terns that decorate the surface.
By what, then, should we be more impressed—the verbal similarity, noted
above, between Dion. 12.66–67 and Par. 7.160, which is essentially a formal
observation, or the fact that it is precisely here that we see the rhetor’s hand
most in evidence, as shaping an artifice? It is difficult to see this as a case of
Kontrastimitation; neither does it seem to be an attempt to credit paganism
with adumbrations of Christianity; it might be what Agosti called it, a shared
culture-pattern,57 but even so it seems only appropriate to stress that the con-
texts that support the notion of ‘vocal’ scripture, and written formulations of
cosmic destiny, are so different. Rather, we have two fundamentally different
Weltanschauungen, which may have odd points of contact, but at the same
time each poem represents the acme of its own, separate, cultural system. The
Dionysiaca is a rhetor’s construction, whose point is not theological didaxis or
eternal verities but the pleasure of appreciating a game of variations, poikilia;
that the presuppositions change from one scene to the next matters less than
the dazzling effect as they pass before us. That poikilia contrasts with the sta-
bility of the system posited by the Gospel, where rhetorical elaboration is pos-
sible only up to a certain point.
56 What Vian (1993) 45, 50 analyses as ‘le jeu subtil des ressemblances’, ‘le jeu subtil et savant
des variations introduites par un poète épris de poikilia’; see also Lightfoot (2014b) 48–52.
57 Agosti (2004c) 23–24.
The fundamental differences between the systems encourage a certain

scepticism about whether syncretism and accommodationism (or even their
converse, the purloining of pagan motifs, their appropriation in a competitive
or hostile spirit) is the appropriate model for the relationship between the two
poems in this respect. Is it rather that, despite rhetorical elaboration, Nonnus
has, in the case of prophecy at least, remained essentially true to the postulates
of each cultural whole?
Chapter 29
Nonnus and Late Antique Society

Gianfranco Agosti
Alla memoria di Antonio Velluto (1933–2014),

giornalista e curioso di cose nonniane
1 Nonnus in his World
After the great philological season of Nonnian studies, represented by the

painstaking work of nineteenth-century German scholars, and later continued
and brought to perfection by Keydell, Wifstrand and Golega,1 new, untrod-
den paths were explored in the second part of the twentieth century, when
the new vision of Late Antiquity as an age of living transformation and char-
acterized by autonomous cultural features extended progressively its influ-
ence on literary studies.2 After a short but sound article by Rudolf Keydell on
Kulturgeschichtliches in Nonnus,3 the real turning point came with the edi-
tion of the Dionysiaca by Francis Vian, Pierre Chuvin and others. Throughout
the text both are characterised by the combination of a strictly philologi-
cal approach and attention to Nonnus’ world. Just to give an example, in
the first volume (1976), in the wake of the pioneering research by Margarete
Riemschneider, Kurt Weitzmann and Erika Simon, Vian mentions iconographic
parallels from Coptic textiles and ivories in order to explain certain details of
the Nonnian reworking of the abduction of Europa.4 Indeed, the attention to
late antique art became common later on and has found a permanent place in
1 A comprehensive history of Nonnian scholarship is still to be written. One can reconstruct

its mainstream through the accounts by Marcellus (1856) xii–xl; Golega (1930); Kuhn (1906)
86 ff.; D’Ippolito (1964) 5–36; Livrea (1989) 43–47; Tissoni (1998) 44–56; Agosti (1999); De
Stefani (2002) 72–78; Gonnelli (2003) 21–40; van Opstall (2014b) 446–450; Chuvin (2014) 3–5;
Accorinti (2015) 44–48, and Tissoni in this volume.
2 Hence the growing regard among Nonnian scholars for composition strategies and audience
response. The presence in this Companion of a chapter dealing with the relations between
Nonnus’ poetry and his own society is in itself an eloquent sign of the radical change in per-
spective, and of the challenge Nonnian studies have taken up in the last thirty years.
3 Keydell (1955).
4 Vian (1976) lx, 137 (on Dion. 1.53), and 139 (on Dion. 1.79–83).

Nonnus and Late Antique Society 645
the agenda of Nonnian scholarship.5 Its importance for the overall interpreta-
tion of Nonnus’ poetry was dramatically demonstrated in 1992, when Dietrich
Willers, thanks to the discovery in a burial in Panopolis of a Coptic wall hang-
ing with Dionysiac images reused as a shroud and Christian textile (illustrating
scenes from the Protevangelium Iacobi), gave new impulse to the discussion on
Nonnus’ religion, pointing out that Dionysiac imagery was perfectly integrated
in Christian Egyptian elites.6
And actually during the 1990s a new trend in reconsidering Nonnus in the
wider context of late antique society and culture was inaugurated. The edi-
tion of Par. 18 by Enrico Livrea (1989) retrieved Nonnus’ Christian poem from
oblivion, showing how deeeply the poet was involved in contemporary the-
ology and cultural tensions. In his Hellenism in Late Antiquity (1990) Glen
Bowersock pointed out that Dionysus and Dionysiac imagery were pervasive in
late antique Egypt, and concurred to the redefinition of Hellenic paideia.7 The
books by Pierre Chuvin, Chronique des derniers païens (1990, 3rd edn. 2009),
and Mythologie et géographie dionysiaques (1991), demonstrated once and
for all Nonnus’ sound, and in some cases first-hand, knowledge of the places
and cultural traditions of late antique cities, especially those of Asia Minor.
Later on, Daria Gigli Piccardi, against the predominant vision of a poet reti-
cent about his homeland, collected plenty of evidence of Egyptian Realien in
Nonnian poetry.8
Attention to these issues was greatly stimulated in the last decade. One of
the aims of the four-volume BUR Classici Greci e Latini edition of the Dionysiaca
(2003–2004) was actually to emphasize as much as possible Nonnus’ affiliations
with contemporary culture and society.9 The growing interest in late antique
rhetoric and education and their influence on literature found an excellent
5 See e.g. Agosti (2003) 127–130 and (2014a); Miguélez Cavero (2009) and (2014b); Franchi (2013)
68–190; Spanoudakis (2014a) 60–68, all with further bibliography. One might not express the
relation between Nonnus and visual arts better than adapting a sentence by Peter Brown
(1980) 22: ‘What we now read [original: see] was once part of a single whole, where many
works of art converged with the spoken or sung word to create a single impression.’
6 Willers (1992); the tapestry and the textile are now at the Abegg-Stiftung (Riggisberg). See
also Török (2005) 233–235; Accorinti (2013c) 1112 and (2015) 45 n. 13; Dijkstra and Kristensen
in this volume. On Egyptian textiles with mythological themes see also Kristensen (2015).
7 See Bowersock (1990) 44: ‘The poem about Dionysus is best read simply on its own terms
as an important document of Hellenism and of local traditions in the fifth century.’ Various
issues regarding Hellenism(s) in Late Antiquity are now discussed by A.P. Johnson (2012).
8 Gigli Piccardi (1998).
9 Gigli Piccardi, Gonnelli, Agosti, Accorinti (2003–2004). See, e.g., Gigli Piccardi (2003) 58–60,
621–623 on Dionysus’ birth and the mosaics of Nea Paphos.
646 Agosti
overall reconstruction of educational system and cultural environment of the

Thebaid in Laura Miguélez-Cavero’s book (2008). Robert Shorrock’s mono-
graph (2011) freshly examined Nonnus’ religion and poetics against the wider
frame of late antique culture. Many works by scholars, who also contributed to
this Companion, have been devoted to contextualizing Nonnian poems within
late antique culture.10 The series of conferences significantly titled ‘Nonnus of
Panopolis in Context’ was conceived exactly with this aim.11
Therefore, we can say that this approach is becoming popular in current
scholarship, although the research is still just beginning. Indeed, contextual-
ization may notoriously assume different nuances, depending ultimately on
what we prefer to focus on. In most of the works previously cited, the search
has been privileged for sources and terms of comparison in late antique litera-
ture, visual arts, philosophy (Neoplatonism and Christian thought) in order to
shed light on aesthetics principles, religion, and Weltanschauung of Nonnian
poetry. It was (and still is!) an urgent need, in order to challenge the traditional
vision of Nonnus as a bookish and outdated elitist poet.12 Less attention has
been devoted to other aspects of contextualization, e.g. the possible social role
of Nonnian poetry and its capacity of responding to contemporary cultural
and ideological instances. Studies on the impact of Nonnian poetry have been
limited to linguistic and metrical analysis of the diffusion of his style in the fifth
and sixth centuries13—bearing also a new definition of the so-called ‘Nonnian
school’—, whereas the social impact on the audience remained rather in the
shadow. This appears to me to be the most relevant point. To what extent did
Nonnus intend to be representative of his own age and what impact did his
poetry have?14
10 See e.g. Spanoudakis (2007) and (2014a) 52–68; Miguélez Cavero (2010); Agosti (2013b)
and (2014b).
11 Cf. Spanoudakis (2014c) vi.
12 On the contrary, Nonnus had a genuine interest in real life (as already noted by Keydell
1955). This is particularly evident when he describes children: some examples in Agosti
(2014a) 144–145.
13 Largely explored, since the nineteenth century. After the milestone represented by
Wifstrand (1933) see more recently Gonnelli (2003) 11–13, Agosti (2012) 372–373 and 382
(with further bibliography), De Stefani (2014b) 375–380.
14 Instead of an overall assessment—which would be quite untimely—I will point out the
main guidelines of the research, focussing on aspects that have been less explored. For
similar methodological considerations about fourth-century literature (mainly in Latin)
see now Van Hoof/Van Nuffelen (2014a).
2 Nonnus’ Political and Religious Discourse
Nonnus makes frequent allusions to aspects of culture and society of its own
time. It was difficult for modern scholars to grasp them, hidden as they are
beneath generic conventions of epic poetry and a bombastic and periphrastic
style. Ernst Will and Louis Robert were the first to realize that this immense
literary oeuvre involved historical truth too. In particular, Robert, thanks to his
incomparable erudition and sense of history, was able to show that in certain
passages of the Dionysiaca Nonnus does not invent but simply reproduces the
reality of his time.15 Robert’s methodological lesson was resumed and contin-
ued by Pierre Chuvin, to whom we owe the widest reconstruction of Nonnus’
mythological and geographical world. The best result of Chuvin’s painstaking
research indicated that Nonnus’ in-depth learning about local city traditions is
not only bookish but in some cases the result of direct experience—that is par-
ticularly true for Tyre and Berytus, where Nonnus perhaps spent some of his life.16
Moreover, his sound knowledge is brought to bear on the political relevance of
the traditions about mythical origins of Greek cities, according to a typically
late antique perspective. It is true that Nonnus’ attention to cities is not ‘strictly
historical’, and that ‘[c]ities are of interest to him as part of traditional lore.’17
The poet does not give hints to political institutions or to extant monuments
and buildings—after all he is describing a distant past, a Dionysiac prehistory
and we cannot ask him to act as a historian. Actually, the deep influence of
civic traditions on the Dionysiaca is in itself a form of contemporary discourse
rather than an exhibition of antiquarian erudition. Nonnus represents the
ideal ancient image of cities, he does not merely describe the reality. This fea-
ture, common to most late antique literary sources,18 in poetry found its way in
the patria, a very popular genre in the fourth and fifth c enturies ad, which met
15 See Will (1951), Robert (1938), (1962) 273–278, 297–298, 311–317, (1975). See also Bowersock
(1990) 45 (on Nonnus and the cult of Zeus Ampeleites).
16 Cf. Vian (1976) x, referring to a suggestion by Dostálová-Jeništová; Accorinti (2004) 20–25
and in this volume. Compare the remarks on Tyre’s description by Bowersock (1990) 46:
‘Although not an altogether pellucid description of the topography of Tyre, it is clearly the
city of Nonnos’s own time.’
17 Liebeschuetz (2001) 235, who continues: ‘Tyre and Beirut apart, he ignores the actual situ-
ation and appearance of cities. He is not at all interested in cities as political communi-
ties, or indeed as institutions without which the traditional culture, which is the covert
theme of his poem, could not have come into existence, much less been transmitted from
generation to generation. . . . It was certainly not part of his poetic design to foreshadow
the future of the great cities of Asia Minor and Syria.’
18 Inglebert (2012) 7.
648 Agosti
the demands of civic municipalities looking for a prestigious Hellenic past.19

Following the conventions of the patria (and using some of these poems as a
source as well) Nonnus shows striking accuracy in geographical and especially
mythological details, and a vagueness in describing the physical aspect of the
cities.20 Not only were the former more important to him and his audience,21
but this corresponds to a project aimed at providing a picture of the Hellenic
heritage, according to the progressing of Dionysus’ journey. The Hellenic world
Nonnus describes is East-oriented: Hellenic culture now has its center in Asia
Minor and the Near East rather than in the motherland Greece, which has a
very marginal role in the Dionysiaca.22 This shifting of focus is coherent with
Nonnus’ unbalanced representation of the world, unified under Roman rule23
but strongly East-oriented. This promotion of marginal areas aims at reshaping
the geography of the oikoumene in a way typical of Late Antiquity.24
Therefore, from this perspective we should also explain the emphasis on
relations between Egypt and Eastern Mediterranean cities: for example, the
importance of Egyptian lore transmitted by Cadmus when he invented the
alphabet (Dion. 4.259–273) or the attribution of an Egyptian origin to Byzas,
the founder of Byzantium (Dion. 3.364–371).25 Rather than a mere sign of
Lokalpatriotismus (see, however, below), Nonnus’ concern for connections
between Egypt, Athens, and Constantinople is part of a ‘mythological kinship’
strategy, which was a very prestigious and traditional political discourse in the
Greek world.26
To some extent this is also valid for the Paraphrase. Indeed, Nonnus
describes and/or makes allusion to holy places and buildings, which a) can
be c onsidered the equivalent on a lesser scale of embedded patria in the
19 See also Whitby (2013) 212–213.

20 Particularly evident in the city of the Indians, for example, see Agosti (2014a) 150–154.
21 And we should not undervalue the influence of late antique generic conventions of
ekphrasis (cf. Agosti 2014a, 151, with further bibliography).
22 But for Athens see the brilliant pages by Accorinti (2004) 25–36. On the typical late
antique ‘hangings of many colours’ in the street of Athens (47.6) see Keydell (1955) 487.
23 Nonnus refers to Rome in Dion. 3.199 and 41.389–398, in a perspective centred on the
universality of the Roman dominion and law, as it has been pointed out by Mazza (2010).
24 This has been perceptively remarked on by Hadjittofi (2011). This is not new, of course.
For example, to quote a well-known text, already in the mid-fourth century the author of
the Expositio totius mundi, probably a Syrian, gives a similar image of the Roman world,
focussing especially on the East.
25 See Gigli Piccardi (1998) 69–71 and 73–74.
26 For this tradition see Jones (1999).
Dionysiaca27 and b) are expressed in terms that seem to reveal first-hand

knowledge.28 The obvious difference is that in the Paraphrase the discourse is
completely religious oriented and descriptions convey spiritual actualization.
This is particularly evident in descriptions of miracles, where Nonnus makes
subtle allusions not only to places but also to sanctuaries where relics of Jesus’
thaumata were conserved.29 Nonnus was not aiming to write an Itinerarium
like those of Egeria (c. 400 ad) or the Anonymus Placentinus (c. 570 ad), of
course. Exploiting the rhetorical principle of the amplificatio, his descriptions
allude to holy places through emphasis on certain ‘markers’. For instance, in
the elaborate rewording of the Bethesda pool in 5.3–6 (~ John 5:2)
ἦν δέ τις εὐποίητος ἐν εὐύδρῳ προβατικῇ

πέντε τανυπλεύρῃσιν ὑπ’ αἰθούσῃσι μελάθρου
δαιδαλέων ζωσθεῖσα λίθων ὑψάντυγι μίτρῃ 5
εὐρυτενὴς ἀσάμινθος.
And just inside the Sheep Gate was a watered spot

With the five-vaulted temple vestibule and, girt
About with cunningly wrought stones, arched overhead, 5
An ample bathing pool.
terms like εὐποίητος, μελάθρου, εὐρυτενής convey the impression of an impres-

sive building, like the church erected on the spot around 430, where the relic
of the lame man’s bed was conserved according to contemporary sources.30
27 There was also a Christian tradition of patria: Theodore of Alexandria, roughly a contem-
porary of Nonnus, composed no less than thirteen books on the Christian monuments of
Alexandria: see Fournet (2003), Agosti (2014b) 291 and Whitby (2013) 213.
28 For example, the description of Jerusalem in Par. 5.1–2.
29 Examples: the place of the feeding of the five thousand, where Nonnus describes his expe-
rience of Egyptian pilgrimage (Book 6: Franchi 2013, 77–81); the church built on Lazarus’
tomb and Lazarus’ house at Bethany (Book 11: Spanoudakis 2014a, 55–58, remarking at
p. 56 that ‘[t]he Panopolitan may recollect . . . his own experience at the holy place’); the
Gethsemane garden and Caiaphas’ house (Book 18: Livrea 1989, 107–113 and 147–148). See
also Greco (2014) on city and landscape.
30 The church was later known as St Anna’s church. See Agosti (2003) 50–52 and 375, refer-
ring to John Rufus (Pleroph. 18.35–37 Nau), Petrus the Iberian (Vit. Petr. Iber. 88 Raabe) and
the later Theodosius (De situ terrae sanctae 8.142.3–6 Geyer).
650 Agosti
Nonnus’ Christian audience was probably aware of its existence.31 Moreover,

such ‘markers’ associate with a general feature in description of miracles, the
high frequency of verbs related to sight and gaze. This not only reproduces
and strenghtens the tie between seeing and believing characteristic of John’s
Gospel, but also experiments with a sort of ‘ideological enargeia’, functional
to the audience’s horizon of expectation. Nonnus was well aware that seeing
was part of the salvific experience of pilgrimage. In Christian popular tales
recounting miracles seeing was essential to healing and Nonnus reproduces
this feature, re-enacting the experience of people healed by Christ as well as
the experience of every pilgrim after.32
3 Egypt in Nonnus
argutiores et perfectiores inventi Aegyptii

Expositio totius mundi 34.22
In the short epigram transmitted in the Greek Anthology (9.198), and in all like-
lihood composed by the poet himself, Panopolis and Alexandria are proudly
mentioned as the two poles in Nonnus’ life.33 In the poems, however, such
Lokalpatriotismus is just limited to a couple of explicit statements, as the men-
tion of the Pharos in Dion. 1.13–15, and the claim in 26.238 ‘Nile, my river’.34
Nonetheless, there are many scattered allusions to Egyptian values, customs
and habits all through the poems. Since such allusions are conveyed with a
certain degree of subtlety, it has long been commonplace in Nonnian studies
to speak of the pale presence of Egypt in the poems.35 Reversing what we can
define now as a real misjudgement, Daria Gigli Piccardi in an insightful article
successfully pointed out several Egyptian elements in Nonnus. Evidence ranges
from the adaptation of Egyptian myths (e.g. gods escaping Typhoeus’ attacks
and flying to Egypt transformed into birds in Dion. 1.142–145, or the scenes of
paradoxical breastfeeding), to the aforementioned creation of special links
between Egypt, Greece, and Constantinople, to typically Egyptian views of
31 Thanks to the wide circulation of oral discourse among Christian communities, ‘the
immense and largely hidden oceanic shelf’—as Brown (2012) 72 defined it.
32 See Agosti (2014a) 149–150 and Spanoudakis (2014a) 55.
33 Cf. Wifstrand (1933) 166–167 (authorship) and Livrea (1989) 32 (interpretation).
34 Cf. Claudian, nostro . . . Nilo (carm. min. 19.3) with Al. Cameron (1970) 2.
35 E.g. see Livrea (1989) 28 and Chuvin (1991) 280–281, with further references.
ritual, geography, and ethnography.36 Unlike Hellenistic poets who allude to

Egyptian Realien with the perspective of ‘exoticizing outsiders’ (Callimachus or
Theocritus for example), Nonnus assumes the role of ‘indigenous participant’.37
This also explains some aspects of his language and imagery. For example,
an idiosyncrasy otherwise fairly incomprehensible if not absurd as the per-
vasive idea of ‘spitting’ (ἀποπτύειν) for snakes (included everything related
to them even metaphorically), becomes immediately clear once recognized
that Nonnus had in mind the Egyptian cobra that actually spits its poison.38
Therefore, far from being extravagant, the image is the transformation into a
literary system of something which was part of everyday life in Egypt.
The Paraphrase too hints at Egyptian context. On the whole it is more dif-
ficult to detect such allusions in a deuxième degré text, but it is a typical feature
of Nonnus’ paraphrastic style to insert them when he amplifies Gospel’s narra-
tive. I will just point out a couple of examples. In Book 1 the amplificatio of the
model involves a detail of the Baptist’s home which troubled the interpreters
(ll. 59–64 ~ John 1:19):
μαρτυρίης δ’ ὅδε μῦθος, ὃν ἀμβροσίῃ τινὶ φωνῇ

πιστὸς Ἰωάννης ἐτυμόθροος ἔννεπε κῆρυξ, 60
Ἑβραίων ὅτε λαὸς ἐρημάδος εἰς ῥάχιν ὕλης
Λευίτας προΐαλλε καὶ ἀγρύπνους ἱερῆας,
ᾗχι φυγὰς μερόπων μετανάστιος ᾤκεεν ἀνήρ
ἔνδιον αὐτόρριζον ὀρεσσαύλοιο μελάθρου.
So, trusty John the herald gave a true report:

The tale of a witness with ambrosial voice. 60
The Hebrews sent their Levites forth, and wakeful priests,
Into the back of the deserted forest where
The man had taken refuge from the madding crowd,
There at the mountain’s roots, and underneath the sky.
Kαὶ αὕτη ἐστὶν ὁ μαρτυρία τοῦ Ἰωάννου, ὅτε ἀπέστειλαν [πρὸς αὐτὸν] οἱ
Ἰουδαῖοι ἐ�ξ̓ Ἱεροσολύμων ἱερεῖς καὶ Λευίτας ἵνα ἐρωτήσωσιν αὐτόν· σὺ τίς εἷ;
36 See respectively Gigli Piccardi (1998) 63–67, 161–163, and 70–74, 177–180. On Cadmus and
Byzas’ relations to Egypt see also Mazza (2010) 151–152.
37 I adapt both definitions from Frankfurter (2000a) 165, dealing with Greco–Roman atti-
tudes to Egyptian religion.
38 As it has been demonstrated by Gigli Piccardi (1998) 169–171.
652 Agosti
This is the testimony given by John when the Jews sent priests and Levites
from Jerusalem to ask him, ‘Who are you?’39
The typical desert setting combined with the mention of the forest (ἐρημάδος
εἰς ῥάχιν ὕλης, 61) is striking, although it could convey an allusion to the sym-
bolic meanings of ὕλη as ‘material world’. But for an Alexandrian audience it
probably also had a different meaning. Indeed, immediately or shortly after
the destruction of the Serapeum in 392 ce, a μαρτύριον of John and Elisha
was dedicated on the site, or not far from it. According to Coptic tradition,
the μαρτύριον was constructed and consecrated by Theophilus in 397 in the
Hermes quarter, on the site of an isolated κῆπος. In Nonnus’ verses the mention
of the ὕλη would likely to remind his audience of this κῆπος.40
In 6.75–83 the baroque rewriting of the miracle of Jesus walking on the sea
(John 6:19 περιπατοῦντα ἐπὶ τῆς θαλάσσης) is to be read against the Alexandrian
Isis cult, as Koenraad Kuiper realized and was later confirmed.41 Nonnus was
probably following the propaganda of Cyril, who in 414 had solemnly trans-
ferred the relics of the healer saints, Cyrus and John, to a shrine built on the
very site of the temple of Isis Medica at Canopus.42
On a different level, another Egyptian feature present in the Paraphrase is
the attention to feet. Nonnus is very sensitive to movement and he creates a
rich system of ideologically oriented oppositions, as movement vs. immobility,
swiftness vs. slowness, etc., to convey also the idea of prompt belief in Jesus’
words (e.g. through the antonyms βραδυπειθής/ταχυπειθής).43 He pays particu-
lar attention to Christ’s feet, which might be related to the popular cult of Jesus’
footprints, as Livrea and other scholars have remarked on. This is probably to
be associated with the special meaning feet had in the Egyptian religion,44 a
meaning resumed by Christians, as demonstrated by the care they had in muti-
lating the feet of Egyptian statues and reliefs in the fourth and fifth centuries.
Both archaeological and textual sources point out that ‘mutilating the feet of
stone bodies was believed to negate the embodied quality of movement.’45
39 I use here the translation of NRSV.

40 For a more detailed discussion see Agosti (2104a) 299–304.
41 Kuiper (1918) 253: ‘hic aperte . . . poetam . . . deprendimus patriae suae numina oppugnan-
tem’; see Franchi (2013) 148–152, Agosti (2014b) 305–308.
42 See Livrea (1989) 50 n. 18; Chuvin (2009) 109–114, 270–272.
43 See e.g. Agosti (2003) 121–122, 331–332.
44 It has been remarked by Spanoudakis (2014a) 54 n. 157, referring to Hellenistic examples.
45 Kristensen (2013) 185, who also points out the ‘particular resonance in Egyptian society’ of
the destruction of feet by Christians.
The presence of an Egyptian background in Nonnus’ poems is related not

only to his syncretistic project, merging Hellenic literary heritage with the idea
of God as logos,46 but also to the importance of the author’s interaction with
his audience.
Besides allusions to cults, customs, and aspects of everyday life, and the
reworking of features of Egyptian folklore, another source of influence remains
largely unexplored. It is the role Coptic ‘popular’47 culture and literature
played in Nonnus’ narrative. Like the visual arts, Coptic literature is significant
to understanding passages of Nonnian poems in terms not of direct derivation,
but rather of a common ‘cultural imagination’.48 This is evident in descriptions
of violence, in which Nonnus is clearly influenced by the tensions of contem-
porary society. An eloquent example is to be found in Dion. 47, which contains
the story of Icarius introducing wine into Attica and of the furious reaction
of the intoxicated peasants, who think that they have been poisoned by him
(ll. 116–124):49
Καὶ χορὸς ἀγρονόμων φονίῳ δεδονημένος οἴστρῳ

τλήμονος Ἰκαρίοιο κατέτρεχε θυιάδι λύσσῃ,
οἷά τε φαρμακόεντα κερασσαμένου δόλον οἴνου·
ὃς μὲν ἔχων βουπλῆγα σιδήρεον, ὃς δὲ μακέλλῃ
θωρήξας ἕο χεῖρας, ὁ δὲ σταχυητόμον ἅρπην 120
κουφίζων, ἕτερος δὲ λίθον περίμετρον ἀείρων,
ἄλλος ἀνεπτοίητο καλαύροπα χειρὶ τιταίνων,
γηραλέον πλήσσοντες· ἑλὼν δέ τις ἐγγὺς ἱμάσθλην
Ἰκαρίου τέτρηνε δέμας ταμεσίχροϊ κέντρῳ.
Then the company of countrymen driven by murderous infatuation

charged upon poor Icarios in maniac fury, as if the wine were mixt with
a deceiving drug—one holding an iron poleaxe, one with a shovel for a
weapon in his hands, one holding the cornreaping sickle, another raising
an immense block of stone, while another, beside himself, brandished a
cudgel in his hand—all striking the old man: one came near with a goad
and pierced his body with its fleshcutting spike.
46 Gigli Piccardi (1998) 179, remarking that Egypt in Nonnus is to be found ‘in quei momenti
in cui diviene chiaro come sia stata possibile la sovrapposizione di elementi vetero-egizi
e del paganesimo greco col cristianesimo ormai trionfante.’
47 On the meaning of such a definition see Av. Cameron (1991a) 108.
48 Cf. Brakke (2008) 93.
49 For a more detailed discussion see Agosti (2013b).
654 Agosti
The reaction of pagan peasants from a village of the Egyptian ch0ra against the
assault of their idols led by the holy Macarius of Tkow (5th c.), is described in
similar terms, according to a Coptic hagiography of the 6th century (though
surely a reworking of more ancient materials): ‘And when the pagans heard
these things, they came out with rods, swords, spears and axes in their hands.’50
Despite (or because of) the tendency to ‘dramatic details’ and to rhetorical
re-elaboration, the story as narrated in this Coptic hagiographic panegyric is
exemplary of popular resistance against Christian pogroms in the Egyptian
countryside.51 Nonnus probably had first-hand knowledge of such episodes,
which were particularly violent in the Panopolitan area because of Shenoute’s
activity.52 But they are also well documented for Alexandria, of course. Thus,
describing the reaction of the rural mob against Icarius in terms of contem-
porary violence, Nonnus sets it in a framework familiar to his audience.53
And the implicit comparison between Attic peasants and the pagans
strengthens the ideological arrière-plan of Icarius’ episode, namely the par-
allelism between Icarius’ and Christ’s passion, as Konstantinos Spanoudakis
persuasively argued.54
A Coptic hagiographic text might give a clue as how to interpret a much
discussed passage (Dion. 17.385–397), where Nonnus characterizes the people
of Blemmyes in surprisingly positive accents,55 emphasizing their prompt
‘conversion’ to the Dionysiac cause and carefully distinguishing them from
Indians:56
50 Paneg. 5.5 (Johnson 1980, 24, Sahidic version).

51 Frankfurter (2010) 183 and Kristensen (2013) 144 (‘its primary value is in understanding
the construction of a particular kind of narrative of religious confrontation, rather than
evidence of historical events’). See also Martínez Maza (2014).
52 Although Shenoute’s attacks were not necessarily against pagans, but against non ortho-
dox Christians as well, see Al. Cameron (2007) 40–42.
53 Incidentally, we miss a study of the possible political meaning of Nonnus’ preference for
Cyril’s Johannine commentary (on which see now Spanoudakis 2014a, 18–19). To what
extent does this imply support for Cyril’s politics against the pagan and Jewish communi-
ties of Alexandria?
54 See Spanoudakis (2007).
55 It is noteworthy that the name of the eponym chief, Βλέμυς, considered either an inven-
tion by Nonnus or derived from Dionysius, is attested in an Egyptian graffito (Soldati
2010, 276).
56 Despite the common identification of Indians and Ethiopians on which see now
Schneider (2004).
Καὶ Βλέμυς οὐλοκάρηνος, Ἐρυθραίων πρόμος Ἰνδῶν, 385

ἱκεσίης κούφιζεν ἀναίμονα θαλλὸν ἐλαίης,
Ἰνδοφόνῳ γόνυ δοῦλον ὑποκλίνων Διονύσῳ.
Καὶ θεός, ἀθρήσας κυρτούμενον ἀνέρα γαίῃ,
χειρὶ λαβὼν ὤρθωσε, πολυγλώσσῳ δ’ ἅμα λαῷ
κυανέων πόμπευεν Ἐρυθραίων ἑκὰς Ἰνδῶν, 390
κοιρανίην στυγέοντα καὶ ἤθεα Δηριαδῆος,
Ἀρραβίης ἐπὶ πέζαν, ὅπῃ παρὰ γείτονι πόντῳ
ὄλβιον οὖδας ἔναιε καὶ οὔνομα δῶκε πολίταις·
καὶ Βλέμυς ὠκὺς ἵκανεν ἐς ἑπταπόρου στόμα Νείλου,
ἐσσόμενος σκηπτοῦχος ὁμόχροος Αἰθιοπήων· 395
καί μιν ἀειθερέος Μερόης ὑπεδέξατο πυθμήν,
ὀψιγόνοις Βλεμύεσσι προώνυμον ἡγεμονῆα.
Now woollyhead Blemys, chief of the Erythraian Indians, bent a slavish

knee before Dionysos Indianslayer, holding the suppliant’s unbloodied
olivebranch. And the god when he saw the man bowed upon the earth,
took his hand and lifted him up, and sent him far away with his poly-
glot people, apart from the swarthy Erythraian Indians, now hating the
lordship and the manners of Deriades, away to the Arabian land, where
beside the sea he dwelt on a rich soil and gave his name to his people.
Blemys quickly passed to the mouth of sevenstream Nile, to be the scep-
tred king of the Ethiopians, men of colour like his. The ground of Meroë
welcomed him, where it is always harvest, a chieftain who handed down
his name to the Blemyes of later generations.
These lines reflect a real—albeit imprecise—knowledge of these people liv-

ing between the Red Sea and the Nile Valley.57 The Blemmyes are ubiquitous
in Greek and Latin literary and documentary sources from Late Antiquity
because of their continuous threat to Egypt’s southern borders.58 Recent reas-
sessments of the sources have questioned the image of a ‘war’ between the
57 See Gigli Piccardi (1998) 174–178 and (2003) 39–40. On the economic relations between
Blemmyes and Eastern desert see also Dijkstra (2014) 313–314.—To understand what an
‘imprecise knowledge’ means cf. Expositio totius mundi 35.6–7 Rougé (Alexandria) supra
caput enim habens Thebaidis Indorum genus.
58 For example, a papyrus codex, dated around 400, preserved the fragments of a Homeric-
style poem on a successful Roman campaign against the Blemmyes, and it has been tenta-
tively attributed by Enrico Livrea to the diplomat and historian Olympiodorus of Thebes.
See Miguélez Cavero (2008) 59–61.
656 Agosti
Blemmyes and Roman Empire. Also the peace treaties with the Blemmyes
were probably rather occasional and concluded when necessary or possible.59
As a consequence, it would be in vain to look for a terminus post quem for
the aforementioned Nonnian lines on the basis of a precise treaty, such as,
for example, the one between general Maximinus and Blemmyes in 452–453
(= FHN III, no. 381).60
Depicting king Blemys’ submission to Dionysus, Nonnus was probably
influenced by a kind of narrative attested to in Coptic hagiographic sources.
According to the Life of Shenoute attributed to Besa (mid-5th century), the pow-
erful archimandrite does not hesitate to face a group of aggressive Blemmyes,
whom he miraculously defeats receiving obedience from their king:
Then my father, Apa Shenute, wanted to hasten to them on account of

the captives whom they had taken. And when he crossed the river to
go east after them, those whom he first approached raised their spears,
intending to kill him. At once their hands became stiff and dried out
like (pieces of) wood; they stood (there, hands) outstretched, and were
unable to bend them toward them and were crying out in great distress.
Likewise again, the same thing happened to the rest of the tribe(smen)
until he arrived at the place of their king. When that man understood
that the power which was with him was invincible, he rose up (and) pros-
trated himself (and) adored him, saying, ‘I beseech you, heal the hands of
my men’. And when he made the sign of the cross over them, their hands
were healed at once.61
It seems to me quite probable that Nonnus was aware—directly or indi-

rectly—of stories similar to that narrated by the Life. Both the hagiographer
and Nonnus are not to be taken at face value, of course: they do not recount a
historical event, but a representation shaped by the same rhetorical narrative
about the Blemmyes and their relation to Egyptian society.62 In a poem dealing
with ‘Indians’ in the largest (and late antique) sense of the term, Nonnus could
not avoid alluding to Blemmyes, who were after all a much more real presence
and threat than Indians for his Alexandrian audience. Significantly enough, he
adopted a reassuring triumphalistic narrative, which we can presume encoun-
59 See Soldati (2014) and Dijkstra (2012) and (2014).

60 As Dostálová-Jeništová and Chuvin tried to do, see Gigli Piccardi (2003) 39 with bibliogra-
phy. See also Barthel (2014).
61 Trans. by R.H. Pierce in FHN III, no. 301.
62 Traina (2007) 162 rightly speaks of ‘wishful thinking’ for the passage of the Life.
tered the favour of his audience. In light of that, we should reverse critical atti-
tudes towards this passage. Thus, it is not surprising that Nonnus describes
Blemmyes in a positive way. He makes them behave exactly as an Egyptian
(especially from the χώρα) wanted to. His pacific and devout Blemmyes belong
to the realm of imagined reality.
4 Nonnus’ Poems and Late Antique Society
To study the relations between Nonnus and his own society in terms of the
audience’s response implies identifying such an audience, of course. A sub-
stantial amount of compelling internal evidence assembled in recent years
has contributed to drawing a plausible portrait.63 The Christian Nonnus wrote
both his poems for a mixed audience, comprised mainly, but not exclusively,
of Christians. Even the Paraphrase, clearly intended prima facie to address
Christians who were interested in poetic biblical exegesis, targeted pagans in
order to convert them according to generic rules of biblical epic.64 Furthermore,
it can be also viewed as a response to Neoplatonic hagiographies in verse, in
a sort of contrastive dialogue with the Neoplatonic network of Alexandria
and Athens.65
Having this kind of public in mind, we should try to consider not so much
what might appear to be ‘Late Antique’ in Nonnus poetry according to mod-
ern categories, rather what was appealing to Nonnus’ audience and was per-
ceived as contemporary. It is an approach that has hardly been exploited so far,
with the remarkable exception of a few perceptive pages devoted to Nonnus
63 a) The subtle but pervasive presence of Christian aspects and thoughts in the Dionysiaca:
see Gigli Piccardi (1984) and (1998); Spanoudakis (2007), a groundbreaking article, (2013b)
and (2014b); Caprara (2008); Greco (2008); Shorrock (2011); Accorinti (2013c) 1120–1121.—
b) The emphasis in the Paraphrase on some affinities between Dionysiac religion and
Christianity, always from a Christian perspective, e.g. the parallel between Christ and
Hermes (Accorinti 1995), Dionysus’ birth described in terms of Christian baptism (Gigli
Piccardi 2003, 50–51), and the Christianization of Greek mythology (Accorinti 2015).
See now Spanoudakis in this volume.—c) The fact that classical paideia and mytho-
logical subjects were absolutely acceptable for Christians: see Agosti (2014a), discussing
Al. Cameron (2011), with further bibliography; and now Kristensen (2015) on Coptic
textiles.
64 See Agosti (2003) 95–102; Schmitz (2005) 215–216; Whitby (2007); Matzner (2008) 142;
Agosti (2012) 379.
65 Agosti (2001b) 97–99; (2003) 100–101 and (2015a); Whitby (2007) 197 and (2009);
658 Agosti
by Sergej Averincev.66 Reversing previous condemnations of Nonnus’ poetry,

Averincev assumed the negative definition of ‘unnaturality’, instead of discard-
ing it. According to him, Nonnian poetry is ‘unnatural, because it is the poetry
of an unnatural world and so it is natural for it to be unnatural.’67 One might
object that ‘unnatural world’ is rather a modern definition of late antique soci-
ety, continuing a hermeneutical model dating back to the beginning of the
twentieth century at least. Actually, neither Nonnus nor his audience would
have recognized themselves under such labels. Yet, they probably would have
better understood such a concept in terms of ‘not natural’.68 Nonnus’ poetry is
not remote from reality; it interposes a distance from reality. Actually we can
gather several features in both poems that respond to contemporary demands.
4.1 Book (not Bookish)

Book imagery is ubiquitous in late antique culture, both in its role as a cul-
tural repository, and as a sacred source of revelation.69 To be sure, Nonnus does
share this cultural pattern, albeit with an occasional touch of irony.70 The locus
classicus (and much studied) is Dionysiaca 25.254, where the poet addresses
Homer’s book, defining it ὁμόχρονος Ἠριγενείῃ (‘immortal as the Dawn’).71 In
the Paraphrase he develops an elaborate system of images and metaphors
about the book of Scriptures and its voice, equated to that of oracles.72 But it
is in the last lines of the poem that such an insistence on the book acquires its
66 Averincev (1988), conveying the effective definition of ‘ancient-Byzantine aesthetics’.

67 ‘[T]ale sistema [di Nonno] rispondeva ad alcune importanti questioni dell’epoca, ciò
di cui testimonia la sua influenza su tutta la poesia esametrica pagana greca del V–VI
secolo. Non serve obiettare che la poesia di Nonno è “innaturale”. Essa è infatti poesia di
un mondo innaturale e le è naturale essere innaturale’ (Averincev 1988, 188).
68 In the sense that they were aware that rhetoric, the common grammar of late antique
literature, was just the essential tool to interpret reality, as it appears from the ‘world of
the panegyrists’ brilliantly explained by MacCormack (1981). From a modern perspective
the best definition of Nonnian aesthetics continues to seem to me that of ‘baroque’: see
now van Opstall (2014b).
69 Chuvin (2009) 155–163.
70 See Averincev (1988) 256 and Accorinti (1996) 34.
71 There was a literary tradition on the fallacity of Homer’s book, to which the poet himself
alludes in Dion. 42.180–181 to correct Il. 13.336 (γυναιμανέοντι δὲ μούνῳ | οὐ κόρος ἐστὶ πόθων·
ἐψεύσατο βίβλος Ὁμήρου, quoting the anonymous AP 11.356 εἰς σὲ καὶ ἀψευδὴς ἐψεύσατο
βίβλος Ὁμήρου, on Il. 3.108): see Accorinti (2004) 246–247. A few decades later Julian of
Egypt will mention it again (APl 88 on Il. 5.292).
72 See now in this volume Lightfoot.
full significance. The poet rewords the Johannine image of the world which is
unable to contain all the books required to recount Jesus’ miracles (21.139–143):
ἄλλα δὲ θαύματα πολλὰ σοφῇ σφρηγίσσατο σιγῇ

μάρτυς ἐτητυμίης, τά περ ἤνυσεν αὐτὸς Ἰησοῦς, 140
ὅσσα καθ’ ἓν στοιχηδὸν ἀνὴρ βροτὸς αἴ κε χαράξῃ,
βίβλους τοσσατίας νεοτευχέας οὐδὲ καὶ αὐτόν
ἔλπομαι ἀγλαόμορφον ἀτέρμονα κόσμον ἀεῖραι.
But wisely, he kept many other marvels sealed

Which Jesus did himself, and he was there to see, 140
Which if a man could write them down and lay them out,
So many newly written books never, I ween,
The gorgeous boundless universe could not contain.73
The passage probably conveys an authorial self-awareness, superposing the

newly-wrought books of Jesus’ deeds on Nonnus’ new style. Once again, the
concept is committed to a ‘marker’, the adjective νεοτευχής, which immedi-
ately recalls the ‘new cup’ symbol of poetry in Theocritus’ first Idyll (l. 28). It
was an irresistible, as well as easy, association for Nonnus’ learned recipients.74
Furthermore, the Johannine image gives the poet an opportunity to reverse
the common idea of a single book containing the world. Typical of a culture
aspiring to comprehensiveness, this idea is reflected also in metaphors (the
learned man as a living library)75 and in the wide diffusion of multiple-texts
books, which Guglielmo Cavallo effectively called ‘libri-biblioteca’.76 As a
paradigmatic representative of this idea we can take the Buchepigramm of
Apollodorus’ Library,77 where the reader is invited to ‘draw upon the coils
of time’ and to rely on all-round culture of Apollodorus’ book (ll. 1–2 Αἰῶνος
σπειρήματ’ ἀφυσσάμενος ἀπ’ ἐμεῖο | παιδείης) in order to learn the ancient
myths. Giving up Homer’s books, as well as those of elegiac, tragic, lyric and
cyclic poets (ll. 3–5), the reader will find everything the world contains and he
73 Text according to Scheindler (1881a), translation by Prost (2003), slightly modified.
74 I suggested this reading in Agosti (2001b) 95–96; Faulkner (2014) 207–208 casts some
doubts on it. See now also Spanoudakis in this volume. On the rhetoric of novelty in the
Dionysiaca see Miguélez Cavero (2013b).
75 See e.g. Eunapius, VS 4.1.3 (of Longinus).
76 Cavallo (2010) 12.
77 Transmitted by Photius, Bibl. cod. 186 (III, 142a–b Henry = AP App. III, Epigrammata
demonstrativa 186), but probably late antique.
660 Agosti
imself needs in the Library (ll. 5–6 εἰς ἐμὲ δ’ ἀθρῶν | εὑρήσεις ἐν ἐμοὶ πάνθ’ ὅσα
h
κόσμος ἔχει).78 Nonnus reverses the idea of a book-library, emphasizing that
Jesus’ endless deeds are simply irreducible to the physical universe. Thus, the
newly-brought books imply the poet’s self-awareness at a literary level, but at a
further level they represent the novelty of Christian poetry and religion, which
stand opposite to the pretention of one book containing the entire world.
This sense of an infinite and inexhaustible capacity of sacred narrative, whose
meaning is unlimited, was the fundament of Christian exegesis, but was also
adopted by Neoplatonists to interpret Homeric ‘holy scripture’. Once again, the
mixed audience we pointed out above for the Paraphrase fits well to the frame-
work of Nonnus’ ideological project.
To avoid any misunderstanding, the frequency of book imagery in Nonnus’
work does not necessarily imply that we can define his poetry as simply
‘bookish’—especially in the pejorative sense such a definition carried in the
past. On the contrary, even in Dion. 37 (the funeral games for Opheltes) pro-
grammatically composed as a close paraphrase of the correspondent Homeric
book (Il. 23.257–897), the slavish rewriting occasionally opens to intrusions
from real life. For example, describing the chariot race, Nonnus makes allu-
sions to hippodrome details from his own time (ll. 106–113); and the living pic-
tures of the enthusiastic participation of people (ll. 269–278, 439–452) clearly
bring into the narrative what he and his recipients had seen countless times in
their lives.79 Thus, through Homer’s book he gives a more effective description
of real life.80 To see reality through the filter of literature is a general tendency
in Late Antiquity, characterised as it was by the ‘distorting mirror’ of highbrow
language common to all literary genres (from epic poetry to historiography to
hagiography).81
4.2 Spolia
On the level of literary technique, it has been repeatedly observed that
Nonnian poetry re-uses literary tradition according to the general tendency of
78 On this epigram see Too (2010) 116–142.

79 For more details see my commentary on Dion. 37: Agosti (2004c) 669, 673, 704–705.
80 Other examples: the scene of the spinner falling asleep, an everyday life experience
expressed through the expansion of the literary model of Ap. Rh. 3.291–297; the descrip-
tion of child Phaethon’s cart, alluding to real games but also to a passage of Philostratus’
Imagines (38.167–183).
81 ‘Distorting mirror’ is the well-known definition by Cyril Mango for Byzantine literature
(cf. Mango 1984). Among innumerable possible examples, one can think of Libanius’
Autobiography and its typical blend of historical facts and literary hints, whose association
gives a real meaning to the biographical narrative according to the author’s intentions.
re-employing spolia of the prestigious past, which is one of the most relevant
features of late antique culture and art.82 Beside the question of ideological
appropriation and possible symbolical meaning of the newly arranged rem-
nants, the comparison is especially valid on the level of audience response to
the spolia. If recognizing elements coming from ancient literary models was in
itself the basic level of higher literary education,83 it conveyed a supplement
of sense when the quotation was intended to suggest the interpretation of the
entire context. Here the cooperation of the recipient is essential. For instance,
in the Tylus’ episode represented on the shield of Dionysus in Dion. 25 the com-
parison of the prematurely dead Tylus to a sprout, 25.468 ὁμοίιος ἔρνεϊ γαίης, is
a variation on Il. 18.56 and 437 ἔρνεϊ ἶσος (Achilles) the origin of a common
epic motif. The image in epic is usually said of living men and only in Nonnus
is it said of a corpse. In light of that it changes its status of traditional liter-
ary motif. As Spanoudakis brilliantly observed,84 the simile ‘becomes a vivid
prefiguration of his [sc. Tylus] resurrection’. The language of the Paraphrase,
based as it is on contrastive imitation,85 is full of similar examples, showing
how classical poetic models can be adapted to new Christian content. The
same consideration is valid for spolia from ancient buildings or statues when
consciously reused to organize a new Christian space against the pagan past.86
In both cases of literary quotations and spolia, the audience/viewer’s response
is unavoidably solicited in order to activate the new meanings.
4.3 Seeing a Building

In a very influential article, John Onians argued for a different ability of see-
ing abstract images in Late Antiquity.87 In visual arts as well as in literature,
this means an overall tendency for dematerialization, intended to supersede
naturalistic representation, in favour of a spiritual weightlessness conferring
82 Agosti (2014a) 160–162 with bibliography; Spanoudakis in this volume.

83 In general, Nonnus’ quotations are mostly evident (i.e. easy to recognize) and they have
the function of signalling the original starting point and informing the reader of the
model standing in the background. The influence of school practice is evident (on it see
Agosti 2012, 373–375, with further bibliography).
84 Spanoudakis (2014b) 341, evoking associations with John’s Gospel and other passages of
the Dionysiaca.
85 Agosti (2011); Spanoudakis in this volume.
86 For some examples see Agosti (2014a) 161–162 and Kristensen (2013) 232–248. I think that
the mockery towards pagan divinities characteristic of the Dionysiaca (Miguélez Cavero
2009) should be interpreted within this framework.
87 Onians (1980).
662 Agosti
symbolic meanings.88 The lack of volumetric mass, and two-dimensionality

are typical of Nonnian descriptions, which can be easily compared, for exam-
ple, to images in different visual media.89
Strikingly enough, dematerialization in Nonnus is not associated with the
main purpose of late antique ekphrasis, i.e. its anagogical function of pointing
out through words what the physical eye cannot perceive. In his ekphraseis
Nonnus emphasizes the beholder’s attitude towards the magnificence of deco-
rations. Astonishment (thauma) is one of the key concepts of late antique aes-
thetics, but we should not forget that it was a common experience in everyday
life and the current way of expressing appreciation.90 The poet simply reen-
acts everyday life, expressed according to the baroque ingenuity of his ‘not
natural’ style. For instance in a couple of elaborate (and much studied) pas-
sages, like Dion. 3.124–183 (Dionysus amazed at Electra’s palace) and 18.62–92
(Dionysus entering Staphylus’ palace), Nonnus rewrites the main epic model
(Od. 7, Alcinous’ palace and garden) focussing on light, éclat, colours and on
the beholder’s attitude—the poet extols the extraordinary beauty of the deco-
rations, mosaics, carven woods and doors, but he is mainly concerned about
conveying the beholder’s reactions.91 Visiting a late antique palace or villa was
88 Ćurčic (2011) 69. On the lack of spatial illusionism in Coptic art cf. Török (2005) 212–216.
89 Agosti (2014a) 159, comparing the description of Electra’s palace (Dion. 3.124–183) with
the images of churches depicted in mosaic floors of the fifth century. In late antique
buildings dematerialisation was achieved by the use of multiple large windows, mosaic
decoration, and deeply carved architectural elements, in order to introduce much more
physical light with a symbolic effect, especially in churches; the same result was obtained
in objects by perforating the surface. The best example in Nonnus is the description of
lanterns (λαμπτῆρες) in Par. 18.16–24, where the poet rather exceptionally points out the
cosmic symbolism of the object: see the insightful commentary by Livrea (1989) 116–122.
90 See Agosti (2014a) 152–155, pointing out vocabulary of astonishment in inscriptions
associated with statues, images or buildings, part of the usual written display of the late
Roman society. The Imperial epic tradition of thaumasia is studied now by Guichard
(2014).
91 E.g. 18.89–92 ὁ δὲ βραδυπειθέι ταρσῷ | πλαζομένην ἑλικηδὸν ἑὴν ἐτίταινεν ὀπωπήν· | καὶ θεὸς
ἀστερόεσσαν ἐθάμβεεν ἤνοπι κόσμῳ | ξεινοδόκου βασιλῆος ἰδὼν χρυσήλατον αὐλήν (‘the other
[sc. Dionysus] followed with slow obedient foot, and turned his wandering gaze to each
thing in order. The god was amazed at the hospitable king’s hall, embellished with gold
and starry with glittering decorations’); 3.180–183 Ὄφρα μὲν εἰσέτι Κάδμος ἐυστρέπτοιο
προσώπου | ὄμματα δινεύων διεμέτρεε κῆπον ἀνάκτων | καὶ γλυφίδας καὶ κάλλος ὅλον γραπτοῖο
μελάθρου, | λαϊνέων ὁρόων ἀμαρύγματα φαιδρὰ μετάλλων (‘While Cadmos had been moving
his face about and turning his eyes to survey the royal garden, and saw the sculptures, and
all the beauty of the hall with its paintings and bright sparkling precious stones’).
part of the ‘mystique of wealth’ (Peter Brown)92 surely familiar to Nonnus’ elite
audience. As a result, we should read the quoted passages not only against lit-
erary tradition, but especially comparing them with contemporary archaeo-
logical evidence.
4.4 On the Stage

Nonnus establishes a link between poetry and dance from the prologue to
Book 1 (ll. 13–15). Expressions and images related to dance are characteristic
of his poetic language,93 and the poet, in a sort of mise en abyme, describes
a pantomimic contest in Dion. 19.136–286. According to Ruth Webb ‘the fact
that the performance is conceived as a contest between two dancers does sug-
gest that this format was familiar to Nonnus and his audience.’94 Moreover, we
now know that pantomime was an important source for scenes and situations
in both poems.95 It has often been remarked that the major poem has a rel-
evant theatrical allure: the recipient of the Dionysiaca is, first of all, a beholder.
Most of the long passages built on alternate monologues, which have the struc-
ture of ‘answer and response’ and the style of pathetic ethopoeiae, might be
described as ‘duo performances’. Probably such a structure is related to oral
performances Nonnus gave of parts of his poems (see below).
In the Paraphrase the space for pantomimic and dancing imagery is much
reduced, of course. But it is not absent. In 14.111–114 (~ John 14:28 εἰ ἠγαπᾶτέ με
ἐχάρητε ἄν, ὅτι πορεύομαι πρὸς τὸν πατέρα) the disciple’s joy is expressed through
vivid dancing imagery:
εἰ δέ μοι ἀκλινέας φιλίους ἐκεράσσατε θεσμούς,

καί κεν ἀγαλλομένοιο ποδὸς σκιρτήσατε ταρσῷ
ξυνὸν χάρμα φέροντες, ὅτι χθονὸς οὖδας ἐάσας
ἵξομαι ὀψικέλευθος ἐμῷ πέμψαντι τοκῆι.
92 Brown (2012) 192; on colours, light and mosaics compare what he writes (2012, 192–197)
about late Roman villas, defining the effects of colour ‘overpowering’.
93 Largely studied: see e.g. Fauth (1981) 41; Gigli Piccardi (1985) 150–154; Miguélez Cavero
(2008) 178.
94 Webb (2012) 239.
95 I pointed out some cases in Agosti (2014a) 165–166. On possible influence of aquatic spec-
tacles (hydromimes) in the scenes of women taking a bath see D’Ippolito (1962), and now
Miguélez Cavero (2011), who is rather sceptical about direct relations to spectacles and
prefers to point out the rhetorical elements of such scenes.
664 Agosti
If you were joined to me by binding laws of love,

Then you would celebrate with bounding leaps of joy,
And share in the delight when I depart this earth
At last returning to my Father, who sent me.
The idea of dancing apostles, though corresponding well to Nonnus’ meta-

phoric language, is possibly to be related to contemporary liturgical practices.
A recently edited Coptic apocryphon, The Dance of the Savior, most likely from
the end of the 4th century, and transmitted in a codex coming from the lower
Nubia, represents Jesus dancing and singing hymns on the Mount of Olives, like
a well-known passage from the Acts of John.96 P. Dilley has recently suggested
finding in this tradition the Christian appropriation of language and symbol-
ism related to Dionysus (and to David). Discussing the tradition of Christus
saltans against Dionysiac imagery, Dilley also quotes Nonnus as a witness to
the popularity of this scene in late antique Egypt.97 However, he points out the
use of χορός for the disciples in Par. 17.89 (where the expression means simply
‘group’), failing to notice the aforementioned passage from Βook 14, which is
much more significant, and opens new paths to a reassessment of dance imag-
ery in the Paraphrase.
4.5 Tendency to Take Inventory of the World

Nonnus was particularly fond of lists and catalogues, of troops, gods, and hero-
ines, but also of geographical elements, constellations, and paradoxa.98 Lists
are one of the favourite features of late antique poetry, a practice directly
related to school education,99 also reemployed by Christian literates for dif-
ferent purposes (e.g. the list of fallacious pagan gods in hagiography). They are
related to a more general tendency to encyclopedism, which was particularly
in vogue in the first half of the fifth century.100 Always considered as evidence
of the massive influence rhetoric had on the poems (and often condemned for
that), catalogues and lists in the Dionysiaca were at least appropriate in the
context of the fifty-century culture: we should accept that they were suitable
to the audience. From this perspective, for example, the catalogue of Indian
96 On this text see Piovanelli (2012) and Dilley (2013).
97 Dilley (2013) 242–243. I will develope this point in a forthcoming paper.
98 See among others Vian (1978); Miguélez Cavero (2008) 270–280.
99 See Roberts (1989) 59; for mythological handbooks see Al. Cameron (2004a); for geogra-
phy Traina (2013).
100 Traina (2013); Whitby (2013) 202–205. For Dionysiaca as an encyclopedic poem see Agosti
(1995b) 147.
troops in Book 26 can be read as a display of wonders and paradoxa of the East,
an irresistible attraction to late antique recipients.101 But it also transposes to
the mythical past the appropriation of a remote part of the world, according
to the anxiety of reaffirming the unity of the Roman world typical of the age
of Theodosius II.102
4.6 Religion and Audience Response

Nonnus’ oeuvre has been much studied as a representative case of the cultural
and religious tensions between pagans and Christians.103 It is often mentioned
in articles and books on late antique religion and society as exemplary of the
‘dialogue’ model of the conflict between pagan and Christians.104 On the other
hand, his ‘unengaged’ paganism—i.e., the use of classical mythology free of
any religious implication—has been evoked as a useful term of comparison for
the vexed problem of the so-called ‘pagan renaissance’ in the West at the end
of fourth century.105 As a Christian intellectual, involved in the multicultural
society of Alexandria, Nonnus has actually much to say about the crucial issue
of the relation between classical paideia and religion. Indeed, on the textual
and narrative level, recent analysis shed light on the mutual deep influence
of Christian and Dionysiac themes and language in both poems.106 Nonnus
wanted to show the permeability between the two worlds. To what degree such
permeability was perceived as integration/absorption or affinity depends obvi-
ously on the recipients’ confession. Generaly speaking, the Christian compo-
nent of the audience had probably no hesitation in accepting a ‘Christianized’
Hellenic mythology, whereas the non-Christian component might not neces-
sarily have even been supposed to grasp the Christian background in the major
poem. The contrastive literary technique and, on the contrary, the Neoplatonic
101 Agosti (2004c) 143; Miguélez Cavero (2008) 275–276 and (2014a) 265–277 (on the
elephant).
102 Cf. Traina (2013) 169–170.
103 And there is still much to do in this field. For example, if it is evident that Nonnus’ attitude
towards the Other (Indians, Jews) is clearly influenced by contemporary rhetoric of abuse
and aggressiveness (see Agosti 2001a; Miguélez Cavero 2010), it has not been explored how
much he is indebted in his presentation of the Indian’s unavoidable defeat to the rhetoric
of triumphalism typical of Christian discourse.
104 I myself used this model to interpret Christian biblical poetry: Agosti (2011) 289–299.
105 Al. Cameron (2011) 700–702, with the discussion by Agosti (2014a).
106 Dionysiaca: Spanoudakis (2007), (2013b), and (2014b). See also his contribution to this vol-
ume; Shorrock (2011) 79–115 and (2014); Doroszewski (2014b). Paraphrase: Shorrock (2011)
49–78; Spanoudakis (2014a) 51–62 (with further bibliography).
666 Agosti
overtones of the Paraphrase107 seem rather designed to emphasize its protrep-

tic function.
It is important to take into account that an audience’s response may not
have been necessarily homogeneous. Actually, whereas we well know the
impact Nonnus’ poetry had on contemporary society in terms of diffusion and
influence of literary taste (see below), we do not have any information about
the immediate response to it. This forcedly opened a certain degree of specula-
tion. Take for instance the vexata quaestio of the ‘tonalité presque chrétienne’108
of Dion. 12.171: ‘Lord Bacchus wept, in order to put an end to the tears of man-
kind’ (Βάκχος ἄναξ δάκρυσε, βροτῶν ἵνα δάκρυα λύσῃ), where Dionysus weeps for
the death of the young Ampelus, who will find eternal life when transformed
later into the vine. The close resemblance with Par. 11.123–124 (~ John 11:35)
καὶ ἔστενεν αὐτὸς Ἰησοῦς | ὄμμασιν ἀκλαύτοισιν ἀήθεα δάκρυα λείβων and with
Cyril of Alexandria’s exegesis of John’s passage, δακρύει δὲ ὁ Κύριος, . . ., ἵνα τὸ
ἡμῶν περιστείλῃ δάκρυον (Cyr. In Jo. ΙΙ, 281.18–282.2 Pusey) is evident.109 But it
answered critical inquiries very differently, ranging from hinting at the theme
of hope for salvation (individual, rather than collective) in the Dionysiaca,110 to
a ‘formula that came naturally to a pen of a Christian, without any wider impli-
cation beyond its immediate context’,111 or to a part of a complex literary strat-
egy oriented to create a dialogue with pagan intellectuals.112 Leaving aside the
interpretation we prefer as modern readers (personally, I am inclined to accept
the third one), it seems to me that we should also consider the possibility that
the poet wanted to activate different meanings according to a different audi-
ence’s response and even in the context of fruition. This is a general feature of
late antique art and literature with mythological subjects,113 and bears further
exploration in relation to Nonnian poetry.
107 On Neoplatonism in Nonnus’ poetry see now Hernández de la Fuente (2014a) and (2014b);
Gigli Piccardi in this volume; on relations between the Paraphrase and Proclus’ Hymns
see Agosti (2015a) 190–194 with further bibliography.
108 Vian (1995) 68.
109 It was already noted by Golega (1930) 69.
110 Gigli Piccardi (2003) 45–60, 79–82, and 835 (on Dion. 12.167–171).
111 Al. Cameron (2011) 701.
112 Shorrock (2011) 101–105.
113 Again, important critical solicitations came from art historians, see Elsner (1998) 220–221
on ‘syncretistic’ images such as Proiecta’s casket, the mosaic at Nea Paphos, and the Via
Latina catacomb: ‘Clearly these iconographies conflated from different cults could be
interpreted in very different ways—as openly allegorical and mutually supporting, as
appallingly heretical (in the eyes of both die-hard Christians and committed pagans) or as
5 Nonnus’ Poems in Late Antique Society
Recent research on Nonnus’ verse technique within the wider framework of

late antique metrics has indicated that his innovative hexameter (tending to
a paired colon structure, with the regulation of stress accent at the clausula
and at the main caesura and a regular number of syllables) was intended to be
read aloud.114 This conforms well to what we know of public performances and
oral fruition of literature in Late Antiquity.115 Since we have no direct informa-
tion about the occasions of performance of Nonnus’ poems, we can only sup-
pose that parts of them were probably performed according to the progress of
the composition.116 Such a progressive diffusion explains well the similarities
between Nonnus and some of his contemporaries, such as Cyrus of Panopolis,
Eudocia or Proclus, who seem to have had some knowledge of the Nonnian
style but did not adopt it.117 This knowledge is an eloquent sign of Nonnus’
early fortune, of course, and has usually been studied to establish relative
chronology. Less attention has been paid to inscriptional poems bearing some
traces of Nonnian influences.118
Indeed, in epigraphic epigrams of the mid-fifth century, roughly contem-
porary with the composition and diffusion of Nonnus’ poems, we observe the
immediate presence of Nonnian tags, either in inscriptions of low material
quality or in highly refined stones.119 Examples come from Provincia Arabia,
just another kind of paideia. There was no one interpretation’; and Török (2005) 262–280
on the possibility of double reading, pagan and Christian, in Coptic art.
114 For the bibliography see Agosti (2012) 376–377 and the contribution of Enrico Magnelli to
this volume.
115 See recently Van Hoof/Van Nuffelen (2014) 9–10. Oral performance of poetry continued in
Byzantine Middle Ages: see Bernard (2014) 101–110.
116 E.g. parts of the Dionysiaca characterized by a strong narrative coherence (Books 1–2, the
Typhonomachy; 15–16, the story of Hymnus and Nicaea; 38, the myth of Phaethon; 40–41,
the patria of Tyre; or 44–46, the Pentheid). Even single sections of the Paraphrase could
have been recited on different occasions.
117 For Cyrus see the perceptive pages by Tissoni (2008) 79–80; Eudocia: Agosti (2003) 441–
442; Proclus: Agosti (2015a) 190–194.
118 Parallels with inscriptions are occasionally indicated in the apparatus of both Keydell’s
and Vian’s editions. Inscriptions offer an invaluable source to better understand the long-
time sedimentation and perfectioning of linguistic and stylistic features that eventually
became the Nonnian manner. I studied them in some articles preliminary to an overall
book on late antique inscriptions: see Agosti (2012) 367 and 383 (with full bibliography).
119 Just a few representative cases: a) two funerary hexameters from Philadelphia (Amman),
SEG 58.1777, showing the Nonnian clause ὄργια Μούσης (15.70 and 38.31), and a rare met-
aphor that witnesses the taste for Dionysiac (i.e. wine) imagery so common in the fifth
668 Agosti
Palaestina, Cilicia120 and other regions of Asia Minor, and Egypt.121 Even if it
is not always proved that we can speak of ‘quotations’ from Nonnus’ poems,
these epigrams show how quickly the new literary taste became widespread:
their authors employed phrases perceived as ‘trendy’, trying to compose texts
celebrating their patrons in the most appropriate way; such expressions con-
veyed to the audience the sense of highbrow ‘poetic flavour’, probably in a
more effective way than a straightforward Homeric epigram. In other terms,
they prove that Nonnian style was very attractive to contemporary society.122
century; b) a contemporary epigram from Pisidia (SGO 18/08/02 = LSA 639), carved on the
base of a statue for a military commander, who τεύχεσιν ἀστράπτει (= Triph. 383, Dion. 1.10
[Athena] and 21.311 [Dionysus]); c) a Palestinian inscription, from Beer-Sheba (SEG 8.291 =
SGO 21/07/01, probably dated to the 5th/6th century), where the first two lines are in fact
modelled on two different passages of the Dion. (1.93 and 48.602–3), and the metrical
technique follows Nonnian rules.
120 Compare the case study represented by two epigrams from the city of Anazarbus. The
first one is an inscription celebrating a church dedicated to St Menas (SGO 19/07/05, 516
ad). The epigram displays a pretentious language, and at line 2 εὐπάρθενον ἥβην comes
surely from Dion. 5.587 (where it refers to the ‘virgin beauty’ of Persephone), albeit its
meaning is far from clear (a convent of nuns?). The ‘baroque’ language, and the use of
a four-words hexameter in the last line, reasonably prove that the poet wanted to write
according to the ‘modern style’. Actually in Anazarbus some decades later a truly Nonnian
poet was active, Cometas Scholasticus, who entered the Cycle of Agathias and whose only
extant epigram, for a statue of a physician, is in Nonnian style (AP 9.597 = SGO 19/17/01).
121 In Greece the presence of ‘forerunnings’ and echoes of modern style are very rare, no
doubt also for lack of documentation (the number of metrical inscription is much lower
than in the Near East). A remarkable exception is an epigramma longum (20 hexameters)
from Patras (4th century), in honour of a certain Basilius, benefactor of his town, showing
a couple of phrases later attested in Nonnus (I.Achaïe II 37 = SEG 13.277): especially inter-
esting is Δημήτηρ . . . σταχυηκό�̣μος later only in Dion. 1.104 Εἰ πέλε Δημήτηρ σταχυηκόμος.
122 I would like to express my deep gratitude to Domenico Accorinti and Enrico Magnelli,
whose comments greatly improved this paper.
part 7
The Transmission and Reception of Nonnus’ Poems
∵
chapter 30
Brief Notes on the Manuscript Tradition

of Nonnus’ Works
Claudio De Stefani
1 Introduction
Around the middle of the fifth century ad, perhaps soon after 450,1 and
probably at Alexandria, Nonnus wrote his great poem, the Dionysiaca. Since
the poem did not receive the last hand—as it seems quite clear from some
structural inconsistencies—it is possible that the poet died while still writ
ing it.2 This precarious state of the text may account for some variae lectiones
attested in Laurentianus plut. 32.16 (L), the Florentine manuscript that pre
serves the poem. These should be put in relation with readings transmitted in
a papyrus of the Dionysiaca.3 Since this papyrus was written just one or two
centuries after Nonnus’ death, it is unlikely that these readings are simply due
to the natural course of the manuscript tradition: they may well trace back to
the author himself.
In all likelihood, Nonnus had already composed the Paraphrase of St John’s
Gospel. Francis Vian effectively demonstrated that the Paraphrase was writ
ten before the Dionysiaca:4 thus the fact that in the Paraphrase some excep
tions to Nonnus’ metrical laws are found, while in the Dionysiaca these are
constantly respected, is easily explained. Moreover, the imperfect look of the
Dionysiaca, unlike the Paraphrase, seems to prove this chronology. Nonnus
1 The Paraphrase contains no hints at the Chalcedonian symbol: therefore, its genesis should
be put before the council (Golega 1930, 110). However, since the Dionysiaca were probably
composed after the Gospel poem, they might have been written at the beginning of the sec
ond half of the fifth century; on the chronology of Nonnus’ works see the first chapter by
Accorinti in this volume. I wish to thank Enrico Magnelli and David Speranzi for reading and
improving this paper.
2 See Keydell (1927) 433 and (1932) 173.
3 The variae lectiones of the Florentine manuscript (see below) are dealt with by Keydell (1959)
I, 14*; on the papyrus, see below, § 2. One case is very interesting: at 15.227 two variae lectiones
are blended together in the papyrus in just one verse (see Gerlaud 1994, in app. crit.). This
might suggest that (at least) a part of the vv.ll. of L is ancient.
4 Vian (1997b), the famous paper dealing with Nonnus’ use of the word μάρτυς.

672 De Stefani
probably inherited from the school an already developed late antique style
(well attested, for instance, in Triphiodorus and Claudian)5 and gave it a new
shape by linking it to a reform of the verse, which combined attention to the
features of Alexandrian hexameter with regulation of word stress (one might
compare the cases of two other ‘reformers’, George of Pisidia at the end of
Spätantike and, to some extent, Manuel Philes in the late Byzantine era). This
formal development presupposes the composition of the Paraphrase before
the Dionysiaca. However, this does not mean that the Gospel poem, a highly
learned work, filled with subtle theological references and complex literary
echoes, should be considered inferior to the Bacchic epic.
2 Late Antique Transmission of the Dionysiaca
Leaving aside, for the moment, the Paraphrase, let us go back to the Dionysiaca.
The poem probably had AP 9.198 as a header:
Νόννος ἐγώ· Πανὸς μὲν ἐμὴ πόλις, ἐν Φαρίῃ δέ

ἔγχεϊ φωνήεντι γονὰς ἤμησα Γιγάντων.
The couplet should perhaps be attributed, if not to Nonnus himself, to the

poem’s first editor:6 the latter, as Vian suggested, may even be identified with
the author of the verse summary of the 48 books, the Περιοχὴ τῶν Διονυσιακῶν
ποιημάτων.7 That the summary is divided into two parts, the first in front of
Book 1 and the second before Book 25, suggests that the work circulated in two
volumes, perhaps even since its publication.8
The works of Nonnus enjoyed popularity: gradually, metrical inscriptions
begin to betray familiarity with Nonnian style and not only with, generically,
late antique poetical diction. The fact that Nonnus is echoed in a number of
ethopoeiae seems to reveal that his work entered the school, where students
5 On the development of the Nonnian style, Whitby (1994) is still pivotal: see also Miguélez
Cavero (2008) 114 ff.
6 Wifstrand (1933) 167–168: ‘Die Übereinstimmungen mit Nonnos sind so weitgehend und
so intim, dass man sich fast versucht fühlt, die Verse dem grossen Dichter selbst zuzu
schreiben. . . . Aber jedenfalls ist es von einem intimen Nonnoskenner verfasst.’ On the pos
sibility that the couplet alludes to both the Dionysiaca and the Paraphrasis, see Livrea (1989)
32–35.
7 Vian (1976) lvi–lvii. In a forthcoming paper, Simon Zuenelli argues for a Nonnian authorship
of the Perioche.
8 Vian (1976) lxvi.
Brief Notes on the Manuscript Tradition of Nonnus ’ Works 673
were apparently taught to write hexameters à la manière of the Panopolitan—

that his verses were learnt by heart is evident from a passage of Agathias,
which we will return on very soon. Given the size of the work, it is possible
that, in addition to the edition in two volumes, the Dionysiaca also circulated
as ‘groups’ of texts.9 The fact that some ethopoeiae imitate certain books (or
sequences of books) may indicate that their author especially knew those por
tions of the long poem.10
The only concrete evidence of the transmission of Nonnus in Antiquity is
a papyrus of the Dionysiaca published by Schubart and Wilamowitz in 1907,
P.Berol. inv. 10567 (Mertens-Pack3 1329, LDAB 3077), dated to the sixth or sev
enth century (Π).11 This fragment of codex (Figs. 7.1, 7.2, and 7.3) contains
in almost continuous succession passages from Books 14–16 and—a matter
which I will deal with shortly—the mention of Nonnus’ name at the end of 14.
We have just said that Π perhaps reflected some of the variae lectiones of L.
Let us also point out that it shares with L some corruptions:12 these must be
ascribed to a late antique archetype, which should be (obviously) conceived
as a manuscript already marred by errors and equipped with variant readings.
Π has itacisms and mistakes due to slips of memory of the scribe, a fact on
which Giorgio Pasquali drew the attention of scholars long ago.13
To the sixth century—not surprisingly, considering the poetic flowering
of that period—dates back the most famous testimony on Nonnus, a passage
from Agathias’ Histories 4.23.5 (152 Keydell; cf. Keydell 1959, I, 9*, test. 2):
ταῦτα γὰρ οἵ τε πρότερον ποιηταὶ ᾄδουσι καὶ οἱ νέοι παραλαβόντες συνᾴδουσιν.

ὧν δὴ καὶ Νόννος, ὁ ἐκ τῆς Πανὸς τῆς Αἰγυπτίας γεγενημένος, ἔν τινι τῶν
οἰκείων ποιημάτων, ἅπερ αὐτῷ Διονυσιακὰ ἐπωνόμασται, οὐκ οἶδα ἐφ᾿ ὅτῳ
ὀλίγα ἄττα τοῦ Ἀπόλλωνος πέρι ἀφηγησάμενος (οὐ γὰρ δὴ τῶν προηγουμένων
ἐπῶν ἐπιμέμνημαι) εἶτα ἐπάγει·
Ἐξότε Μαρσύαο θεημάχον αὐλὸν ἐλέγξας
Δέρμα παρῃώρησε φυτῷ κολπούμενον αὔραις.
9 Or even single books, the ποιήματα of which Agathias speaks (see below): so Vian (1976)
lvii n. 3.
10 In De Stefani (2014a) 54 I supposed that the author of the Heidelberg ethopoeiae (P.Heid.
inv. G 1271 = Mertens-Pack3 1611, 5th/6th century ad) imitates above all some books of the
Dionysiaca, especially Book 29.
11 See url: http://smb.museum/berlpap/index.php/02832/.
12 See Keydell (1959) I, 14*.
13 Pasquali (1952) 113–115.
674 De Stefani
From the ostentatious imprecision of Agathias’ quotation, String inferred

that Nonnus had little influence on him, and questioned the very concept
of Nonnian school. This is not the right place for discussing his theory;14 in
order to understand the meaning of such vagueness, we should perhaps know
more about the audience of Agathias’ historical work and the conventions
of the genre, which probably did not tolerate an excessive mixture of prose
and poetry (apart from occasional quotes). At any rate, my impression is that
the phrase is an affectation of ignorance; but the most obvious answer to the
theory of String—who was nevertheless well aware of it—is that Agathias is so
dependent on Nonnus in the style of his verses, and so clearly indebted to his
poetry, that it cannot be doubted that he read and carefully studied both the
Dionysiaca and the Paraphrase.15
Our knowledge about the dissemination of Nonnus’ work in the Byzantine
period was limited until recently to a few explicit quotations and a few
imitations.16 The only author who repeatedly cites Nonnus—actually without
naming him, and only from the first book of the Dionysiaca—is Eustathius
of Thessalonica (Keydell 1959, I, 10–11*, test. 7–13), except for a quote in the
Etymologicum Magnum (280.6 ff.; cf. Keydell 1959, I, 10*, test. 6).17 Of course
Nonnus was well known to Maximus Planudes, who is the scribe of one of the
manuscripts containing the Paraphrase, Marcianus gr. 481, coll. 863 (N), and
the ‘organizer’ of the Florentine manuscript preserving the Dionysiaca (L); he
also imitates him in his own poetry.18 In fact, as I have shown recently, Nonnus
(and in general late antique poetry) was read and appreciated in medieval
Constantinople: but the knowledge of his poems was occasional, not system
atic as in Late Antiquity (Byzantine school had made other choices, as far as
poetry was concerned), and bound to the taste of single intellectuals.19
14 String (1966) 120–122. The best answer is, I think, that of Vian (1976) lviii; see also Miguélez
Cavero (2008) 88–89.
15 On Nonnus in Agathias see, e.g., the Appendix L of Av. Cameron (1970) 155–156.
16 Anon. AP 10.120 is Dion. 42.209–210. Nonnus is the source of a passage of the ninth-century
historian Genesius (life of Basilius I), as pointed out by Diller (1951); cf. Keydell 1959, I,
9*–10*, test. 5 and Tissoni in this volume.
17 See also Vian (1976) lx.
18 See e.g. the Theocritean, but also Nonnian, Idyllium (Pontani 1973) and the apparatus fon-
tium added by Pontani (2010) 198–199 to his edition of Planudes’ poem on the Geography
of Ptolemy.
19 See De Stefani (2014b), quoting previous literature.
3 Medieval Transmission of the Dionysiaca
The critical edition of the Dionysiaca is based on a single manuscript, which

transmits it without Nonnus’ name: the Laurentianus plut. 32.16 (L), ad 1280–
1283 (Fig. 7.4). Until the 70s of the nineteenth century no editor had ever col
lated L: Arthur Ludwich was the first to use it in order to establish the text of
the poem. As he demonstrated in a seminal article published in 1877, L is the
ancestor of all surviving manuscripts of the Dionysiaca (which had been used
by previous editors).20
The descendants of L are a dozen manuscripts, plus a lost one on which
Gerard Falkenburg based his editio princeps (1569). They were all produced
by humanists—on the lost manuscript this cannot be said with certainty, but
it is a likely guess. These witnesses offer no better readings (except for trivial
spelling corrections), and add their own mistakes to those of L, which they
faithfully reproduce. The difficult handwriting of L—which I will return on—
was the cause of many misunderstandings.21 It was to Paul Maas’ credit that
he understood, especially on the basis of both its content and an epigram it
preserves,22 that L is a ‘Planudean’ manuscript.23
As Ludwich already pointed out, the text of Nonnus is penned by a single
scribe, aided by two other hands (L2 and L3) that also correct it (especially
L2): according to Keydell, it is unlikely that at least some of these corrections
are based on another manuscript;24 and the fact that L2 sometimes proposes
erroneous emendations, makes rather think that he tried to emend both ope
codicis and ope ingenii25—the corrections based on another witness are obvi
ously better than the ‘pure’ conjectures.26 The chronology of L2 is unclear:
20 Ludwich (1877).

21 Ludwich (1877) 276 (‘Diese und andere Abbreviaturen in L haben den unwissenden
Abschreibern zu zahllosen Irrthümern Anlass gegeben, um so mehr als der Schreiber von
L überhaupt äusserst sorglos und eilfertig zu Werke ging’) and 277 (on mistaken abbrevia
tions of L).
22 fo. 8r: εἴληφε καλῶς ἡ βίβλος αὕτη πέρας | τοῦ πρὶν Μανουήλ, ἀρτίως δὲ Μαξίμου | θεὸν βοηθὸν
τῇδε συγκεκτημένου.
23 Maas (1923) 267–269. Maas, very cautiously, never says that the manuscript is written by
Planudes, but only that ‘die Handschrift in der Umgebung des Planudes entstanden sei’
(268).
24 Keydell (1959) I, 25*.
25 See Vian (1975) 202.
26 But it must be borne in mind that the scribe of L had a good knowledge of Nonnus’ style,
as proved by his versus ficti (he explicitly says: ἐμὸς στίχος) which were taken as authentic
676 De Stefani
given that, as shown by Vian,27 reception of the corrections of L2 by the scribe

of P (Palatinus Heidelbergensis gr. 85, 16th century, Fig. 7.5) is not a proof that
L2 is chronologically next to it (if so, that would prevent to think of a medieval
corrector of L), it is safer to assume that its corrections are not much later than
L. The position of L3, whose author also uses Latin language and inserts quota
tions from Virgil in his marginal comments, is unclear as well.28 There are even
more recent hands (L4 and L5), whose work, as Vian demonstrated, is of little
interest for the textual criticism of the poem.
In 1953 Aubrey Diller published a few verses from the beginning of the
Dionysiaca, cited by Ciriaco d’Ancona in the Vaticanus lat. 5250, fo. 19v.
They were preserved in a lost manuscript of Mt. Athos in two columns (A),
which Ciriaco saw at the Lavra in November 1444.29 The text of this manu
script ascribed the poem to Nonnus (whose name, as I said, is absent in L)
and offered an (apparent, as we shall see) correction to the text of L. For these
reasons, both Keydell and Vian—the first more cautiously, the second with
decision—believed that A could belong to another branch of tradition than
L.30 Vian, moreover, elaborated an impressive theory: according to him, A and
Π were part of the same stream of tradition, different from that which origi
nated L; the branch of Π/A did not omit the name of Nonnus, while in that of
L the authorship of the poem was missing, perhaps due to mechanical reasons.
This argument is certainly brilliant and attractive, but is based on too fragile
foundations.
First, that the text of Π is different from that of L—in spite of some com
mon corruptions—may suggest, it is true, that the papyrus and the Florentine
manuscript belong to two separate families. But the different facies of Π vs. L
can be more easily explained by the fact that a late antique edition always has
an undoubted superiority over medieval witnesses, plus its own mistakes and
interpolations.
by generations of educated readers and only demonstrated to be false when later scholars
realized that they break Nonnian metrical rules—such exploits of L might be compared
with the ‘kläglicher Nothbehelf’ θορύβῳ of the humanistic manuscript (a copy of L) which
was the ancestor of both M (Monacensis gr. 94) and Falkenburg’s codex (Ludwich 1877,
285).
27 Vian (1975) 202.
28 Vian (1975) 202–203.
29 Diller (1953).
30 Keydell (1959) I, 27*; Vian (1976) lxi.
On the role of A, we can be more precise (and skeptical). In the first verse of
the Dionysiaca, Εἰπέ, θεά, Κρονίδαο διάκτορον αἴθοπος εὐνῆς, Keydell gave much
weight to εὐνῆς, a superior reading of A also attested as v.l. in P along with αὐγῆς,
while L was credited containing only the erroneous αὐγῆς. Now Vian himself
showed that L in fact reads εὐνῆς, and the alleged presence of αὐγῆς in it was
due to a misunderstanding of Planudes’ difficult handwriting.31 Therefore this
argument, in the first volume of Vian’s edition (one year later than his paper
on L), was suppressed.
Further, in A the text was written in two columns,32 just as in L: and the use
of copying a poetic text in two columns seems to be prevalent in the manu
scripts of Planudes or otherwise belonging to his circle—in any case, as far
as I know, it does not seem to be frequent in the oldest Greek codices. In two
columns are written, for instance, the Anthologia Planudea (Marcianus gr. 481,
coll. 863) and the poetic sections of Vaticanus Urbinas gr. 125. So Ciriaco’s man
uscript had a typical facies of the Planudean atelier, which may suggest that it
was not utterly different from L as it has been imagined.
Finally, there remains the problem of the mention of Nonnus’ name,
which appears in the Berlin papyrus and, of course, in A. Now, Maas linked
up the absence of the name in L with a note by Planudes in the manuscript of
the Anthologia Planudea, which also contains the Paraphrase. This witness, by
hand of Planudes, attributes the Christian poem to ‘Ammonius of Alexandria,
philosopher’ (fo. 100v):
Ἀμμωνίου φιλοσόφου καὶ ῥήτορος μεταβολὴ τοῦ κατὰ Ἰωάννην εὐαγγελίου.
In another note (fo. 122v) the monk states that
καὶ παρά τισι μὲν λέγεται εἶναι ἡ μεταβολὴ ἀμμωνίου ἀλεξανδρέως φιλοσόφου,
παρ’ ἄλλοις δὲ νόνου [sic] ποιητοῦ [τοῦ del. Spanoudakis] πανοπολίτου.
31 Keydell (1959) I, 27*; Vian (1975) 196.

32 This fact had been pointed out by Diller (1953): since the readings of A are only related
to the odd verses, Ciriaco read the left column only. Keydell (1959) demonstrated that L
could not derive from A because ‘eum [i.e. the antigraphon of L] . . . et nomine poetae
caruisse et versus sese excipientes in una eademque columna exaratos habuisse . . . vidi
mus’ (I, 27*). On the relations between L and A see further Baldwin (1983).
678 De Stefani
Maas thought that if Planudes had known the Nonnian authorship of the
Dionysiaca, he would not have attributed the Paraphrase to Ammonius: ‘hätte
sonst er wohl die Identität des Stils erkannt.’33 This would mean that, twenty
years after the copying of L, in the manuscript of the APl (1301) Planudes shows
that he did not know that Nonnus was the author of the Dionysiaca: his igno
rance would confirm the hypothesis that the tradition on which he relied
was anonymous, and could be related to the fact that both the Etymologicum
Magnum and Eustathius do not mention Nonnus’ name: indeed, they might
have used the antigraphon of L, in which the poem was in fact anonymous—
so Maas.
These deductions, albeit expressed with the brilliant logic typical of
Maas, are questionable. It was only with Golega’s (1930) systematic analysis
that Nonnian authorship of the Paraphrase was proved, and nothing assures
us that Planudes, while seeing the affinity of style, would identify its author
with that of the Dionysiaca.
Given that in 1301—or perhaps later, since the note to fo. 122v is an addi
tion in calce—Planudes knew Nonnus as a possible author of the Paraphrase,
while in 1280 he had penned the Dionysiaca as an anonymous poem, it is pos
sible that twenty years after the copying of L he had got a better knowledge of
the Dionysiaca, and was able to identify its author, as he learned of the possible
Nonnian authorship of the Paraphrase.34 I mean that it cannot be excluded
that A too was a Planudean manuscript (or of ‘Planudean environment’) next
to L. This is speculative, of course, but not more daring than the theory of the
alleged branch Π → A, which so much has been written about.
As stated above, the Dionysiaca were first published in 1569 by Gerard
Falkenburg (Fig. 7.6): while arousing interest among the litterati, the poem was
not much appreciated by professional scholars, except Scaliger and Cunaeus.35
In fact, very few editions were produced before the nineteenth century: none
between 1610 (Cunaeus) and 1809 (G.H. Moser). After that period, an age of
great progress began. Mention should be made here of the editions by Graefe
(1819–1826),36 a notable achievement in the light of the editor’s brilliant emen
dations (he was one of the best connoisseurs of both Nonnian style and the
followers of Nonnus), Koechly, another great Hellenist (1857–1858),37 Ludwich,
33 Maas (1923) 269.

34 As a matter of fact, Planudes’ note seems to be an addition due to the discovery of another
witness, in which case it was added later.
35 See Hernández de la Fuente and Tissoni in this volume.
36 But written in St Petersburg and dedicated to Tsar Alexander I.
37 On this point see De Stefani (2003) 266.
who for the first time collated L and the papyrus (1909–1911), and finally Keydell
(1959), who had no new witnesses to use, yet was able to produce a long-lasting
monument, especially for the introductory essays on Nonnian metrics and
style and for the conjectures on the text—meaningfully, he dedicated his work
to Maas, himself, inter alia, a great Nonnian scholar. The several volumes of the
excellent Budé edition by Vian and his collaborators offer, as far as text history
is concerned, a minute study of the readings of L: this is not a small merit.
4 Transmission of the Paraphrase
In the case of the Paraphrase, which enjoyed a medieval tradition far richer
than the Dionysiaca, we have no ancient witnesses: papyri are lacking at all.
The only element that could relate to the ancient textual transmission is the
above-mentioned note of Planudes on the Nonnian authorship of the minor
poem. The Byzantine scholar also knew of an ascription—already discussed
in connection with the transmission of the Dionysiaca—to Ammonius of
Alexandria: such a belief is in fact quite hard to explain.
Maas thought that it was derived from an original dedication to Ammonius
by Nonnus.38 Now, since the beginning of the Paraphrase, with its solemn
incipitarian alliterating tricolon,39 hardly tolerates, in my opinion, any more
hexameters before it, such a dedication should have appeared in a previous
piece, maybe a prologue or the like. This is not in itself absurd, and could
find a parallel in several poems from Late Antiquity: if such prologue existed,
it was probably short and in another meter, probably in iambics, or elegiac
distichs.
However, what makes the assumption implausible is the fact that, apart from
the unlikelihood of the dedication of a Christian (and theologically Cyrillian)
poem to a Neoplatonic philosopher who would (perhaps) little appreciate it,
which Ammonius should he be? Livrea and Sherry proposed several candi
dates, but nobody seems convincing at all, either for chronological reasons or
because they are men of the church, that can hardly be called ‘philologists and
professors’.40 Maas thought of the son of Hermias, the master of Philoponus,
38 Maas (1923) 267.

39 1.1 ἄχρονος ἦν, ἀκίχητος, ἐν ἀρρήτῳ λόγος ἀρχῇ.
40 Livrea (1989) 73–74; Sherry (1991) 52–53. At all events, I do not think that the reason for
attributing the poem to Ammonius ‘si spiega con il retto riconoscimento della temperie
culturale del platonismo alessandrino che informa l’opera nonniana’ (Livrea 1989, 73 and
2000, 118). Why should the Neoplatonic hints of the Paraphrase (which do exist, but are
680 De Stefani
Simplicius, and Olympiodorus (second half of the fifth/first half of the sixth
century) and probably to him, the most famous Ammonius, Planudes’ note
should be related. At any rate, we should remember that Maas was linking up
his theory to a dating of Nonnus to the second part of the fifth century (thus
Paul Friedländer),41 while, for all the uncertainties we have to face, his floruit is
commonly placed some decades earlier.42
The tradition of the Paraphrase is bipartite, with a facies commonly featured
in manuscript traditions: one branch is represented by a single old manuscript,
while the other rests on more recent ones, whose mutual relationships are not
always clear, as we shall presently see. The oldest manuscript, Laurentianus
plut. 7.10 (L), is a tenth-century codex—or at the latest of the beginning of the
eleventh—(Fig. 7.7), while the more recent manuscripts, which constitute
the group called β, are not older than the thirteenth century.43
That L and β represent two distinct families, in which the oldest manu
script is by far the best witness, was clear since the first modern edition, that of
Scheindler, who first used the authoritative L.44 Unfortunately, it steps out at
8.113, so from that verse on the text of the Paraphrase is based on a less reliable
tradition.
Relations between the manuscripts of group β are not easy to determine
with certainty. These witnesses—omitting for sake of brevity those that pre
serve only a few lines or are too recent, and the apograph Parisinus gr. 1220
not many) have been more impressive than other, more conspicuous, aspects? See also
41 Friedländer (1912a).
42 And the Paraphrase, as said above, was composed before the Dionysiaca and the
Chalcedonian council.
43 The dating of L to the tenth century was first proposed by Livrea (1989) 71, then later on by
Franchi (2013) 220 and Spanoudakis (2014a) 107. I had thought of the problem while edit
ing the first book, and decided (De Stefani 2002, 43) to date the manuscript a century later
(XI): however, David Speranzi, who examined the manuscript on my behalf, confirms
Livrea’s dating (see the other codices studied by Cavallo 2000, 221–222). Livrea rightly
connected the presence of the Paraphrase in L with the epitaph of Michael Syncellus
(TR64 in Rhoby 2014, 637), an epigram notoriously filled with Nonnian echoes: the tenth
century might really be labeled—in certain quarters at least—a little aetas Nonniana.
44 ‘Laurentiani scripturam ubique praeferendam esse aliis, nisi ubi legibus metricis aut
dicendi usui aut Nonni grammaticae repugnet, et ceteros libros eo plus auctoritatis
habere, quo propiores absint a Laurentiano’ (Scheindler 1881a, xv). L is a manuscript of
theological poetry of the Imperial age, and a very important witness in the textual tradi
tion of the poems of Gregory of Nazianzus.
(R)—are: Vaticanus gr. 989 (V), Marcianus gr. 481, coll. 863 (N), Vaticanus
Palatinus gr. 90 (P), and Mosquensis Synodalis gr. 442 (M).45
V is closer to L than the other manuscripts: ‘Vaticanum ceteris longe prae
stare facile probari potest.’46 N and P omit many verses and share a ‘consensum
paene incredibilem mendorum et gravium et levium plus sexaginta locis’:47
they constitute a separate branch called γ.
Livrea suggested that the model of β was the famous codex of the Anthologia
Palatina, the Palatinus Heidelbergensis gr. 23 (H in the tradition of the
Paraphrase: otherwise P),48 which originally also contained the Paraphrase,
as is apparent from the ancient index of its contents: this theory is sugges
tive, and has found consensus in recent years.49 Since VNPM, albeit belonging
to two subfamilies, share common errors, it is their ancestor β which should
have derived from H. Thus, H would indirectly be one of the sources of N
(the famous manuscript of the Anthologia Planudea, usually Pl50) for one of
the texts it contains: a different situation from that of the Anthology, where,
as is well known, H (= P) and N (= Pl) drew independently on the anthology
assembled by Constantinus Cephalas.51 But we cannot leave out the possibil
ity that the very Cephalas, just as in the case of Christodorus, was the original
source of β (and of H), and not H itself.52
Though Scheindler’s accurate description of the manuscript tradition is,
in broad outline, still valid today, it must be said that the understanding of
the relationship between the witnesses within β meets with several problems.
First, there are many cases in which a single manuscript of the group—mainly
V—agrees with L in errors against the other members of β. This fact has been
45 I demonstrated in my edition that I (Athous Iviron 388, 16th/17th century) is a direct copy
of M, and that its scribe should be identified with the hieromonach Abessalom: see De
Stefani (2002) 51–52.
46 Scheindler (1881a) xix.
47 Scheindler (1881a) xxix.
48 See Floridi (2014) 56–57.
49 Livrea (1989) 80 n. 9; Spanoudakis (2014a) 109.
50 See Floridi (2014) 58–61.
51 As demonstrated by Lenzinger (1965).
52 As already proposed by Livrea (1989) 70. As to the poems of Paul the Silentiary, I do not
think that they derive from Cephalas’ collection of texts—the fact that they are not pres
ent in Pl (= N for the Paraphrase) might suggest that Cephalas did not include them.
Moreover, the scribe J (Constantinus Rhodius: see Al. Cameron 1993, 300–329), who wrote
the text of Paul, is also the author of a well-known verse description of the monuments of
Constantinople: the presence of Paul’s poems may be due to his taste.
682 De Stefani
so far overlooked,53 but the agreements of V with L are easily verified thanks to
the new critical editions of several books of the Paraphrase prepared by Livrea
and his ‘Florentine school’. For the books still to be read in Scheindler’s old
Teubner edition (3 and 7–8), I have collated afresh V (on a digital reproduc
tion) and L (on the original) against Scheindler. The results are as follows:
1.9 ἐν αὐτῷ] ἐπ’ αὐτῷ LV, 1.25 ἦεν] ἔην LV, 1.53 βίβλον] βίβλων LV, 3.23
γαστέρα] μητέρα LV, 3.51 δ’ om. LV, 3.68 κατέβαινεν] καταίβαινεν LV, 4.7
μαθηταὶ] μαθηταῖς LV, 6.78 ἐάσατε] ἐάσσατε LV, 6.86 πέρην] πέτρην LV, 6.98
διδόντος] διδόντες LV, 7.142 πανθελγέα] πενθαλγέα LV, 7.182 ἔμπλεος]
ἔμπλεως LV (Scheindler’s app. crit. is wrong here).54
A possibile explanation is that the ancestor of P and N (γ) is contaminated

with an external witness. We cannot exclude another possibility, i.e. that an
antigraphon of V was contaminated with the family of L, thus inheriting from
it both good readings and mistakes—but I slightly prefer the first explanation,
as the subfamily NP seems to be interpolated (P is clearly so). I try to offer a
(hopefully) clear view of this situation by proposing two different stemmata in
the Appendix of this chapter.55
P and N, as said above, are almost certainly a separate group (γ): Francis Vian
once suggested that P is a descendant of N, but this theory, holding for a few
books, proves untenable for the whole extent of the Paraphrase, as Accorinti
demonstrated.56 Finally, P transmits groups of verses absent in the other
manuscripts of β, mostly added in the margins and, in one case, in the very
text. A possible explanation is that P is dependent on a witness interpolated
53 Not, actually, by Scheindler (1881a) xx but his explanation is not illuminating: ‘Quae cor
ruptiones cum manifestum sit ad vetus illud exemplar (A) redire, haud paulum auctorita
tis Vaticano comparant, quippe qui tam accurate servaverit fontis sui imaginem; nam ex
his rebus patet, ubi solus veram scripturam exhibet, non correctorem nescio quem, sed
archetypum agnoscendum esse.’ But how are the good readings of γ to be explained? He
seems to imply that they are emendations of the scribe.
54 Some of these better readings of γ might well be lucky conjectures, but there are others,
like γαστέρα or πέρην, which are difficult to explain without assuming contamination.
55 A further proof of contamination of γ might be the correct reading υἷα against οἷα of the
other manuscripts at 5.153. As to 2.111 ἱροσολύμων] ἱεροσολύμων LP, I am inclined to con
sider it a polygenetic corruption.
56 Vian (1992) 88. Vian also explained to me his point of view (concerning Book 1) in a letter
which he sent to me in 1998. See also Accorinti (1996) 81–83.
by collation from the branch of L (interpolation may even have taken place
directly in P).57
A brief comment on the recent editions of the Paraphrase. The history of
the poem in modern age begins with the manuscript P. First of all, the Aldina
(c. 1504) was based on a manuscript akin to P (Fig. 7.8).58 Then, as I hope to
have demonstrated years ago, some of the bookhands of P belong to human
ists, and one should be identified with that of Friedrich Sylburg (who edited
the Paraphrase in 1596), who wrote down in P the versus ficti of Bordatus (Jean
Bordat, a 16th-century humanist of southern France, who published the poem
in 1561).59 The bookhand which wrote these verses was previously ascribed
to Bordatus himself; moreover, the latter claimed in his edition to draw on
a manuscript ‘unius ex meis intimis, amicissimi doctissimique viri . . . Iacobi
Solomonis Interaquæi’. This manuscript had been identified with P, but it is
now certain that Bordatus did not see it. We cannot even be confident that the
manuscript ‘Iacobi Solomonis Interaquæi’ really existed: certainly it was not
R.60 It might just be an expedient, not uncommon among humanists, to give
credit to his own edition.
Not unlike the Dionysiaca, the Paraphrase too was seldom appreciated. After
being in vogue in the sixteenth century, the Christian poem was neglected in
1600 and 1700. This lack of interest is hard to explain, although a devastating
anti-Nonnian pamphlet by Daniel Heinsius, the Aristarchus Sacer (1627), may
partly account for it.61 In any case, it should be emphasized that Nonnian
poetry was rarely read and commented in those two centuries—apart from
readers who used to read everything, like the great Bentley, who nonetheless
had significant reservations:
57 Cf. Accorinti (1996) 83–85. That P is interpolated can be easily seen from his readings, see
Caprara (2005) on Par. 4.30, 42. Some superior readings of manuscripts of β may be due to
conjecture (as 2.51 κιρνάμενος M, 4.48 φυσίζοον P); an ope ingenii conjecture by Planudes is
σέβας at 5.67 and perhaps ἀνίαχε (thus L) against ἐνίαχε of V and P at 6.53.
58 See Tissoni in this volume.
59 When I first pointed out the presence of five bookhands in P, I was myself very incertain
about the distinction of two hands, which might be the same—the scribes might then be
just four. On my wake, Franchi inspected the manuscript and claimed that the hands are,
in fact, four (Franchi 2013, 225–226): she might well be right, but the problem is still sub
iudice (see the prudent conclusions of Spanoudakis 2014a, 108).
60 See De Stefani (2001) and Accorinti (2005) 312–313.
61 See Tissoni in this volume.
684 De Stefani
’Tis true, I am no Admirer of that Poet; I have the same opinion of his
Judgment and Style, that Scaliger, and Cunaeus, and Heinsius had. But he
had great variety of Learning, and may pass for an able Grammarian,
though a very ordinary Poet.62
Sixteenth-century editions contributed very little to the textual criticism of the

Paraphrase, whose text had to wait for the revival of interest in late hexameter
poetry at the beginning of the nineteenth century, probably in the wake of the
publication of Gottfried Hermann’s hightly influential Orphica (1805).
Among nineteenth-century scholars who dealt with the Paraphrase, one
had a great bent for conjectures and a sound knowledge of Greek, namely
Marcellus: but he was a muddler, and lacked knowledge of Nonnian metrics,
which proved fatal to his edition (1861). Another one, August Scheindler, had
a deep knowledge of the complicated rules of Nonnian hexameter (he also
made several important observations in this field), but perhaps less critical
acumen than Marcellus: yet his Teubner text (1881) is undoubtedly far superior,
and is still the reference edition for those books that have not been re-edited
with commentary in recent years. Both of these qualities, a great metrical com
petence and a supreme ability in emending, were united in Heinrich Tiedke
(1852–1932): one can only regret that he wrote so little, but after all he gave
his name to a law of Alexandrian hexameter (and to an important principle
of Nonnian verse about the word stress before B5).63 And his Nonniana, the
brochure on the Paraphrase modestly edited as a Programm of the Berliner
Gymnasium ‘zum grauen Kloster’ in 1883, where he taught since 1874, is a per
manent document to his intelligence.
62 Bentley (1699) 24. See also Accorinti in this volume.

63 See Magnelli in this volume.
Appendix: Stemma Codicum of the Paraphrase
Hypothesis a)
L H vel Constantinus Cephalas
β δ (?)
V γ
Z P
Hypothesis b)
α
L H vel Constantinus Cephalas
V γ
Z P
686 De Stefani
Figure 7.1 Nonnus, Dionysiaca 14.386–419, 434–437; 15.1–415; 16.1–30. P.Berol. inv. 10567. Plate A, r.
Figure 7.2 Nonnus, Dionysiaca 14.386–419, 434–437; 15.1–415; 16.1–30. P.Berol. inv. 10567. Plate A, v.
Figure 7.3 Nonnus, Dionysiaca. P.Berol. inv. 10567 (detail).
Figure 7.4 Nonnus, Dionysiaca 1.1–66. Florence, Biblioteca

Medicea Laurenziana, MS Laurentianus plut.
32.16, fo. 9v.
688 De Stefani
Figure 7.5
Nonnus, Dionysiaca 1.1–66.
Heidelberg, Universitätsbibliothek,
MS Palatinus Heidelbergensis gr. 85,
fo. 1v.
Figure 7.6
Νόννου Πανοπολίτου Διονυσιακά.
Nonni Panopolitae Dionysiaca,
nunc primum in lucem edita ex
Bibliotheca Ioannis Sambuci
Pannonij. Cum lectionibus, et
coniecturis Gerarti Falkenburgij
Noviomagi, et Indice copioso.
Antverpiæ, Ex officina Christophori
Plantini, 1569, frontispiece.
Regensburg, Staatliche Bibliothek,
shelf mark 999/4Class.82.
Figure 7.7 Nonnus, Paraphrasis 1.1–49. Florence, Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, MS

Laurentianus plut. 7.10, fo. 166r.
690 De Stefani
Figure 7.8 Nonnus, Paraphrasis 1.1–29. Editio Aldina, Νόννου ποιητοῦ Πανοπολίτου
Μεταβολὴ τοῦ κατὰ Ἰωάννην ἁγίου εὐαγγελίου. [Venetiis] n.d., fo. 1 a (aaa).
Foligno (PG), Biblioteca comunale Dante Alighieri, inv. no. A 15850, shelf mark
G E 7. 2. 6 (b).
chapter 31
The Reception of Nonnus in Late Antiquity,

Byzantine, and Renaissance Literature
Francesco Tissoni
1 Late Antiquity
The metric and stylistic novelty of Nonnus’ work was immediately appreciated
by a large group of poets, who recognized him as a model and imitated him.
Francis Vian has remarked the contradictory nature of Nonnus’ legacy in Late
Antiquity: Nonnus was a very influential poet in his own time and beyond until
the seventh century; however, evidence for this influence can be patchy and
not easy to pinpoint, given the penury of direct references to the Dionysiaca or
the Paraphrase.1
Nonnus’ leading role, as well as the existence of a ‘Nonnian school’, were
first highlighted by Gottfried Hermann2 and have become a commonplace in
scholarship from the eighteenth century onward. Even Vian still regarded as
legitimate the use of the handy label ‘école nonnienne’.3 More recent schol-
ars, rather than using ‘Nonnian school’, have shown a preference for ‘modern
style’, while restricting the use of ‘Nonnian’ to those authors who had patently
adopted his metrical innovations and expressive solutions.4
All things considered, there is little doubt that by the second half of the
fifth century Nonnus had become a classic. His modern style became popu-
lar in Egypt, Constantinople, Asia Minor and Palestine.5 Nonnus is likely to
have exercised his magisterium both directly through public recitals of the
Dionysiaca or the Paraphrase,6 and indirectly as a set author of the school
canon next to the Homeric texts.7
1 Vian (1976) lvi–lxi.

2 Miguélez Cavero (2008) 94.
3 Vian (1976) lvi, lix.
4 Gonnelli (2003) 7–8; Agosti/Gonnelli (1995–1996) 291–292. For a full examination of the ques-
tion, see Miguélez Cavero (2008) 93–96.
5 Agosti (2012) 375–376.
6 Agosti (2006) 46; Tissoni (2008) 79–80; Agosti (2012) 377–378.
7 Fournet (1999) II, 678–680; Agosti (2008a).

692 Tissoni
From the earliest group of followers of Nonnus, one has preliminarily to

remove Triphiodorus of Panopolis, a grammarian who wrote a short poem in
691 hexameters on the Sack of Troy. Thanks to P.Oxy. XLI 2946, his poem can
be dated to the second half of the third century.8 Before the publication of the
papyrus, Triphiodorus was considered a slovenly disciple of Nonnus, owing to
the resemblance of his style and metrics to those of Nonnus.9 It is now evident
that he was a precursor of the modern style.10
The relationship between Nonnus and his compatriot Cyrus has been the
subject of a long debate. During the reign of Theodosius II (408–450), Cyrus
was Prefect of Constantinople and Praetorian Prefect of the East in 439. While
holding the consulate in 441, he fell into disgrace and became a bishop in a
small town in Phrygia. It was thought that Nonnus had imitated Cyrus,11 nota-
bly on account of the citation in Dion. 16.321 and 20.372 of the first line of
AP 9.136 Αἴθε πατὴρ μ’ ἐδίδαξε δασύτριχα μῆλα νομεύειν; however, Alan Cameron
argued that Cyrus could be instead regarded as ‘the earliest extant reader of
Nonnus’ known to us.12 The sinking of the work of Cyrus, with the exception
of seven epigrams ascribed to him in the Greek Anthology (not all authentic),
preclude a more detailed analysis. It cannot be excluded, therefore, that the
two authors had known and imitated each other.13
Similarly controversial is the relationship between Nonnus’ Paraphrase and
the Metaphrasis Psalmorum, which manuscripts ascribe to Apollinarius of
Laodicea. The author, probably an Egyptian who composed the Metaphrasis
around 460, appears to adhere to an archaizing style, which he considers apt
to translate the Psalms into Homeric language. In the prologue, on the other
hand, language and meter are reminiscent of Nonnus. As De Stefani has already
argued, the author of the Metaphrasis can hardly be considered an orthodox
follower of the Nonnian style.14
A further example of Nonnian influence is, according to Daria Gigli Piccardi,
the second section of the Oracle of Apollo as transmitted by the Theosophia
Tubingensis, a text of uncertain dating ascribable between the fifth and sixth
centuries. It shows numerous Nonnian references, which should thus be
regarded as the earliest echoes of the Paraphrase in Christian circles.15
8 Al. Cameron (1965) 478–482.

9 Wernicke (1819); Weinberger (1896); Wifstrand (1933).
10 See Monaco (2007) and Miguélez Cavero (2013c).
11 Friedländer (1912a).
12 Al. Cameron (1982) 230–239; but see Hopkinson (1994a) 203.
13 Tissoni (2008) 76–81.
14 De Stefani (2008) 14.
15 Gigli Piccardi (2011).
The Reception Of Nonnus 693
By the second half of the fifth century, all highbrow poets may be described
as followers of the Nonnian style. According to chronology, the first is probably
Pamprepius of Panopolis (440–484). His three fragmentary poems, all extant
in a sixth-century papyrus codex, show complete adherence to Nonnus’ style
and metrical habits and a good number of imitations ad verbum.16
At the end of the fifth century, Musaeus the grammarian composed his
famous epyllion Hero and Leander. The poem’s Nonnian style is unmistakable,
as is the frequent imitatio ad verbum of Nonnian half-lines, which reveal thor-
ough familiarity not only with the Dionysiaca but with the Paraphrase as well.17
During the principate of Anastasius (491–518) there lived Christodorus
of Coptos, Colluthus and probably John of Gaza. In the ekphrastic poem
on the statues in the gymnasium of Zeuxippus in Constantinople (ἔκφρασις
τῶν ἀγαλμάτων τῶν εἰς τὸ δημόσιον γυμνάσιον τοῦ ἐπικαλουμένου Ζευξίππου) of
Christodorus, composed around 503, Nonnus appears alongside Homer as the
author’s principal model in relation not only to style but also to grammatical
erudition. Christodorus enjoys taking Homeric and Nonnian hapax legomena
to coin even more abstruse neologisms. The magisterium of Nonnus is also evi-
dent in the use of metre, notably inspired by the modules of the Paraphrase.18
The Egyptian Colluthus of Lycopolis (end of 5th century) is the author of
mythological poems and epic panegyrics. Only an epyllion entitled the Rape
of Helen survives of his works—a rhetorical exercise in which typical features of
the Nonnian style, such as compositional freedom, baroque mannerism and
metrical innovations are clearly detectable, albeit devoid of any such skill that
would have made Colluthus’ work comparable with that of his model.19
John of Gaza lived between the second half of the fifth and the first part
of the sixth century. He composed a Descriptio Tabulae mundi, i.e. a descrip-
tion of a cosmic table painted in the winter baths at Gaza. These 703 hexam-
eters inspired by Neoplatonic doctrine are full of Nonnian reminiscences.
John of Gaza may have been among the earliest admirers and promoters of
Nonnus’ style outside Egypt.20 The link with Nonnus has been assumed since
Friedländer (‘Johannes ist Schüler des Nonnos’),21 but it is only recently that
John’s imitatio Nonniana has received due acknowledgment.22 He is clearly a
16 Livrea (1979).

17 Livrea/Eleuteri (1982); Dümmler (2012); Accorinti (2013b).
18 Tissoni (2000) 69–73. See recently Magnelli (2013).
19 Weinberger (1896) 161–179; Livrea (1967) 435–438; Harries (2006) 515–548. See recently
Cadau (2015).
20 Lauritzen (2014) 421. See now the edition by Lauritzen (2015).
21 Friedländer (1912b) 110.
22 Cf. Gigli Piccardi (2014) and Lauritzen (2014).
694 Tissoni
follower of Nonnus in his use of verse and meter, although a number of subtle
variations reveal a highly personal as well as skillful treatment of the hexam-
eter. Many features of John’s lexis and style are equally derived from Nonnus’,
but the result is not one of pedestrian imitation, as John has also effectively
assimilated Nonnus’ dynamic logic which presides over the fashioning of
neologisms.23 John quotes both the Dionysiaca and the Paraphrase, the former
ten times more frequently than the latter.
A number of fifth- and sixth-century inscriptional epigrams show quota-
tions from Nonnus’ Dionysiaca and Paraphrase. In general, one notices in
those texts the presence of individual terms of Nonnian origin combined with
expressions unknown to Nonnus and his followers, so that the resulting style
has been described as presque nonnien.24 There are, however, significant excep-
tions, such as, for example, an epigraphical epigram from Apameia on the
Orontes whose author clearly quoted passages from both of Nonnus’ poems.
The Epigrams of the so-called Porphyrius’ cycle often reveal a competent imi-
tation of some Nonnian expressions, pulled especially from the Dionysiaca.25
During the age of Justin (518–527) and Justinian (527–565), Nonnus had
numerous imitators: Paul the Silentiary, Agathias, and many epigramma-
tists gathered in the Cycle (Julian the Egyptian, Macedonius Consul, Joannes
Barbucallus, etc.). Agathias is the first to mention Nonnus—and remains
one of the very few who mentions him by name. In a famous passage of his
Histories (4.23.5–6), in which he recalls the torture inflicted by Khosrau on one
of his generals who had fled from the battle, Agathias provides a mythical par-
allel by recalling Marsyas being flayed alive and exposed on a tree by Apollo,
and quotes two lines from the proem of Nonnus’ Dionysiaca (1.42–43):
ταῦτα γὰρ οἵ τε πρότερον ποιηταὶ ᾄδουσι καὶ οἱ νέοι παραλαβόντες συνᾴδουσιν.

ὧν δὴ καὶ Νόννος, ὁ ἐκ τῆς Πανὸς τῆς Αἰγυπτίας γεγενημένος, ἔν τινι τῶν
οἰκείων ποιημάτων, ἅπερ αὐτῷ Διονυσιακὰ ἐπωνόμασται, οὐκ οἶδα ἐφ’ ὅτῳ
ὀλίγα ἄττα τοῦ Ἀπόλλωνος πέρι ἀφηγησάμενος (οὐ γὰρ δὴ τῶν προηγουμένων
ἐπῶν ἐπιμέμνημαι) εἶτα ἐπάγει·
Ἐξότε Μαρσύαο θεημάχον αὐλὸν ἐλέγξας
Δέρμα παρῃώρησε φυτῷ κολπούμενον αὔραις.26
23 Lauritzen (2014) 424: the same phenomenon has been observed in Christodorus (Tissoni
2000, 66–67) and Paul the Silentiary (Fayant 2003b, 583–592).
24 Agosti (2005c) 30.
25 Al. Cameron (1973) 84, 92–94, 113, 156, 215.
26 For this quotation see the first chapter by Accorinti in this volume.
Fabrizio Gonnelli has duly remarked the inaccurate nature of Agathias’ ref-
erence to the proem of the Dionysiaca, but also pointed out that Agathias
places Nonnus in the company of the ‘modern poets’ (οἱ νέοι) and that these
words can prove the popularity enjoyed by the Dionysiaca during the sixth
century.27
Nonnus’ fame in the age of Justinian is fully borne by the greatest poet of this
period, Paul the Silentiary, author of epigrams and especially of the descrip-
tion of Hagia Sophia in Constantinople. Scholars have confirmed the close
association of his language and style with those of Nonnus.28 Yet it would be
wrong to see in this association an example of slavish imitation. Paul imitates
his model with great freedom, because he does so in combination with a num-
ber of other sources.
A follower of Nonnus also turns out to be the last Greek-Egyptian poet
known to us, Dioscorus of Aphrodite. A contemporary of Agathias and Paul
the Silentiary, Dioscorus was a notary and local administrator, who composed
poems that he appended to his prose petitions. Dioscorus is a unique case in
Late Antiquity insofar as, thanks to a serendipitous discovery, the autographs
of his poems have survived to this day, and the composition of his library can
be reconstructed to an extent. As shown by Fournet,29 the influence of Nonnus
is omnipresent in Dioscorus’ work. While no trace has been found of copies of
the Dionysiaca or the Paraphrase in his library, the influence of Nonnus is so
evident that expressions taken from the Dionysiaca (and, although to a minor
degree, the Paraphrase) crop up not just in his verse but in his prose petitions
as well.
Finally, a late sixth- or early seventh-century collection of epigrams devoted
to the miracle of the resurrection of Lazarus surprisingly includes, among other
things, an anonymous author that closely imitates Nonnus.30 He combines
reminiscences from the episode of the resurrection of Tylus in the Dionysiaca
with the story of the raising of Lazarus in the Paraphrase: an imitation which is
both complex and non-trivial, and which also appears to have left traces in an
epigram composed by Theodore Prodromos on the same subject.31
27 Gonnelli (2003) 9.

28 Fayant (2003b).
29 Fournet (1999) II, 678–680. See also Dijkstra in this volume.
30 Lauxtermann (2003) 357–362.
696 Tissoni
2 Byzantine Literature
The formidable task of reconstructing the history of Nonnus’ Fortleben in

Byzantium has not yet been undertaken: we will therefore confine ourselves
to a few hints. As Claudio De Stefani has pointed out, poetic production in
the seventh century marked an abrupt departure from that of the previous
century, and after the reign of Heraclius (575–641), poetry in hexameters may
be said to have remained almost silent. Violent hostility against the pagans and
the concomitant disappearance of the older cultural elite presumably discour-
aged poets from making frequent references to paganism, thus determining
the progressive dying out of Nonnian poetry.32
However, the first half of the seventh century is an age of transition, cul-
turally marked by George of Pisidia, the panegyrist of the Emperor Heraclius.
George is rightly considered the last of Nonnus’ followers in Late Antiquity. In
his poem De Vita Humana, George shows himself able to compose hexameters
which are technically irreprehensible, and testify to his conscious imitation of
the Dionysiaca.33 As the singer of the victories of Heraclius over the Persians,
George offers an allegorical reading of the Nonnian narration of Dionysus’
campaign against the Indians, who are portrayed as a symbol of Evil and figura
of the contemporary kingdom of the Persians.34
From the beginning of the sixth century—as Alan Cameron pointed out35—
poets gradually turn from hexameters to iambics, and the trend reaches the
point of no return in the work of George of Pisidia. The popularity enjoyed by
his iambic poems marks a crucial moment for the decline of ‘Nonnian’ hex-
ameter poetry; at the same time, it lays the foundations for the tradition of
Byzantine verse production.36 George may be considered the last representa-
tive of the late antique tradition, as well as the first Byzantine poet.
Sophronius (c. 560–638)—sophist, poet, theologian—became patriarch of
Jerusalem during the Arab conquest in 638. Among the five epigrams ascribed
to him in the Greek Anthology, there is no reason to doubt the genuineness of
AP 1.123.37 The epigram celebrates a church built on Mount Calvary and consists
32 De Stefani (2014b) 375–377.

33 The characteristics of the Nonnian imitation of George of Pisidia were recently high-
lighted by Whitby (2014) 444–448, in relation to both style and metrics.
34 Gonnelli (1991) 118–138 and (2003) 11–12.
35 Al. Cameron (1965) 482.
36 De Stefani (2014b) 378. See also Rey (2003) 607.
37 Al. Cameron (1983).
of three hexameters κατὰ στίχον which show good knowledge of Nonnus’ met-
rics, as well as the skillful imitation of a verse by Musaeus.38
After the age of Heraclius, further evidence of the knowledge of Nonnus’
poems can be found in a group of texts dating from the ninth to the tenth
century. Some epigrammatists of the Greek Anthology living during the
Macedonian Renaissance show more than superficial knowledge of Nonnus’
poems: these include Leo the Philosopher (c. 790–after c. 869), Anastasius
Quaestor (9th–10th century), Constantine the Sicilian (9th–10th century), and
Cometas Grammaticus (9th century). The poetic and cultural model of Leo the
Philosopher was primarily Gregory of Nazianzus, and there is no glaring evi-
dence showing Leo as a reader of Nonnus; nevertheless, in his epigrams (nota-
bly AP 15.12) the presence of reminiscences from both the Dionysiaca and the
Paraphrase seems likely.39 In the poem entitled Ἰὼβ ἢ περὶ ἀλυπίας καὶ ὑπομονῆς
(‘Job, or, On Indifference to Grief and on Patience’), there are at least two sig-
nificant clues—awaiting further consideration—that Leo the Philosopher pos-
sessed a non-superficial knowledge of the Dionysiaca.40 Leo the Philosopher’s
knowledge of Nonnus is perhaps perceivable in an anonymous epigram on
Aristotle’s categories, transmitted by Laurentian manuscripts, which Enrico
Magnelli believes to have been composed by him.41
Among the Byzantine poets of the fifteenth book of the Greek Anthology,
the epigram of Anastasius Quaestor evoking the episode of the crucifixion
‘in a set of fairly respectable hexameters’42 reveals clear imitations of the
Paraphrase.43 The influence of Nonnus’ Dionysiaca is perhaps also visible in
AP 15.13 by Constantine the Sicilian.44 An extreme example of the contradic-
tory characteristics of Nonnian imitation during this period is provided by
AP 15.40: a long hexametric poem of Cometas Scholasticus dedicated to the
resurrection of Lazarus, considered by Alan Cameron ‘perhaps the single most
unmetrical poem in the Anthology’.45 The poetry of Cometas, which is char-
acterized by cento-like technique, shows a remarkable contrast between his
38 De Stefani (2014b) 380–382.

39 Tissoni (2003) 621–624. See also Baldwin (1990).
40 Edited by Westerink (1986) 201–222. See Magnelli (2004a) 196.
41 Magnelli (2004a).
42 Al. Cameron (1993) 311.
43 Tissoni (2003) 625–627.
44 Tissoni (2003) 627–629.
45 Al. Cameron (1993) 309.
698 Tissoni
almost total ignorance of metrics and the refined re-use of iuncturae taken not
only from Homer but also from the Dionysiaca and the Paraphrase.46
Dated to the same period is an acrostic glorifying Theodore and Anatolius
of Stoudios, composed by Dionysius the Studite, the collector and editor of
the Theodore’s poems.47 Its 31 hexameters reveal conscious imitation of late
antique poetry through a visible tendency to prefer dactyls,48 the inclusion of
iuncturae Nonnianae and, in the first line, an echo of the incipit of the Orphic
Lithica.49 They thus provide a demonstration that even the monastic environ-
ment was able to appreciate late antique poetry and precious style. Nonnian
imitation as pursued by Dionysius hints at a potentially direct knowledge
of the Dionysiaca.
The most striking example of Nonnus’ imitation in the whole corpus of
Byzantine Poetry is probably a tenth-century epigram from Galakrenai. This
inscription, found at Erenköy in 1943, is an epitaph for Michael, the Synkellos
by Nicolaos Mystikos, and was edited and annotated by Ihor Ševčenko.50
Ševčenko rightly pointed out that the text was a ‘cento, made up of Nonnian
elements’ interspersed with memories of many other epigrams from the Greek
Anthology. A number of interesting hypotheses have been recently formulated
about the author of these lines.51
John Geometres (c. 935–1000) was considered the poet laureate of his time52
and his knowledge of the works of Nonnus has been until recently the subject
of controversial discussion. On the basis of the annotated edition of his poems
in hexameters and elegiac couplets by Emilie Marlène van Opstall, is it now
possible to consider Geometres’ knowledge and imitation of Nonnus as an
established fact, both of the Dionysiaca and the Paraphrase.53
In conclusion, I share the opinion of Claudio De Stefani that Byzantine poets
of 9th–10th centuries were eventually unable to write irreprehensible Nonnian
verses because they had not received any such training at school, but they were
46 See Caprara (2000) and Tissoni (2003) 629–634.

47 No. 124 Speck (1968). See Lauxtermann (2003) 70–72 and De Stefani (2014b) 383–387,
offering the text with an apparatus based on Venice, Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana, MS
Marcianus gr. 141 (coll. 487).
48 Mercati (1953) 225.
49 De Stefani (2014b) 385–386.
50 Ševčenko (1987).
51 See Strano (2009) 67–84.
52 Lauxtermann (1998) 365.
53 Van Opstall (2008) esp. 43–66 (‘Langue litteraire’) and 67–88 (‘Prosodie et métrique’).
nevertheless capable of producing imitations of high quality through the care-

ful observation of their models.54
If compared with the type of evidence recorded above, the case of the
chronicler Genesius (mid-tenth century) looks quite exceptional.55 At the end
of the Basilici, in a section devoted to the athletic virtues of Basil I founder of
the Macedonian dynasty, there occurs a long comparison between Basil and
a number of mythical characters, including Homeric and Nonnian heroes,
the latter being selected from those whose deeds are celebrated in Book 37
of the Dionysiaca during the funeral games for Opheltes. Nonnus is not men-
tioned; yet the very nature of Genesius’ selection betrays his attentive read-
ing of Nonnus’ description of the games. Given Genesius’ familiarity with
the Imperial court, this elaborate syncrisis may have been encouraged by the
Emperor himself, Constantine VII Porphyrogenitus, as Fabrizio Gonnelli has
suggested.56
As has been seen, between the ninth and tenth centuries, knowledge of
the Dionysiaca and the Paraphrase had become a common feature among
Byzantine poets; on the other hand, information about Nonnus is surprisingly
poor. The Suda Lexicon (10th century) devotes no specific entry to Nonnus,
who is however mentioned at the end of the headword Νόνναι (the Nones of
the Roman Calendar). It is worth noting that the author of the Suda Lexicon
only acknowledges Nonnus as the author of the Paraphrase.57
The same surprising eclipse of Nonnus’ name also occurs in the Etymologicum
Magnum (12th century) and in the commentaries on Homer of Eustathius of
Thessalonica (c. 1115–1195). In discussing the etymology of the name ‘Dionysus’,
the author of the Etymologicum Magnum cites nine lines from the Dionysiaca
(9.11–12, 17 and 19–24) and says: ‘But I read in one (παρά τινι) for which reason he
was called Dionysus, in the ninth book of the Dionysiaca’ (280.9 Gaisford). The
case of Eustathius of Thessalonica is even stranger: he refers to Nonnus with the
formula ‘the one who wrote the Dionysiaca’, and the only quotations of Nonnus
that can be found in his great exegetical work are confined to about ten passages,
all from the first book of the Dionysiaca.58
Such a limited knowledge of Nonnus’ works is not consistent with what
one learns about Theodore Prodromos (c. 1115–1160). He was the most skilled
54 De Stefani (2014b) 388.

55 Trans. by Kaldellis (1998).
56 Gonnelli (2003) 16 and n. 22.
57 For this marginal gloss see now the first chapter by Accorinti in this volume.
58 See Keydell (1959) I, 10*–11* and Gonnelli (2003) 18–20. For Eustathius see also the first
chapter by Accorinti in this volume.
700 Tissoni
versifier of his time and, like Eustathius, a prominent literary figure of the
Comnenian Age. After the recent studies by Magnelli, Spanoudakis and
De Stefani, Theodore Prodromos’ imitation of both the Dionysiaca and the
Paraphrase can be considered certain, although, as one would expect, it
does not occur in the same manner throughout his entire work.59 One most
interesting case, investigated by De Stefani,60 concerns carm. hist. 56b.40–48
Hörandner, which shows a remarkable density of Nonnian echoes probably
due to the Dionysiac atmosphere of those verses. Spanoudakis adds that the
episode of the death and revival of Rodanthe in the iambic novel Rhodanthe
et Dosicles (8.487–520) is in fact refashioning the story of the resurrection of
Lazarus not so much from the Gospel of John as from Nonnus’ Paraphrase.
In so doing, Theodore would have adapted two different but related epi-
sodes, the resurrection of Tylus in Dion. 25 and the resurrection of Lazarus in
Par. 11, which suggests he hadn’t merely read Nonnus’ texts but also reflected
on their secondary meaning.61 The most interesting example of re-enactment
of Nonnian poetry made up by Theodore is provided by the iambic and heroic
four-verse epigrams on the Old and the New Testament and on the Life of
Gregory of Nazianzus. Rather than the nature of the imitations, which are
at any rate frequent, it is the technique of connecting iambic and hexameter
verses that is of interest here, a feature that was probably considered ‘a sort of
precious Late Antique taste.’62
Much coarser is the dedicatory poem of the Chronicon of Constantinus
Manasses (c. 1130–1187), a patchwork of Nonnian expressions and glosses char-
acterized by a glaringly faulty use of meter.63
The influence of Nonnus’ poems on Nicetas Eugenianus (12th century) has
yet to be demonstrated, but it promises to be fruitful for anyone wishing to
undertake the task.64
Further Byzantine writers are likely to have read and imitated Nonnus dur-
ing the 13th and 14th centuries, but there is a dearth of recent studies on this
subject. Maximus Planudes (c. 1260–1330), who lived under the Emperors
Michael VIII and Andronicus II, must have been one of them. Planudes is
a central figure in Nonnus scholarship and reception, for the most valuable
59 Magnelli (2003) 181–194 (about Theodore’s iambic and heroic four-verse epigrams);
Spanoudakis (2013a) 241–250; De Stefani (2014b) 388–393.
60 De Stefani (2014b) 390.
62 De Stefani (2014b) 393.
63 De Stefani (2014b) 388–389.
64 See Gonnelli (2003) 20.
manuscript of the Dionysiaca—the Florence, Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana,

Laurentianus plut. 32.16 (L)—was copied at his behest in 1280. The presence of
two interpolated lines (Dion. 17.73, 48.909) the copyist openly declares he him-
self penned (ἐμὸς στίχος), shows that in Planudes’ Studio there was someone
capable of making a perfect imitation of Nonnus’ style. The imitatio Nonniana
of Planudes is evident in his poems: in particular in the poem on Ptolemy’s
Geography,65 but also in the idyll which includes an account of the metamor-
phosis of an ox into a mouse.66
3 Renaissance Literature
To our knowledge, the first owner in the West of a manuscript containing the
Dionysiaca (the current Laurentianus plut. 32.16, which includes adespota),
was the humanist Francesco Filelfo (1398–1481), although in his works there
seems to be no trace of Nonnian readings.
Angelo Poliziano (1454–1494) had great respect for Nonnus, both as a poet
and an inexhaustible source of rare myths and learned curiosities.67 He could
read the Dionysiaca for the first time shortly after the death of Filelfo (1481),
whose manuscripts had become part of the library of Lorenzo de’ Medici.
Poliziano’s earliest mention of the Dionysiaca is a reference to the myth of
Typhon and appears in the Commentatio in Statii Sylvas, which contains the
notes prepared by Poliziano for the course taught at the Florentine Studio
in 1480–1481.68 By the following year, when Poliziano held public lectures on
Ovid’s Fasti, quotations from the Dionysiaca had considerably increased in
number.69 It is noteworthy that, at least initially, Poliziano must have ignored
the authorship of the poem: the name of Nonnus appears only in an interlin-
ear gloss (297.83 Lo Monaco), while everywhere else the author is recalled as
Graecus poeta Dionysiacon, alias ὁ τῶν Διονυσιακῶν ποιητής. Probably Poliziano
recognized his author no sooner than the end of 1482, following perhaps the
65 Edited by Pontani (2010) 197–200 (‘Appendix: Planudes’ Epigram on Ptolemy’s

Geography’).
66 Holzinger (1893). See also Hernández de la Fuente (2002–2003) 405 and De Stefani in this
volume.
67 Pontani (1983) 353–360; Tissoni (1998) 44–47.
68 Cesarini Martinelli (1978) 447.29.
69 See Lo Monaco (1991), ‘Indice delle Fonti dirette’, s.v.
702 Tissoni
account of Agathias (Hist. 4.23.5–6) or through other testimonies.70 During

this early period, Poliziano merely used Nonnus’ poem as a valuable source
of learned mythological curiosities.71 When one scans his commentary on
the Fasti, it may be observed that the Dionysiaca are mentioned in discuss-
ing the Hours (Dion. 2.703–705: 69.50–53 Lo Monaco); the myth of Europa
and Cadmus (Dion. 1.137 and 362–369, excerpta of the third book: 102–103 Lo
Monaco); the cult of Diana in Crete (Dion. 8.113–118: 217.112–118 Lo Monaco);
the story of Ampelus (Dion. 10.175–192 et al.: 257–261 Lo Monaco), and sev-
eral other myths. As can be seen, it appears that the comment goes hand in
hand with the reading of the Dionysiaca, as it can hardly be a coincidence that
in the initial part of Poliziano’s commentary the quotations from Nonnus fol-
low the order of the books. Poliziano continued to use the Dionysiaca for his
lectures, as is evidenced by the Commentary on the Satires of Persius which
dates back to 1484–1485.72
A decisive development took place around 1485, when Poliziano transcribed
some excerpts of the Dionysiaca in the current MS Parisinus gr. 3069 (fos.
157–165, 171–174).73 This coincided with his drafting of Ambra, a Latin poem
evidently influenced by the reading of Nonnus.74 A manifest imitation of the
language of Nonnus is also visible in Poliziano’s Greek epigrams.75
In light of these findings, the relevance given to the Dionysiaca in the
Miscellaneorum Centuria Prima comes as no surprise, no less than the defini-
tion of Nonnus as ‘mirificus poeta’ in chapter 11 of the same work nor, finally,
the flattering mention of Nonnus in Nutricia (ll. 423–425).76 A somewhat
different assessment must be made in the case of the Paraphrase. Although
available to Poliziano in the MS Laurentianus plut. 7.10 (which includes the
Paraphrase with the correct attribution to Nonnus), the Florentine poet does
not seem to have taken due account of that text. It can be assumed, how-
ever, that he knew of its existence, as an observation made en passant in
chapter 46 of the Miscellaneorum Centuria Secunda shows: ‘Poeta ingeniosis-
simus Nonnus, et ipse tamen christianus.’77 It is also possible that Poliziano
70 This hypothesis goes back to A. Ludwich: see Keydell (1959) I, 12*–13*. Contra Agosti
(1999) 106; Gonnelli (2003) 22.
71 Vian (1997a) 981–992; Tissoni (1998) 45.
72 Cesarini Martinelli/Riccardi (1985).
73 Vian (1997a).
74 See Perosa (1994) 114–115, 130; Tissoni (1998) 46–47.
75 See Ardizzoni (1951); Pontani (1983).
76 ‘Pingit et exiguis totum Dionysius orbem | terrarum in tabulis; sed non et praelia Bacchi |
Nonnus in exigua potuit contexere tela’: Bausi (1996) 207.
77 Branca/Pastore Stocchi (1978) 82.
gained direct knowledge of the Paraphrase in the last years of his life, when
he diligently devoted himself to the study of an extensive corpus of Christian
authors around the same time he was drafting his Centuria Secunda.78
In the sixteenth century the Paraphrase enjoyed great success, much greater
than that of the Dionysiaca. After the princeps, edited shortly after 1504 by Aldo
Manuzio without typographic notes and a Latin translation (in contrast with
the original plan), more than fourteen editions were published before the cen-
tury expired.79
Maybe the Paraphrase was intended to be the fourth volume of Poetae
Christiani Veteres, the first volume of which was published in 1501 by Aldo.80
It is not possible to guess who edited the text, which is accompanied in the
Aldine print by a Greek epigram by Scipione Forteguerri, also known as
Carteromaco (1466–1515), a pupil of Poliziano and one of Aldus’ editorial
assistants. The epigram does not show patent traces of Nonnus’ influence
and its meaning is unclear. Carteromaco points out that Nonnus was already
praised by poets (ἐθαυμάσθ’ ἐν μουσοπόλοις μέγα) for his Bacchic epic, but now
(νῦν δ’) reveals himself as a pious poet having paraphrased the Gospel of John.
Carteromaco may have wanted to emphasize the novelty of the publication
of the Paraphrase; alternatively, he may have merely wanted to refer to a sup-
posed conversion of Nonnus from paganism to Christianity.81
The Aldine text of the Paraphrase is modeled upon, although not directly,
MS Vaticanus Palatinus gr. 90 (P), which Giovanni Bembo brought to Italy in
1501. Bembo himself, or one of Aldo’s collaborators—Carteromaco, Giovanni
Battista Cipelli (Egnazio, 1478–1553), or Pietro Candido (c. 1450–1513)82—must
have edited the text, presumably in collaboration with Aldo himself as was
customary in his typography.83
Aldo also planned an edition of the Dionysiaca. From a letter of Carteromaco,
dated 1507,84 we know that Aldo entrusted Pietro Candido with that task, but
for unknown reasons the edition was never accomplished. Candido’s editorial
work is testified by MS Palatinus Heidelbergensis gr. 85 (P), a clean copy of the
78 Branca (1983) 266.

79 Agosti (1999) 90–105; De Stefani (2002) 66–71.
80 De Stefani (2002) 67.
81 Agosti (1999) 97–99.
82 See Orvieto (1974). Not to be confused with the more famous humanist Pier Candido
Decembrio.
83 Agosti (1999) 96–103.
84 De Nolhac (1888) 45–46.
704 Tissoni
Laurentianus prepared for the press, with the text carefully revised.85 Thanks to
the Aldine edition, the Paraphrase spread throughout Europe, its text continu-
ing to be reproduced, albeit with some emendations, until the Teubneriana by
Scheindler (1881a).86
Among the subsequent editions, it is noteworthy the one dated 1527,
to which are appended a preface and critical notes by Melanchthon (1497–
1560). The following year (1528) there appeared the first Latin translation by
Christoph Hegendorff (1500–1540), while no earlier than 1589 did Franciscus
Nansius (1525–1595) add a rudimentary commentary to the text, later comple-
mented with his Curae secundae (1593).87 But the first full scale commentary
is the work of Nicolas Abram (1589–1655), who accompanied his edition (1623)
with textual and theological notes as well as a Latin translation.88
Muretus (Marc Antoine Muret, 1526–1585), who studied and lived for a long
time in Italy, gave a highly positive opinion of Nonnus by calling him ‘eruditus
et grandiloquus poeta’ in his Variae Lectiones (12.10).89
If one takes exception to Poliziano’s learned imitation and Muret’s positive
opinion, the first significant revival of Nonnus in the European Renaissance
dates back to Jean Dorat (1508–1588), who took inspiration from the Dionysiaca
while designing the ambitious iconographic program, executed by Niccolò
dell’Abate and illustrated with Latin couplets, for the Grande Salle of the
Episcopal palace in Paris on the occasion of the entrance of the new Queen
Elizabeth of Austria, wife of Charles IX.90
The stories of Zeus, Cadmus and Typhon, followed by the myth of Cadmus
and Harmonia, are narrated in the first 19 couplets illustrating the frescoes, and
essentially correspond to the plot of the first five books of the Dionysiaca,
although Dorat differs from his model by offering a ‘rationalized’ version, suit-
able for the eulogy of the Royal Family. But alongside this difference, which
mainly concerns the structure of the myth re-organized into modules best
suited to classical aesthetics, there were also formal and stylistic similarities
revealing a more than superficial knowledge of Nonnus’ style. In particular,
the idea of using couplets to illustrate one by one the various tableaux can be
85 Gionta (2001).

86 De Stefani (2002) 71.
87 Nansius (1589) and (1593).
88 Abram (1623).
89 Muret (1586).
90 Bouquet (1572).
derived from the summary of the Dionysiaca, which describes the content of
each book of the poem in pairs of hexameters.91
The first to clarify how Dorat had come to know Nonnus was Pierre de
Nolhac (1859–1936), who stated that already in 1563 Dorat was showing inter-
est in the translation of the Dionysiaca that Carolus Uitenhovius (Charles
Uytenhove, 1536–1600) was carrying out against many difficulties—a likely
assumption, given their relationship based on mutual friendship and respect.92
However, it is certain that Dorat did not have to wait until 1569, the year of pub-
lication of the editio princeps of the Dionysiaca, to read Nonnus’ poem. The two
MSS Vindobonenses gr. 45 and 51 (F), which the Hungarian scholar Iohannes
Sambucus (Jànos Zsàmboky, 1531–1584) bought in Taranto in 1563 and which
were then used to prepare the editio princeps, must have been available to
Dorat before the publication. After the renunciations and failures, for differ-
ent reasons, of Aldus and of the Swiss typographer Oporinus,93 the Dionysiaca
were eventually published in Antwerp by the printer Plantin in 1569.
Although still a very young scholar, Gerard Falkenburg (1538–1578) was
commissioned to prepare the Greek text of the edition.94 Both the high qual-
ity of the edition and the important observations, both literary and method-
ological, contained in the prefatory epistle addressed to Sambucus, show that
Falkenburg was up to the task. After thanking Sambucus, Falkenburg’s tone
changes abruptly and the prefatory epistle somewhat turns into a panegyric of
Nonnus, who is presented to his public as Homer reborn.95 In addition to the
difficult legacy of Homer, Falkenburg assigned to Nonnus every value and vir-
tue of poetry, particularly insisting on the pleasantness of the matter narrated
and on his almost pictorial evidence whereby he presented the exploits of
Dionysus.96 According to Falkenburg, reading Nonnus was highly instructive
for those who wished to produce commentaries on other ancient authors. He
also compared the Dionysiaca to Ovid’s Metamorphoses: a very inspirational
approach, especially in light of some earlier studies. An epigram in Latin ele-
giac couplets, composed by Willem Canter (1542–1575) and reproduced at the
bottom of the dedicatory epistle, contributed to complete this vigorous reval-
uation of Nonnus, as if to confirm the legitimacy of the daring comparison
between Nonnus and Homer.
91 Tissoni (2007) 167–183.

92 De Nolhac (1921) 106–107 n. 5.
93 See Marcellus (1856) xix.
94 See Bursian (1877); Tissoni (1998) 48.
95 Falkenburg (1569) fo. 4v.
96 Falkenburg (1569) fos. 6v–7r.
706 Tissoni
Against all Falkenburg’s reasonable expectations, these observations con-

tributed to ignite among scholars the controversy—which may be said to have
never died out entirely—on the intrinsic merit of the Dionysiaca. The dia-
tribe embittered the last years of Falkenburg’s short life, with violent personal
attacks continuing even after his death.
After a short-lived success culminating in the first Latin translation of the
Dionysiaca by Lubinus (Eilhard Lübben, 1565–1621) published for the first time
in 1605,97 there came for Nonnus the time of complaint and criticism. The reac-
tion to the so-called Nonnian ‘bad taste’ took shape as a new edition of the
Dionysiaca edited by Cunaeus (Peter van der Cun, 1586–1638) and published in
Hanau in 1610, in which Greek text was accompanied by Lubinus’ Latin trans-
lation, and new corrections taken from the papers of Falkenburg (deceased
in 1578) were inserted together with the Coniectanea of Joseph Justus Scaliger
(1540–1609).98
The main novelties of this edition are however represented by two polemi-
cal pamphlets which, taking shelter behind Scaliger’s authority, discredited
the image of Nonnus with long-lasting effect: Cunaeus’ Animadversionum liber
in Nonni Dionysiaca, and Daniel Heinsius’ (1580–1655) Dissertatio de Nonni
Dionysiacis & ejusdem Paraphrasi, in the form of an epistle to Cunaeus.
In his Animadversiones, Cunaeus worked with implacable meticulousness
to expose and correct the shortcomings of the Dionysiaca.99 Without think-
ing too much if the supposed imperfections were attributable to Nonnus, to
the manuscript tradition, or merely to his own taste forged on the style of
Homer, Cunaeus dared to suggest ‘improvements’ of grammar, syntax, style
and meaning. Unfortunately, such ‘improvements’ were in fact considered by
successive editors emendations to the text of the manuscripts.100 The reasons
behind Cunaeus’ radical approach to the text are expressed in the dedicatory
epistle of his edition, which is addressed to the noblemen J. van Oldenbarnevelt
(1547–1619) and C. van der Mylen and may be described as some sort of pro-
grammatic document.
97 Lubinus (1605).

98 For a detailed biography of Cunaeus, see Somos (2011) 202–204.
99 I agree with Somos (2011) 233 n. 52, who shares the opinion of Eyffinger (2006): ‘Eyffinger
in his introduction to Cunaeus, Hebrew republic, argues convincingly that Cunaeus’s
Animadversiones in the Nonnus edition should be regarded as a major work.’
100 See Tissoni (1998) 41 n. 21. It should be noted that Cunaeus used a small obelos to mark the
‘errors’ due to the inability of Nonnus (‘obeliscus indicat errores Nonni’) as distinct from
those due to the manuscript tradition.
Noting that in his time the long sequence of rediscoveries of ancient authors
(and particularly of the Greek) had come to an end and that all invoked the
summa majestas Veterum as if it were the touchstone for all true scholars,
Cunaeus claims that not all the ancient authors are worthy of this indiscrimi-
nate admiration. Many ancient authors, he says, appear to be overestimated,
because they are in fact ignorant and flawed.101 The task of the contemporary
scholars will be to lead the naive and enthusiastic reader through the maze of
the ancient text after this has been emended in accordance with modern taste
and, above all, in light of the current knowledge of philosophy, literature, and
even science. As a seriously defective writer, despite the flattering opinions of
Poliziano and Muret, Nonnus, too, must be subjected to an appropriate censor-
ing action that would purge him of his major flaws.
As the touchstone for measuring the defects of Nonnus, Cunaeus naturally
chose Homer, the undisputed master of the epic genre. In the 175 acrimoni-
ous pages of his Animadversiones, every minimal departure in Nonnus’ text
from the Homeric model is exclusively attributed to Nonnus’ inability. In the
eyes of Cunaeus, Nonnus’ major defects can be grouped under three headings:
(1) presumptuous ignorance, (2) substantial failure to speak correctly (or at
least understandably) and, last but not least, (3) absolute inability to imitate
good models. This peculiar exegetic approach goes as far as to blame Nonnus
for failing to comply with the good rules of epic poetry in the proem, which is
qualified of ‘inconvenient’, as if it had been written by a drunkard. On a differ-
ent account, lack of knowledge of astronomy is pointed out in the description
of Cadmus’ discoveries on the phases of the moon (Dion. 4.278–284). Far more
numerous are Cunaeus’ remonstrations against Nonnus’ alleged inadequacy
of expression. Since Cunaeus is out to prove the superiority of his own good
taste and balanced judgment, not only does he criticize Nonnus but he often
tries to refashion the text as well, showing in turn which expression would be
more elegant or more reasonable to use. Regardless of their origin, modern
scholars have put these alleged improvements on a par with genuine textual
emendations.102 Despite, or perhaps because, of his strong aversion to the style
of Nonnus, Cunaeus remembers some verses of the Dionysiaca when in his
Sardi venales gives the Madness the traits of the Nonnian Ate.103
It took, however, the further intervention of Daniel Heinsius (1580–1655),104
to determine the oblivion that for two and a half centuries later descended upon
101 Cunaeus (1610) fos. 4r–v.

102 See Tissoni (1998) 54.
103 Cunaeus (1612). See Somos (2011) 176.
104 For a detailed biography of Heinsius, see Somos (2011) 93–96.
708 Tissoni
the work of Nonnus. Equipped with much higher doctrine and authority than
Cunaeus, Heinsius devoted to the Dionysiaca and especially the Paraphrase
two works remarkable for both size and commitment: the Dissertatio de
Nonni Dionysiacis & ejusdem Paraphrasi (1610) and the Aristarchus Sacer,
sive ad Nonni in Iohannem Metaphrasin Exercitationes (1627), followed by his
Exercitationes sacrae of 1639 (Fig. 7.9).105
In the Dissertatio, Heinsius says he had read the Dionysiaca with admira-
tion in his youth, produced some corrections to the text (which he inscribed
in the margins of a copy of Falkenburg’s edition), and a glossary containing a
collection of witty sayings and sentences (Dicta Nonni ingeniosa and γνῶμαι),
as well as an epistle in Latin verse full of admiration for Nonnus.106 The great
Joseph Justus Scaliger, however, led the student back on the right path.107 Now,
after adopting a more formal tone, Heinsius goes on systematically to address
the flaws of the Dionysiaca in the entire body of the poem. The touchstone
is the Iliad, considered the best epic for the admirable concentration of the
plot around a single theme, the wrath of Achilles. If hardly any one of the sub-
sequent poets had been able to achieve such perfection, certainly no one
equaled Nonnus’ defects in regard to the organization of the poem. In particu-
lar, Heinsius notes that the digressions from the main plot (ekphraseis) are so
numerous that the Dionysiaca could easily be dismembered into a series of
independent poems.108 According to him, it is also unacceptable that Nonnus,
before letting Dionysus be born, ‘sex aut septem immanium voluminum argu-
menta dilapidavit & consumpsit’ in total disregard of the patience of his read-
ers. It is not hard to realize that many observations of Heinsius, except for the
polemics, remain essentially valid: the Dionysiaca have in fact little to do with
the traditional structure of an epic poem. However, the criticisms of Cunaeus
and Heinsius did not favour a debate on the epic; they simply sanctioned the
condemnation of the Dionysiaca, regarded by them as a chaotic poem, and of
105 Heinsius (1610), (1627), (1639). See Tissoni (1998) 54–56; Gärtner (2008).
106 See Marcellus (1856) xxi–xxii. The son of Daniel Heinsius, Nicolas, decided to hide these
writings, as if they could harm the memory of his father.
107 Scaliger’s severe judgment on Nonnus is clearly evident in one epistle addressed to
Salmasius in 1607, 20 Nov. See Scaliger (1610) 466: ‘Eum [Nonnum] ita soleo legere, quo-
modo mimos spectare solemus, qui nulla alia re magis nos oblectant, quam quod ridiculi
sunt.’
108 Heinsius (1610) 184–185: from a literary viewpoint it is possible to note some similarities
between the theory of Heinsius and that of D’Ippolito (1964) 37–85 (‘Epillio e barocco
nella composizione del poema’). On Nonnus’ digressions see Geisz in this volume.
the very same Nonnus as a poet unable to imitate Homer and so extravagant
as to seem drunk.109
Despite the harshness of these judgements on the Dionysiaca, Nonnus gave
Heinsius a lot of information about Dionysus and a number of striking parallels
between Dionysus and Christ. Heinsius’ deep interest for the figure of Dionysus
takes shape in two companion hymns in Dutch, Lof-sanck van Bacchus (1614)
and Lof-sanck van Iesus Christus (1617).110 The first was published in 1616 in an
edition appeared in Amsterdam, Nederduytsche poemata (Fig. 7.10), containing
a collection of mythological poems written by Heinsius in Dutch: the Lof-sanck
van Bacchus, in 664 verses richly illustrated, occupies the final section of the
book and is accompanied by a commentary by Petrus Scriverius (1576–1660).111
This impressive appreciation of Dionysus’ figure and many aspects of his cult
was likely to have serious consequences for Heinsius’ reputation. He then com-
posed in 1617 and published the next year the L of-sanck van Jesus Christus: a
poem in 804 verses, whose function was to make a public statement about
Heinsius’s belief in Christ’s superiority over Dionysus.112 Consistent with his
own judgment, Heinsius uses the works of Nonnus as a source of learned curi-
osities, but avoids reproducing the style.
Some years later, the same spirit and the same polemical pedantry of the
Dissertatio turn up in Heinsius’ Aristarchus Sacer, a book exceeding 600 pages
in length.113 The work has no preface and is divided into 31 chapters, which deal
very minutely with all aspects of the Paraphrase both considered in itself and
in comparison to the Gospel of John. In particular, chapters 1–15 deal with the
poetry and the style of Nonnus, while from chapter 16 to 31 Heinsius reviews
selected passages of Nonnus as compared to the text of John. Heinsius even
offers a rewriting of the prologue of John paraphrased by Nonnus in the intent
of purifying it from theological and stylistic errors.114 Because of Cunaeus and
109 This idea is reiterated in the last couplet of the prefatory epigram composed by Heinsius
for Cunaeus’ edition and published after the Praefatio (Cunaeus 1610, without page num-
ber): ‘Hunc [Cunaeum] Phœbus rapuit, Bacchi rapit impetus illum [Nonnum]: | Sobrius
hic, vix non ebrius ille fuit.’
110 They were both republished in Heinsius (1965).
111 Heinsius (1616) 1–66 (the text is preceded by ‘Daniel Heinsius aen de heer P. Scriverius’);
Somos (2011) 170–190. For the date of the Nederduytsche poemata see Somos (2011) 177
n. 211: ‘The title page gives 1616, but 1615 is more likely.’
112 Heinsius (1618). Somos (2011) 190–199.
113 Heinsius (1627).
114 Livrea (1989) 45–46.
710 Tissoni
Heinsius began a period of misfortune for the works of Nonnus, especially for
the Paraphrase, which was ignored for two centuries and a half.115
The publication in 1605 of the virtually literal Latin translation by Lubinus
was decisive for the Fortleben of the Dionysiaca in vernacular literature. In the
following year, it was included in the gigantic corpus of the Greek epic poets
with Latin translation edited by Jacobus Lectius (?1556–1611).116
Lubinus’ translation influenced mainly Giambattista Marino (1569–1625),
who was completely ignorant of Greek. As part of his effort to renovate the epic-
chivalric poem, Marino knowingly operated an imitation of the Dionysiaca, as
the Nonnus’ poem could represent a good alternative to the Homeric poems,
just as L’Adone was written to counteract the celebrated La Gerusalemme
Liberata of Torquato Tasso (1544–1595).
A year after the release of Nonnus’ Latin translation, Marino published the
idyll Europe (Lucca, 1607), later to be included in the Sampogna (Paris, 1620).
The idyll reveals in an impressive way its dependence on the first book of the
Dionysiaca as well as other Greek poets, especially Moschus.117 The compari-
son with Lubinus’ arid translation is doubly useful: on the one hand it allows
to evaluate properly Marino’s debt in respect of the Dionysiaca, while on the
other it does justice to his poetic ability, which manifests itself in extraordi-
narily fine style. In fact not only does Marino elegantly paraphrase Lubinus’
basic translation on several occasions, but in so doing he can even gets closer
to the original Greek text as a result, one might say, of the way in which kindred
spirits operate.
While the other idylls included in the Sampogna, and notably Atteone (first
published in 1608), show evident dependence on Nonnus, Marino’s grand
poem L’Adone is the text more heavily influenced by the Dionysiaca—together
with Ovid’s Metamorphoses—as far as its genesis and the final structure are
concerned.118 L’Adone occupied Marino continuously from 1605 to 1623, when
the poem was published in Paris by the Royal Printer Olivier de Varennes.
Marino can legitimately be considered a Nonnian poet. He himself admits
he benefited largely from reading the Dionysiaca by taking inspiration for
writing individual episodes as well as building the overall structure of the
work.119 Moreover, Marino also felt the effects of Nonnus’ poetic mastery.
115 A response to Heinsius’ Aristarchus Sacer was attempted by Caspar Ursinus, author of a
work entitled Nonnus redivivus (Ursinus 1667).
116 Lectius (1606) 307–624.
117 See exegetical notes in De Maldé (1993).
118 Pozzi (1976).
119 Plentiful information is found in Marino’s letters: e.g. a letter addressed to Giulio Strozzi
dated January 5, 1621 (no. 157 in Guglielminetti 1966).
Just as Nonnus’ favourite literary models are woven into the rich fabric of the
Dionysiaca through a thick web of allusions and imitations, Marino’s L’Adone
shows the frequent deployment of remarkably similar procedures, to such an
extent as to make its relationship with the Dionysiaca a veritable dialogue at
a distance. Moreover, as a matter of fact, Marino sometimes even seems to
be willing to compete with Nonnus by challenging him to a literary certamen
in the field of crafty rhetorical technique. Imitation is occasionally confined
to the citation of single words, see, e.g., the representation of the Seasons at
L’Adone 7.156–159 and Dion. 11.489–495. In some cases, Marino introduces sub-
tle variations that fade into a sort of paraetymological game, such as in the
myth of Aura (L’Adone 18 and Dion. 48).
Another characteristic which appears to be common to both poets is their
well-known propensity to create bold metaphors that force up the outer limits
of the expressive power of language: countless examples could be mentioned
in this respect.120
Marino was not the only poet in Italy to be influenced by the Dionysiaca
translated by Lubinus: in Ludovico (Lodovico) Sammartino d’Agliè’s little-
known poem L’Autunno (Turin, 1610), the episode of Aura (Dion. 48.301–942) is
mimicked with absolute fidelity.
In 1625, only two years after L’Adone had been published, there appeared in
Paris the first French translation of the Dionysiaca by Claude Boitet de Frauville
(1570–1625).121 The translation is preceded by a dedicatory letter ‘À Monsieur le
Baron Du Pont, de l’illustre et ancienne maison de Marconay en Mirebalais,
Gentilhomme ordinaire de la Chambre du Roy.’ To intrigue the Baron, passion-
ate about philosophy and alchemy,122 the translator announces the Dionysiaca
as a poem full of philosophical mysteries: mysteries that Nonnus veiled with
the allegory of the myths to prevent ordinary people from the fate of Actaeon,
who was turned into a beast for seeing Diana naked. Decidedly more honest
is the Avis au Lecteur in which the translator says he translated literally the
Dionysiaca and that, because of the difficulty of the Greek text, the result is a
French translation stylistically incorrect and sometimes difficult to understand.
For my part, I add that this translation is not based on the Greek text, but
on Lubinus’ Latin translation; and that its style, prosaic and inelegant, fails to
convey the translator’s idea that there might be some hidden mystery, even in
the most suggestive episodes.
120 See Tissoni (1998); van Opstall (2014b).

121 Boitet (1625).
122 The first French translation of Basile Valentin’s Les Douze Clefs de philosophie (Valentin
1624), a treatise on alchemy, was dedicated by the translator, Jérémie Perier, to the Baron
Du Pont.
712 Tissoni
Figure 7.9 Danielis Heinsii Sacrarum Exercitationum ad Novum Testamentum libri XX.
In quibus Contextus Sacer illustratur, SS. Patrum aliorumque sententiæ
examinantur, Interpretationes denique antiquæ aliæque ad eum expenduntur.
Quibus Aristarchus Sacer, emendatior nec paulo auctior, Indicesque aliquot
uberrimi accedunt. Lugduni Batavorum, Ex Officina Elseviriorum, 1639,
frontispiece.
Figure 7.10 Dan: Heinsii, Nederduytsche poemata; by een vergadert en uytgegeven Door
P. S. [Petrus Scriverius] Tot Amsterdam, Gedruct By Willem Janssen a° 1616.
Met Privilegie voor 5 Iaren, frontispiece.
chapter 32
The Influence of Nonnus on Baroque and Modern

Literature
In this essay on the Nachleben of Nonnus of Panopolis, undoubtedly the most

brilliant of the Greek poets of Late Antiquity, we intend to offer some views
on several centuries of his literary reception. It is our aim to draw the general
picture of this literary history in a panoramic study along the main lines of
influence but, at the same time, to focus on some paradigmatic case studies. It
could seem difficult at first to trace an author with such an irregular transmis-
sion and with such mixed critical fortune as Nonnus in literary history, but,
as we shall examine, we can count some of the most representative figures
of Western literature among the readers of Nonnus. We begin in the seven-
teenth century, when the first editions and translations of Nonnus’ Dionysiaca
facilitated the entry of the poem as a source of mythological reference into the
written and visual culture of European Baroque. Not surprisingly, Nonnus has
often been defined aesthetically as a baroque poet avant la lettre, and his style
and contents seem well adapted to the literary and artistic taste of the seven-
teenth and eighteenth centuries.
Secondly, we shall deal with the reception of this poet, and especially of the
Dionysiaca, in the European culture of the eighteenth and nineteenth centu-
ries, when this author seems to have been rediscovered by some of the most
important European authors. Finally, we will provide a few examples of the
most conspicuous echoes of Nonnus in the twentieth and twenty-first centu-
ries. This panorama will lead us to trace the literary tradition of a sometimes-
neglected poet who, however, has had more influence than one might expect
at first.
1 A Baroque Nonnus
The grande entrée of the poetry of Nonnus in European literature takes place
in the Baroque period, after the fruitful Byzantine and Renaissance reception.
A remarkable example of the former is Maximus Planudes (c. 1260–1330), to
whom we owe the most important Nonnian manuscript in the West and even

The Influence Of Nonnus On Baroque And Modern Literature 715
some hexameter poetry in Nonnian fashion.1 The latter can be attested in the
interest that Italian humanists and poets had in Nonnus between Quattrocento
and Cinquecento, when the first modern editions of Nonnus were published:
e.g. the circle of Poliziano (1454–1494) and the Aldine Academy. Some inter-
esting instances are the dedication of vv. 423–425 of Poliziano’s Nutricia to
Nonnus and the epigram of Scipione Forteguerri da Pistoia (1466–1515), also
known as Scipio Carteromachus, in honour of the Panopolitan poet. The
reception of Nonnian poetry in the 16th- and 17th-century Italian literature is
attested in the case of well-known poets such as the influential Giambattista
Marino (1569–1625).2
But where we first come across Nonnus’ work is in France. A pioneering rec-
reation of a Nonnian theme could be found in Pierre de Ronsard (1524–1585).3
His Hymne de l’Automne (1555, published in 1563) specifically refers to the
lament of the Seasons in the absence of Bacchus (Dion. 7.13–16) and, there-
fore, the lack of wine. Ronsard represents a female personification of autumn,
insulted by nature for she is sterile for the moment (‘phthinopore, et dessus
les humains, | Maligne, repandras mille maux de tes mains’). The god Bacchus,
a prince amoreux, marries her, gives her fruit and they are inseparable from
this time forth (‘et depuis, l’un sans l’autre ils n’ont jamais esté’).4 Of course,
it is not possible to prove this relationship and although, at the time, the
identification of Bacchus with autumn was common in poetry, one can infer
Ronsard’s knowledge of Nonnus’ work through secondary ways, during his
training with Paul Duc and, subsequently, Jean Dinemandi Dorat or D’Aurat at
the Collège of Coqueret. Indeed, we can consider Jean Dorat (1508–1588), the
poeta regius of Charles IX and spiritual father of the poetic group known as
the Pléiades, responsible for the introduction of Nonnus to France. In 1556 he
was appointed Professor of Greek at the Collège Royale and he knew Nonnus’
manuscripts and had contact with Falkenburg before his edition of the Dion.
in 1569.
The appearance of Nonnus’ greater poem in the French cultural world
coincides with the celebrations for the entrance of Elizabeth of Austria into
Paris on the 30th March, 1571.5 Thanks to the ideas of Pierre de Ronsard and,
1 See De Stefani and Tissoni in this volume.

2 See the chapter by Tissoni in the previous pages.
3 Cf. Bull (1998b).
4 Bull (1998b) has compared this passage with Book 12 of the Dion., where the sun complains
about the lack of wine (vv. 23 ff.).
5 See Yates (1956) and Mahé (1988) 39–40.
716 Hernández de la Fuente
e specially, Jean Dorat,6 the Italian painter Niccolò dell’Abate (1512–1571) and
his son Giulio Camillo7 decorated the banquet room for Charles IX of France
and his wife Elizabeth. The first four books of the Dion. and, specifically, the
episodes regarding Dionysus’ ancestors, Cadmus and Harmonia, and Semele,
served as inspiration for this decoration as a political allegory of the glory of
the future offspring of the kings of France. The most fashionable painter in
France at the time used the Dion. as inspiration for these paintings almost
immediately after the editio princeps of the poem (1569). Dell’Abate came from
Modena, and became famous in Bologna, where he decorated the Palazzo
Poggi under the influence of Correggio and Parmigianino. In 1552 dell’Abate
moved to France where he was commissioned by Henry II to decorate the
Fontainebleau Palace and thus starting the French landscape tradition and the
so-called ‘school of Fontainebleau’.8 It is quite likely, given that Ronsard was
a member of the intellectual circle around Dorat, that he could have gained
knowledge of the Dion. even before its editio princeps.9
That very edition by Falkenburg at the presses of Plantin10 contained some
verses by Willem Canter in a tribute to the recently rescued poetry of Nonnus,
who sings of such an unheard epic subject (Nonniacus Bacchi furor orgia et
arma).11 Undoubtedly echoing the Nonnian querelle with the Homeric heroes
(Dion. 25.255–263), updated here by this philologist, editor and translator of
Stobaeus and Aristides, the style and content of Nonnus’ work were to renew
the baroque interpretation of antiquity in a fashion that found various echoes
in the literature of his epoch. Not only the great French poets of the time, but
6 ‘Suivant les inventions des poëtes Ronsard et Daurat’, cf. Reiset (1859) 19. On Jean Dorat,
reader of Nonnus’ Dionysiaca, see Tissoni (2007) and the chapter by the same author in
this volume.
7 Cf. Reiset (1859) 19: he was appointed for the two celebration dates (March 2nd and 23rd,
1571) and received 700 pounds as honorary.
8 Reiset (1859) 5.
9 A Ronsard sonnet devoted to another disciple of Dorat, the Belgian humanist Charles
Utenhove, points in the same direction. Utenhove was undergoing a review and Latin
translation of Nonnus which would never see the light in its completion. He made some
critical remarks, which were first published by Gerard Falkenburg in the 1569 editio prin-
ceps of Nonnus’ Dionysiaca and in Utenhove’s Xenia (Basel, 1568), and are still quoted in
the Budé edition (Vian et al. 1976–2006). He also edited and translated into Latin the first
part of the Περιοχὴ Διονυσιακῶν (Vian 1976, lxxiv), and dedicated a poem to Ronsard.
10 Falkenburg (1569).
11 Olim Peliden, Laërtiademque uagantem | Mæonides, Graij maxima rixa fori: | Nuper
Nonniacus Bacchi furor orgia et arma | Ad Nili rapidus flumina detonuit. | Si geminum fixa
contendas mente poëma: | Illa homines dicas, hæc cecinisse deos.
also Shakespeare in England or Góngora in Spain could have had access to

Nonnus’ mythological wisdom.12
The interest in Nonnus rose especially from the Latin translation of his myth-
ological poem in 1605, based on Falkenburg’s eulogistic edition (1569), more
than seventy years after the Latin version of the Christian oeuvre by Christoph
Hegendorff.13 The translation into Latin by E. Lubin is exhaustive and, despite
its aridity, made the work finally available to most readers. However, Nonnian
poetry has been severely criticized ever since by some commentators as anti-
classical and barbaric. Joseph Justus Scaliger himself issued some derogatory
comments, such as ‘ridiculous’ and ‘pompous’ poetry, compared, e.g., to that
of Musaeus.14 But one of Scaliger’s disciples, the philologist Daniel Heinsius
(1580–1655), wrote Bacchic verses in Latin15 and Dutch (Lof-sanck van Bacchus,
1614)16 in his youth, with double inspiration, Ronsard and Nonnus himself, to
whom he also devoted his critical attention.17
As already mentioned, if we were to consider the blossoming of Nonnian
influence in the modern literature, it would be no doubt during the so-called
Baroque period. Needless to say the ‘jeweled style’ of this late antique poet18
seems to help explain the reasons for such success in the light of a presumed
common aesthetic sensibility. In any case, despite the aforementioned criti-
cism, Nonnus’ Latin translation would soon bear fruit in the seventeenth
century, mainly in Italy, France and Spain. In Italy, Giambattista Marino
(1569–1625), widely admired and imitated caposcuola of a new poetic era, knew
Nonnus and echoed him in poems such as L’Adone (1605–1623), Europa (1607),
12 Cook (1906) 147–149 points out a parallel between Romeo and Juliet (1597), Act II,
sc. 3, 3–4 (‘And fleckled darkness like a drunkard reels | From forth day’s path and Titan’s
fiery wheels’) and Dion. 40.381–382 (Νὺξ μὲν ἀκοντιστῆρι διωκομένη σέο πυρσῷ | χάζεται
ἀστήρικτος).
13 Lubinus (1605) and Hegendorphinus (1528), respectively. A later anthology of great spread
providing the Latin translation of Nonnus was published one year later under the title
Poetae Graeci veteres carminis heroici scriptores, qui extant, omnes (Lectius 1606).
14 Robinson (1918). Let us remember the presence of Scaliger in the aforementioned book.
Marcellus (1856) xx publishes a letter of Scaliger to Heinsius in 1607 stating his negative
judgement as well.
15 Marcellus (1856) xxi n. 1: Quem Pani, Dryadumque leves Satyrumque choreæ | Jurarunt
numeros eripuisse suos: | Quemque ego Pimplæi de montibus orta putarim | Numina cuncta
suo continuisse sinu.
16 Heinsius (1616) 1–66; see Tissoni in this volume.
17 Cf. Cunaeus (1610).
18 Paraphrasing Roberts (1989), cf. also String (1966) 33–35; González i Senmartí (1981).
or Atteone (1608) and others such as, perhaps, his Arianna abbandonata.19 As
Francesco Tissoni has attested, L’Adone is quite Nonnian in shape and taste,
and Marino himself recognized his debt to Nonnus in a letter.20 Marino did not
have a real command of Greek and read the Dion. in the Latin translation of
Lubin, and often used Nonnian passages and even paraphrased them.21 Other
proof of this revival of Nonnus as a poetic model in seventeenth-century Italy
is Ludovico (Lodovico) Sammartino d’Agliè, who published L’Autunno in Turin
in 1610, recreating the myth of Aura narrated in Book 48 of the Dion.22
Secondly, and almost at the same time, France witnesses a remarkable inter-
est in the Dion. as a source for mythological themes. In 1605, the same year of
the Latin translation, Claude Garnier publishes his Ariadne, dedicated to the
Duchess of Longueville and heavily dependent on Nonnus.23 The interest in
the figure of Ariadne in the literature and music of this time is well attested,
as we see in the mentioned idyll of Marino or in the Lamento d’Arianna by
Ottavio Rinuccini, which was used as the libretto of Monteverdi’s 1608 famous
composition. However, Garnier’s version of Nonnus did not have much reper-
cussion in comparison to the courteous Bacchus of Claude Boitet de Frauville
in his 1625 French version of the ‘tales of Dionysus’.24 This book popular-
ized the Dion. greatly and influenced both men of letters and artists of the
time, serving as inspiration for, among others, Nicolas Poussin. Other hand-
books of mythology, encouraging literary and artistic recreations of the sto-
ries of Bacchus, also included Nonnian material: such is the case of the work of
Michel de Marolles, Tableaux du Temple des Muses (1655), fundamental to the
mythological painting of the period and specifically quoting the Dion. Rivaling
Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Nonnus’ Dion. became a useful mythological repertoire
for artists and writers in seventeenth-century France.25 A courtois Bacchus as
well appears in the most curious recreation of Nonnus, the work of Pierre de
Marcassus Les Dionysiaques, ou le Parfait Héros (1631).
Indeed, parallel to the popularity of Nonnian themes in French literature,
painters such as Nicolas Poussin or Claude Lorrain and engravers such as Pierre
19 Cf. Tissoni (1998) 56–61, esp. 57–58 and his contribution in this volume. Cf. also Damiani
(1902) about this influence: in a way, both Nonnus and Marinus could be rightly called ‘the
last pagan poets’.
20 Tissoni (1998) 59 n. 87.
21 E.g. Gonnelli (2003) 26–27.
22 Tissoni (1998) 60 n. 89.
23 L’Ariadne de Nonnus Panopolitain poète grec, dédiée en étrennes à Mme la Duchesse de
Longueville, en l’an 1605 . . . (n.p.).
24 Boitet (1625). See Gonnelli (2003) 31 and the chapter by Tissoni in this volume.
25 See e.g. Mahé (1988) esp. 39–40 for Nonnus.
Brebiette (1598–1650), showed a predilection for scenes of Dionysiac revelries

and triumphs.26 Two engravings by the Dutch artist Crispijn van de Passe (1564–
1637), representing the delivery of the child Dionysus by Hermes to the daugh-
ters of river Lamos (on the cover, cf. Dion. 9.25–36; Fig. 7.11) and the triumphal
procession of Dionysus (on page 14 unnumbered; Fig. 7.12), accompany the
1625 French translation of Boitet. Several works frequently consulted by artists
recommended Nonnus as a source for Bacchic myths, as the above-mentioned
collection by Michel de Marolles, where there are five quotations of the Dion.
referring to several mythical figures. An edition of his Tableaux du temple des
muses from 1676, published in Amsterdam, contains several engravings dealing
with mythical episodes stemming from the Dion., such as Daphne (Fig. 7.13),
Glaucus or Andromeda.27 The edition and translation of Philostratus’ Images
by Blaise de Vigenère (1578), which was used as a mythological handbook for
painters from that time, recommended Nonnus’ description of the Seasons in
Books 7 and 12 by saying, ‘Nonnus en ses Dionysiaques met quatre Saisons de
l’annee, comme faict Philostrate . . . qu’il descript d’une fort plaisante maniere,
et tres-convenable pour les peintures’.28
The great French painter Nicolas Poussin (1594–1665) echoed Nonnian
themes in several paintings, as Malcolm Bull has showed.29 After the arrival
of Poussin in Paris in 1612 he started working as an apprentice for Ferdinand
Elle and Georges Lallemand, who introduced him to the Mannerist style of
the school of Fontainebleau. There he became acquainted with the afore
mentioned Bacchic iconographic programme of Niccolò dell’Abate, inspired
by the Nonnian readings of Dorat. At the same time it is worth remembering
that Poussin was familiar with the influential poet Giambattista Marino dur-
ing the latter’s stay in Paris, where he was exiled from 1615 to 1623.30 Marino
took the young painter under his wing, and introduced him to the reworking
of classical myths. The poet inspired (or rather, commissioned) Poussin to do a
series of mythological drawings based on Ovid’s Metamorphoses and, probably,
also on Nonnus’ Dion. This commission represented the beginning of Poussin’s
successful career for, thanks to the help and advice of Marino, he travelled to
Rome in 1623–1624, where he ended up spending most of his life. Poussin could
access Nonnus in his own language in addition to using the Latin translation
26 Cf. Lamb/Mittelberger (1980) 63, with an engraving by Brebiette to be compared, e.g., with
Dion. 36.184–185.
27 Marolles (1676) XIII, XXVIII and XL respectively.
28 Vigenère (1578) 540.
29 Bull (1998a) 724–738.
30 Cf., again, Tissoni (1998) 56–61, esp. 57–58, and De Maldé (1993) 137–189.
and the recreations of Marino, thanks to the Boitet translation of 1625.31 From
this moment onward the art historians notice a special fondness for Bacchic
scenes in the French painter, of which we have two good examples at the Prado
Museum in Madrid: a Bacchanalian scene (c. 1626–1628) in which a child gives
a krater to a satyr under the watchful gaze of a Bacchante and a Bacchanal
(c. 1625–1626), in which Bacchus seems to comfort a grieving woman with
a child in her arms.32 The landscapes of our Figures 7.14 and 7.15, which are
respectively in the Musée des Beaux-Arts in Montreal and the National Gallery
in London,33 have been studied in comparison with two scenes of the ekphrasis
of Dionysus’ shield on Tylus’ encounter with the snake (25.455–468).34 If such
a view were correct, these two canvases would represent the only iconographic
testimonies of the rare myth of Tylus.35 Another painting by Poussin has also
been interpreted in the light of the Dion.: a canvas at the Nationalmuseum
of Stockholm (Fig. 7.16) with a strange image of a Bacchus-Apollo crowned
with both ivy and laurel and standing next to a young girl. It might well be
Dionysus who, according to the free French translation of Boitet, was crowned
with these two plants when he defeated his beloved Pallene, whose story is
told in Book 48 of the Dion. (cf. esp. vv. 177–179). We can add two more late
examples, a Birth of Bacchus from 1657 (Fig. 7.17) and a Dance of the Hours and
Time (Fig. 7.18).36 The first canvas can be compared with the similar engraving
from Crispijn van de Passe illustrating the cover of the French translation of
Nonnus (Fig. 7.11). Regarding the second, it could refer to Dion. 7.7–109, where
the Seasons are joyless (ἀτερπέες, 16), since they do not know Bacchus and
Time-Aion is concerned about the fate of humanity, and it could allude as well
to the visit of the Seasons to the house of Helios after the death of Ampelus (cf.
Dion. 11.520–521).
Another well-known French baroque painter, Claude Gellée, known as
Claude Lorrain (c. 1600–1682), noted for his mastery of landscape and imagina-
tive architectures, opulent palaces and colonnades and symbolic perspective,37
also lived between France and Rome and had a similar cultural background
to that of Poussin. In some of his paintings Nonnian themes can be tracked:
in a canvas belonging to the Pallavicini Collection in Rome and dated in 1675
31 Bull (1998a) 738.

32 Cat. nos. 2318 and 2312, cf. Luca de Tena/Mena (1987).
33 Nos. 96 and 178 in the catalogue of Thuillier (1994).
34 Bull (1998a) 729.
35 For which, cf. Espinar Ojeda/Hernández de la Fuente (2002).
36 Bull (1998a) 738 and 730–735.
37 Hamann (1959) II, 662.
(Fig. 7.19), Röthlisberger has noticed the story of the mythical hospitality of
Staphylus, king of Assyria, offered to Dionysus in Book 18 of the Dion.38 This
scene had previously been interpreted as a representation of the marriage of
Bacchus and Ariadne, but that was not entirely clear as there were also mourn-
ing figures in the painting. Röthlisberger has identified the old man dressed
in black as Pythos (i.e. ‘pitcher’), the old family servant of king Staphylus in
Nonnus, thanks to two passages of the Dion. (18.354 and 20.13), and suggested
that the other two figures are Botrys and Methe, son and widow of Staphylus.
It can be assumed that the landscape of the canvas represents the moment
in which Dionysus returns from his tour of the cities of Assyria to spread his
religion, and finds out that Staphylus is dead, an episode that takes place at the
end of Book 18 (334 ff.) and the beginning of Book 19. Surprisingly, Röthlisberger
states that this text, ‘very famous in the Renaissance but less well known in the
17th century, must have been prescribed to Claude by the patron or advisor
of his’.39 The influence of Nonnus upon French painters could even be recog-
nized in the following century in the work of Noël-Nicolas Coypel Enlèvement
d’Europe (Fig. 7.20), as Robert Shorrock has recently pointed out.40 Besides
this literary and artistic influence of the Dion. let us finally add some scholarly
interest which can also be seen in the 17th and 18th centuries: a good example
is the work of Charles-François Dupuis (1742–1809), who quoted Nonnus as a
source of astrological knowledge.41
In Spain Nonnus left some interesting traces in the Baroque age, in a par-
allel experience to that of the Italian and French Baroque.42 To start with,
let us mention that the presence of manuscripts of the Dionysiaca and the
Paraphrase at the Royal Library of the Monastery of San Lorenzo de El Escorial,
mentioned by several editors but rarely examined because of their lesser tex-
tual relevance,43 proves already an interesting appreciation of this poet. Until
the mid-nineteenth century, these manuscripts were rarely consulted: apart
38 Cf. Röthlisberger (1961) I, 418–420 (no. 178) and II, 291 (no. 178). Cf. also no. 254 of
Röthlisberger/Cecchi (1975). There were no less than four preparatory drawings of this
painting, originally for Prince Colonna and now at the Pallavicini Collection, in several
European museums. Cf. Röthlisberger (1968) I, 382–386 (nos. 1033–1036). These drawings
were part of Claude Lorrain’s Liber Veritatis.
39 Röthlisberger (1961) I, 418–419. We do not know any other influence of this rare myth.
40 Shorrock (forthcoming).
41 Gonnelli (2003) 33–34, see also Accorinti (2014b) 480–482.
42 The next paragraphs summarize the views in Hernández de la Fuente (2006).
43 Vian (1976) lxiv–lxv: according to Vian they all come from the Palatinus Heidelbergensis
gr. 85 (P, but H in the MSS tradition of the Paraphrase), which depends on the Laurentianus
plut. 32.16 (L). See also De Stefani in this volume.
from the few previous pieces of data (such as annotations by Nicolás de la

Torre or primitive catalogues of the Royal Spanish libraries), Graux (1880),
Revilla (1936) and de Andrés (1965–1968) have described some of these codices
(one disappeared in the fire of El Escorial in 1671) in their catalogues.44 First
we have the Codex Scorialensis gr. 63 (Σ.I.3), which reproduces many of the
lectiones of the editio princeps of Falkenburg (1569).45 This codex belonged to
Antonio de Covarrubias, scholar, ecclesiastic, member of the Royal Council
of Castile and governor of Valladolid, contains the forty-eight cantos of Nonni
Panopolitani Dionysiaca (fo. 1r) and was copied in Venice around 1542, as its
watermarks show.46
Secondly, let us mention the Codex Scorialensis gr. 135 (Τ.I.15) based on
Laurentianus plut. 32.16 (L), which displays the ex libris of Diego Hurtado de
Mendoza. Most relevant for the literary echoes of Nonnus in Spain, this diplo-
mat and homme de lettres, ambassador of Charles V in Venice since 1527, left his
collection of manuscripts to the Library of El Escorial in order to pay his debts
to the Crown (or his rivalry to king Philip II, according to a legend). Gesner,
in his Bibliotheca Universalis, recalls this copy in the palace of Hurtado de
Mendoza: Nonni Panopolitani Dionysiacon . . . apud Diegum Hurtadum Caesaris
legatum, si bene memini.47 Surely copied in Venice in mid-century, the codex
also includes the Suppliants of Aeschylus and even the will of Don Diego.48 As
for the copyist, everything indicates that it was the same hand that copied MS
Bruxellensis 3608 from the Royal Library of Belgium (dated approximately in
1530).49 The scribe probably worked in Venice and copied numerous manu-
scripts for Hurtado de Mendoza.50
44 Graux (1982), in the modern edition of his book by G. de Andrés; cf. also Revilla/de Andrés
(1936–1967) and de Andrés (1968).
45 Vian (1976) lxv n. 1.
46 Sosower (2004) 518. It is beautifully bound in red leather with the inscription Nonno
Bacanales [sic] and proudly displays the coat of Antonio de Covarrubias (with his book-
plate AC). Curiously, we know the price. Covarrubias, who was portrayed by El Greco, paid
no less than 50 reales for the manuscript: ‘Nonni Panopolitani Dionysiaca: está impreso.
Reales 50: buena letra’. Cf. Graux (1982) 331.
47 Graux (1982) 260 and 384, who found this quotation in Gesner (1545).
48 Graux (1982) 536 n. 486.
49 Wittek (1967) 27, no. 51, MS Bruxellensis 3608, with a reproduction of fo. 15r. Graux (1982,
134 and 147 n. 45) mentions a MS of Heron’s Pneumatiká quoted by Antonio Gracián, and
saying ‘ignoramos dónde se encuentra actualmente.’ Could it be the Bruxellensis 3608?
50 In El Escorial there are several codices of this ‘scribe of Brussels’: Υ.I.2 (fos. 263r–463v)
with the Library of Diodorus, Φ.I.7 (fos. 2, 67–68) with a series of legal texts and a part
copied by bishop Antonio Agustín, Φ.I.6 (fos. 1–79v, 218–344, 404–427v) and Υ.I.9 (fos.
Third, we have the Codex Scorialensis gr. 158 (Τ.II.19), entitled Nonni
Dionysiaca (fo. 1r), which belonged to the Greek humanist Antonios Eparchos.
The Spanish ambassador Guzman de Silva purchased it, among other codices,
for the Royal Library of El Escorial in 1572, as stated in his acquisition report
Guzman de Silva (35): Nonni panopolitae libri 48 in quibus Dionisiaca [sic] uersu
heroico elegantissimo atque optimo describuntur.51
Fourth, Codex Scorialensis gr. 252 (Υ.I.13), containing only the first two books
of the Dion. (fos. 1–19v)52 can also be dated also to the mid-sixteenth century,
and was copied by Emmanuel Provataris, Greek copyist of the Vatican Library.53
It belonged to Antonio Agustín, jurist, Hellenist and archbishop of Tarragona,
an important collector of Greek manuscripts (one of the few Spaniards who
made Greek critical editions at that time).54 On his death in 1587, his manu-
scripts were added to the collections of El Escorial.
But there was a fifth MS with the poem of Nonnus lost in the disastrous
fire of 1671, which destroyed almost half the collection of Greek manuscripts
of El Escorial. This MS, the Codex Scorialensis gr. 86 (Β.II.11), belonged to
Andreas Darmarios, copyist and merchant of codices.55 It could be the same
manuscript that belonged to Francisco de Mendoza y Bobadilla, son of Diego
Hurtado de Mendoza, and later Cardinal of Burgos, whose large library also
ended up in the royal collections, and who we know owned the book Nonnii
poetae Dionisica [sic], number 199 of his personal catalogue.56
Tracking the translation of Lubin is perhaps most advantageous for the sur-
vival of Nonnus in Spain. This work printed in protestant Germany in 1605 came
to Spain shortly after and, interestingly, the copy kept in the National Library
of Madrid57 belonged to Francisco de Calatayud, a Sevillian poet and scholar.
However, shortly after, his volume was seized, expurgated and incorporated into
the catalogue of prohibited books by the Holy Inquisition, as the signature of
censor Pedro de Lazcano witnesses: ‘Expurgado este libro del Sr. Francisco de
Calatayud conforme al nuevo cathálogo por particular comisión que tengo de la
General Inquisición, Sevilla, 11 mayo 1616, por Pedro de Lazcano’. Surely the
80–129v, 185–197v) with a second hand by Petros Karnabaka. Cf. Smith (1973) 96–101. Our
Nonnian codex at El Escorial, the Τ.I.15, was copied entirely by this unknown scribe but
contains some corrections by Karnabaka at fos. 204–330.
51 Graux (1982) 506.
52 Until Dion. 2.578. Revilla/de Andrés (1936–1967) II, 96–97.
53 Cf. on this library Dilts/Sosower/Manfredi (1998).
54 López Rueda (1973) 311–312, 333–334, 362–363.
55 De Andrés (1968) no. 86.
56 Graux (1982) 411.
57 Signature 2/67297 of the old catalogue.
rohibition applies, rather than to the poem of Nonnus itself, to the translator,
p
Lubin, or Eilhardus Lubinus, a well-known protestant appearing on the book
cover as Autorem prohibitum. But it must be said that the works of Nonnus did
not precisely enjoy a good reputation among the clergy.58
Fortunately, despite this ecclesiastical censure, the poem also arrived in
Spain under the camouflage of a printed collection of Greek poetry, Poetae
graeci veteres carminis heroicis scriptores, a compilation for the reference
of men of letters. This sort of anthologies was very popular in the early sev-
enteenth century,59 and several copies of this one are preserved in Spanish
libraries.60 The work, in two volumes, was published in Geneva and contained
the works of all preserved Greek epic poets both in the original Greek and in
a Latin translation (including Nonnus in the second part, pp. 307–624). The
literary editor Jacobus Lectius, in his dedication to Prince Maurice of Hassia,
Earl of Katzenelnbogen, apologizes for not including more serious poetry but
only profane, referring to the Christian work of Nonnus, as a possible strategy
to avoid ecclesiastical censorship: ‘His τὰ ἅγια non inserere ἁγιότερον [sic] exis-
timaui, veluti Nonni, Nazianzeni, & aliorum e veteribus, qui carminis eadem
norma res diuinas prosecuti.’ The Greek text of this compilation is that of the
Falkenburg edition and the parallel Latin translation that of Lubin.
But at this point it should be remembered that there was another render-
ing of Nonnus available in Spain, Les Dionysiaques, the French translation
of Boitet published in Paris in 1625. A copy of this edition is nowadays pre-
served in the Library of the Royal Palace of Madrid, which dates back precisely
to the library of Philip IV in the 17th century, before its modern location
due to Philip V of Bourbon in the current neoclassical palace. The first site
of the Royal Library was the Golden Tower or Torre Alta of the Alcázar of
the Habsburg dynasty, surrounded by the mythological paintings of Ribera. The
greatest librarian of this library was the Sevillian poet and scholar Francisco de
Rioja, friend of the Count-Duke of Olivares, who had close ties to the artistic
58 See the anecdote referred to by Stegemann (1930) 1: as Winckelmann was reading Nonnus
during a stay in Rome he forgot to greet the Pope; the ‘Maestro di Camera’ described the
Dion. as a ‘libro più che profano.’ See below, n. 99.
59 Lectius (1606). This could be the edition of Nonnus that both Marino and Góngora, as we
shall see, read. Cf. Blanco (2012) 238.
60 At the time, there were other bilingual compilations of Greek poetry in Spanish collec-
tions, which provided easy access to the texts through indexes of names and mythologi-
cal issues, and soon were to become a source of inspiration for poets and artists of the
time. See for example La Rovière (1614)—both the Biblioteca Universitaria de Barcelona
(0703 B-43/3/3) and the Biblioteca Nacional de Madrid (3/50369-70, U/5468-9, 2/16255-6,
2/49141) hold a copy of this edition—or Aldus (1502).
circles of the time, and who was acquainted with Francisco de Calatayud,
holder of the aforementioned exemplar of Nonnus.
It must be said that the main Nonnian echoes in Spain point to Andalusian
poets living at the court of Madrid such as the friends Francisco de Rioja and
Francisco de Calatayud. Regarding Calatayud, born around 1584, little is known
about his life and works61 but he was remembered by with laudatory verses
by Cervantes in his Viaje del Parnaso.62 He published poems in the Rhymes of
Juan de Jáuregui, among other Sevillian poets of his generation such as Juan de
Arguijo (1618). From his scarce preserved compositions, we can underline two
silvas dedicated To the linen and To summer, with possible Nonnian echoes.
The latter, selected in the anthology Flores de poetas (1611) by Juan Antonio
Calderón,63 recalls the Nonnian model of description of the Year’s Seasons in
the beginning, in verses 16 ff. (reference to Phaethon) and in other Bacchic refer-
ences. This model was followed presumably, as already mentioned, by Ronsard
in his Hymne de l’automne and Sammartino d’Aglié in L’Autunno. The former
poem, preserved in another manuscript in the National Library of Madrid, was
dedicated to Calatayud’s friend Francisco de Rioja (Seville, 1583–Madrid, 1659),
the aforementioned Royal Librarian of Philip IV. Rioja, himself a well-known
poet,64 seems to echo as well the Nonnian treatment of the Seasons in a silva
dedicated to the Summer (Silva VI, to Don Juan de Fonseca).65
A third Andalusian poet of possible Nonnian inspiration is Juan de Arguijo
(Seville, 1567–1623),66 who took Arcicio as nom de plume. Like other poets of
this generation, he was a member of the literary circle around the painter, poet
and translator of Lucan’s Pharsalia, Juan de Jáuregui y Aguilar (1583–1641).
Moreover, the Library of El Escorial, and other Spanish libraries, possessed
some printed copies of the Dionysiaca and the Paraphrase. Any research into
the reception of Nonnus in Spain should focus on the influential intellectuals
61 Cobos Rincón (1988); Marañón Ripoll (1997) 13–16.

62 Cervantes, Viaje al Parnaso II, 40–45 ed. Gaos (2001): ‘Digo que es Don Francisco, el que
profesa | Las armas y las letras con tal nombre | Que por su igual Apolo le confiesa; | Es de
Calatayud su sobrenombre: | Con esto queda dicho todo cuanto | Puedo decir con que a la
invidia asombre.’
63 Flores de poetas. A Don Diego López de Haro, Marqués del Carpio, Señor de las villas de
Adamuz, Morente y Perabad, Sucessor en la Casa y Mayorazgo de Haro. Don Juan Antonio
Calderón, su criado. El Carpio, a 24 de diciembre de 1611 (= Quirós de los Ríos/Rodríguez
Marín 1869). The silva begins ‘Ya la hoz coronada | de doradas espigas, | llena las eras del
despojo hermoso . . . El nemeo león . . . | y Sirio, enfurecido . . . | ya late el Can ardiente’.
64 On Rioja see López Bueno (1984).
65 López Bueno (1984) 193–196.
66 On de Arguijo see Vranich (1972).
and classical scholars with literary interests who gathered together in literary
or artistic circles at that time, such as Hurtado de Mendoza or Covarrubias, and
trace their books. But, needless to say, the most notable reception was caused
by the Latin translation of 1605. Academically, during the seventeenth century,
printed versions of Nonnus (both in Greek and in translation) circulated in
Spain and left some traces. Juan Pablo Bonet, for example, read Nonnus67 and
Gonzalo Correas possessed no less than three copies of the Dion. in his Chair
of Greek at Salamanca: two copies of the Dion. in Greek and a bilingual Greek
and Latin copy, certainly Lubin’s edition (1605).68
Fourth, Luis de Góngora’s Fábula de Polifemo y Galatea, the masterpiece par
excellence of the Spanish Baroque, contains some echoes of Nonnus’ erotic
myths and, specifically, of the legend of Nicaea and, parallel to this, possible
references to that of Aura. Góngora surely knew this myth from Marino’s
L’Adone (1605) who uses the Nonnian theme (canto 18, octaves 8–42)69 in
a very similar fashion to that in which Góngora alludes to the legend of
Nicaea in his Polyphemus. Not long ago, Adrados ventured the influence of
Nonnus in Góngora70 with some examples representing variants in relation
to the mythical tradition of the myth of Polyphemus and Galatea (the chase
of Galatea, the bath of Galatea,71 the appearance of Acis, the wound of love,
the deceit of the nymph, etc.), which could point out a possible contamination
with Nonnus’ story of Hymnus72 and Nicaea. But in his conclusions it remained
a mere working hypothesis, depending on an intermediate source and not
of a direct reading of Nonnus in Greek or translation (‘dudo que Góngora
67 Cf. de Andrés (1988) 411, ‘Relación de los escritores que, según Juan Pablo Bonet, escribi-
eron en griego’, among whom we find Nonnus. See also de Andrés (1976) 13 and (1988)
302–304.
68 Cf. de Andrés (1988) 352–355, in document no. 23 of Salamanca University: ‘Memoria de
los libros que el maestro Gonzalo Correas dexó al Colegio de Trilingüe. Libros Griegos
y Grecolatinos. Caxón Primero’. The Greek books appear as ‘Noni dionysiarca [sic] en
griego. 4º. pergº’ and ‘otro Nono dionysiaco. griego. 4º. pergº’, and the bilingual book as
‘Nonus Ma.mo [sic] grecolat. Cumque vulgata latina interprtat.e 8º pº’. On Correas, the
most conspicuous Spanish Hellenist of the 17th century, see de Andrés (1988) 35–46.
69 Tissoni (1998) 60–61. Another Italian poet, Ludovico (Lodovico) Sammartino d’Agliè,
dealt with the myth of Aura (see above).
70 Adrados (2003) 412: ‘[C]uando llega la imitación de Teócrito y Ovidio en la Fábula de
Polifemo y Galatea del poeta español Góngora, escrita en 1613, entran elementos que nos
recuerdan más de cerca a Nonno.’
71 Adrados (2003) 412–413 and Carreira (1986) 178–181 for the cited verses of Góngora and
their commentary.
72 To whom Adrados (2003) calls constantly ‘Hypnos’ instead.
c onociera el original griego, ni sé que exista una traducción latina’).73 We must

argue, with respect to these claims, that there were indeed translations of
the Dion. previous to Góngora’s Polyphemus, written in 1612 and published in
Madrid by Andres de Almansa y Mendoza the following year, 1613, as we have
already pointed out. Apart from the 1605 Latin translation of Lubin and the
French version of Garnier of that very year, we should consider the impact on
the Spanish literature of the poetic idylls by Marino, L’Adone (1605), Europa
(1607) and Atteone (1608), whom Góngora consciously imitated.74 A certain
Aurilla appears in Marino as a servant of Venus’ court and lover of Bacchus
who betrays his mistress revealing the love of Venus and Adonis (causing his
killing by Ares), and is later on saved by Bacchus from her desperate attempt
of suicide changing her into a breeze, a parallel to the Nonnian tale of Aura.
But in Góngora’s Polyphemus there are more Nonnian features than these:
two elements in the poem can confirm the influence of Nonnus upon Góngora.
First, the description of Galatea, which reminds us greatly of the stylistic use
of contrasting red and white colours in several passages of erotic ekphrasis in
Nonnus.75 In stanza 14 it is said of the nymph: ‘Purpúreas rosas sobre Galatea |
la Alba entre lilios cándidos deshoja: | duda el amor cuál más su color sea, |
o púrpura nevada, o nieve roja.’ This contrast of white and red in erotically
charged descriptions is very typical of some sensual passages of Nonnus, nota-
bly the episode of Hymenaeus, beloved of Dionysus, and his wound on the
thigh (29.101–103).76
The hypothesis of a relationship between Nonnus and Góngora can be
demonstrated in themes and motifs like these, always involving variations
of the main myths. The sources of the Fable of Polyphemus and Galatea
(1613) are well studied by Vilanova,77 but in the light of these similarities we
could consider it very likely that Góngora could have used the Dion., either
73 Adrados (2003) 413: ‘Lo más verosímil es que este raro mito lo haya encontrado en alguna
antología de fábulas mitológicas.’ And moreover, his conclusion is as follows: ‘Queda pen-
diente, pues, la fuente intermedia, con el tema de Nicea y Dioniso procedente de Nonno,
a que Góngora pudo acceder para contaminar el antiguo tema de Galatea y Polifemo’
(ibid.).
74 L’Adone mentions directly Nicaea (5.75.3).
75 Cf. Dion. 10.190, 29.154, etc. In this passage, after Hymenaeus is wounded on a thigh,
Bacchus rubs it with a magical herb and cures his ‘two-coloured’ wound, red and white
(for the blood and the skin). In Nonnus’ erotic poetry, the object of desire is often a pale
or rosy skin. See Winkler (1974) 17–20.
76 Cf. also 11.30–31.
77 Nonnus had never been pointed out as a possible source until Adrados pioneering hypo-
tesis in 2003, cf. Vilanova (1992).
through the above mentioned translations (probably that of Lubin in 1605) or

through some mythological repertoires, if not through the indirect tradition of
Giambattista Marino’s contamination of mythic themes. Finally, further evi-
dence of the familiarity of Góngora with Nonnus was also pointed out by the
early commentators of the poet. For example, the edition and commentary
of the Soledades published in 1636 by the soldier and fellow poet José García
de Salcedo Coronel (1592–1651) cited often Nonnus as source of mythological
comparisons in Góngora.78 In folio 240, for instance, this commentator com-
pares Soledad segunda 328–331 with the Latin translation of Nonnus’ Dion. 14,
among other passages.79
Another Nonnian episode with possible echoes in the Spanish Baroque is
Actaeon’s death. In a different version from Ovid’s one in his Metamorphoses,
Nonnus portrays a guilty Actaeon (and not punished randomly), who is caught
spying on Artemis from the foliage and possessed by desire as a true voyeur.80
In this case Nonnus’ version has passed, firstly, to the Italian Baroque, for
Marino wrote an idyll entitled Atteone (1608).81 In Spain, Góngora’s Soledades
mention, incidentally, the theme of Actaeon in a manner which reveals a back-
ground of erotic desire as the hunter’s gaze gets lost in the naked thighs of
Artemis: ‘. . . la virginal desnuda montería, | haciendo escollos o de mármol
Pario | o de terso marfil sus miembros bellos, | que pudo bien Acteón perderse
en ellos’ (Soledad primera 487–490). Actaeon’s myth often appears in Spanish
poetry since Garcilaso de la Vega and while most compositions deal with it in
an allusive or moral way (such as Gutierre de Cetina Mientras que de sus canes
rodeado or Quevedo Primero va seguida de los perros),82 the same Quevedo
reflects perfectly the guilt and desire of a possibly Nonnian Actaeon in a son-
net beginning ‘Estábase la Efesia cazadora’, also entitled Significa el mal que
entra a la alma por los ojos con la fábula de Acteón. It is clear that deseo, the
word closing the sonnet, is the main issue of this scene of voyeurism, for desire
killed Acteaon faster than the hounds, according to Quevedo: ‘Su frente endu-
reció con arco feo | sus perros intentaron el matalle, | y adelantóse a todos su
deseo.’ At this point, as in the case of Góngora, Marino and his Atteone should
78 Góngora y Argote (1636). See Blanco (2012), with the review by Ponce Cárdenas (2013) 187.
79 Other instances in fo. 250r, on the Danaids, or, commenting on the Fable of Polyphemus
and Galatea, fo. 341r (on Glaucus) and fo. 386v (on Tantalus).
80 See Hernández de la Fuente (2001–2002).
81 Cf. again Tissoni (1998) 56–61 and De Maldé (1993) 137–189.
82 Schwartz Lerner (1992) 552.
be evoked as well83 being still sub iudice the possible influence of the Italian
poet upon Quevedo84 or the direct influence of the Dion.
The presence of this erotic tinge in the myth of Actaeon is to be seen in
other Spanish writers of the time, such as in Fábula de Acteón y Diana by
Antonio Mira de Amescua (1575–1644) who, not being influenced by contem-
porary authors in the composition of his poem,85 also seems to know a ver-
sion in which Actaeon would be punished for his erotic desire for Artemis, as
these verses from El caballero sin nombre (Act I) suggest: ‘Haz cuenta que es
Acteón | y que castigas los yerros | de su amor loco y protervo; | porque conver-
tido en ciervo | le despedacen tus perros.’ And Calderón de la Barca writes on
Actaeon’s hybris in Zelos aún del ayre matan (1683): ‘A Acteón mudé la forma |
en venganza de otro ultraje | y a aqueste he de hazer que nadie le vea | que en
forma distinta de bruto no le halle.’
Apart from the above mentioned cases and other traces of Dionysiac
themes in Spain, like Juan Bautista Diamante (1625–1687) author of a zarzu-
ela entitled Jupiter y Semele (1670), or Miguel Colodrero de Villalobos and his
burlesque Mentira pura de Baco y Erígone,86 we close this review with a brief
mention of the Spanish Marinists, well studied by Rozas,87 who indirectly
echo some Nonnian themes and airs. The most important of these poets is
Juan de Tassis, Count of Villamediana (1583–1622),88 who even met Marino
personally. Villamediana wrote an imitation of the Italian poet in his Fábula
de Faetón (1617), based on the second Idyll of Moschus and also in Nonnus,
Dion. 1.45 ff. As Rozas has shown, both Marino and Villamediana depend on
the Nonnian passage of Europe’s abduction.89 Another Marinist, and indirectly
Nonnian, poet, is Soto de Rojas (1590–1655),90 imitator of Góngora as well: his
poems Los rayos de Faetón (1639) and Paraíso cerrado para muchos, jardines
abiertos para pocos, con los fragmentos del Adonis (1652)91 contain a close imi-
tation of Marino. Apart from these literary echoes, Nonnus was translated into
Latin verse by Vicente Mariner, scholar and librarian at El Escorial, in 1636.
83 Tissoni (1998) 56–61, esp. 57–58.

84 Rozas (1978).
85 Toledano Molina (1996) rejects Góngora’s influence upon Mira de Amescua for the com-
position of his work (p. 551) and compares the versions of Barahona de Soto and Mira de
Amescua.
86 Ponce Cárdenas (2001) 145–160.
87 Cf. again Rozas (1978) on the influence of Marino.
88 See the introduction by Rozas (1969).
89 Rozas (1978) 72–73.
90 Cf. Gallego Morell (1970) 181–183, who also edited his works in Gallego Morell (1950).
91 A modern edition and study in Egido (1981) and Cabello Porras/Campos Daroca (1996).
The unpublished translation, kept in a manuscript of the National Library in

Madrid, is worth reading just for its Latin versification skills.92
Needless to say at this point that the influence of Marino was enormous
and his taste for the Nonnian style had a certain relevance for the study of
Marinism both in Spain and, of course, in Italy. Further on, some other literary
echoes in the late Seicento and Settecento, must be mentioned here as a coda
to this section. The first Italian translation of the Dion. was written around
1700 by the Florentine Hellenist Anton Maria Salvini (1653–1729), librarian of
the Biblioteca Laurenziana, who also tried to do the same with the Par., but
this first version remains, to date, unpublished in a manuscript.93 We know
for certain that Vincenzo Monti used the first book of the Dion. for his poem
Musogonia (1793)94 and perhaps the poet and playwright Vittorio Alfieri
(1749–1803) echoed Nonnus as well, for he possessed a copy of the Par.95
2 Nonnus in Modern Europe: From Goethe to Cavafy and Beyond
From the seventeenth century onwards the trace of Nonnus in literature will
be scarce but persistent in select authors. Thus, if we follow the influence
left by the Dion. we constantly face a recurrent profile of scholars and poets
whose taste for classical mythology, and especially for the myths of Dionysus,
leads them to Nonnus. There will, however, be mixed reactions among those
who praise our author and those who consider the epic of Dionysus an
extravagant work.
Early interest in Nonnus in Germany was shown by Hermann von der Hardt,
Professor of Oriental languages at the Academia Julia and author of a grammar
of the Greek language. In 1708 von der Hardt wrote a fable entitled Phasiana
and based on the allusive technique of Nonnus.96 Another more transpar-
ent allusion in his speech In Bacchum Vini et cerevisiæ Ægypti inventorem
(1715) includes a praise to Nonnus: ‘De quo Baccho ingens Nonni volumen,
Dionysiacorum. Quod omnium elegantissimum opus, Homeri genio effabri-
catum, suo illustrabimus tempore.’97 The interest in the German-speaking
92 On Mariner’s Latin versification of Greek originals see Castro de Castro (1999).
93 Florence, Biblioteca Marucelliana, MS A.105 (fos. IV.233.II); cf. Accorinti (1988) 268 and
Gonnelli (2003) 32. On Salvini and the Paraphrase see Accorinti (1988).
94 Gonnelli (2003) 33.
95 Accorinti (1988) 272 and Gonnelli (2003) 33 n. 58.
96 Von Hardt (1708).
97 Von Hardt (1715) 14.
Academia grew after the translation of the episode of Europa’s abduction

in the Dion. by Bodmer,98 for comparative purposes with Moschus. Nonnus
drew the attention of the most important scholar of antiquity of this cen-
tury, Johann Joachim Winckelmann (1717–1768), whom we know to have read
the Dion. during his stay in Rome in 1765.99 Subsequently, after the edition of
Moser,100 other important figures of Central European classical studies will be
interested in the poet. F. Creuzer declared in his Dionysus that he had found
Nonnus’ Dion. ‘situ squaloreque obsita’, but, after so many centuries of neglect,
he was happy to write the prologue of Moser’s edition, which aimed to restore
Nonnus’ poem.101
But the poet of Panopolis was to receive the attention of the greatest
German poet, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, always passionate for antiquity,
who showed a special curiosity for this author. The first contact of Goethe with
the Dion. was a result of the work of the Russian scholar Sergey Uvarov, who
published in 1817 an important contribution to the study of Nonnus,102 and
of a verse translation of Nonnus’ episode of Hymnus and Nicaea by Graefe,
in collaboration with J.G. Buhle.103 Goethe deemed this erotic epyllion of
undeniable beauty, as he recognized in a letter addressed to Uvarov and dated
May 9, 1814. An excerpt of this letter shows how impressed Goethe was by the
powerful style of Nonnus: ‘Auf alle Fälle stellt das hier übersetzte Werk einen
kräftigen und gefühlvollen und zugleich wundersam sprachgebildeten und
rhythmisch geübten Poeten dar. . . . Ich habe immer mit vielem Antheil an Hero
und Leander des Museus, besonders auch an Daphnis und Chloe des Longus
gehangen . . . Um so willkommener ist mir nun auch Ihr Hymnus und seine
Amazone, die uns eine noch spätere Zeit, aber einen noch in den kräftigen
und gefühlvollen, zugleich wundersam sprachgebildeten Dichter darstellen;
dieses kleine Werk hat mir und meinen Freunden sehr angenehme Stunden
98 Bodmer (1753).

99 ‘Ich wohnte draussen und war farbig gekleidet, wie man pflegt, und suchte unter dem
Portico eine Stelle in des Nonnii Dionysiacis . . .’, during his stay in Rome in 1765 and
before meeting the Pope, as Winckelmann himself recalls in a letter to Schlabbrendorf
(August 9, 1765), cf. Stegemann (1930) 1 and Gonnelli (2003) 33.
100 Moser (1809).
101 Cf. Creuzer (1809).
102 Uvarov (1817); cf. Wes (1992) 123–124.
103 Graefe/Buhle (1813). Graefe published his Nonnus edition a few years later (1819–1826).
There were other studies on Nonnus at that time, cf. Weichert (1810). As Gonnelli (2003,
35–36) states, from Graefe onwards, the German scholarship ‘seized’ Nonnus for some
100 years, as the successive editions by Koechly (1857–1858) and Ludwich (1909–1911) go to
show.
gebracht.’104 Goethe had some less positive comments on the literary treat-
ment of the myth of Phaethon by Nonnus105 and mistakenly took a pentam-
eter of the Palatine Anthology (12.178), from Graefe’s edition, as authored by our
poet. Between 1817 and 1823 Goethe published two essays on Greek art, Myrons
Kuh and Philostrats Gemälde and worked on Euripides’ Phaethon and Cyclops:
in the first one he compares Ovid’s and Nonnus’ descriptions of the chaos
caused by the uncontrolled race of Phaethon’s chariot.106 Probably Goethe was
also familiar with the treatment of the myth of Pentheus in Nonnus when he
translated a passage of the Euripides’ Bacchae (1242–1297) and included it in
his Ueber Kunst und Alterthum (published in 1827 in Stuttgart).
Regarding the English literature, and although the eminent classicist Richard
Bentley (1699, 24) despised Nonnus as ‘an able Grammarian, though a very
ordinary poet’, the Dion. enjoyed some literary echoes in important authors.
Some scholars have pointed out, for instance, parallels between John Milton’s
Paradise Lost (1667) and Nonnus’ Dion., such as the description of the destruc-
tion caused by Typhon’s rage in Books 1–2 compared with some Miltonian ref-
erences to monster and chaos.107 Milton mentions Typhon in Book 1 (199), but
his whirlwind is described further in 2.539–541: ‘Others, with vast Typhoean
rage, more fell | rend up both rocks and hills, and ride the air | in whirlwind’.
In this passage, trees and mountains are uprooted, like in Nonnus description
(e.g., 1.206–218, 2.644–649).108 A second parallel, the description of the beasts
in Dion. 41.185–203 and Paradise Lost 4.340 ff., seems also very close.109 Perhaps
Milton, born in 1608, had access to the text of Nonnus or to its Latin translation
by Lubin during his education at Christ’s College, Cambridge, where Richard
Bentley presumably also read the Dion. And to finish with Milton, a third par-
allel has been reported regarding the episode of Ampelus, when Dionysus
regrets his death (Dion. 11.255–312 and 315–350) and the Moira ends up saying
(12.142 ff.) that the young Ampelus will live forever.110 A coincidence has been
suggested between this passage and Milton’s L’Allegro (145–150).
104 Cf. Grumach (1949) I, 276, 282, 293, 321–322, 383 and II, 647.
105 Böhlau et al. (1887–1919) I, 41.2, 44: ‘. . . Wirrwarr, womit Ovid und Nonnus das Universum
zerrütten.’ On Goethe’s knowledge of Nonnus and Euripides, regarding the reception of
the Pentheus myth, see Petersen (1974) 176–178.
106 See Böhlau (1887–1919) I, 41.2, 32, 63, 243 (on Phaethon) and 469 (on Cyclops).
107 Butler (1999) 71–76.
108 See also similar destructions by the giant Alpus (45.178 ff.) and the snake (25.474–480).
109 So Rose in Rouse (1940) III, 210–211 n. a.
110 Lasky (1978).
Years later, the great poet Percy Bysshe Shelley was acquainted with Nonnus
through a French translation he asked his bookseller for, apparently advised
by his friend the novelist Thomas Love Peacock (1785–1866).111 Peacock was
fascinated by the Dion. of Nonnus112 and quoted the Greek poet often,113 claim-
ing his valour as a literary model. In his novels Peacock quoted several pas-
sages of the Dion., both in the original Greek and in his own translations.
In The Misfortunes of Elphin and Crotchet Castle, for example, Peacock cited
directly in Greek in the middle of a speech: ‘as Nonnus sweetly sings.’114 One
of the characters of Crotchet Castle, reverend Folliott, quotes Dion. 25.280 in
chapter II and Dion. 1.528 in chapter XIV. The Misfortunes of Elphin contains
a kind of summary of Books 14–15 from Nonnus’ Dion. (chapter III) and
chapter VIII begins with a reference to Dion. 12.21–24 in translation, as in chap-
ter X (Dion. 33.29–32).115 Some influence from Nonnus’ style can also be found
in his poetry, e.g. in his Rhododaphne.116 In addition, he had conceived a huge
poetic project: a Nympholepsy, of which there is a draft in a manuscript at the
British Library.117 We cannot be certain that it was Nonnian in its style, but it is
a very plausible supposition.
In 1820 Peacock wrote in the Literary Miscellany an article on The Four Ages
of Poetry,118 which was to be published years later along with his Memoirs of
Shelley.119 Peacock establishes four stages for ancient verse: ‘The iron age of clas-
sical poetry may be called the bardic; the golden, the Homeric; the silver, the
Virgilian; and the brass, the Nonnic.’ And later on he praises ‘the Dionysiaca
of Nonnus, which contains many passages of exceeding beauty in the midst of
masses of amplification and repetition.’
After reading Peacock’s essay on The Four Ages of Poetry and his romantic
idea of poetry as the natural expression of uncivilized peoples, Shelley wrote
111 This section of the chapter reproduces and summarizes Hernández de la Fuente (2007a).
For the letters of Shelley, see Ingpen/Peck (1926–1930) VIII–X, esp. IX, 272–273. For this
book order see also Peck (1927) II, 48–49.
112 Chislett (1918) 136–139. Cf. also Rouse (1940) III, vii without quoting his name.
113 Van Doren (1911) where quotations from Nonnus are frequent: pp. 18–19, 110, 132, 152, 156.
Butler (1979) 19.
114 See Brett-Smith/Jones (1924–1934) IV, 24, 70, 83, 191–192.
115 ‘The War-Song of Dinas Vawr’ in this book has a certain Dionysiac inspiration. It is printed
in the preface to the first English translation of Nonnus’ Dionysiaca by Rouse (1940) III, vii.
116 Bush (1937) 184.
117 British Library, MS 36815, fos. 120–122. Cf. Butler (1979) 110–111.
118 Shelley himself advised him to write it ‘with a due spice of Bacchic fury’, as we shall men-
tion below.
119 First appeared in Ollier’s Literary Miscellany in 1820, cf. Mills (1970) 124.
a letter to the publisher (Charles and James Ollier, Jan. 20, 1821) expressing
his desire to write an answer to it: ‘[T]he last article it contains has excited
my polemical faculties so violently. . . . I mean to set about an answer to it. . . .
It is very clever, but, I think, very false.’ In another letter of March 21, Shelley
sends Peacock ‘the first part of an essay, intended to consist of three parts,
which I design for an antidote to your Four Ages of Poetry.’120 Finally he wrote
a response, an essay entitled Defence of Poetry (which remained unpublished
until 1840). There, Shelley, who translated some Homeric Hymns himself, shows
a good knowledge of Greek poetry and, in particular, quotes Nonnus not very
positively when speaking of his idea of epic poetry: ‘and none among the flock
of mock-birds, though their notes are sweet, Apollonius Rhodius, Quintus
Calaber, Smyrnæus, Nonnus, Lucan, Statius, or Claudian, have sought even to
fulfil a single condition of epic truth.’
Peacock had a very intense correspondence with Shelley dealing frequently
with topics of literary criticism and Classical Antiquity. Although his views
were very opposed to Shelley’s, Peacock influenced him beneficially ‘encourag-
ing him in his Greek studies and interesting him in sculpture’.121 Peacock tried
to arouse Shelley’s interest for the Dion. on several occasions. In a letter dated
August 19th, 1818, addressed to Shelley, Peacock writes: ‘I read Nonnus occa-
sionally. The twelfth book, which contains the “Metamorphoses of Ampelus”,
is very beautiful’.122 Peacock wrote to his friend Shelley about the excellence of
Nonnus’ poetry on some occasions and this insistence appears to have encour-
aged Shelly, who finally asked for a copy of the book.123 We can be certain
that Shelley wrote to his bookseller in order to ask for a French translation of
Nonnus’ Dion.: ‘Be so good as to send me, “Discours sur les Sciences et les Arts
par Rousseau, avec les Responses” and the “Dionysiaca” of Nonnus, A Greek
Poem of the 5th Century, printed I think at Paris’.124 It was certainly not the
French translation of the Comte de Marcellus (1856)125 but perhaps the version
of Garnier (1605), that of Boitet (1625) or that of Marcassus (1631).126 The two
latter were printed in Paris.
120 See Ingpen/Peck (1926–1930) X, 232, 234, 248.

121 Ingpen/Peck (1926–1930) VIII, xlviii–xlix.
122 Van Doren (1911) 134.
123 Joukovski (2001) I, 134–144 (letters 73, 75–76). Peck (1927) II, 48–49.
124 Ingpen/Peck (1926–1930) IX, 272–273.
125 Lind (1978) 169–170 n. 23.
126 Marcassus (1631).
Charles Abraham Elton (1778–1853), a gifted scholar and poet,127 published

in 1814 Specimens of the Classical Poets . . . from Homer to Tryphiodorus trans-
lated into English Verse, and illustrated with biographical and critical notices
(Robert Baldwin, London, 1814, in three volumes), including a translation of
some passages of the Dion. Thus, as far as we can tell, the first English transla-
tion of Nonnus (at least of some relevant passages) is to be dated to as early
as 1814, in the third volume of the Specimens of the Classical Poets,128 contain-
ing the following excerpts of the Dion.: Jupiter enamoured of Semele, while
bathing in the river Asopus (pp. 315–317, from Book 7), the story of Nicaea
(pp. 318–323, from Books 15–16) and Bacchus and his army on the banks of the
Hydaspes (pp. 324–327, from Books 22–23). Besides, there is a general introduc-
tion (one of the ‘biographical and critical notices’ referred to in the long title)
in pp. 311–313.
Moreover, in October 1822 an anonymous writer praised Nonnus’ poetry in
some remarkable pages of The London Magazine. The article ‘On the Poetry of
Nonnus’, mysteriously signed by some unknown Vida, is a defence of Nonnus’
style129 included as well some translations from Nonnus’ Par. (4.25 ff. and
11.40 ff.) and Dion. (Book 1), and a comparison to the opening of Milton’s Paradise
Lost. This second translator also dealt with a long passage of Book 10, regard-
ing the love affair between Bacchus and Ampelus, in an elegant English ver-
sion published in the following issue (November 1822, pp. 440–443). Regarding
the identity of the anonymous translator, it could be hypothetically ascribed
either to Peacock or to Elton. The latter used to sign with the pseudonym Olen
in The London Magazine, in which he dedicated some verses to Charles Lamb
(1775–1834), another poet, a friend of Shelley also enamoured of antiquity, who
wrote The Adventures of Ulysses (for children) and the Essays of Elia.
If we examine Shelley’s poetry and search for possible influences of Nonnus
there are examples such as his verses dealing with Actaeon’s myth in Adonais
(XXXI)130 in comparison to Dion. 5.287–551. Most interestingly, Shelley’s notes
on the antique group of sculptures representing Bacchus and Ampelus that he
had seen in Florence reflect his Nonnian readings. The English poet describes
the sculpture at the Uffizi in the following manner:
127 Cf. Elton (1820).

128 British Library shelfmark: 997.c.13.
129 Vida (1822) 336–340 and (1823) 440–443.
130 ‘. . . he, as I guess, | Had gazed on Nature’s naked loveliness, | Actæon-like, and now he fled
astray | With feeble steps o’er the world’s wilderness; | And his own thoughts, along that
rugged way, | Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their prey.’
Bacchus and Ampelus
Ampelus with a beast skin over his shoulder holds a cup in his right hand,
and with his left half embraces the waist of Bacchus. Just as you may have
seen . . . a younger and an elder boy at school walking in some remote
grassy spot of their play-ground with that tender friendship towards each
other which has so much of love. The countenance of Bacchus is sub-
limely sweet and lovely, taking a shade of gentle and playful tenderness
from the arch looks of Ampelus, whose cheerful face turned towards him,
expresses the suggestions of some droll and merry device.131
Shelley seems to know the episode of Bacchus and Ampelus well as it is told in
the Dion. Being quite a rare myth, it is only to be found there, with the excep-
tion of Ovid’s short allusion (Fasti 3.409–410).
Without leaving England, a country where the Dion. had many relevant lit-
erary echoes in the nineteenth century, we should mention a well-known poet,
Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806–1861), wife of fellow poet Robert Browning
(1812–1889), whose interest in Nonnus is attested also in his letters. Barrett
Browning received a classical education and translated both classical and
modern literature into English. She was afraid that her translation of some
excerpts of the Dion. could be criticized by a Greek scholar of that time, George
Burges (1786–1864), well-known as bitter critic of rival scholars, as she writes
in a letter of 16 May 1845 addressed to Mrs Thomson: ‘To think of Mr Burges’s
comparing my Nonnus to the right Nonnus makes my hair stand on end, and
the truth is I had flattered myself that nobody would take such trouble. I have
not much reverence for Nonnus, and have pulled him and pushed him and
made him stand as I chose, never fearing that my naughty impertinences
would be brought to light.’132 Shortly afterwards, on 20th August of that very
year, she wrote to her husband Robert Browning to tell him that she had been
reading and translating again ‘the author of that large (not great) poem in
some forty books of the Dionysiaca’. And she ends up asking: ‘Have you known
Nonnus, . . . you who forget nothing?’133 Her 1862 translation of the Ariadne
episode in Nonnus, of a remarkable literary quality, along with other authors
who tried myth (Hesiod, Th. 947) was published in her book Last Poems (under
the heading ‘From Nonnus: How Bacchus finds Ariadne and How Bacchus
comforts Ariadne’). Barrett Browning is not the only modern writer who
131 Ingpen/Peck (1926–1930) VI, 319.

132 Kenyon (1898) I, 261.
133 On Nonnus’ influence upon Elizabeth Barrett Browning, see Chislett (1918) 136 ff. and Lind
(1978) 165.
has translated Nonnus: we should mention as well that the French novelist
Marguerite Yourcenar (1903–1987) published her version of some selected pas-
sages of Nonnus (the story of Ampelus) in the journal Arion.134
The American Charles Godfrey Leland (1824–1903), who studied in
Heidelberg, Munich and Paris, wrote under the pseudonym Hans Breitmann
a series of humorous ballads. Leland obtained great fame with a mock-
ing poetry that mimicked German hard accents (‘Hans Breitmann’s Party’
in Graham’s Magazine, 1857) and, later on, as a folklorist. In 1869 and due to
this success, Leland published a collection of poems in the same style enti-
tled Hans Breitmann’s Ballads.135 In the chapter on Hans Breitmann’s visit to
Munich there is a ballad dedicated to beer entitled ‘Gambrinus’.136 This poem
contains a fictional quotation where Fritz the innkeeper claims to have read
Nonnus: ‘Vot ish Art? Id ish somedings to drink, objectively fore-ge-brought
in de Beaudiful. Doubtest dou?—denn read, ash I hafe read, de Dyonisiacs of
Nonnus, and learn dat de oop-boorstin of infinite worlds into edernal Light
und mad goldnen Lofeliness—yea of dein own soul—is typifide only py de
CUP. Vot!—shdill skebdigal? Tell me denn, O dou of liddle fait, vere on eart ish
de kunst obtain ids highest form if not in a BIERSTADT?137 Ha! ha! I poke you
dere!’ Caupo Recauponatus, MS. by Fritz Schwackenhammer, olim candidatus
theologiæ at Tübingen, shoost now lagerbierwirth in St. Louis. (Dec. 1869.)’. The
quotation continues ‘Cerevisia bibunt homines | Animalia ceteræ fontes’ and
the beginning of the ballad, full of Dionysiac references, is a good example of
Leland’s humourous verses:
Now hear me on, ye headen gotts!

Und all de Christian too;
Der Bacchus und der Shoopider,
Und Màrie tressed in plue!
Und mighdy Thor, der donner gott,
Und any else dat be!
Der von as helps me in dis Noth,
His serfant I will pe.
134 Lebel (1979) 65–78.

135 Leland (1884) is one of the editions, from which we quote.
136 Leland (1884) 240–245.
137 In a footnote to the word ‘Bierstadt’ (Leland 1884, 240 n. *) there is an explanation of the
joke of the author, a double meaning: ‘Bierstadt—Herr Schwackenhammer had evidently
here in view, not only the American artist BIERSTADT, but also the great city of Munich,
specially famous for its manufacture of beer.’ Albert Bierstadt (1830–1902) was the name
of a German-American artist, well-known for his paintings of the American West.
The growing popularity of Nonnus in the second half of the nineteenth cen-
tury can also be explained by the 1856 translation by the Comte de Marcellus,
a multifaceted Hellenist and diplomat of the French Restoration period.138
Marie-Louis-Jean-André-Charles Demartin du Tyrac (1795–1865), Comte de
Marcellus, had an important political career since his participation in the
guard of the Duke of Angouleme until his diplomatic duties in Constantinople,
Palestine, London and Madrid. Marcellus, who was also involved in the discov-
ery of the famous Venus de Milo with Dumont D’Urville, edited and translated
the opera omnia of Nonnus between 1856 (the Dion.) and 1861 (the Par.).139 But
we should not forget his literary career as a writer of Souvenirs de l’Orient (1839)
and Épisodes littéraires en Orient (1851), full of travel anecdotes much to the
taste of the time. While there is no doubt that Marcellus’ style owes much to
the aesthetic currents of his epoch, his Nonnian taste in the background seems
to be no less significant.140
We should add that Marcellus had contact with the famous Greek forger
Constantine Simonides141 during the latter’s stay in France from 1854 onwards.
Simonides tried to mislead the Comte de Marcellus by claiming that he had
found a life of Nonnus in a manuscript of Demetrius’ lost treaty On Namesake
Poets and Writers. Simonides showed Marcellus some fragments of this pur-
ported manuscript containing astonishing biographical data on Nonnus,
which, in fact, constitute the first work of literary fiction on this poet. He had
composed a short and plausible biography about the poet explaining the mys-
tery of his pagan and Christian works thanks to a conversion and a reasonable
chronology.142 This great forgery was obviously written in full awareness of the
scarce biographical information about Nonnus and in the light of the on-going
academic discussion and the emerging theories regarding his identification,
with the mixture between reality and fiction, false and true elements, which
mark the most skilled literary forgeries.
From Marcellus’ translation onwards the new literary currents will place
Nonnus among those ‘decadent’ authors of Late Antiquity, which by no means
implies a lesser fascination but rather the contrary. A good example of the
attraction of this peculiar decadence is the readings of Nonnus in fin-de-
siècle Europe among the Symbolists. E.R. Curtius studied this predilection for
a decadentist antiquity in the European literature and how ‘late antique and
138 Marcellus (1856).

139 Marcellus (1861).
140 Rétat (1998).
141 Schaper (2011).
142 For a study of this false biography see Hernandez de la Fuente (2014c).
medieval Latinity fascinated a Huysmans and a Remy de Gourmont, and the

delirious splendor of a Nonnus the young Stefan George. “We still remember,”
he wrote in his eulogy of Mallarmé, “what a strong impression was left in us
by the writings of the Byzantines and the late Latin authors, as by those of
the Fathers, who could not refrain from portraying their repented sins in iri-
descent colors; how, in their tormented and subjugated style we pleasurably
felt the beat and throb of our own souls, and how the hard-born verses of the
hot-blooded Egyptian, which hum and hurry along like Maenads, filled us with
more delight than those of old Homer.” The décadence of 1890 was the discovery
of new aesthetic excitements and a form of separation from the “barbarians” as
in Verlaine’s sonnet Je suis l’Empire à la fin de la décadence.’143 A good example
is the circle around the great German poet Stefan George (1868–1933), who had
classical training at the Gymnasium and was acquainted with the Dion. Deeply
influenced by the symbolist poetry of Mallarmé, whom he met in 1889 in Paris,144
George gathered around himself a group of poets and artists, such as his
friend the Austrian writer Hugo von Hofmannsthal, another lover of antiquity.
George created with Hofmannsthal in October 1892 the literary journal Blätter
für die Kunst in Berlin, edited by George Bondi, and published until 1919. It is
very interesting for the reception of Nonnus in the context of Decadentism to
pay attention to the remarkable introduction to the first issue of Blätter für die
Kunst, the tribune of poets such as George, Hofmannsthal, Klein, Paul Gérardy,
and others, in a kind of programmatic art-for-the-sake-of-art prologue: ‘Zwar
werden wir auch belehrend und urteilend die neuen strömungen der literatur
im in- und ausland einführen, uns dabei aber so sehr wie möglich aller schlag-
worte begeben die auch bei uns schon auftauchten und dazu angethan sind
die köpfe zu verwirren.’145
In the 5th issue of this journal there are some memories of Stefan George
referring to his time with Mallarmé. The poet recalls Nonnus, ‘the hot-blooded
Egyptian’.146 Curtius includes this quotation on Nonnus in his monumental
Europäische Literatur und lateinisches Mittelalter (1948, see above): incidentally
143 The reference and the English translation of the text, in an eulogy of Mallarmé, can be
read in Curtius (2013) 392.
144 Schonauer (1960) 16–17.
145 We respect the orthography of the manifesto. In a footnote to the word ‘begeben’ we read
‘Symbolismus Dekadentismus Okkultismus u.s.w.’
146 Blätter für die Kunst 5 (1892–1893) 392.
let us add that this scholar was also a friend of George and was acquainted also
with the ‘heissblütiger Ägypter’, as the German poet would put it.147
Hugo von Hofmannsthal’s predilection for antiquity is evidenced, among
other works,148 in his Elektra or in the libretto for Richard Strauss’ Ariadne auf
Naxos. Another literary project of Hofmannsthal was to rewrite the myth of
Pentheus in a new literary creation, as he writes in 1893,149 precisely the time
when George writes about Nonnus. We know that Hofmannsthal prepared
his work on Dionysus reading the Greek Studies of Walter Pater, and that he
wrote down in his exemplar of such book some notes on the occult nature of
Dionysus and the Dion. of Nonnus.150 By that time there were several partial
translations of Nonnus into German, to which both George and Hofmannsthal
could have access, apart from the French edition of Marcellus (1856): we can
mention the German translations of Bodmer (1753), Buhle (Graefe/Buhle 1813)
and Waehmer (1905–1908) among others.151 The first complete German trans-
lation was published only in 1933.152
Another follower of the decadent movement was the Greek poet Constantine
P. Cavafy (1863–1933), who longed for the cultural splendour of Hellenism
under Roman rule and evoked the past glory of his native Alexandria in Late
Antiquity. Cavafy was very fond of recreating his poetic version of the past
decadence at the end of the Ancient World and the beginning of the Byzantine
era. In his poem Φυγάδες (1914),153 he portraits five Greek political exiles in
Alexandria, apparently in the times of the fall of the Byzantine Emperor
Michael III and before the rise of Emperor Basil, who are waiting for a politi-
cal change or perhaps for his definitive fall into disgrace. Time goes by dis-
cussing philosophy, theology and literature and reading Nonnus (verses 14–16:
‘The day before yesterday we read some verses by Nonnus | what images, what
rhythm, what language, what harmony | We enthusiastically admired the poet
of Panopolis’). Let us see an excerpt of his poem to finish this section:
147 In token of admiration for Mallarmé, George said to Curtius in 1917: ‘Die Französen haben
nur littérature, nicht Dichtung . . .’: Schonauer (1960) 17.
148 E.g. Augenblicke in Griechenland (1908–1917).
149 Cf. Marshall Ward (2000). A draft of this piece can be seen in von Hofmannsthal (1936).
150 Stamm (1997) 256 n. 5.
151 Cf. BKT V.1, 94–106.
152 Von Scheffer (1929–1933).
153 Savvidis (1968) 163–165.
Πάντα ἡ Ἀλεξάνδρεια εἶναι. Λίγο νὰ βαδίσεις

στὴν ἴσια της ὁδὸ ποὺ στὸ Ἱπποδρόμιο παύει,
θὰ δεῖς παλάτια καὶ μνημεῖα ποὺ θ’ ἀπορήσεις.
. . .
Τὸ βράδυ μαζευόμεθα στὴν παραλία
ἡμεῖς οἱ πέντε (μὲ ὀνόματα ὅλοι
πλαστὰ βεβαίως) κι ἄλλοι μερικοὶ Γραικοὶ 10
ἀπ’ τοὺς ὀλίγους ὅπου μείναμε στὴν πόλι.
. . .
Προχθές τοῦ Νόννου στίχους ἐδιαβάζαμε.
Τί εἰκόνες, τί ρυθμός, τί γλῶσσα, τί ἁρμονία. 15
Ἐνθουσιασμένοι τὸν Πανοπολίτην ἐθαυμάζαμε.
Ἔτσι περνοῦν ἡ μέρες, κ’ ἡ διαμονὴ
δυσάρεστη δὲν εἶναι, γιατί, ἐννοεῖται,
δὲν πρόκειται νἆναι παντοτεινή.
. . .
. . . τὰ σχέδιά μας 22
ἐπιτυγχάνουν, καὶ τὸν ρίχνουμεν εὐκόλως τὸν Βασίλειο.
Καὶ τότε πιὰ κ’ ἐμᾶς θἄρθ’ ἡ σειρά μας.
3 Nonnus as a Mythical Character: From Fiction Writing to ‘Absolute

Literature’
To start with this final section, we should mention some fictional approaches
to Nonnus from a literary perspective. The influence of Nonnus’ in the twenti-
eth and twenty-first centuries is characterized by a vindication of this poet as
part of a higher literary canon and by some literary reworkings of his life and
work in fiction writing.154 In this sense, the first author to fictionalize the poet
of the Dion., if we do not count Constantine Simonides, was Richard Garnett
(1835–1906), librarian of the British Library. Garnett was an extremely cultivated
man and a voracious reader who worked from 1851, and until his retirement in
1899, at the British Library and Museum. He was the son of another Richard
Garnett (1789–1850), philologist and expert in Celtic linguistics and also librar-
ian at the British Museum. But our Richard Garnett is the first one in a family
dynasty of British writers: his son Edward Garnett was also a fiction writer and
his wife Constance Garnett authored the standard English translations of War
154 Hernández de la Fuente (forthcoming) contains the views on Garnett of the next section.
and Peace and other Russian classics, and his grandson David Garnett is a well-
known fantasy writer. Born in Lichfield, England, the first of the Garnetts wrote
verses such as the book Io in Egypt, and other Poems, the tragedy Iphigenia in
Delphi, essays on Italian and English literature and translations of prose and
verse (also from Greek), but his most famous literary work is the collection of
short stories The Twilight of the Gods (1888), in which one of the most relevant
tales, entitled ‘The Poet of Panopolis’, is devoted to Nonnus. This book enjoyed
great success and was in print for a long time, more than 20 years after its pub-
lication in 1888 and even later on.155 Most likely, Garnett included Nonnus
among his preferred classical readings in the British Library and he decided to
offer an amusing and learned recreation of Nonnus’ life. The plot is as follows:
as the god Apollo visits the world during Late Antiquity something calls his
attention in Egypt. There is a group of demons tempting a hermit, who other-
wise remains stolid until one of the demons challenges the anchorite telling
him that a certain Nonnus has been offered the bishopric of Panopolis. Then
the hermit reacts with anger and decides to return to the world after more than
twenty years of spiritual retreat.
Apollo decides then to visit Nonnus, who has always received his literary
favours, and demands an explanation of why he prefers ‘the mitre to the laurel
chaplet, and the hymns of Gregory to the epics of Homer’.156 Nonnus apolo-
gises and replies that, as a poet himself, Apollo should understand that he is
just looking for the approval of the audience, who is not longer interested in
his masterpiece, the Dion. Then Apollo discovers angrily the rolls of the Par.
But Apollo flees as the city’s governor suddenly interrupts him. Then Nonnus
finds out that the hermit Pachymius has arrived from the desert with a horde
of armed monks in order to claim the see of Panopolis. He challenges Nonnus
to accept a duel with him, a sort of ordeal in which the poet and the hermit
will vie for the bishopric. Apollo, disguised, puts the toughest test to Nonnus:
he should destroy his pagan verses.157 However he cannot burn even one sin-
gle book, although Apollo suggests some of them, 13, 17 or 22, which Nonnus
155 An influential illustrated edition with an introduction by T.E. Lawrence was published
in 1924. The importance of this book in the history of fantasy literature was recognized
by the inclusion of the tales ‘The Poet of Panopolis’ and ‘The City of Philosophers’ in a
celebrated anthology edited by Lin Carter under the title Discoveries in Fantasy, which
was a part of one of the most influential collections of fantasy literature, the Ballantine
Adult Fantasy series, launched in 1969. Cf. Carter (1972) 62–77 (‘The Poet of Panopolis’)
and 78–97 (‘The City of Philosophers’).
156 Carter (1972) 67.
157 Carter (1972) 72.
defends with vigorous arguments: a summary of each book is offered. The poet,
between paganism and Christianity, is presented in his native Thebaid, having
to decide between Dionysus and Saint John. The element of conversion is pres-
ent and the Dion. is considered a product of his time of youthful paganism,
while the more serious Par. would already be dated to the time when Nonnus
became a respectable Christian. But Nonnus prevails and wins the see because
the test of the eremite is too hard for him. This time it is the tempting demon in
disguise who proposes the ordeal: the hermit should agree, much to his horror,
to wash himself.158 Needless to say, the anchorite, after 57 years without wash-
ing himself, cannot accept this test and finally he loses the ecclesiastical posi-
tion. Garnett presents, ultimately, an interesting fictional re-enactment while
he tries to deal with the difficult relation between the Dion. and the Par.: at
the end, according to this fiction, Nonnus will be fated to publish both works,
casting doubts for posterity and in the minds of scholars for centuries to come.
Apart from this recreation, and among other works, Garnett wrote a biogra-
phy of Thomas Love Peacock in 1901 in a book entitled Essays of an Ex-Librarian.
We do not know if Peacock led Garnett to Nonnus, but he also did research on
Shelley and edited some unpublished poems of his (Relics of Shelley, 1862). A
collection of Garnett’s own poems was published in 1893 and in two of them
some Nonnian references could be found:
Age
I will not rail or grieve when torpid eld

Frosts the slow-journeying blood, for I shall see
The lovelier leaves hang yellow on the tree,
The nimbler brooks in icy fetters held.
Methinks the aged eye that first beheld
Pale Autumn in her waning pageantry,
Then knew himself, dear Nature, child of thee,
Marking the common doom, that all compelled.
No kindred we to thy belovèd brods,
If, dying these, we drew a selfish breath;
But one path travel all their multitudes,
And none dispute the solemn voice that saith:
‘Sun to thy setting; to your autumn, woods;
Stream to thy sea; and man unto thy death!’
158 Carter (1972) 74.

Written in Miles’ ‘Poets of the Century’
I saw the youthful singers of my day

To sound of lutes and lyres in morning hours
Trampling with eager feet the teeming flowers,
Bound for Fame’s temple upon Music’s way:
A happy band, a folk of holiday:
But some lay down and slept among the bowers;
Some turned aside to fanes of alien Powers;
Some Death took by the hand and led away.
Now gathering twilight clouds the land with grey,
Yet, where last light is lit, last pilgrims go,
Outlined in gliding shade by dying glow,
And fain with weary fortitude essay
The last ascent. The end is hid, but they
Who follow on my step shall surely know.
The description of autumn in the first two stanzas of Age seems very close
to Nonnus, who repeatedly speaks of this season with a similar expression
(Dion. 3.251, 11.513, 12.21, 17.55, 34.110, etc.). We should recall that Nonnus’
description of the Seasons was often imitated throughout the history of his
reception. On the other hand, in the first stanza of the second poem we may
recognize some Nonnian features: for instance, the expression ‘Trampling with
eager feet’ resembles greatly a Nonnian favourite, e.g. Dion. 25.286 Τερπομένοις
δὲ πόδεσσι . . . ἐχόρευε.
The early years of the twentieth century will represent the takeoff of
Nonnian studies in the field of classical philology, especially with the works
of Chamberlayne (1916), Keydell (1927), Collart (1930) and Stegemann (1930).
To this we may add that the editions by Ludwich (1911) and Keydell (1959) and
the complete translation into German (1933) and English (1940), plus the later
appearance of a lexicon by Peek (1968–1975) all contributed to an important
rise of Nonnian studies. But it is not our role here to draw a history of the
appreciation and criticism of Nonnus in philology.159
In the academic world the influence of Nonnus has also been felt, from this
time on, as a part of the Classics curriculum. The historian Hugh Trevor-Roper
(1914–2002), Lord Dacre of Glanton, provides an anecdote on the inclusion
of Nonnus among the authors studied at Oxford. Trevor-Roper was educated
159 An important landmark in modern Nonnian studies is the French edition and translation
started by Vian (1976) at the Budé Collection. On the development of Nonnian studies
ever since, cf. Lauritzen (2013–2014).
at Christ Church College, Oxford, in the field of classics, but later switched
to modern history. He had no good memories of the Dion.: ‘It was in my sec-
ond year at Oxford—he says—, when I was reading the inexpressibly tedious
Greek epic poem of Nonnus, that I decided to change my subjects from classics
to history. By now, I said to myself, I had read all classical literature worth read-
ing. Why scrape the bottom of the barrel? Nonnus, it seemed to me, was very
near the bottom.’160 Trevor-Roper, intelligence agent during World War II, was
to become Regius Professor of Modern History at Oxford. He would represent
the modern pervivence of the negative view on Nonnus.
Another scholar who approached Nonnus from the field of philosophy was
the American historian of science Giorgio de Santillana (1902–1974), Professor
at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. In his book Reflections on Men
and Ideas (1968), Santillana sees in the Dion. remnants of the powerful archa-
ism of the mythical thought.161 And a year later in his book Hamlet’s Mill (1969),
written in collaboration with Hertha von Dechend, there is an analysis of the
Nonnian description of Phaethon’s myth (Dion. 38.424–431) as a cosmological
episode which tells us much of the power of myth to approach reality.162
Apart from Garnett’s recreation, in the 20th century there is another liter-
ary work based on the fictitious biography of Nonnus of Panopolis. It is a work
of fiction by the German Hellenist and Orientalist Margarete Riemschneider
(1899–1985). Riemschneider, born in Königsberg in 1899, studied art history
and archaeology in Munich and obtained her doctorate in 1923. She wrote some
pioneering articles on Nonnus, generally published, as the rest of her works, in
academic journals of the former German Democratic Republic.163 Her other
dimension, as literary creator, was also attested in a series of historical novels
that enjoyed a certain degree of popularity both in West and East Germany.164
In 1970 she published the novel Im Garten Claudias, dedicated to the life of
Nonnus of Panopolis, which bears as its subtitle Kulturgeschichtlicher Roman
über den letzten großen Dichter der Antike.165
In Riemschneider’s novel Ammonius, purportedly the true name of
Nonnus, is a native of Panopolis, from a humble family, who is a devotee from
his childhood of the god Dionysus and his attendant Pan, patron of his city.
In Alexandria he falls in love with for Claudia, a Roman girl from a wealthly
160 Lloyd-Jones/Pearl/Worden (1981) 358.

161 De Santillana (1968) 281–282.
162 De Santillana/von Dechend (1969) 255–256.
163 Riemschneider (1957) and (1968).
164 Schregel (1991).
165 See Hernández de la Fuente (forthcoming) for an expanded commentary of this novel,
summarized in the following paragraph.
Christian family. She happens to be the sister of a certain Claudianus, who, as

we find out later, is no less than the Latin poet Claudian. The eventful life of
Nonnus, from his pagan origins to his final conversion to Christianity, is nar-
rated in this novel, which places Nonnus’ lifetime in the epoch of Theodosius
the Great and the last years of the Western Empire.166 A prominent role in
the fictional biography is played by general Stilicho and some other main fig-
ures of the time, such as Arcadius, Eutropius, Saint Gregory of Nazianzus, Saint
Jerome and Synesius of Cyrene, are also portrayed by Riemschneider. But the
most notable aspect of the novel is the way the author intertwines the alleged
events of Nonnus’ life with material from diverse episodes of both the Dion.
and the Par. Thus, the novel is full of allusions to given moments in the poet’s
life, encounters, experiences or landscapes, which will produce a certain epi-
sode in Nonnus’ oeuvre. For example, there is a dream suggested by the epi-
sode of Hymnus and Nicaea and a description of the poet’s study stay at the
law school of Berytus.167 There are continuous references to Nonnus’ style and
to the unique and unmistakable character of his epic, which, as we learn, is
gradually shaped on different occasions of the novel. Various style features of
Nonnus, often noticed by scholars, are referred to throughout the story, such
as humour,168 erotism169 and the strong emphasis on ekphrasis, among other
things. Allusions to the Dion. are abundant throughout the novel as, for exam-
ple, when St Gregory’s assistant Agathias berates his friend Nonnus’ poetic
style on a literary discussion, whose most remarkable conclusion is that the
style should be ‘ein Spiegel des Inhalts’.170 By doing so Riemschneider recalls
several scholarly debates about Nonnus presenting her opinions in the shape
of fiction: for example the author deals very interestingly with the question of
the languages of Egypt and the knowledge of Latin by Nonnus.171
As an epilogue to this brief history of the influence of Nonnus in the twenty-
first century, we must mention the work of the Italian writer Roberto Calasso,
who has found in the Dion. a source of inspiration. Two of his works, Le nozze
166 A brief account of the plot and structure of the novel in Hernández de la Fuente (2014c)
69–70.
168 Cf. most recently De Stefani (2011a) and Frangoulis (2011).
169 Martínez Hernández (2008).
170 Riemschneider (1970) 65–68 (65).
171 Riemschneider (1970) 56, 66. In a scholarly article on Nonnus’ style the author wrote:
‘Nonnos schreibt zwar griechisch, das heißt, er verwendet griechische Worte und Formen;
dennoch hat man das Gefühl, als läse man ein stark abgeschliffenes, um nicht zu sagen
schlechtes Latein’ (Riemschneider 1957, 47). She also addresses in the novel the vexata
quaestio of the knowledge of Latin poets (above all Ovid and Vergil, but also Claudian)
by Nonnus. Cf. e.g. Braune (1935) and (1948); D’Ippolito (1964) and (1991); Accorinti
(2013c) 1120.
di Cadmo e Armonia (1988) and La letteratura e gli dèi (2001),172 contain several
allusions to Nonnus. In the former, Calasso recreates the literary universe of
classical mythology reworking some myths of the Dion. in the first two chap-
ters. The book is an attractive mixture of novel and modern mythography, in
which the adventures of gods and heroes of classical mythology are evoked.
Nonnus is present in the recreations of the myth of Erigone and Icarius (Dion.
47.135),173 the story of Ampelus (Dion. 10.339), Pallene, Aura and other myths
only (or best) attested in the Dion. The Italian author also devotes some words
to Nonnus as ‘uno dei più incantevoli enigmi dell’antichità’, a baroque poet
avant la lettre who would have written ‘una summa debordante della paganità’.174
Calasso deals with the riddle of Nonnus’ two apparently contradictory works
and dedicates a few words to his influence upon Giambattista Marino, who
would have showed the ‘gesto supremo di omaggio che uno scrittore possa
dedicare a un altro’: plagiarism.175
In La letteratura e gli dèi, Calasso programmatically defines the ‘absolute
literature’ as that which follows the presence of the Greek gods through-
out the centuries, from classical literature, the Italian painting of the early
Renaissance, the Florence of Poliziano and the work of Marino, until the
foundational age of modern literature between the appearance of the jour-
nal Athenaeum, created by Schlegel and Novalis in 1798, and Mallarmé’s death
in 1898. For Calasso Nonnus’ oeuvre stands as a part of this tradition of ‘sub-
lime literature’ although, as the Italian author says with some exaggeration,
his Nachleben seems mysteriously darkened by a sort of ‘western conspiracy’.176
In spite of that, some exquisite writers, as we have seen, have known the
Dion. and developed a taste for the poetry of Nonnus, up to the twentieth and
twenty-first centuries.177 Finally, we can add that Calasso, in his role as literary
editor of the refined Milanese publishing house Adelphi, has advocated this
same aesthetic conception and proposed to rescue those more obscure works
and artists belonging to what he considers absolute literature in order to rec-
reate a new canon of literati ‘struck by divinity’: his elitist catalogue includes,
evidently, Nonnus of Panopolis,178 no longer a decadent Greco-Egyptian poet,
but rather a select author of Late Antiquity with a remarkable influence upon
his posterity.
172 Calasso (1988) and (2001).

173 Calasso (1988) 49 ff., 57, passim.
174 Calasso (1988) 369–372 (369).
175 Calasso (1988) 371.
176 Cf. Calasso (2001) 61.
177 Giorgio Manganelli is another select example. Cf. Agosti (1995b) and Gonnelli (2003) 39.
178 Del Corno (1997–2005).
figure 7.11 Engraving by Crispijn van de Passe. Claude Boitet de Frauville, Les Dionysiaques
ou Les Voyages, les amours, et les conquestes de Bacchus aux Indes. Traduites
du grec de Nonnus Panopolitain. À Paris, chez Robert Foüet, 1625, before the
frontispiece. Real Biblioteca de Madrid VIII/10936.
figure 7.12 Engraving by Crispijn van de Passe. Claude Boitet de Frauville, Les Dionysiaques
ou Les Voyages, les amours, et les conquestes de Bacchus aux Indes.
Traduites du grec de Nonnus Panopolitain. À Paris, chez Robert Foüet, 1625,
last unnumbered page before page 1. Real Biblioteca de Madrid VIII/10936.
figure 7.13 Engraving by Pieter de Bailliu and Johannes Meyssens after Abraham
Jansz van Diepenbeeck, Daphne (Nonnus, Dion. 42.388b, 390). Michel de
Marolles, Tableaux du temple des muses; tirez du Cabinet de feu Mr.
Favereau . . .; avec les descriptions, remarques & annotations composées
par Mre Michel de Marolles Abbé de Villeloin (Amsterdam: Abraham
Wolfgank, 1676). Figure XIII (opposite page 98).
figure 7.14 Nicolas Poussin, Landscape with a Man Pursued by a

Snake. The Montreal Museum of Fine Arts, inv. no. 1975.15.
figure 7.15 Nicolas Poussin, Landscape with a Snake. London, National Gallery.
figure 7.16
Nicolas Poussin, Bacchus-Apollo.
Stockholm, Nationalmuseum.
figure 7.17 Nicolas Poussin, Birth of Bacchus. Cambridge, MA, Fogg Art Museum.
figure 7.18 Nicolas Poussin, Dance of the Human Life. London, Wallace Collection.
figure 7.19 Claude Lorrain, Landscape with Bacchus at the Palace of the Dead
Staphylus. Rome, Pallavicini Collection.
figure 7.20 Noël-Nicolas Coypel, Enlèvement d’Europe. Philadelphia

Museum of Art, inv. no. 1978.160.1.
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General Index
This index is not exhaustive, and is intended to provide the reader with a useful guide to what
has been deemed most noteworthy in the different chapters of the volume. Although the
selection is generally based on the contributors’ suggestions, the Editor has attempted to follow
the sound advice of Henry B. Wheatley (How to Make an Index, London, 1902, 122): ‘Whatever
plan is followed, the indexer must use his judgment. This ought to be the marked characteristic
of the good indexer. The bad indexer is entirely without this great gift.’
Abate, Niccolò dell’ 704, 716 Agathias 38, 354

Abegg-Stiftung (Riggisberg) 40 n. 105, 465, Cycle of 668 n. 120, 694
469, 470, 645 n. 6 and Nonnus 29–30, 586 (and n. 35),
Abram, Nicolas 308 n. 1, 704 673–674, 694–695, 702
Accorinti, Domenico 84–85, 86, 364, 682 ap 1.44 586
Achaian seaman 174 ap 1.45 588
Achilles 157–158 Histories 29–30, 216 n. 6, 257 n. 76,
and Dionysus see s.v. 673–674, 694–695, 702
and Penthesileia 45 Agave 108, 122, 178, 200, 400, 490, 629
shield of 426, 445, 447, 454, 458, 540–541, Agenor 124
542, 545 agon 406, 407, 409–411
Achilles Tatius 144, 166, 187 n. 28, 447, 453 Agosti, Gianfranco 31, 173, 289, 440–441, 451,
discovery of Tyrian purple 36, 549, 464, 620, 639–640, 642
568–569 Agrius Ptolemaeus (Egyptian poet) 56, 73,
and Nonnus 144 (and n. 74), 146 n. 86, 74
166, 447, 453 (and n. 44), 549–573 Agustín, Antonio 723
Achmimic Coptic 67 Aion (Αἰών) 122, 165, 321, 473, 631–633,
Actaeon 174, 406, 711 634 n. 26, 640–642
and Aura 149 birth of 610
as Christ 45 spelling of 610–611
death of 414–415 Ajax the Locrian 501
retains human consciousness in animal Akhmim see Panopolis
form 210 Alcinous
Acts of John 664 palace of 444, 570 n. 92, 571 n. 97
history of Drusiana and Callimachus 45 Alexandria 59–60, 68, 69
Adler, Ada 21 auditoria of Kom el-Dikka 58
Adonis Claudian’s native city 28–29
Assyrian 162, 180 Koreion 610
father of Beroe 417 in Late Antiquity 31, 54–55, 57–58, 61–63,
Adrados, Francisco R. 726 69, 71, 76–78, 83 n. 35, 654, 657, 740
Aeacus 154–155 μαρτύριον of John and Elisha 652
plays the role of Achilles 157–158 Alfieri, Vittorio 730
Aelius Aristides 427 n. 21, 430 n. 42 allegory
Aeneas of Gaza 38 in late antique poetry 434–435
Aeschylus 127 n. 10, 518 n. 30, 722 Neoplatonic and Christian 166 (and
Edones 438 n. 83 n. 48)
Persae 391 see also ecphrasis/ekphrasis
General Index 833
alphabet, invention of the Greek 12–15, 492, Antioch 464

634 n. 30, 648 Antipater of Sidon 353
Alpus 138–139, 173, 185, 188, 732 n. 108 Apameia on the Orontes, epigraphical
modelled onto Typhoeus 139 nn. 53–54 epigram from 694
altar, in Jerusalem and at Mount Apate 165–166
Gerizim 344 Aphrodite 135, 138, 140 n. 57, 148–149, 167,
Ambrosia (Bacchante) 163 170, 180, 194, 395, 417–418, 420, 438,
catasterism 130 (and n. 21) 454–456, 508, 513, 515, 518, 520–521, 523,
and Lycurgus 132 n. 29, 156, 397 555–556, 558–559, 562, 566–568, 571,
Amelius (disciple of Plotinus) 243, 604, 617 632, 636 n. 36
Ammon Scholasticus 62–63, 72–74 birth of 150 (and n. 104), 418–419
Ammonius (philosopher, the son of consults the tablets of Harmonia 134,
Hermias) 244, 427 165
alleged author of the Paraphrase 605– Cythereia 87
606, 677–680 Dionysus’ guide 164
attitude to Christianity 606 disguised as Peisinoe 207 n. 71
Ampelus 85, 87, 120, 124, 133–134, 178–179, disguised as Peitho 160 n. 27, 162
181, 186, 525–528, 555, 557–558, and Eros 547
590–599 girdle of 514–515
compared to Hylas 527 and Harmonia 444, 449, 546, 585 n. 34
Ovid’s version of his death 179 n. 14 and Hephaestus 546
see also metamorphosis; resurrection (and mother of Beroe 417
afterlife); serpent mythological character 172
Amphion 458 necklace of 546–547
Amymone 175, 180, 419 and Paris 398 n. 75
see also Beroe in Sappho 514
Anacreontea 454–455 weaving contest 191, 496, 498
Anastasius Quaestor 697 Apion 92
Anatolius of Stoudios (the Studite) 698 Apocalypse of Peter 62
Andres, Stefan, Die Versuchung des Apollinarius of Laodicea 218, 603–604, 692
Synesios 16 n. 14 Apollo 411, 418, 420, 630–631, 639
ANDRIKEPAIDOTHYRSON (cult at Delphi 520
epithet) 103 (and n. 40) and Hyacinthus 133, 448
Andromache 489, 583–584 Apollodorus 177–178 n. 10, 659–660
Andromeda, catasterism 130 (and n. 25), prefatory poem to the Library 659 (and
203 n. 77)
Annas (high priest) 291 n. 11, 347 Apollon (poet, Ammon Scholasticus’
Anonymus Placentinus 649 nephew) 62, 72, 74
Anthologia Palatina 299, 393 n. 58, 397 n. 72, Apollonius of Rhodes 159 n. 26, 170 n. 59,
400, 453 n. 47, 650, 658 n. 71, 659 n. 77, 356, 366 n. 87, 373, 376–377 (and
668 n. 120, 672, 674 n. 16, 692, 696–698 nn. 29–30), 382, 384 n. 35, 395, 399, 485,
Anthon, Charles, A Classical 509, 511, 514–521, 537 n. 44, 546, 551
Dictionary 39–40 ‘divided allusion’ 512 (and n. 18)
anti-idyll 406 female gaze 519
Antimachus of Colophon 485 and Nonnus 515–516, 551, 612
Antinoopolis 66, 71, 83, 467 n. 34 paraformularity 373 n. 9
‘Antinoë veil’ 469 and Sappho 517–518
Tomb of Theodosia 468 use of rare Homerisms 510
834 General Index
Apollonius of Rhodes (cont.) Athos (Mount) 509

Argonautica 4.57–58, scholion to Atlas 488
517 n. 28 Atropus 592, 594–599
Apollonius of Tyana 65, 251, 608 Attis 156, 399, 429, 541, 631
Apuleius, and Callimachus 507–508 n. 2 Augustine of Hippo 243, 262
Arabic Diatessaron 294 n. 18 Aura 96, 109, 120–121, 123–125, 127 (and
Arator 219 nn. 9–11), 131–132, 140 n. 57, 143, 154
Aratus 357, 366 n. 87 (and n. 11), 157, 181, 194, 195 n. 13, 197,
Phaenomena 26, scholion to 540 200, 202 (and n. 47), 205, 207 n. 71, 209,
(and n. 55) 250, 391, 399, 499, 544, 556–557, 563,
Arcadius (Emperor) 230 566–567, 570 n. 91, 590, 627 n. 3, 711, 718,
Ares 164–165, 185, 187 726 (and n. 69), 727, 747
Indian 397 and Actaeon 149
Arguijo, Juan de 725 compared with Procne 178
Ariadne 122, 185, 462, 467, 472, 556–557, 567 and Nicaea 109 n. 63, 121, 149 n. 98, 150,
catasterism 127, 203, 590 n. 53 205, 250 (and n. 44), 557, 563, 567
and the Virgin Mary 87 and the Virgin Mary 250
Aristaeus 45, 192 Ausonius 38
culture hero 124 Austin, Norman 175
Aristophanes 66 authenticity
Aristotle 154 (and n. 9), 434 in the Christian world 254–255
Arnobius 94 in connection with Christ and
Arsinoe 507 Dionysus 252–253
art, late antique 208, 460–475 in the Dionysiac world 254
see also Egyptian textiles; mosaics; pottery implications in Nonnus 251–252, 258,
and silverware 262
Artemis 558–559, 564, 566–567 terminology 254
Asclepiades (son of Horapollon Sr.) 72, 74 see also faith; truth
Asclepiodotus 76 Autonoe 122, 210, 398, 414–415
Asclepius, healings of 251, 608, 622 Averincev, Sergej, and Nonnian poetry
Assyria 121, 123, 508 432–433, 440, 658
Astacis (Lake), transformation of water into Avitus of Vienne, paraphrase of the Old
wine 216–217, 249–250 Testament 220
Asterius 158–159
Asteropaeus 157 n. 17 Babrius 361–362
Astraeus (astronomer) 165, 508, 631 Bacchae 83, 499 n. 44
Astyanax 489 Muses 430
Ate, personification of folly 164, 707 Bacchant(e)s passim
Athanasius (brother of Paralius) 76 and the Passion of Christ 45–46
Athanasius (governor of the Thebaid) 83 Bacchus see Dionysus
Athena 473, 513, 564 Barrett, Charles K. 293, 296
birth of 176, 181 Barrett Browning, Elizabeth 1, 736
and Dionysus see s.v. Barrie, James Matthew, Sir, and Peter
Pallas 87 Pan 205–206 n. 65
weaving contest 191 Basil of Caesarea 596 n. 73, 612
Athens Basileios Megalomytes 618
entry of Dionysus into 86, 88, 217 Baumgarten-Crusius, Ludwig Friedrich
Neoplatonic Academy 247, 605 Otto 297–298
General Index 835
Bawit, South Church 466 John 45, 87 n. 54, 105 n. 49, 221–222, 223

Bede (St) 369 n. 108 (and n. 49), 224 (and n. 52), 225–226,
Beirut see Berytus 228, 230–238, 241, 245, 249, 251–253,
believing 255, 257–262, 264, 267–288, 289 n. 5,
in Christ 255–256 290, 291 n. 11, 292–298, 302, 309–321,
faith and 260 323–325, 335–336, 340–341, 343, 346,
and seeing 259–260 348–349, 358 n. 34, 359 n. 39, 589,
Belus (Staphylus’ grandfather) 187 593–596, 608–609, 613–616, 619, 623,
Bembo, Giovanni 703 637 (and n. 43), 640 n. 52, 641, 649,
Bentley, Richard 651–652, 663, 666
his criticism of Nonnus, ‘a very ordinary Acts 219, 344 n. 94
Poet’ 35, 683–684, 732 1 Cor 325, 347
Dissertation upon the Epistles of 2 Cor 347, 624
Phalaris 34–36 Heb 347
Berenice (Egyptian queen) 507 see also Gospels; John’s Gospel
Bernabé, Alberto 7 biblical poetry
Beroe (city/nymph) 143, 175, 180–181, aim and relevance 247
419–420, 556–557, 559–562, 567, context 264–265
633 origins of 602–604
account of its foundation 190 paraphrase and 265–266
birth of 181, 417 bilingualism 55, 67
see also Amymone; Berytus Binni, Walter 422, 441
Berytus 25, 38, 68, 123, 165, 489, 569 n. 87, Bion, Epitaph 406 n. 30
570 n. 88 Blass, Friedrich 294
etymology 417 n. 75 Blemmyes 31, 68, 654–657
law school 27, 30–31, 68, 417, 626–627, Blemys 31, 655–656
639, 746 Bodmer, Johann Jacob 731
metropolis 30 Boethius, Consolatio philosophiae 43
named after Beroe 134, 148 n. 97 Bogner, Hans 38, 42, 95, 594 n. 66
Roman colony 27 Boitet de Frauville, Claude 711, 718, 724
see also Beroe Bonet, Juan Pablo 726
Besa 67, 72, 74 book, imagery of 658–659
Life of Shenoute 64, 74, 656 Bordatus, Ioannes (Jean Bordat) 683
Bethany 220–222, 226–227, 230, 232, 595 n. Boreas 146–147, 167, 171, 410, 552 n. 29,
71, 596, 598, 649 n. 29 631 n. 20
Bevegni, Claudio 18 Botrys 191, 415
Bible ‘Bunch’ 122, 163, 416
Ps 615, 624, 635 n. 35, 639, 692 Bowersock, Glen W. 40 n. 107, 83 n. 35, 472,
Prov 318 n. 25, 602 580, 590, 645
Jl 258 Braden, Gordon 144 n. 77, 207 n. 74, 406,
Is 258 439 n. 94
Ezek 258 Braswell, Bruce 175
Amos 346 Brebiette, Pierre 718–719
Matthew 87 n. 54, 222, 229 n. 67, 581 n. Brongus 135 n. 42, 155, 415, 570
20, 586 (and n. 37), 635 n. 35 major character (?) 154
Mark 87 n. 54 Brontes (Cyclops) 169
Luke 45, 87 n. 54, 97 n. 18, 220 n. 37, 222, ‘bastard Zeus’ 140
271 n. 23, 581 n. 20, 585–589, 623 Brown, Peter 77, 645 n. 5, 650 n. 31, 663
836 General Index
Browning, Robert 736 Calypso 233

Buchanan, Georges 38–39 Cameron, Alan 25–26, 28, 34, 43, 75, 77–82,
Buhle, Johann Gottlieb 731 85–86, 95–96, 123, 304–305, 306 n. 86,
Bull, Malcolm 719 578, 594, 604 n. 9, 666, 692, 696–697
Burges, George 736 Camilleri, Andrea 1–2
Butrus al-Hakim al-Akhmimi 70, 73–74 Inspector Montalbano 1
Buxton, Richard 133 Camillo, Giulio 716
Campe 142, 187, 400
Cadmus 11–15, 97–98, 124, 129, 143–144, female counterpart of Typhoeus 141
162–163, 174, 182 (and n. 19), 406–412, Candido, Pietro 703
414, 428, 453, 456, 481–482, 486, Canis Minor (constellation) 177
488–490, 495, 503, 511–512, 514–515, Canter, Willem 705, 716
520–522, 533, 543, 554, 570 n. 92, 585 Capernaum 291
(and n. 34), 627, 629, 631 n. 17, 634 n. 30, Caprara, Mariangela 334, 348
648, 704, 707, 716 Caragounis, Chrys 295
and Byzas 651 n. 36 Carpus 133 n. 33, 148, 153, 173, 178, 185–186,
and Danaus 13–15 190, 524, 591
and Dionysus 492 Carteromachus/Carteromaco see
and Europa 543, 702 Forteguerri, Scipione
wanderings of 173, 177, 518 Carvounis, Katerina 530–531
wedding to Harmonia 160 n. 27, 522, 546, Cassiopeia 130, 467, 474
547 n. 79, 626 Ethiopian queen 473
Caiaphas (Jewish high priest) 221, 291 n. 11 Castalia (spring) 35, 262 n. 99, 630 n. 16,
depicted like Ctesippus 244 634 n. 30, 635 n. 32, 637 n. 44
Calamus 133 n. 33, 148, 153, 173, 178, 185–186, catasterism 127, 130–131, 145, 177, 179 n. 14
190, 391, 524, 591 dogs 122
Calasso, Roberto 15, 522, 746–747 example of otherworldly, ascensionist
Calatayud, Francisco de 723, 725 hopes 203
Calderón, Juan Antonio 725 Catullus 508 n. 2
Calderón de la Barca, Pedro 729 Carmen 66 512
Callimachus 102 (and n. 37), 353, 356, 365 Cavafy, Constantine P. 740–741
n. 82, 373, 377 n. 30, 380, 388, 493, Cavallo, Guglielmo 659
507 ff., 626 Cave, Edward, The Gentleman’s
hexameter of 353 Magazine 39
and Nonnus 236 n. 100, 429, 507 ff., 588, Cecropes 97
612 Celeus 191
‘presque homérique’ 373 Celsus 251
Aetia 183, 358, 493, 507–509, 512, centaurs, in Late Antiquity 141 n. 63
535–536 centos
Epigrams 301, 527 (and n. 56) Homeric 218, 230
Hecale 236 n. 100, 537 n. 44 Virgilian 219, 229–230
Hymn to Apollo 164 n. 43, 543 (and n. 69) Cephalus 385
Hymn to Artemis 581 (and n. 19) Chalcedon (Council of) 31, 246, 269,
Hymn to Demeter 367 680 n. 42
Hymn to Delos 358, 388–389, 588 (and Chalcomede 120, 143, 144 n. 76, 146, 149,
n. 41) 155 n. 12, 167, 205, 391, 395, 398, 493,
Hymn to Zeus 509, 537 n. 43 547, 550 n. 13, 555, 556 n. 45, 568
Iambus 12 522–523 catasterism 203
Lock of Berenice 508–510, 512 see also Morrheus
General Index 837
Chaldean Oracles 438 nn. 85–86, 618–620 Christodorus of Coptos 247, 393 n. 58,

characterisation/characterization (in 400 n. 80, 434 n. 67, 605, 681,
Nonnus) 97 n. 18, 156–157, 160, 162–163, 694 n. 23
172, 492, 508, 527, 554–556, 563 description of the statues in the Baths of
in disguise 159–163 Zeuxippus 456 n. 51, 464, 693
key function vs. argument function 162 Christology
silent character(s) 155 ‘Affektlosigkeit Christi’ 325 n. 41
speaking character(s) 155 Christological disputation 228
Chariton 391, 568 Father-Son 316–317
Charles V of France 722 filioque 323–324
Charles IX of France 715–716 Holy Spirit 321–322
Cheiron 142 Logos 310, 312, 314, 318
Choricius of Gaza 38 narrative 309, 324–325
Chrétien, Gisèle 393 soteriology 309, 471
Christ, Jesus passim subordination 316
baby 474, 589 terminology 308
birth of 586, 589 Theologia mythica 309
as both priest and sacrifice 347–350 Chronos 99, 610, 632–633, 634 n. 26
Bridegroom 338 Chrysopolitissa Basilica (Cyprus), inscription
Christus triumphans 253 quoting John 15:1 252
crucifixion 347–350, 697 Chuvin, Pierre 6, 43, 81, 95, 106–107, 457,
and Dionysus see s.v. 508–509, 580, 644–645, 647
disciples of 221–222, 224, 231, 234 Cipelli, Govanni Battista (Egnazio) 703
in Eudocia 231–234 Ciriaco D’Ancona 676–677
excites Bacchic frenzy 339–341 cista mystica 463
and Hermes 84–85, 88, 608–609, Cithairon 490
657 n. 63 Claudian 28, 38, 96, 142 n. 68, 353, 672, 734
and Icarius see s.v. and Alexandria 28–29
in Juvencus 223–226, 231 avoids elision 361 n. 56
meaning of the name 586 n. 37 images of water in 209
mediator of the New Covenant 347 and Nonnus 28, 139, 142 n. 68, 500 n. 46,
as ‘mother and father’ 584 746 n. 171
as mystagogue 332, 342 Carmina minora 19 28–29, 650 n. 34
in Nonnus 234–239 Carmina minora 22 28–29
Paschal Lamb 347 De raptu Proserpinae 28
polymorphous god 254 Gigantomachy (Greek) 28, 139, 500 n. 46
resurrection of 221, 225, 229 Laudes Stilichonis 632
and the Samaritan woman 257, 261, 271, Claudius Marius Victorinus, Alethia 220
320–321, 335, 343–350 Clement of Alexandria 43 n. 116, 94, 252,
in Sedulius 226–229, 239 331–332, 336–338, 345, 350, 584
tears of 595–599 mystery terminology in 331–332
as Theoclymenus 230 n. 76 quotes Eur. Bacch. 470–472 336–337
two natures of 228, 233, 239 Paedagogus 584 (and n. 27)
Christian Protrepticus 342
meaning of the term 79 Stromateis 337, 342
poets 219, 271 n. 23 Clitophon 554, 555, 556 nn. 46 and 48,
Christianity 558–560, 570–571
early Jewish 637 Clymene 149 n. 100, 208
and paganism in Late Antiquity 76–79 Colchis 512, 521, 627 n. 5
838 General Index
Collart, Paul 189, 393 Cyprian, Latin Heptateuch 220

Colluthus 373, 377 nn. 29–30, 380 n. 32, Cyril of Alexandria 32, 66, 244 ff., 271, 280,
388 n. 43, 393 n. 58, 398 n. 75, 531 n. 12, 298 n. 37, 333, 350, 604, 652
693 Christology 347
and Hesiod 494 mystery terminology in 332–333
metrics of 354 n. 7 and Nonnus 31, 69, 84–85, 215–216, 235,
and Nonnus 112 n. 5, 398 n. 75, 693 239, 243–246, 248, 269, 271, 280, 289,
Colodrero de Villalobos, Miguel 729 291 n. 11, 293 n. 17, 296 n. 31, 305–306,
Cometas Grammaticus 697 333, 347, 349, 594–599, 652, 654 n. 53,
Conan (astronomer) 508 666
confessionalism 308 (and n. 1) Commentary on the Gospel of John 31, 69,
Constantine (Emperor) 63, 219 84–85, 215–216, 235–239, 243, 245, 269
Constantine VII Porphyrogenitus 699 (and n. 12), 289, 291–293, 295–297,
Constantine X 20 305–306, 346, 349, 594–599, 614,
Constantine the Sicilian 697 623 n. 71, 654 n. 53, 666
Constantinople 63, 66–68, 71, 218, 648, 650, Commentary on the Twelve Prophets
674, 681 n. 52, 691–692, 695, 738 292 n. 13
Ammonius visited the city 606 Cyrus of Panopolis 24, 43 n. 119, 63, 67–69,
Baths of Zeuxippus 464, 693 72, 74, 80–81, 82 nn. 28–29
Constantinus Cephalas 681 (and n. 52) bishop of Cotyaeum 68, 80
Constantinus Manasses 700 consul in Constantinople 67, 80
Coptic see Achmimic Coptic; Sahidic and Nonnus’ chronology 29, 69, 269
Coptic n. 12, 667, 692
Corybantes 140 n. 59
Cotroneo, Roberto 1 Damascius 69, 91, 98 n. 23
Cotyaeum 68, 80 Life of Isidorus 74
Covarrubias, Antonio de 722, 726 Damasen (giant) 105–106, 140
Crater, ‘Mixer’ 122 Damiani, Guglielmo Felice 95
Creuzer, Georg Friedrich 731 Danae 132, 143, 170
Crisipus 92 Danaus 13–15
Ctesippus 244 Dance of the Savior (Coptic text) 664
cult(s) Daphnis and Chloe 562–563
Christian 334 Dardanus 181 (and n. 18), 627, 634 n. 26
of Diana at Crete 702 Darmarios, Andreas 723
Dionysiac/Bacchic 217 n. 15, 247, 328, Daszewski, Wictor A. 40–41, 474
332, 336, 342 n. 86, 345, 349 n. 111, 462, Dechend, Hertha von 745
474, 626, 709 Deckers, John G. 41
of Isis at Alexandria 652 Deiphobus 158 n. 22, 160
of Jesus’ footprints 652 Delphi 626, 630, 632, 637–638, 639 n. 48
Jewish/Judaic 335, 343, 345, 350 Delphis 521
Samothracian 328 n. 3 Demeter 99, 101, 109, 148, 165, 174, 191, 503
of Zeus Ampeleites 647 n. 15 and Dionysus 100
Cunaeus, Petrus (Peter van der Kun) 35, ‘Egyptian’ 129
678, 684, 706–709 her sorrow in Euripides’ Helen 508
Cupid(s) 146 (and n. 85) Demodocus, song of 57, 191, 496 n. 40
Curtius, Ernst Robert 738–739 Demophon 101
Cybele, identified with Rhea 100 Demotic 55–56, 59
Cyclop(e)s 120, 140, 169–170 Deo 100 n. 30, 191, 194, 328, 503
General Index 839
Deriades (Indian king) 119 n. 22, 120, 131, 135 Bacchus 455, 462, passim
(and n. 41), 136–137, 139–140, 142, 152, bath (first) of 469–470
155, 157 n. 17, 158–159, 194–195, 204, birth of 111–112, 150, 176, 469, 581–584,
210, 397, 484, 493, 496–497, 499, 587, 589–590
655 and Cadmus 492
as Hector 158 n. 22, 160 catasterism 203
De Stefani, Claudio 279, 297 n. 33, 302, 692, and Christ 40–43, 85–86, 107, 134 n. 37,
696, 698, 700 247, 262–263, 269, 577–600, 709,
Dhu’l-Nun al-Misri (‘the Egyptian’) 70, passim
72–74 Chthonius 329
Diamante, Juan Bautista 729 converting the Indians 117
diatribe 58 deification of 117
didaskalos 58 and Demeter 100
Didyma 630 n. 15, 637 (and n. 42) entry into Athens 217
Didymus the Blind, De Trinitate 298 (and entry into Thebes 86
n. 37) failures 120–121
Dihle, Albrecht 306 n. 89 fight with Pallene 120
Dijkstra, Jitse H.F. 6 Gigantomachy 120
Diller, Aubrey 676, 677 n. 32 half-complete 112
Dilley, Paul 664 and Heracles 117, 129, 194, 201
Dindymon, aition 127 n. 10 and Hermes 586 n. 34, 474
Diocletian 57, 63, 65, 444 hero 120
Diomedes 155, 158, 487 hybrid 141
Dionysiac passim keeper of justice 188
dance 196–197, 329–330, 342 (and n. 86), Liber-Sol 427
445 life of 469–470, 472
frenzy as metaphor 331, 337, 350 as a literary creation 43, 578
imagery 461–464, 470–474 in love 552, 557–568
myth and ritual 463 Lyaeus (Λυαῖος) 455, 595 n. 70
processions 464, 467–469, 471–472, 474 meaning of the name 586 n. 37
sacred account/history 107–108 military behaviours 114
see also Christ, Jesus; cult(s); Dionysus; miraculous healings 134
Jewish festivals; Marriage at Cana; missionary 122
mysteries as Nemesis 121
Dionysius, Bassarica 158–159, 530 n. 10 paradoxical arms of 119, 137 (and n. 47)
Dionysius the Areopagite 432 passivity 195
Dionysius Periegetes 21, 23, 369, 530 n. 10, and Perseus 3, 117, 130, 170 (and n. 59),
548 428
Dionysius the Studite 698 polymorphous god 254
Dionysus passim and Poseidon 169, 180, 194, 395, 417–418,
and Achilles 157 n. 16, 158 n. 22, 160 482, 499, 556, 559
androginy and effeminacy 136 n. 44, 138, redemptive role of 40–43, 97 n. 18, 107,
194 n. 6 129, 134, 254, 468, 503, 542 n. 65, 579 n.
apotheosis 115 n. 11, 121, 126–130, 168 n. 8, 594 n. 68, 639
54, 499 resistance to 135–143
and Aristaeus 124 and Rhea 108, 120, 168 n. 54, 179
and Athena 176 ridiculous appearance 138 n. 50
baby 474 shape-shifter 3, 131–132
840 General Index
Dionysus (cont.) ecphrasis/ekphrasis 114, 184, 192, 385, 388,

shield of 86 n. 50, 105–107, 140, 153, 184, 549, 551–552, 662
429, 445–448, 457–459, 492, 498, 500, and allegory 540–542
538–543, 548, 661, 720 and descriptive narrative 447–449
snake of 463–464 and didacticism 538, 540, 542
sorcerer 137 focalization 455
struck with madness 121 generic enrichment 451–452
symbol of hope 134 n. 40 in Homer
takes no part in Homer’s poems 176 the cup of Nestor 444
trickster 137 the palace of Alcinous 444
triumph of 469, 475 the palace of Menelaus 444
troops of 120 the robe fashioned by
twice-born 112 Helen 444–445
and Typhoeus 142 the shield of Achilles see Achilles
union with Aura 123–124 in Nonnus (Dionysiaca)
and visual arts 455, 461–475, 718–721 the city of Beirut 445, 451–452, 455
wanderings of 122 the city of Tyre 445, 450, 453, 455
world of 460–461, 463, 465, 468–471, the garment woven by Harmonia
474–475 444
worldwide diffusion of vine and Harmonia’s necklace 444, 446, 449,
wine 122 457
and Zeus 127 inscribed arrows 445, 449
with Zeus, Apollo, and Hermes 113 the palace of Electra 444, 451, 453,
see also Olympus (Mount) 662 (and n. 89)
Dioscorus of Aphrodite 58, 62, 67, 69, the palace of Staphylus 444, 446, 449
76 n. 3, 82–83, 85, 88, 354, 609 n. 33, 695 the shield of Dionysus see Dionysus
classicizing and Christian elements in his the silver mixing-bowl 444
petitions 83 n. 34 education
epithalamium for Isak 83 and audience 264–265
Dioscuri 473 in Late Antiquity 247
D’Ippolito, Gennaro 6, 123, 152, 163, 298, 300, and poetry 265–266
436 Egeria, Itinerarium 649
divine man (θεῖος ἀνήρ) 320 Egypt
Dorat (D’Aurat), Jean Dinemandi 704–705, archaeology 58
715–716 churches 62
Doris 42, 167, 169, 474 Coptic art and culture 645, 653
Doroszewski, Filip 249 funerary buildings 464
Dracontius 38, 96 games 60
the role of myth in 45 language 55
Drepanius Pacatus 78–79, 84 late antique 5, 6, 25, 54 ff., 75 ff., 464,
drunkenness, half-done at Marriage at passim
Cana 338–339 monasticism 64, 66
see also Jewish festivals names (personal) 56, 61–62
Duc, Paul 715 priests 55, 59, 62 (and n. 33), 63, 72
Duccio di Buoninsegna, Maestà 369–370 taxation 71
Dupuis, Charles-François 721 temples 58–59
Upper 23, 31, 54, 55–59, 66, 71, 503
Earth vineyards 65, 69
cult of the 105 see also Egyptian textiles; Nonnus of
Mother 99 Panopolis; Panopolis; White Monastery
General Index 841
Egyptian textiles 68, 463, 465–467, 469–470, Eratosthenes 357

474, 477 Erechtheus 154–155, 191
‘Antinoë veil’ (Louvre) 469, 474, 477 (Fig. Erichtho, in Lucan 229
4.5) Eridanus 189
Dionysiac wall hanging (Riggisberg, Erigone
Abegg-Stiftung) 465, 467, 469–470, catasterism 177, 203, 590 n. 53
476 (Fig. 4.4) and Icarius 121–122, 177, 203, 570 n. 91,
Museé National du Moyen Âge-Thermes 590 n. 53, 747
de Cluny (Paris) 463 Eris 129 n. 16, 160 n. 28
tapestry (Boston, Museum of Fine disguised as Rhea 128
Arts) 466 Eros 152, 164, 185–186, 515, passim
tapestry (Washington, dc, Dumbarton Dionysus’ guide 164
Oaks Collection) 470, 477 (Fig. 4.6) mythological character 172
textile fragment (Cleveland, Museum of paradoxical birth of 150 (and n. 104)
Art) 467 eros/love 143–151
textile with Dionysiac themes (New York, Estienne, Henri 38–39
Metropolitan Museum of Art) 470 Ethiopia 572–573
Electra 130, 395 n. 68, 465, 488, 585–586, ethopoeia 114, 144 n. 75, 148 n. 95, 162,
634 n. 26 376 n. 25, 529, 549, 663, 672–673
see also ecphrasis/ecphrasis Etymologicum Magnum
Eleusis quotes a few lines from the
mysteries 42, 328, 349 n. 111 Dionysiaca 699
Telesterion 328–329 source for the rape of Aura 127 n. 10
Elizabeth of Austria 715–716 Eudemus 98 n. 23
Elsner, Jaś 450, 457 Eudocia, Aelia (Augusta, wife of
Elton, Charles Abraham 735 Theodosius II) 17–18, 667
Emmel, Stephen 65 biblical epics 218
enargeia 650 Homeric centos 218, 219, 220, 280
Enaton monastery (Egypt) 76 influence of Proba on 229–230
Encomium on Heraclius of Edessa (P.S.I. III Lazarus story 230–234, 239
253), influenced by Nonnus’ poetry 30 use of Homer 231–233
encyclopedism 664 Life (or Martyrdom) of St Cyprian of
Endymion 511–512, 516, 518 Antioch 17–18, 218 n. 26, 219, 280,
Eos 386, 387 (and n. 41), 388, 571 (and n. 95), 605
631 n. 20 Paraphrase of the Octateuch 17–18, 218,
Erigeneia 385 280, 603
Eparchos, Antonios 723 Paraphrase of the prophets Zachariah and
Ephesus (Council of) 17 n. 15, 31, 66 Daniel 17–18, 218, 280, 603
Ephraim, city near the desert 221 Eudocia Macrembolitissa (Empress, wife of
Ephrem the Syrian 271 Constantine X) 20
epic Eudoxia, Aelia (Augusta, wife of
Bacchic 703 Arcadius) 229 n. 68
biblical 84, 215–239 Eunapius 659 n. 75
Epic Cycle 482 predilection of the Egyptians for
Ilias parva 389 poetry 69
epigram Euphorion 102, 356
sepulchral 412–414, 416 and Nonnus 357 (and n. 30)
votive 416 Euripides
Epiphanius, Panarion 610 and Nonnus 558 n. 53, 559 n. 58
842 General Index
Euripides (cont.) februum 467

Bacchae 135–136, 142 n. 65, 336–337, 393, Fee, Gordon D. 265 n. 114
438 n. 83 462, 490, 522 n. 42 Filelfo, Francesco 701
Cyclops 732 Flavian (Virius Nicomachus Flavianus) 78
Electra 518 Flavius Philostratus 423
Helen 508 (and n. 9), 518 Vita Apollonii 581
Hippolytus 559 n. 58 Formentin, Mariarosa 21
Ion 590 n. 49, 626, 630 n. 16, 639 n. 48 formularity (in Nonnus) 125 (and n. 1),
Iphigenia in Tauris 626 372–401
Phaethon 438 n. 83, 732 adonean clausula formula 375, 377 n.
Eurynome 632, 633 n. 24 29, 386 n. 39, 388–391, 393–395,
Europa 144–148, 174 397–400
abduction of 146–147, 447, 470, 551–553 conventional 372–373, 375
paradoxical gendering 147 dawn formulas 385–388
velificans 146 n. 87 distich formula 385
Zeus’ master 145 first-hemistich formula 375, 383–384,
Eusebius of Caesarea 243, 603, 604 n. 13 390–391 (and n. 49), 394, 396, 398
Eustathius, archbishop of fixed epithets 375
Thessalonica 21–23, 674, 678, 699–700 monoverbal formulas 372 n. 4, 386–387
author of the marginal gloss on Nonnus in physiognomic formulas 390–400
the Suda Lexicon 21 prodramatic formulas 375–384
commentary on Dionysius Periegetes 21, second-hemistich formula 376–383, 389,
23 392–394, 396–399
commentary on the Iliad 21–23 stichic formula 375, 377, 384–385
commentary on the Odyssey 21–23 structural 371, 373, 375
commentary on Pindar 430–431 sunset formulas 388–390
Euthymius Zigabenus 294 n. 20, 295 n. 26 Forteguerri, Scipione 703, 715
Eutyches, heresy of 31 Fournet, Jean-Luc 82–83, 695
Fowden, Garth 54
faith Franchi, Roberta 334
believing and 255–256 Frangoulis, Hélène 146, 159, 453, 555
in Christ 262 Fränkel, Hermann 361
Dionysiac world and 257 Frankfurter, David 77
disciples and 261 Friedländer, Paul 680, 693
in John 258 funeral games 157, 172, 482, 493, 500–503
its relevance in the Paraphrase 263 Opheltes 118, 155, 158, 485–486, 500–501,
spiritualization and 258 660, 699
testimony and 263 Patroclus 118, 485, 501, 589 n. 43
theological implications 265 Staphylus 118, 191–192, 486, 500, 501
see also believing
Falkenburg, Gerard 675, 678, 705–706, 708, Gabutti, Diego 1
715–717 Galakrenai, epigram from 698
editio princeps of the Dionysiaca 675, Galatea 42, 167 n. 52, 168 n. 55, 169–170, 474,
705, 716 (and n. 9), 722 727
Fantuzzi, Marco 524 Galilee 220, 290–291, 319, 335
Fates 203, 631–632, 639 Gamos, paradoxical birth of 150 (and n. 104)
Faust 241 Ganymedes 184, 448, 458, 525 n. 51, 527
Fauth, Wolfgang 441 García de Salvedo Coronel, José 729
General Index 843
Garnett, Richard 11, 16, 741–744 Prudentius’ use of 228–229

Garnier, Claude 718 Sedulius’ use of 226
Gayet, Albert 469 Synoptic 217, 604 n. 12
Gaza (the school of) 38 version used by Nonnus 234 n. 90
Ge 99 Gosse, Edmund Sir 307
Geffcken, Johannes 96 Gourmont, Remy de 739
Geisz, Camille 6 Graefe, Christian Friedrich 678, 731–732
Genesius 674 n. 16, 699 grammatikos 57, 58, 66, 68–69, 72
George of Pisidia 672, 696 ‘Great Inflation’ 71
and Nonnus 696 n. 33 Green, Roger 222
De vita humana 370 n. 111, 696 Gregory of Nazianzus 34–35, 37, 219, 354,
George, Stefan 739–740 356, 375 (and n. 19), 393–394, 398, 599,
Gerbeau, Joëlle 187–188 603, 680 n. 44, 697, 700, 746
Gerizim (Mount) 344–345 ‘false quantities’ 219 (and n. 30), 354
Gesner, Conrad 722 and Nonnus 290, 297–307
Gessius 70 ap 8.118 304
‘crypto-pagan’ 65–66 Carmina 256 n. 73, 299 (and n. 43),
Gethsemane 253 (and n. 62), 649 n. 29 300–303, 304 n. 79, 347 n. 105, 375,
Giants 24, 126, 128, 139, 140 nn. 57 and 59, 393–394, 398, 590 n. 50, 619
142, 194, 204, 216, 497, 500 Epistulae 603
represent heretics 216 Orationes 35, 297, 304, 305 (and nn. 80,
of Thrace 125 84), 581 n. 20
Gigli Piccardi, Daria 43, 645, 650, 692 Gregory of Nyssa 293 n. 18
Giraudet, Vincent 183, 190 De virginitate 595 n. 71
Glaucus (Lycian hero) 582 Griffin, Jasper 3
and Diomedes 487–488 Guzmán de Silva, Diego 723
Glaucus (sea god) 719 (and n. 27), 728 n. 79
Glaucus of Potniae 164 n. 42 Hades 92, 129 n. 20, 231, 237, 321, 328, 486,
gnomai 554 591, 593 (and n. 61), 610
gnosticism, in Egypt 61–62 all-conquering 238
gods and Lethe 611
abstract deities of time and cosmic Hadjittofi, Fotini 563
harmony 165 Hardie, Philip 142, 536, 541
all-seeing 201, 523 n. 45 Hardt, Hermann von der 730
marine deities 129, 169 Harmonia 162–163, 207 n. 71, 417–420, 444,
Olympic 160, 165, 428, 482 446, 449, 512, 514, 521, 546, 585, 628 n. 7,
Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von 731–732 633, 639
and the Pentheus myth 732 as a Byzantine empress 446
Faust 240–241 and Cadmus 143, 160 n. 27, 453, 492, 499,
Golega, Joseph 38, 81, 84–85, 243, 298, 511, 514–515, 518, 521–522, 547 n. 79,
300, 311, 322–323, 333, 610, 634, 644, 678 554–555, 629, 704, 716
Góngora y Argote, Luis de 726–728 prophetic tablets 134, 164–165, 183, 203,
Gonnelli, Fabrizio 436, 695, 699 445, 449, 456, 541–542, 544 n. 70, 546,
Gospel of Peter 62 591
Gospels Harpocration (rhetor, Ammon Scholasticus’
Eudocia’s use of 230 brother) 63, 72, 74
Juvencus’ use of 222 Hebe 139, 140 n. 57, 522–523
Proba’s use of 229–230 Hecabe 491
844 General Index
Hecate 513 Hermes 85, 88, 185, 189, 474, 585, 628 n. 10,

Hector 157 n. 17, 158 n. 22, 486, 489, 491, 497, 631, 634 n. 26, 635 n. 34
583–584 and Christ see s.v.
Hedeneccius, Erhardus 607 disguised as Phanes 101, 160 n. 29
Hegendorff, Christoph 704, 717 Hermetic corpus 61
Heiberg, Johan L. 21 Hermias of Alexandria (philosopher, father of
Heinsius, Daniel 41, 684, 706–710, 717 Ammonius) 422, 605, 679
condemned Nonnus for his commentary on the Phaedrus 423, 429
‘Arianism’ 308 n. 1 Hernández de la Fuente, David 106
criticized Nonnus in comparison with Herodotus 14, 60, 391, 452, 572 n. 102
Homer 708 Hesiod 61, 67, 363, 411 n. 50, 530, 641
Aristarchus Sacer 683, 708 Catalogue of Women 127 n. 10, 493
Dissertatio de Nonni Dionysiacis & ejusdem Theogony 99 (and n. 24), 413 n. 57, 493,
Paraphrasi 41, 708 631 n. 20, 636 n. 39, 736
Lof-sank van Bacchus 41, 709 Works and Days 493
Lof-sank van Jesus Christus 41, 709 Hesperus 438, 519
Helen 390, 444, 547 Hieronymus 98 n. 23
Heliodorus 451 n. 35, 551, 572 n. 102 Himerius, Ad persequendam in dicendo
and Nonnus 550, 554, 568, 572 varietatem 426
Helios 42, 102, 134, 139, 149 n. 100, 165, 183, Hippodameia, and Pelops 473
189, 386, 438, 456, 473, 525, 632–634, Hippolytus 558 n. 53
720 and Phaedra 117
and Phaethon 388–389, 397, 428 n. 26 Hippolytus of Rome
Hellanicus 98 n. 23 Traditio Apostolica 614
Hellenism 75, 82–84, 88, 645 n. 7, 740 Hofmannsthal, Hugo von 739–740
meaning of the term 83 n. 35 Hollis, Adrian 7
and paganism 83 Holy Spirit 245, 257–258, 263, 296–297, 300,
Henry II of France 716 321–325, 339, 343–344, 346, 350, 583
Hephaestus 447, 454, 546, 547 (and n. 75) as wind 292–293
Hera 100–104, 117, 130, 132 n. 31, 139, 144, 152, Homer 176, 372–377 (and n. 29), 379,
155–156, 160 nn. 27 and 29, 161–165, 383–385, 387–389, 392–395, 397, 399,
167, 170 n. 59, 171, 188, 193 (and n. 4), 401, 693, 698, 705, 707, 709, passim
194, 200–201, 397, 449, 456, 469, allusions to 487–491
493, 519, 522, 546 n. 72, 547 n. 79, catalogues 182 n. 19, 498, 664–665
551 n. 21 Dios Apate 157, 500, 514
Dionysus drinks her milk 121 fallacity of 658 n. 71
in Homer 547, 552 n. 23 ‘father’ of Nonnus 577
Heracleopolis 65, 68 formula(s) 232, 372, 375 n. 21, 376, 389,
Heracles 11–13, 17, 83 (and n. 32), 117, 198, 486
456, 526 hapax legomena 395, 485 (and n. 17), 531
Astrochiton 119, 129, 185, 189–190, n. 14, 693
416–417, 427–428, 541 n. 61, 631, 635 n. 35 hexameter 353, 463
Christianization of 42 Homeric imitatio/aemulatio 247
and Dionysus see s.v. Homeric language 271, 484–487,
and Hylas 526–528 692–693, 706–707
Heraclius (Emperor) 696–697 ‘if not’ situation 170
Heraiscus 72, 74 invocation of 484
Hermann, Gottfried 359, 367, 684, 691 narratorial interventions 170 n. 60
General Index 845
Homer (cont.) associated with childbirth 633 n. 25, 634

and Nonnus 44, 112 n. 5, 113 n. 7, 114–115, n. 26
118–120, 123–124, 127 n. 8, 157–159, 194, associated with the rhythms of human
428–429, 481–504, 542–543, 554, 612, life 640 n. 53
660, 705 Horapollon Jr. 69, 72, 74, 76 (and n. 3), 78
reception of 612 n. 11
spiritualization of 247 Horapollon Sr. 69, 72–74
τις-speeches 167 n. 52 Horion II (Ammon Scholasticus’
type-scenes 118, 500–503 nephew) 63
Iliad 4, 21 nn. 31 and 33, 22, 23, 57, 67 Horst, Pieter W. van der 43, 67
(and n. 47), 119, 127 n. 10, 135 (and nn. Hour(s) see Hora(e)
41, 43), 155, 157–160, 163 n. 37, 164 Hunter, Richard L. 530–531
(and n. 40), 170 n. 60, 176 n. 7, 232 (and Hurtado de Mendoza, Diego 722, 726
n. 84), 233, 253, 355 n. 14, 356, 359 (and Huysmans, Joris-Karl 739
n. 42), 360, 376 (and n. 26), 377 n. 29, Hyacinthus 133, 527
413 n. 58, 414 n. 59, 419 n. 78, 426, 437, and Apollo 133, 448
444–445, 447, 454, 458, 481, 482 n. 3, Hydaspes (river) 137, 139, 143, 189, 191, 204,
483–484, 485 (and nn. 16–17), 486, 487 208, 482 n. 3, 496 n. 39, 528, 557 n. 48,
(and n. 23), 488–491, 493, 496, 498–501, 572 (and n. 98), 735
503, 514 (and n. 20), 518 n. 30, 519 (and Hyginus
n. 35), 524 n. 49, 525 n. 53, 528, 532, 536 Fabulae 177 n. 10
(and n. 42), 537, 541 (and n. 59), 542, Poetica astronomica 508 n. 6
544, 547 (and n. 79), 552 n. 28, 554, 577, Hylas
583 (and n. 24), 589 n. 43, 601 (and and Ampelus 527
n. 2), 625, 636 n. 39, 639, 658 n. 71, and Heracles 526–528
660–661, 708 Hymenaeus 159 n. 24, 500, 558 n. 57, 608
Odyssey 4, 21 (and nn. 29, 32–33), 23, 57, n. 29, 727 (and n. 75)
112 n. 5, 113 n. 7, 159, 163 nn. 36–37, 176 Hymnus 120–121, 123, 391, 563–565
n. 7, 180, 191, 230 n. 76, 231 n. 83, 233, major character (?) 154
244, 253, 357 n. 28, 359 (and n. 42), 376 meaning of the name 121
(and n. 22), 377 n. 30, 379, 389–390, and Nicaea 120–121, 123, 181 (and n. 18),
394, 412 n. 53, 428 n. 30, 444–445, 481, 406 n. 28, 492, 563–566, 667 n. 116, 726,
485 n. 16, 487 (and n. 23), 493, 495 (and 731, 746
n. 36), 496 n. 40, 498, 501, 503, 512 n. 18, Hypatia 116 (and n. 13)
513, 519–520, 521 n. 37, 547, 555 n. 39, Hypnos 385
570 n. 92, 571 n. 97, 577, 593, 617, 636 n.
39, 662 Iacchus 116, 124, 131, 150, 154, 374 n. 12, 622,
Batrachomyomachia 301, 311, 376, 377 n. 627 (and n. 3)
30, 383 identified with Erichthonius 109
Homeric Hymn to Ares 392 n. 51 Iamblichus 247, 618, 630 n. 15
Homeric Hymn to Athena 392 n. 51 Icarius 88, 121–122, 135 (and n. 42), 154 (and
Homeric Hymn to Demeter 328 (and n. 6) n. 11), 177, 503 n. 53, 570, 653–654
Homeric Hymn to Dionysus (7) 131, 135, catasterism 177, 203, 590 n. 53
188 and Christ 86, 87 n. 52, 122 n. 38, 217, 579,
Homeric Hymn to Hermes 609, 639 n. 48 654
Hopkinson, Neil 191, 289 (and n. 3), 374 and Erigone see s.v.
Hora(e) 102, 134, 165, 183, 321, 386, 438, 444, major character (?) 154
449, 453, 456, 610, 632–634, 702, 711, 715, recalls Laertes 482
719–720, 725, 744 and the wedding at Cana 250 n. 41
846 General Index
Icarus, Icarian syndrome 199, 204 and Juvencus 219 n. 31

Idmon 630–631, 635 nn. 31 and 34, on the order of the words in the
635 n. 35 Bible 602 n. 4
Illus, revolt of 68 Life of St Paul the Hermit 141 n. 63
incarnation 241, 246, 269, 278, 608, 619 On Famous Men 219 n. 31
Christ and his natures 262 Jerusalem 86, 88, 218, 221, 290, 343–345, 350,
India 596 nn. 73 and 75, 649 n. 28, 652, 696
description of 572–573 Bethesda pool 649
Dionysus’ journey to 481, 503 description of 649 n. 28
Indians, earthborn 139 (and n. 56) entry of Christ into 86, 88, 217, 220, 222,
initiation 98, 108, 161 (and n. 31), 258–259, 226, 231 n. 77, 623
328–332, 342, 348–349, 424, 462, 468 μυστιπόλος 257
Ino 100, 193–194, 207 n. 71, 586 n. 34, 630, Jesus
632 see Christ, Jesus
Leucothea 129 jeweled style 192, 267 (and n. 2), 503, 553,
inscriptions 717
and modern style 667–668 Jewish festivals
I.Achaïe II 668 n. 121 bloody sacrifice 344–345
I.Alex.Breccia 56 n. 6 drunkenness 346
I.Métriques 56 (and n. 6) noise 345
SGO 601 as ὄργια 345
interdiscursivity 373 (and n. 7) similar to pagan cult 344–346, 348
intermediality 443, 448–449 Jews 221, 224–226, 233, 234 n. 91, 243–244,
intertextuality, and interdiscursivity 373 n. 7 254, 257 n. 75, 272, 274, 276–278, 295,
Io 132 n. 29, 153 313–315, 318, 334, 343, 346, 596–597, 615,
‘Egyptian Demeter’ 129 619, 652, 665 n. 103
Iris 160 (and n. 28), 163 n. 37, 179, 444, 483 Hellenistic 94
n. 12 hostility to Christ 220, 222–223, 224 (and
‘investigatory gaze’ of 394 n. 63 n. 52), 226, 227 (and n. 59), 231
Isaiah 305, 637 Joannes Barbucallus 694
Isis 76, 333, 582 n. 21, 608 John the Baptist 300, 320 (and n. 30),
Alexandrian cult of 652 588–589, 612
Medica 652 John Chrysostom 584, 596–597
venerated at Menouthis 69 (and n. 61) Adversus Judaeos 346 (and n. 99)
Israel, Vineyard of 338 Commentary on the Gospel of John 84,
Itylus, and Pentheus 178 (and n. 12) 244, 290–293, 295–297, 614
De sacerdotio 16 n. 13
Jacob (deacon of the bishop Nonnus) 33, 34 De Lazaro 596 n. 73
n. 82 In natalem Christi diem 589 n. 45
Jacob (the Patriarch) 320, 585, 638 John of Gaza 354 n. 7, 424 n. 8, 427 n. 24
Jacob of Serugh 271 n. 23 Descriptio Tabulae mundi 117, 387 n. 42,
Janssen, Radulph, attempted to establish 399 n. 77, 427 n. 24, 434 n. 67, 610 n. 40,
Nonnus’ Gospel text 234 n. 90 693–694
Jason 511, 512 n. 18, 513, 515–521, 525 John Geometres 698
as a literary creation 43, 578 John Lydus 43
as object of erotic gaze 519–520 John’s Gospel passim
Jáuregui y Aguilar, Juan de 725 anti-Jewish polemic 220 n. 42
Jeffreys, Michael J. 363–364 Christological titles 310 (and n. 11)
Jerome 603, 746 envoy concept 310
General Index 847
John’s Gospel (cont.) Kristensen, Troels Myrup 7

Eudocia’s use of 230–234, 239 Kronos 91, 99 (and n. 24), 103, 107, 161,
example of religious pluralism 312, 316 183–184, 419, 458, 459
indwelling as union with God 256–257 and Night in Orphic literature 102
Juvencus’ use of 222–226, 239 Kuhlmann, Peter 143–144
mutuality, unity, and 256–257 Kuiper, Koenraad 333, 609, 652
and Neoplatonism 243
Noli me tangere 45, 217 n. 14 Laan, Paulus Wilhelmus Antonius Theodorus,
Nonnus’ use of 234–239 van der 229
Proba’s use of 229 Laertes 482
recognition scenes 271–272 Lamb, Charles 735
Sahidic Coptic translation of 270 Lamides (the daughters of Lamos) 193
Sedulius’ use of 227–228, 239 Lamos (fluvial god) 100, 719
and the ‘sign’ (σημεῖον) 251 language (of Nonnus)
‘spiritual’ 240–266 adjectival accumulation 237
symbolism 242 alliteration 245 (and n. 16), 311, 440
Johnson, Scott Fitzgerald 605 allusive images 112
Jong, Irene de 175 auto-compounds for self-born or
Josephus, Flavius 300 self-conceived 197
Jewish Antiquities 280 compound adjectives starting with
Judaea 220, 231 βαρυ- 438 n. 87
Judas Iscariot 222, 257 n. 75, 596 nn. 73 and etymological play 354
75 figures of speech 432–435
Julian the Apostate (Emperor) 95, 338, 427 imaginative 430
n. 22 verbs of seeing/showing 168 n. 56
oration to the cynic Herakleios 337 Laomedon 488
Schools Edict 218 Late Antiquity passim
Julian the Egyptian 658, 694 definition of 54
Jung, Carl Gustav 61 dematerialization in 661–662
justice/Justice 27, 33, 107, 121, 188, 201, public performances in 667
626–627 Latmos 511
Justin (historian), Epitome of the Philippic Lazarus
History of Pompeius Trogus 630 n. 16 and Ampelus 134 n. 35, 593 (and n. 61),
Justin the Martyr 252, 582 n. 21 599
1 Apol. 622 and Christ 592, 599 (and n. 84)
Juvencus 219 (and n. 31), 235, 239 (and and Hades 611, 619
n. 107) and holy places 649 n. 29
based his biblical poem chiefly on resurrection of 85–87, 220–239, 251, 253
Matthew 222 n. 62, 259–260, 273 n. 27, 334, 592–596,
Lazarus story 220, 222–226, 231, 234 608 (and n. 30), 619–620, 623, 695, 697,
700
Kaldellis, Anthony 43, 601 and Tylus 86 (and n. 50), 87 (and n. 52),
Kessler-Dimin, Elizabeth 41 88, 105–107, 134 n. 35, 217 (and n. 16),
Keydell, Rudolf 5, 21, 38, 42, 80, 95, 644, 239, 458, 590 n. 53, 695, 700
675–677, 679 Lazcano, Pedro de 723
Kirby, John T. 15 Lectius, Jacobus 710, 724
Koechly, Hermann 286, 678 Leda 132, 467
Kontrastimitation 44, 251, 625, 642 Lehrs, Karl 358
Kore 328–329, 610 Leland, Charles Godfrey 737
848 General Index
Leo the Philosopher 697 apotheosis 183

Lesky, Albin 95 Dionysus’ combat with 121, 128, 154 n. 11,
Lethe 238, 321, 593 n. 61 629
and Hades 611 as exemplum in Orphic ‘sacred
Leto 133, 139, 140 n. 57, 160–163, 418, 544, 588 accounts’ 107–108
n. 41 Lyttelton, George Lord, Dialogues of the
faithful Olympian 161 Dead 11
Leucos (Lesbian poet) 191, 454–455, 496
(and n. 40), 498, 612 n. 47 Maas, Paul 21, 306 n. 88, 353, 605–606, 675,
Leucothea 129, 169 677–680
Libanius Macarius (bishop of Tkow) 68 n. 54, 654
Autobiography 660 n. 81 Macedonian Renaissance 697, 699
Progymnasmata 451 (and n. 34) Macedonius Consul 400, 694
Liebeschuetz, Wolfgang 43, 578–579, 585, Maciver, Calum Alasdair 6
594, 597, 647 (and n. 17) Macrobius 43
Lightfoot, Jane L. 46, 134 Saturnalia 427
Linus 97 maenads 462, 464, 467–468, 472, 739
living water, and eternal life 261 Magnelli, Enrico 697, 700
Livrea, Enrico 5, 31–32, 34, 43, 69, 95, 116, Maguire, Henry 252
216, 238–239, 268, 334, 338, 426, 625, Malalas 43
645, 652, 679, 681–682 Maldonatus, John 295
Logos/logos Mallarmé, Stéphane 739, 747
in ancient Greek thought 242–243 Maltese, Enrico V. 22 n. 35
Christ’s natures 262 Manganelli, Giorgio 747 n. 177
incarnation 262, 269 Mango, Cyril 660 n. 81
in John’s Gospel 44, 243 manuscripts
in the Paraphrase 244–245, 266 Athous Iviron 388 681 n. 45
translation of the Greek term 241 Bruxellensis 3608 722
see also Christology Laurentianus plut. 7.10 272 n. 26, 343
Longus 453, 456, 550, 563, 731 n. 92, 680–683, 702
and Nonnus 550, 562–566, 568 Laurentianus plut. 32.16 24 n. 40, 438 n.
Lorrain, Claude 719–721 87, 489 n. 24, 494 nn. 34–35, 514 n. 20,
Lubin (Lubinus), Eilhard (Eilhard 606, 671, 674–679, 701, 704, 721 n. 43, 722
Lübben) 706, 710–711, 717, 724 Laurentianus plut. 59.2 21
Latin translation of the Dionysiaca 717 Laurentianus plut. 59.3 21
Lucan Marcianus gr. 141 (coll. 487) 698 n. 47
his influence on Sedulius 229 Marcianus gr. 448 (coll. 1047) 19, 21–22
Pharsalia 227 n. 58, 725 Marcianus gr. 460 (coll. 330) 21 (and
Lucian 18 n. 18 n. 29)
and Nonnus 145 n. 80 Marcianus gr. 481 (coll. 863) 343 n. 82,
Heracles 456 604 (and n. 10), 605–607, 674, 677, 681
On Dance 118 Marucellianus A.105 730 n. 93
Ludwich, Arthur 20–21, 298, 302, 675, Monacensis gr. 94 676 n. 26
678–679 Mosquensis Synodalis gr. 442 604
Lycophron 433 (and n. 10), 681 (and n. 45)
Lycurgus (king of Arabia) 129–130, 135, 138, Palatinus Heidelbergensis gr. 23 681
160 (and n. 28), 194, 199, 212, 470, 492 Palatinus Heidelbergensis gr. 85 494
and Ambrosia see s.v. n. 34, 676–677, 703, 721 n. 43
General Index 849
manuscripts (cont.) Mary (Lazarus’ sister) 105 n. 49, 220–239

Parisinus gr. 1220 20 n. 25, 680 Mary (Virgin) 468–469, 474
Parisinus gr. 2702 21 (and n. 29) and Ariadne 87
Parisinus gr. 3069 702 and Aura 250
Scorialensis gr. 63 (Σ.I.3) 722 ‘birth-giver of God’ (θεοτόκος) 31
Scorialensis gr. 86 (B.II.11) 723 and the Marriage at Cana 250
Scorialensis gr. 135 (T.I.15) 722 and Semele 97 n. 18
(and n. 50) Mary Magdalene 45, 217 n. 14, 272, 319
Scorialensis gr. 158 (Τ.II.19) 723 Maspero, Jean 76
Scorialensis gr. 252 (Υ.I.13) 723 Maurice, Prince of Hassia 724
Syrus Lewisianus 234 n. 90, 616 n. 54 Maximinus (governor of the Thebaid) 31,
Vaticanus gr. 989 604 (and n. 10), 656
681–682 Maximus Astrologus 357 n. 28
Vaticanus lat. 5250 676 Maximus the Confessor 292 (and n. 15)
Vaticanus Palatinus gr. 90 343 n. 92, 604 Mazza, Daniele 523–524
(and n. 10), 606 n. 21, 681–683, 703 Medea 514–515, 517–518, 520
Vaticanus Urbinas gr. 125 677 departure from Colchis 511–513, 516,
Vindobonenses gr. 45, 51 705 521
Manuzio, Aldo (Aldus) 705, 724 n. 60 gazes upon Jason 519, 525
editio princeps of the Paraphrase 683, at play with her maids 512 n. 18
703 tears of 537 n. 444
Mara bar Sarapion, letter of 43 Medes 509
Marcassus, Pierre de 718, 734 Medusa 127 n. 9, 153
Marcellus, Comte de (Demartin du Tyrac, Melanchthon, Philipp 308 n. 1, 704
Marie-Louis-Jean-André-Charles) 2, Melaneus 160 n. 27, 500
738 Meleager 353
as Nonnian scholar 684, 738 Melicertes 169
Mariner, Vicente 729–730 Memnon 507–508, 533 (and n. 26)
Marino, Giambattista (Giovan Battista) 432 Menander 67
n. 48, 436, 710–711, 715, 717–718, 724 n. Menander Rhetor (Menander of
59, 726–730, 747 Laodicea) 114, 374 n. 12, 451, 569
completely ignorant of Greek 710 Menas (St) 668 n. 120
and Nonnus 710–711 Mendoza y Bobadilla, Francisco de 723
Marinus of Neapolis 605 (and n. 15) Menelaus 428 n. 30, 444, 482, 547
Vita Procli 605, 618 Menouthis 76
Marolles, Michel de 718–719 cult of Isis at 69 (and n. 61)
Maron, and Silenus 192 metamorphosis 131–134
Marriage at Cana of Cadmus and Harmonia into
association with virginity 250 serpents 522, 629
Dionysiac features 84, 87, 335–340 prominence in the Dionysiac world 254
intertextuality with the shape-shifting 131–132
Dionysiaca 249–250 see also Proteus
wine and symbolism 248–249 Methe 191
wine and water 216, 249–250 ‘Drunkenness’ 122, 415–416
Marsyas 29–30, 113 (and n. 7), 694 metre (of Nonnus) 69, 217, 219, 290,
Martha (Lazarus’ sister) 105 n. 49, 220–229, 306–307, 353–370, 667, 672
231–234, 236–237, 239 accentuative metrics 361–364, 667
Martianus Capella 43 appositives 366–368
850 General Index
metre (of Nonnus) (cont.) Noheda (Cuenca) 472–474

Attic shortening 358 figurative panel D 472, 478 (Fig. 4.7)
dactyls and spondees 355–357 other mosaics in the Noheda
elision 358 triclinium 472–473
epic shortening 359–360 Sepphoris (Palestine) 472
four-word lines 367–368 Moschus 144 n. 75, 145 n. 81, 147 nn. 90 and
hiatus 359 92, 148 n. 95, 353, 357, 377 n. 30, 380,
lengthening 360–361 392 n. 51, 447 (and n. 23), 529, 543 n. 68,
leonine hexameters 369–370 551 (and n. 17), 710, 729, 731
metrical laws 365–367 and Nonnus 144–145, 147–148, 447,
prosody 354–355, 357–361 551
Miguélez-Cavero, Laura 69, 82, 163, 165, 469, Moser, Georg Heinrich 678, 731
547, 579–580, 646 Moses 305, 320
Milton, John 732 Muret, Jean Marc (Muretus) 704, 707
Mimnermus 487 n. 23 Musaeus 29, 82 n. 28, 373, 377 nn. 29–30,
Minnen, Peter van 6 380 n. 32, 382 n. 33, 383, 388 n. 43, 389
Minos 428 n. 45, 391 n. 49, 393 n. 58, 394 n. 64, 697,
Mioni, Elpidio 21 731
Mira de Amescua, Antonio 729 allegorical reading of Hero and
miracles Leander 434 n. 66
description 650 the animated swimming of
their function 263 Leander 617–618
Kontrastimitation 251 and Nonnus 581 n. 19, 693
in Late Antiquity 250–251, 608–609 Muse(s)
terminology 25 Bacchae 430
Mondadori (Publisher) 1 Corybantic 498
Monophysite heresy 31–32 Homeric 484, 499
Montagu, Elizabeth 11–13 invocation of 173, 175, 180, 195, 402,
anonymously contributed to the Dialogues 492–499
of the Dead 11 Lebanese 180, 499
Monteverdi, Claudio 718 music
Monti, Vincenzo 730 instruments and power of sound 112
Moon 83, 100 n. 29, 138, 139 n. 53, 188, (and n. 6), 196, 439
516–518 its role in the building of Thebes 184
and Endymion 512 Typhon’s fascination with 410 n. 47
Persephone 103 mysteries 93
Morie (Tylus’ sister) 105 (and n. 49), 239, Dionysiac 42, 329–330, 462, 468
448, 458 Eleusinian 42, 109
Morrheus 120, 135, 137, 139, 143, 146, 149 (and Orphic 42
nn. 99–100), 155 n. 12, 158 n. 22, 160, 167, terminology 327–350
388, 395, 398, 493, 497, 547, 550 n. 13, see also Clement of Alexandria; Cyril of
555, 568, 572 Alexandria; initiation; Nonnus of
marriage of 182 Panopolis, Paraphrase of St John’s
see also Chalcomede Gospel; Origen; Philo of Alexandria;
mosaics teletai
Nea Paphos (Cyprus) 467, 474 mysticism
House of Aion 40–41, 473, 478 (Fig. mystical union and 256–257
4.8), 581 (and n. 21) philosophy and 246–247
House of Dionysus 472–473 spiritualization and 258
General Index 851
Mystis (Dionysus’ wet nurse) 100, 108–109, Night (Orphic divinity) 91, 102, 641
193 (and n. 55)
mythos (μῦθος), use of the word 185 Nike 160–164, 472
disguised as Leto 162
Naias (Tylus’ sister) 105 n. 49 Nile 23–24
Nansius, Franciscus 704 etymology of 572
napkin (σουδάριον) 221, 238 n. 104 flooding of 148 n. 94
Nausicaa 509, 512 n. 18, 520, 555 n. 39 Nilus of Ancyra 602–603
and Odysseus 513, 519–520 Nimmo Smith, Jennifer 37
Nazareth 291, 308 Niobe 167 n. 52, 482 n. 7
Nea Paphos (Cyprus) see mosaics as metaphor of tradition 545
Nelis, Damien 516 as site of competition 545
Nemesis 121, 132, 163, 434 n. 67, 544–545, transformation into a stone 132–133, 168
566–567 n. 53, 544–545
Adrastea 564 n. 73 Nobades 31
Neoplatonism 83 n. 35, 166 n. 48, 216 n. 5, Nodier, Charles 39
331, 337, 422, 434, 441, 612, 657, 693 Noheda (Spain) see mosaics
in Alexandria and Athens 657 Nolhac, Pierre de 705
authors and commentators 91–93, 102, Nonnus of Aphrodisias (bishop) 69
247, 423, 427, 611 (and n. 45), 615–616, Nonnus of Edessa (bishop) 32–33, 69
679 identification with Nonnus 32–34, 69,
and Christianity 262, 435, 617, 646 84 n. 37, 95, 269 n. 12, 308 n. 1, 403 n. 11
and John’s Gospel 243 Nonnus of Panopolis (Nonnus)
in Late Antiquity 247 and Alexandria 23–25, 68, 116, 216, 218,
poetics 422–426, 438, 458 n. 61 604, 609, 650, 656–657, 665, 671
versions of Orphic poems 91–94, 99, 102 alleged conversion 5, 38–40, 68, 80–81,
Nereids 130, 147 n. 90, 300, 470 (and n. 42), 95, 215, 269, 601, 609, 703, 738, 743, 746
474 allusive engagement 531
Nereus 167 apparent lack of interest in statuary 464
Nestor 158, 444, 636 n. 39 and Athens 28, 648 (and n. 22)
Nestor of Laranda 25 and Attic logographs 118
Nestorius 32, 64 audience of 44, 118, 121, 166, 216, 219, 265,
anti-Nestorian polemics 31–33 483, 623, 657, 665–666
Nicaea 109, 120–121, 132, 143, 148, 181, 197, 201, and Berytus 25, 68, 455, 647, 746
203 n. 53, 205–206, 207 n. 71, 208, 250, ‘biography’ 15–17, 403, 738, 745–746
391, 395 n. 67, 397, 557, 567, 627, 726, and bucolic poetry 404 n. 16, 406–412,
727 n. 74, 735 439
and Aura see s.v. and Christian literature 289–307
the city of 190 n. 36 and Christianity 39, 269, 406 (and n. 34),
and Hymnus see s.v. 567–568
Nicander 353, 356, 367 between Christianity and the classical
Nonnus and the Metamorphoses of 133 tradition 5, 43–45, 84–88, 217, 665
n. 34 chronology of his works 30–32, 81, 87 n.
Theriaca 394 52, 95, 215 (and n. 2), 246, 263–264,
Nicene-Constantinopolitan Creed 311, 425 268–269 (n. 12), 304–307, 600 n. 85, 622,
doctrinal influence 246 667, 671
Nicephorus Basilaces 148 n. 95 combines botany with mythology 123
Nicetas Eugenianus 700 contextualization of his poetry 646
Nicodemus 253, 271, 292, 582, 614, 635 n. 34 and Coptic literature 31, 270, 440, 664
852 General Index
Nonnus of Panopolis (Nonnus) (cont.) religious background of 75–88, 94–97,

as creator of a literary work 194 665–666
date and place of birth 20 n. 26, 23–30, and rhetoric 549–550, 568–573
69 the role of myth in 45–46
and Dionysiac-Orphic religion 91–110, and Rome 123–124, 648
632–633 and sympotic poetry 453–455
and Egypt 23–25, 28, 66–69, 331, 572, 577, and Syriac poetry 270, 279
645, 650–657, 691, 693 theological expertise 289–298, 304–307
enjoys nice edifices and sites 123 and Tyre 25–26, 68, 455, 647
and epigrammatic poetry 412–416, 453 ‘wandering poet’ (?) 23–28, 82 n. 29
and Hellenic culture 648 AP 9.198
and Hellenistic poetry 507–528 Nonnian authorship 23 (and n. 39),
as the herald of Roman stability 123–124 28
and hymnic poetry 416–420 Dionysiaca passim
identified with Dionysus 482 n. 5 abstract deities 165
imaginative world of 431–441 alternative versions 178, 181, 187–188,
imitatio sui 374, 401 633
influence of rhetoric over 114–116 anti-Dionysiac harangues 138 n. 49
Janus Bifrons 37–46 apotheosis 126–130
knowledge of Latin 404 n. 18, 746 n. 171 appropriation of the Gospel’s
and late antique society 657–668 language 45–46
‘late style’ 307 astrology 95, 130 n. 22, 503, 541 (and
a man of his times 88 n. 60), 577 n. 3
marginal cultures in 648 bath motif 148–149
‘modern style’ 691, 692 beauty’s arms, motif of 149 n. 100
and mythology 2–3, 15, 37, 39–40, 43, catalogues 97, 119, 132, 134, 140 n. 59,
264, 461, 483, 630, 657 n. 63, 665, 730 157–158, 161, 165 n. 44, 169, 182 (and
name 25 n. 19), 481, 484, 486, 492, 493 (and n.
and Neoplatonism 147 n. 89, 166, 244, 32), 498–500, 511, 532, 552 n. 28, 612,
246–247, 279, 425, 427 (and n. 20), 429, 664–665
432 n. 54, 606, 636 (and n. 38), 637, 657, celebration of classical Greek and
665–666, 679–680 n. 40 Roman culture 124
‘Nonnian question’ 34, 39, 95, 116–117 Christian themes 575–600
(and n. 14), 264, 463 combines the Iliad and the
‘Nonnian school’ 24, 57, 82 n. 29, 247 Odyssey 23
(and n. 28), 434, 646, 674, 691 ‘cosmic preludes’ 165, 627, 633
‘Nonnians’ 354 (and n. 7), 373–374, 377 as the cosmos and Dionysus as a
(and n. 30), 385 n. 36 demiurge 427–428
Nonnosforschung 5, 94–96, 403 n. 10 dance 112, 123, 663
poet of Christ vs. poet of the Muses 44, devoid of religious meaning 42
96 ‘divided allusion’ 512 (and n. 18)
poet of Dionysus 111–124 doublet scenes 179
and pre-Nonnian hexameter dreams 128 (and n. 16), 482, 555–556
poetry 529–548 ends up on the Mount Olympus
and prophecy 127–129, 482, 625–643 113
readers of 137 n. 47, 138 n. 50, 145, 159, epyllion 154 n. 10, 189, 264, 404 n. 16,
162, 167, 264, 410–412, 420–421, 424, 405 n. 23, 436, 536, 731
447–449, 451–452, 455, 459, 472, 533, and the Greek novel 145, 174, 451 n.
543–544, 579, 600 38, 453, 549–573
General Index 853
Nonnus of Panopolis (Nonnus) (cont.) triumphalistic narrative 656

humour 142 n. 67, 143, 215, 509, 520, Typhonomachy (Typhony) 125,
579–580, 746 168 n. 55, 174, 182, 184, 187, 189, 191,
hybridity 141–142 438, 499
hydromimes 123, 148 (and n. 96), 663 universal history 42
n. 95 variatio in imitatione 515
imitation motif 126–127 virginity 147, 149–150, 558–568
inconsistencies 174, 412 (and n. 52), wonders 123, 665
671 Paraphrase of St John’s Gospel passim
local traditions 579, 647 amplificatio 244
Lycurgeia 107–108 attention to feet 652
mixing genres 402–421 authorship 11, 215, 267, 355 n. 17, 372
as a mythological manual 719–720, 725, n. 2, 679–680
728 baptismal connotations 236, 614
narrative and digression 173–192 blindness 267–288
necrophily 45, 205 (and n. 62) cento of the Dionysiaca (Sherry’s
pantomime 118, 123–124, 192, 501, thesis) 267–268
663 combines different interpretations of
paradoxical procreation 150–151 John’s Gospel 296
parody 120, 411 n. 48 creative originality 253 n. 62
Pentheis 107–108 hospitality theme 236
Perioche 23, 672 light/dark motif 273–275
personifications 134, 163–166 metrical imperfection as a sign of
prolepsis 626–629 Nonnus’ maturity (?) 306–307
rape 96, 143–150, 561–568, 627, 629 mosaic of Johannine Christological
Realien 25, 645, 651 concepts 324
riddles 144 n. 73 mystery terminology in 333–350
ring composition 125, 150 n. 103 pagan themes 607–620
roman noir 120 paraphrastic technique 267–288
royal encomium 174, 196, 374 n. 12, and patristic exegesis 289–298
403 n. 12, 445–446, 500 self-recognition 272, 275–277, 279
sacred history 124 Semitic names 234, 238 (and n. 104),
shape-shifting 131–132 357
similar to Campe 187 spirituality of swimming 616–618
‘soft porn’ scenes 123 symbolism 617, 662 n. 89, 664
soteriology 129, 134 transmission 679–683
source of inspiration for modern use of the Synoptic Gospels 217, 271
writers 746–747 n. 23
structure 125, 143, 154–156, 173–174, Nysa (Mount), personification 474
192, 403–404, 451 n. 37, 452,
493–500, 708 Oceanus (Ocean) 143 n. 70, 385, 628 n. 8
syncrisis 114, 117, 130 n. 24, 133, 176 Ocythoos 501
transmission 672–679 Odysseus
theogamies 123, 143, 625 and Calypso 233
Theomachies and as a Cretan beggar in the Odyssey 159,
Gigantomachies 120, 125–126, 163 nn. 36–37
128, 135–143, 154 n. 11, 157, 499, as a literary creation 43, 578
500 n. 46 and Nausicaa 513, 519–520
topsy-turvy world 142–143 oratorical style of 536
854 General Index
Odysseus (cont.) Orphic Argonautica 354 n. 11, 373, 377 n. 29,

and Typhon 537 380 n. 32, 382 n. 33, 385 n. 36, 386, 439
wanderings of 492 n. 93, 531 n. 15
Oeagrus 98 date 373 n. 8
Oita (Mount) 117 Orphic divinities 98–104
Olivares, Count-Duke of 724 Demeter 99–100
Olszewski, Marek T. 41–42 Phanes 91, 98–102, 103 (and n. 40)
Olympiodorus of Alexandria 102–103, 422, Rhea 99–101, 108
680 Orphic Lithica 698
commentary on the Alcibiades I Orphic poems 625, 632–633, 641
425–426 Neoplatonic versions of 91–94, 99, 102
commentary on the Phaedo 102 Rhapsodies 91–92, 98 n. 23, 99, 103 n. 40,
Olympiodorus of Thebes 655 n. 58 632
Olympus (Mount), Dionysus’ ascension Orphicorum Fragmenta 92 n. 3, 100 nn. 28
to 113, 115, 126, 129, 160, 374 n. 12, 483 and 30, 101, 102 nn. 38 and 39, 103
nn. 11–12, 499, 501 (and n. 42), 427 (and nn. 22, 24), 608
Onians, John 661 n. 29, 618 n. 60, 632 n. 23, 639 n. 48,
Opelt, Ilona 440 641 n. 55
Opheltes 118, 143, 155, 158–159, 485, 660, 699 Orphism
and Patroclus 118, 158–159 gold tablets 93, 103
see also funeral games Imperial period 91–94
Ophion 632, 639 rite and ritual 107–109
Oporinus, Johannes (Johannes Herbster or Osiris 251, 608
Herbst) 705 Ovid
Oppian 299, 399, 530–532 (and n. 23) narrates the death of Ampelus 179 n. 14
and Nonnus 538–540, 542 and Nonnus 144, 404 n. 16, 417 n. 73, 705,
Halieutica 539–542, 546–547, 617 (and 710, 718–719, 728
n. 55) Ars 369
[Oppian] 233 n. 88, 354 (and n. 10) Fasti 179 n. 14, 701–702, 736
Cynegetica 392 Metamorphoses 178 nn. 10 and 12, 188,
Opstall, Emilie Marlène van 698 404 n. 16, 417 n. 73
oracles Remedia amoris 187 n. 28, 483–484
in connection with the Holy Scriptures
and Christ 263 Pachomius 66
and prophecy 262–263 pagan, meaning of the term 79
orgies paganism
as Christian teaching 337, 341–342 ‘pagan resistance’ in late antique
see also Jewish festivals Egypt 75–79
Origen 312, 320 n. 27, 350, 584 ‘pagan revival’ in late fourth-century
mystery terminology in 332 Rome 75, 78
Commentary on the Gospel of John 240, paideia 44 n. 119, 107, 124, 247, 264, 332, 450,
244, 290–293, 296–297, 589 n. 45 463, 468, 475, 578 n. 6, 625, 644–645,
Orion 385, 455 657 n. 63, 665, 667 n. 113
Orontes 135–137, 139, 160 n. 27, 453 Palaiokappa, Konstantinos 20
Orpheus Palladas 38, 57, 299
Christianization of 42, 621 Pallene 120–121, 143, 154–155, 164, 207, 470,
literary character 97–98, 635 n. 31 499–500, 557, 628 n. 7, 720, 747
Orphic poet 91–94, 427 n. 23 Palm, Jonas 443
General Index 855
Pamprepius 24, 63, 68, 72, 74, 82 nn. 28–29, P.Dublin 31 62

398 n. 74, 400 n. 78, 693 P.Fouad 80 62
and Nonnus 30, 269 n. 12, 693 P.Hamb. I 22 70
‘serious pagan’ 82 n. 28 P.Heid. inv. G 1271 673 n. 10
Descriptio diei autumnalis 426–427 P.Insinger 55
Encomium on the Patrician Theagenes 30 P.Onchsheshonqi 55
Pan 24, 97, 185, 408, 410–411, 467, 472, P.Oxy. XLI 2946 692
559–560, 562–566, 593, 614 P.Oxy. XLI 2946–2947 57
Panopea 169 P.Panop. 29–30 62 n. 33
Panopolis 19, 23–24, 54–74, 80, 82 n. 29, 265, P.Panop.Beatty 1 57
465 P.Ross.Georg. III 48.1 57 n. 8
Akhmim (Arabic name) 464 P.S.I. III 253 30
alchemy 60–61, 70, 72–73 P.Ups. 8 70
Bodmer codices 67 P.Vindob. gr. 29788 A–C 30, 68 n. 52
education 57–58, 61, 66–67 Paralius 76–77, 78 n. 11
in Late Antiquity 70–73 paraphrase
Nag Hammadi codices 61 adiectio 271
Paneia (games) 60 detractio 271
papyri (literary) 55–57, 59 Genesis 220
Shmin (Coptic name) 464 Heptateuch 220
syncretistic milieu 40, 468 immutatio 271
tapestries 251 New Testament 219
theater 118 n. 21 Old Testament 218–220
wisdom texts 55–56 principles of 602
see also Egypt Psalm 218–219
Panopolite (nome) 54, 64, 69, 76 n. 3, 83 n. of psalms 219–220
35 rhetorical exercise (γύμνασμα or
see also Panopolis; Phenebythis; Senalolet; exercitatio) 217, 271
Triphieion Quintilian’s definition 602
papyri transmutatio 271
Codex des Visions 67, 218, 354 Paris 519
P.Achmim 2–5 67 description of 112 n. 5
P.Achmim 8 62 n. 33 judgment of 398 n. 75, 473
P.Achmim 9 65 Parnassus 630
P.Ammon I 62 n. 32 Pasquali, Giorgio 673
P.Ammon II 62 n. 32 Passe, Crispijn van de 719
P.Ammon II 47 62 Passover 221
P.Aphrod.Lit. IV 34 83 n. 33 Christian 334
P.Aphrod.Lit. IV 39 83 n. 32 first 345–346
P.Berl.Borkowski 58 Jewish 334
P.Berol. inv. 10567 30, 673, 676–677, 679 as ‘mysteries’ 248
P.Bodm. 2 (𝔓66) 295 second 345
P.Bodm. 29–37 354 Pater, Walter 740
P.Bouriant 41a 62 n. 33 patria 579, 647–648
P.Cair.Masp. I 67004 83 n. 34 Christian tradition of 649 n. 27
P.Cair.Masp. III 67295 69, 76 n. 3 Patroclus 485
P.Cair.Masp. III 67312 57 n. 8 and Achilles 158, 524, 591 n. 54
P.Derv. 434 n. 67, 641 n. 55 death of 232 n. 84, 486–487
856 General Index
Patroclus (cont.) Pfeijffer, Ilja Leonard 181

and Opheltes 118, 158–159 Phaeacians 501
see also funeral games Phaedra, and Hippolytus 117
Paul (St) 332, 344 n. 94, 347, 602 Phaethon (Φαέθων) 118, 132, 185, 189–190,
Paul the Silentiary 681 n. 52, 694 (and n. 23), 438, 454, 493, 518, 628 nn. 8 and 10, 660
695 n. 80, 667 n. 116, 725, 732, 745
Description of St Sophia 354 n. 12, 362, catasterism 203
399 n. 76, 444 n. 7 and Helios see s.v.
Paulinus of Nola 96 n. 17 Phanes 29, 91, 98–99, 101–102, 103 (and n.
paraphrases 220 n. 37 40), 632, 633 n. 24, 635 n. 34, 639
Pcol 64, 67, 72, 74 identified with Hermes-Thot 101
Peacock, Thomas Love 733–735 identified with the Sun 101
Peisander of Laranda 42, 531 n. 12, 532 n. 23 Pharisees 221, 226, 257 n. 75, 272–279
and Nonnus 132 n. 30, 143 n. 71 against Jesus 340–341
Peisianassa 166 Pharos (island) 24 (and n. 40), 216
Peisinoe Phemius 180
Aphrodite disguised as 207 n. 71, Phenebytis 76 n. 3
513–514, 520, 555 Pherespondus (satyr) 399
name 555 Philae, temple of 77
Peitho 456, 546 n. 73, 628 Philip II of Spain 722
Pelagia of Antioch 32–34 Philip IV of Spain 724–725
Life of St Pelagia 33–34 Philip V of Spain 724
Peleus, marriage of 492 Philo of Alexandria 249, 350
Pelops 524 biblical allegoresis 331
and Hippodameia 473 mystery terminology in 331
Penelope 180, 482 De legatione ad Gaium 342 n. 90
Penthesileia 533 De vita contemplativa 339
and Achilles 45 De vita Moysis 427
Pentheus 103, 125, 135–136, 138, 139, 178, 181, Quis rerum divinarum heres sit 249
183–189, 194, 200, 204, 210, 400, 490, 541, Philo of Byblos 632 n. 21
628 n. 10, 629, 630, 732, 740 Philomela 96, 132, 153, 177–178, 557 n. 50, 571
as ἀβάκχευτος 337 philoponoi 76
as exemplum in Orphic ‘sacred Philostratus the Elder 450 (and n. 30)
accounts’ 107–108 Imagines 456–457, 660 n. 80, 719
and Itylus 178 (and n. 12) Phoebus 11, 438
serpentine nature of 139 n. 56 Phoenicians, and Cadmus 14
Persephone 58, 100–104, 123, 143, 148, Photius of Constantinople 323
205–206, 208, 329, 456, 508, 522, 552 n. Bibliotheca 17–19, 218 n. 26, 603 (and
28, 557 n. 51, 592, 626, 668 n. 120 n. 6), 605 n. 18, 659 n. 77
Perseus 117, 138, 160 n. 27, 170, 194, 201, 204, Phthonus 152, 164–165
557 Pilatus 253–254
absent character in the Dionysiaca Pindar 176, 181, 300, 424, 433, 442, 496, 524
170 n. 59 allusive style 176
and Dionysus see s.v. and Nonnus 428–431, 496 n. 41, 528, 530
Peter (Simon Peter) 219, 261, 318–319, Dithyrambs 430 (and n. 39)
616–618, 640 n. 52 Isthmians 299, 430 n. 41
Peter Mongus (bishop) 76 Nemeans 431 n. 46
Petetriphis 56, 62 n. 33 Pythians 430 n. 41, 522
General Index 857
Pithos 106, 183 structural use of adjectives 239 (and

‘Jar’ 122, 163, 415–416 n. 106), 350
Plantin, Christophe 705, 716 verbal illusionism 435–437
Planudes, Maximus 605–607, 674–675, poikilia (ποικιλία, variatio) 118, 154 n. 11, 179,
677–680, 700–701, 714–715 197, 210, 215, 249, 254, 402–403, 405,
Anthologia Planudea 677, 681 411, 421, 424–428, 445, 447 (and n. 18),
Plato 449–450, 502, 549–552, 607, 634, 642
quotes Pindar in Men. 81a ff. 429 in Himerius 426
tradition of 331–332, 350, 435 in Pamprepius 426–427
Phaedo 618 see also poetics; Proteus
Phaedrus 15 n. 11, 349 n. 111, 423, 425, 429, polemics, Judeo-Christian 345–346, 350
618 Poliziano (Angelo Ambrogini) 23 n. 37,
Respublica 426 701–704, 707, 715
Symposium 186 (and n. 26), 636 Polyphemus 521 n. 40
(and n. 37) absent character in the
Timaeus 423, 618 Dionysiaca 169–171
Pliny the Elder 105 n. 47 and Galatea 726, 727 n. 73
Plotinus 243, 246, 432, 604, 617 Pompeii, Villa of the Mysteries 462
Enneades 618 Porphyrius the Charioteer, cycle of 694
Plouto 143 Porphyry (philosopher)
Plowman (constellation) 177 De antro Nympharum 434 n. 64
Plutarch 423 Περὶ ἀγαλμάτων 427
on the name Zagreus 102 n. 38 Philosophia ex oraculis haurienda 434
poetics (of Nonnus) 422–442, 540, 546 Vita Plotini 438 n. 84, 617
abrupt transition 431 portents (in Nonnus) 625, 628, 630–631
ainigma (αἴνιγμα) 433–435 animal 627 n. 6, 629 n. 11
astonishment 662 celestial 631
baroque 5, 151, 207 n. 74, 244, 379 n. 31, Poseidon 143, 147 n. 90, 170–171, 420, 488,
389, 392, 435–436, 632, 652, 658 (and 492
n. 68), 662, 714, 717, 747 and Dionysus see s.v.
circularity 147 (and n. 89), 151, 441, Posidippus, Lithika 450
458 n. 61 pottery and silverware
and ecphrasis 540 Derveni krater 462, 471
grandiosity 437–439 silver bowl from Asia Minor 463–464,
kennings 433 476 (Fig. 4.3)
mannerist 436 n. 74, 441 Poussin, Nicolas 718–720
metaphors 111 n. 1, 149 n. 100, 155, 400, Praetextatus, Vettius Agorius 78
427, 431–432, 629, 636–637 Preller, Anton Heinrich 611
musicality 439–441 Priamus 491, 499
mirrors the contemporary intellectual Priscus 31
culture 483 Proba, Faltonia Betitia (poetess)
oracular 434–435 influence on Eudocia 229–230
poikilia see s.v. Matthew, her main source 229 n. 67
proem(s) to the Dionysiaca Virgilian centos 219
Book 1 23–24, 111–114, 154 n. 11, 173, Proclus 68, 91, 102–103, 422, 429, 618, 667
187, 254 n. 66, 374, 403 n. 9, 424–429, and Nonnus’ chronology 269 n. 12
439, 484, 494–495, 539, 622 on the ποικιλία 425
Book 25 115, 176, 428–431, 457, 492, Hymns 438 nn. 85 and 87, 666 n. 107
495–496, 498, 528, 532, 622 Platonic Theology 616
858 General Index
Procne 132, 153, 177–178, 200, 557 n. 50, 571 deceit 202, 210

Procopius of Gaza 38 exhibitionism 195, 199–200
Phaedra and Hippolytus moralized 117 exposure 194, 196–197, 200, 202
progymnasma 148 n. 95, 450 n. 33, 452, 549 flight 204, 211
Projecta casket (Esquiline treasure) 466, hiding 195, 201–202, 211
470 immanence 195
Prolegomena to the Philosophy of Plato 425, immersion 203
432 n. 54 infantilism 212
Prost, Mark A. 17 orality 199, 201
Proteus 23–24, 113 n. 7, 131, 141, 154 n. 11, 155, paranoia 199, 201, 210
173, 187, 402–403, 428 n. 30, 431, 437, regression 193–194, 198, 203, 212
445, 484, 495, 539, 550–551 repression 193, 203, 207–208, 210, 212
and Typhoeus 141 n. 62 sexuality 195–196, 207, 211
see also metamorphosis; poikilia shame 201–202, 206
Protogonos 91 spying 200, 202
Provataris, Emmanuel 723 transcendence 203–204, 211
Prudentius voyeurism 143, 146–148, 200, 206
influence on Sedulius 228–229 Ptolemagrius see Agrius Ptolemaeus
Apotheosis 228 Ptolemais, in Late Antiquity 55 n. 4
Liber Cathemerinon 228 Ptolemy Philadelphus, his patronage in the
Psychomachia 166 Septuagint’s translation 216
Pseudo-Apollinarius Pythagoreanism 92
and Constantinople 218 Pythia 630
and Nonnus 218 n. 27, 219 n. 30 Python (serpent) 492
Metaphrasis Psalmorum (Psalm
Paraphrase or Psalm paraphrase) 219, Quevedo, Francisco de 728–729
269 n. 12, 280, 354 n. 6, 356, 603–604, Quintilian, Institutio Oratoria 271 n. 19, 602
619 n. 61, 624, 692 Quintus of Smyrna 19, 57, 159 (and n. 26),
Pseudo-Clemens 295 n. 26 183, 373–374, 376, 377 n. 29, 384 n. 35,
Pseudo-Eudocia, Violarium 20 385, 487 n. 23, 530–533, 541, 544–545,
Pseudo-Heraclitus, Homeric Problems 541 582
Pseudo-John Chrysostom 346 (and n. 101), date 531
589 n. 45 the most Homeric of Imperial
Pseudo-Justin 294 n. 20 poets 531–532
De monarchia 43 n. 119 and Nonnus 531–533
Quaestiones et Responsiones ad
Orthodoxos 294 Ramelli, Ilaria 293–294
Pseudo-Longinus, On Sublimity 424, 429, reception (of Nonnus)
437–438 (and n. 83), 614 Baroque period 714–730
Pseudo-Lucian, Nero 639 n. 48 Byzantine literature 674, 696–701
Pseudo-Nonnus 508 n. 4 England 732–737, 741–745
identification with Nonnus 34–37, 298 fiction writing 16–17, 47, 741–743,
psychology (with particular reference to the 745–746
Dionysiaca) France 718–721
ambivalence 193–196, 199–201, 206–207 Germany 730–732
beating 201, 211 Italy 717–718, 730, 746–747
binding 201, 209, 211 Late Antiquity 667, 673–674, 691–695
breasts 197–200, 205 Modern Europe 308 n. 1, 730–741
competitiveness 201 Renaissance literature 701–711, 714–717
General Index 859
reception (of Nonnus) (cont.) delivered to Electra 585–586

Spain 721–730 delivered to Elisabeth 587–588
Symbolist movement 738–741 delivered to Mary 585–586
The United States 737, 745 delivered to Semele 586
Reich, Hermann 69 Salvini, Anton Maria 730
religious transformation, in Late Samaria 290, 638, 291
Antiquity 77, 79 Sammartino, Ludovico (Lodovico)
remedia amoris 186 d’Agliè 711, 718
Rémondon, Roger 76 Santillana, Giorgio de 745
resurrection (and afterlife) 104–107, 133, Sappho 511, 514–516, 518–519, 612–614
259 Alexandrian edition of 514
Ampelus and Staphylus 106–107 and Nonnus 612–614
in the Dionysiac mysteries 259 and Selene/Endymion 516
in Late Antiquity 608 satyrs passim
in Nonnus 104–107, 129 n. 20, 133–134 dancing (rivers) 122
in Orphism 104 Scaliger, Joseph Justus 34, 678, 684, 706, 708,
see also Christ, Jesus; Lazarus; Tylus 717
Rhea 108, 120, 155–156, 178, 184, 458, 509 Schadenfreude 16 (and n. 13)
author of oracles 631 Scheindler, August 268, 611, 680–682, 704
Dionysusʼ constant protector 100 as Nonnian scholar 684
major character 155–156 Schembra, Rocco 230–231, 233
silent character 156 Schmitz, Thomas A. 622
see also Orphic divinities Schrenk, Sabine 466, 468
rhetor 58, 63, 66, 72 Schubart, Wilhelm 673
Rhodopis 558–559, 563 Scriverius, Petrus 709, 713
Ribera, José de 724 Seasons see Hora(e)
Riemschneider, Margarete Second Sophistic 456
as Nonnian scholar 441, 644 Sedulius 219–220, 603
Im Garten Claudias 16, 37–38, classical terms in 228–229
745–746 draws on Prudentius 228–229
Rinaldi, Lucia 2 Lazarus story 226–229, 231, 239
Rinuccini, Ottavio 718 picks up phrases from Lucan 229
Rioja, Francisco de 725 probably wrote in an Italian milieu 219
Robert, Louis 25, 647 seeing
Roberts, Michael 553 function and prominence in
Robertson, Robin, Hill of Doors 3–4 Nonnus 260–261
Rohde, Erwin 549 in John’s Gospel 260
Romanos the Melode 270–271 in Late Antiquity 259
Ronsard, Pierre de 715–716 see also believing, faith
Rose, Herbert Jennings 2–3, 460 Segal, Robert 151
Röthlisberger, Marcel 721 Selene 145, 148, 174, 473, 511–519
Rouse, William Henry Denham 133, 460 and Aphrodite 515, 517–518
Rozas, Juan Manuel 729 love for Endymion 511–512
and Medea 511, 516–517
Sabinus (Egyptian poet) 70, 73–74 Semele 100, 102, 107, 152, 162, 164 ff., 194, 200,
Sahidic Coptic 66–67 203, 205–206, 208, 329, 391–392, 406,
Sallustius, On Gods and the Universe 615 438, 491–492, 462, 469, 503, 511, 518, 583,
salutations 586, 588, 590, 716, 735
860 General Index
Semele (cont.) Soterichus of Oasis 605

catasterism 203 Soto de Rojas, Pedro 729
death and apotheosis 115–117, 129, 133, Sozomen 604
143, 148, 168 n. 54, 176, 583, 586, Spanoudakis, Konstantinos 6, 86, 87 n. 52,
590 n. 53 107, 246–247, 258, 265, 334, 458–459,
and Mary (Virgin) 97 n. 18 579, 654, 661, 677, 700
pregnant with Dionysus 406, 590, 629 Spirit
as Thyone 107 significance 257
Senalolet (Egyptian village) 64 theological implications 257–258
Sepphoris (Palestine) see mosaics spolia 660–661
Septuagint 244, 331, 348 Staphylus 121, 135 n. 42, 185, 187–188, 191,
Serapis 333 415–416, 721
serpent ‘Grape’ 122
and identity 199 n. 33 see also funeral games; resurrection (and
and immortality/resurrection 105–106, afterlife)
134 n. 35, 610 Stegemann, Viktor 114, 541
Ševčenko, Ihor 698 Stevenson, Robert Louis 307
Shelley, Percy Bysshe 733–736 Stoicism 92
Shenoute of Atripe 40, 54, 56–57, 64–67, Strauss, Richard 740
72–74, 656 String, Martin 674
and Aristophanes 66 Struck, Peter T. 433–434
and Nonnus 67 Suda Lexicon 60 n. 24, 532 n. 23
‘Vienna Incipit List’ 64 marginal gloss s.v. ‘Νόνναι’ 19–23, 699
Sherry, Lee F. 267–268, 679 Sundermann, Klaus 302–303
Shorrock, Robert 44, 86–87, 96, 334, 457, Sutton, Dana F. 108
531–533, 536, 539, 547, 621, 646, 721 Sylburg, Friedrich 683
Sibylline Oracles 354, 357 n. 31, 616 Sylvanus Urban see Cave, Edward
Sidonius Apollinaris 38 symbol
Sieber, Fabian 6 in connection with truth 253–254
Silenus 462, 467, 472, 591 in John’s Gospel 253
pantomimic dance of 192, 399 mystic symbolism 258
Siloam (pool) 272, 279 Symmachus, Q. Aurelius 78
Simaetha 521 syncretism 77, 83, 88, 101, 134 n. 37, 217 n. 16,
Simon, Bernadette 189 246, 435 n. 73, 625, 643
Simon, Erika 644 ‘intermittent’ 99–101, 104
Simonides, Constantine 741 in Late Antiquity 38, 77 n. 10, 99 n. 27,
forger of a false biography of Nonnus 16, 468
738 Synesius 38, 43 n. 119, 746
Simplicius 680 De insomniis 423
Skirtos (satyr) 474 Dio 424, 437
Slater, Philip Elliot 207 n. 74 Hymns 246 n. 23, 438 (and nn. 88–89),
Snorri Sturluson, Prose Edda 46–47 439 (and n. 90), 584 n. 26
Socrates Scholasticus 604
Solon 97 Tabernacles (Feast of), Jewish and
Sophocles Christian 347–349
and Nonnus 28 tablets (written) 627–628, 633, 638–639
Oedipus at Colonus 28, 639 n. 48 see also Harmonia
Sophronius 696 targum tradition 289
General Index 861
Tassis, Juan de 729 Theodosius II 18, 30, 692

Tasso, Torquato 710 Theon 452, 572 n. 102
Tebtynis 59 Theophanes the Confessor, Chronicle
Teiresias 139, 185–186, 188–189, 630–632, 635 32–34
n. 31 Theophilus of Alexandria 652
Telchines 493 (and n. 32) Theophylact of Ohrid 295 n. 26
teletai 93–94 Theosebeia, Zosimus’ ‘sister’ 61, 72, 74
Telete 108–109, 150, 626–627 Theosophia Tubingensis 257 n. 76, 386 n. 39,
meaning of the name 108, 120 435 (and n. 72), 610, 692
Tereus 178 n. 12, 571 Theseus 117, 556–557
Tesauro, Emanuele, Cannocchiale Thetis 42, 127, 148, 169, 174, 199–200, 474,
aristotelico 436 492, 497, 499, 556 n. 45, 568
Theadelpheia 65 Thomas Didymus (or Thomas) 221,
Thebes 65, 183, 490, 541 223–224, 317, 325–326
and Cadmus 12, 492, 543 Thoosa 169
city of Dionysus’ ancestors 184, 503 Thucydides 67
entry of Dionysus into 86, 181 Thureus 139
founding of 107, 184, 458, 486, 492, 626, Tiedke, Heinrich, as Nonnian scholar 684
628 n. 11, 629 n. 13 Tilothis (Egyptian village) 60
and Pindar 429–430, 496 Tissoni, Francesco 718
Thekla Titans (and Titanic myth) 3, 91, 99, 101–105,
Acts of Paul and Thekla 280 123, 132, 161, 187, 194, 329
Life and Miracles of Thekla 280, 605 Tithonus 386, 571
Thelxinoe 166 Torre, Nicolás de la (Nikolaos Turrianos)
Themisto 200 722
Theoclymenus 230 n. 76 Tosi, Renzo 22 n. 35
Theocritus 145, 299, 353 n. 5, 365 n. 82, 366 Trevor-Roper, Hugh 744–745
n. 87, 388, 390, 394 n. 65, 400, 411 n. 50, Triphieion (or Tripheion) 56–57, 65, 70
521 (and nn. 38–40), 526–528, 581 (and Triphiodorus 19, 24, 56–60, 73–74, 299, 373,
n. 19), 624 n. 72 377 n. 29, 383, 385, 387–388, 394, 494,
and Nonnus 527–528, 659 530–531, 668 n. 119, 692
Idyll 2, scholion to 517 (and n. 29) and Alexandria 57
Thedore of Alexandria 649 n. 27 date 28 n. 55, 57, 373 n. 8, 385 n. 36
Theodore of Heraclea 244 name 56
Theodore of Mopsuestia, Commentary on the and Nonnus 28 n. 55, 533–538, 546–548
Gospel of John 244, 290 n. 7, 292–293, and Quintus of Smyrna 530 n. 9, 531
295–297 Triphis 56
Theodore Prodromos 695 Triton 159 n. 26, 167
and Nonnus 699–700 Tropheus 474
Theodore of Stoudios (the Studite) 698 Troy 386, 482, 496, 532–533, 535, 582
Theodoret of Cyrus truth
quotes Eur. Bacch. 472 337 authenticity 251–252
Graecarum affectionum curatio 337, believing and witnessing 263
462–463, 467 Dionysiac world and 254
Interpretatio in XII Prophetas faith and 262–263
minores 615 significance in Nonnus 257–258, 260
Theodosian Code, on preservation of pagan true God 252–253, 262
monuments 620–621 true worship 261–262
862 General Index
Tuéni, Nadia 26–27 Trojan 118, 535–536

Tylus 134, 153, 184, 661, 720 water passim
and Lazarus see s.v. of baptism 583
Typhoeus/Typhon 125, 138–144, 147, 174, 187, and fire 199–200, 203, 208–209, 583
406–413, 533–538, 650, 732 living 259, 261, 637 n. 43
metapoetic reading of 140 n. 58 and prophecy 637–638
and Proteus 141 n. 62 transformation into wine 137, 216–217,
and thunder of epic 537 248–250, 608–609
Tyre 25–26, 68, 123, 185, 189, 568–570 and wine closely connected by
the paradox of its foundation 190, Nonnus 249
631–632 see also Marriage at Cana
Tyrrhenian pirates, myth of the 185, 188–190 Webb, Ruth 663
Sicilian origin of the myth 188 n. 30 Weil, Simone, reader of the Dionysiaca
46
Uranus 91, 419 Weitzmann, Kurt 644
Ursinus, Caspar 308 n. 1, 710 n. 115 West, Martin L. 353 (and n. 4)
Uthman Ibn Suwayd al-Akhmimi (‘the Whitby, Mary 307, 529–530, 532
Panopolitan’) 70, 72–74 White Monastery 57, 66
Uvarov, Sergey 731 Wifstrand, Albert 644
Uytenhove, Charles (Carolus Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, Ulrich von 14,
Uitenhovius) 705 673
Will, Ernst 647
Valens (Emperor) 65 Willers, Dietrich 40, 645
Valentinian III 30 Wilson, Nigel 21
Varennes, Olivier de 710 Winckelmann, Johann Joachim 460, 731
Venus de Milo, discovery of 738 wine passim
Verhelst, Berenice 6 blood of Christ 250
Vian, Francis 5–6, 32, 42–43, 81, 84–85, contact point between Dionysus and
95–96, 106, 108, 143, 158, 165, 174, 179, Christ 96–97, 107, 110
183, 263–264, 268, 304–305, 306 n. 87, a kind of hybrid 141
334, 355–356, 392–393, 531, 577–578, Maronian 113
583, 594, 627, 633, 644, 671–672, and milk 200 n. 38
676–677, 679, 682, 691 ‘Olympian ichor’ 179
Vigenère, Blaise de 719 salvific value 335, 338–339
Vilanova, Antonio 727 solace to men 184
vine symbol of drunkenness and
in the Christian Alexandrian deception 250
tradition 252 see also Marriage at Cana; water
symbolism 251 Winkler, John J. 200 n. 40, 208 n. 75
Virgil 92, 485 n. 15, 516, 676 witness 313–314, 316
Aeneid 229 n. 66, 481, 626 μάρτυς/μαρτυρέω/μαρτυρίη 304–305
Eclogues 406 n. 35 Wójtowicz, Henryk 333, 350
Virgin (constellation) 177
Vision of Dorotheus 218, 356 Yourcenar, Marguerite, translations from the
Dionysiaca 737
‘wandering poets’ 72, 80, 82 n. 29
war Zachariah Scholasticus (or of Mytilene) 58,
Indian 118, 135, 139 n. 55, 154–155, 157, 69, 74
170–171, 492, 573 Life of Severus 76–77
General Index 863
Zagreus 3, 98–99, 101, 141, 148, 169, 174, 181, ‘Modaios’ 159 n. 24

194, 374 n. 12, 491–492, 626 pact with the family of Agenor and
dismemberment/metamorphoses 102– Cadmus 124
105, 132 in the prayers of Aion 122
see also Titans (and Titanic myth) and Semele on Mount Olympus 115
Zeldin, Theodore, Happiness 47 shape-shifter 131
Zephyr 507–508 sinews of 407
Zethus 458 watches Persephone bathing 123, 148
Zeus 152, 155, 165, 174, 176, 185, 187–188, Zimmerman, Bernhard 153–155
406–411, 413–414, 626–635, 641, passim Zosimus (alchemist) 60–62, 70, 72–74
Ampeleites 647 n. 15 and Carl Jung 61
Asbystes 628 n. 7 mentions Hesiod and Plato 61
and Europa 551–553, 557 ‘the Panopolitan’ 61
impregnates Persephone and Semele syncretism 65
orally 205 Zsàmboky, Jànos (Iohannes Sambucus) 705
as a model for Dionysus 552
Index of Principal Nonnian Passages
AP 9.198 23–24, 68, 216, 650, 93–124 174

672 110–117 406
128–136 144
137 702
Dionysiaca Line(s) Page(s)
137–140 182
142–145 650
Book 1
1 195, 402, 425, 677 154 413
1–5 244–245 158 366
1–10 111–112, 581 172 386
1–12 494 206–218 732
1–15 23–24, 402 240–243 439–440
1–45 424–428, 439 294–320 533
2 425 299–302 537
3 425 310–320 534
3–4 173 321–323 182
7 583 321–361 550–553
8–10 176 344–377 410 n. 46
10 425 362 127
11 112, 439 362–369 702
11–15 24 362–534 406, 411, 421
11–33 154–155 362b–375 407–408
13 68 364 411
13–15 650, 663 368 410
14–15 445 368–375 163
15 154 n. 111, 254 n. 66, 369 407–408
374, 405 n. 20, 439, 371 408
539 376–377 410
16–33 402, 431 378 411
20–21 100 378–407 410
23 539 389 410
26–28 154 398–407 407
31–34 255 408–420 408–409
34 112 439 411
34–38 112 439–447 409–410
37–38 484 492–499 98
39 439 528 733
39–40 439
39–44 113 Book 2 94–162 167 n. 52, 168 n. 55,
42–43 29, 694 201 n. 42
45 173, 495 131 177 n. 10
45 ff. 144 159–160 544
45–139 550–553 163–169 438
46–90 447, 453 163–170 388
51–52 145–146 169 387–388
89–90 146 170–204 438
Index Of Principal Nonnian Passages 865
Book 2 (cont.) 252–263 13–14

171 367 278–284 707
209–236 160–162 308–310 35
508 184 320–321 177
512 302
539–546 732 Book 5 49 486
625–630 413 49–67 98
644–649 732 135–144 546–547
687 302 135–189 444, 446, 449, 457,
703–705 702 522
190–209 453
Book 3 1 486 211 183
1–15 452 287–551 735
16–18 583 316–324 456
18 386 323–551 210
55–58 386 366 358
97–123 514–515 442–444 45
124–183 662 525–551 456
131–179 444, 453, 456, 527–532 453
570–571 545–551 414
135–163 448 571–574 523
137–138 444 576 523
140–142 451 586 523
196–199 627 594–600 456
248–256 488–489
251 744 Book 6 42–43 507
425–427 585–586 103–162 102
162–164 205
Book 4 67 514 165 102
67–76 513–514 169–198 103
68 514, 547 n. 79 169–205 3, 102, 105
74 514 174–199 132
80–82 162 175 105
87 85 249–299 452
102–105 520–521 302–317 169
126–142 515 319–324 169
135–138 521 n. 39 345 380
137–138 521 371–376 509
171 521 n. 40
177–178 515
178 515 Book 7 1–109 203
194–196 511 13–16 715
199–206 521 57 361
203–205 521 97–105 128–130
213–225 515, 517–518 116–128 445, 449
214 218 137 386
216–225 512 190–268 168
224 518 309–317 438
233–234 521–522 310–311 388
866 Index Of Principal Nonnian Passages
Book 8 27–30 406 1–12.397 87

27–32 588–590 118–154 164
34–108 152 214–223 106, 133
34–285 166 241 100
40–44 163 255–312 732
113–118 702 299 100
162 100 n. 30 315–350 732
193–195 166 325 599
201–205 162 355 186
251 162 358–359 186
300 294 n. 23 362 186
413–418 115–116 369–483 153, 591
370 186
Book 9 11 200 482 186
11–12 699 485–12.116 183
17 699 489–495 711
19–24 699 513 744
25–36 719 520–521 720
26 490
57 302 Book 12 1–20 438
72 97 n. 18, 585–586 21 744
n. 34 29–115 203, 444, 449, 453
111–131 108 30–31 456
137–144 101 30–116 203
141 99 32 165
145 100 32–34 102
157 99 34 99, 101
175 100 64–89 542
208–242 168 n. 54 66–67 639–640, 642
222 100 n. 30 99–102 591
257–260 632 118–219 592
142 ff. 732
Book 10 129–136 168 n. 54 142–143 106
139–144 524–525 142–171 259 n. 86, 595 (and
175–192 448, 702 n. 69)
181 525 171 85, 97 n. 18, 106,
186–187 526 134, 237 n. 102, 290,
189 525 305, 594–597, 666
191–192 526 292–294 178
193 525 294 179
215–216 526 395–397 179
226–229 527
238–249 525–526 Book 13 13–17 587
264–266 555 35–36 100 n. 30
339 524, 747 43–46 498
339–430 500 47–50 484
47–52 498–499
Book 11 1 48 53–14.227 157
1–55 500 201–221 158
Book 13 (cont.) 112–113 97

428–431 97–98 118–348 122
475–498 182 125–130 444
498 182 136–286 63
161 358
Book 14 52–67 169 170 490, 593
187 357 n. 28 207 99, 101
228–246 501–502 226 192
230–237 119 249 375
411–437 216–217 263 192
413 249
416 250 Book 20 1 486
13 721
Book 15 169–422 181 n. 18, 406 n. 28 23–26 390
206 391 135–136 415
235 83 n. 32 137–141 415–416
370–422 121 142 183
265 378 n. 31, 379
Book 16 146 382 266–288 160
179–182 564 299 375
321 29, 69, 692 372 29, 69, 692
332–335 565–566
399–402 120 Book 21 162 183
170–184 212
Book 17 55 744 170–199 470
59 354
73 701 Book 22 14–15 200
171–189 136–137 136–137 386
313–314 453 136–24.122 157
385–397 31, 68, 654–655 187–190 486
383–389 157
Book 18 62–92 662
67–87 456 Book 23 31 399
69–86 444, 446, 449 284–319 143 n. 70
154–165 389
166–168 386 Book 24 11–12 496
222–223 187 242–329 454
238 187 303–305 454
327–333 121
334 ff. 721 Book 25 1 496
354 721 1–21 457
8–9 496
Book 19 44–58 106 8–10 484
59–286 118 18–21 496
59–348 500 22–30 115
82–96 191 26 157
99 191 26–27 532, 544
100–101 97 27 518–519, 532–533,
100–115 98 544
Book 25 (cont.) 303 354

27–28 507, 528 362–363 386
31–252 428–431
174–252 117 Book 28 225 169
252–260 157 303 354
253–263 497
254 658 Book 29 41–42 135 n. 41
255–261 533 101–103 727
255–263 716 115–117 124
264–270 497–498 151–161 608 n. 29
265 542, 577 318 598
267 429–430 362–363 386
280 733
286 744 Book 30 296 190
310–379 156 296–297 487
341–342 498
354 100 n. 30 Book 31
380–572 86 n. 50, 445, 446, 24–35.340 157
458 89–91 188
383 538, 539 138 386
384–387 446
385 538 Book 32 9–37 448
388 540 18–27 449
389–412 541 36–37 456
414–428 98, 458 181–190 499
429–450 448, 458 184–185 499
451–552 86, 105, 153, 184, 217 186 158
(and n. 12), 239,
448, 458–459, 590 Book 33 29–32 733
n. 53 123–124 386
455–468 720 143–148 395
455–552 448 190–192 547
468 661 201 547
545 105 266–268 388
553–562 458
563 539 Book 34 99–100 387
563–567 538–539 110 744
568–572 390 193 183
Book 26 38–365 157 Book 35 21–78 45, 149 n. 100, 205

236–240 24 n. 62
238 650 51 46, 217 n. 14
295–328 445, 448, 452, 572 160–185 167
309 363 239 85
329–332 452 249 387
366–378 451 334 359
Book 27 1–7 386 Book 36 1–133 157

225 169 294–333 131
285 358 339–341 210
Book 37 1–778 157, 660 143–145 30

86–87 387 143–149 419–420
103–778 500 155–157 180
174–225 158 174 30
249 387 178–182 633
750–778 158 185–203 406 n. 35, 732
294–302 444
Book 38 1 486 320 198
8–10 387 339–399 449, 456
78 189 340 165
106–107 189 375 97
278 359 389–398 27
424–431 745 395–398 30
402– 407 395
Book 39 33–211 155 408 418, 421
84 359 408–427 417–418
260 169 418 419
261 169
268–294 170–171 Book 42 47–48 303
275 171 70 207
178–181 554
Book 40 11–30 160 181 484
57–60 137–138 196–274 559–560
101–214 491 432b–437 561
217 360, 490–491
220–222 491 Book 43 22 100
222–234 491 129–132 25
236–285 491 264–267 169
298–368 445, 450, 453, 390–393 169
455–456 441 375
298–580 568–570
304–310 36–37 Book 44 92 632
319–326 26 123–129 86
353–365 543 213 103
359–362 543 335–356 204
366–573 203
370 ff. 633 Book 45 98 100
381–385 387 103–104 188
411–417 119 324 251
429 190
429–534 631–632 Book 46 75–76 139
555 169 267–271 490
363 122
Book 41 10–11 180, 499
12–42 451–452 Book 47
1–33 28, 86, 217 (and
14–49 25, 123, 455 n. 13)
14–118 445 1–264 86, 217 (and n. 14)
29–34 198 29 35
83–84 633 34–245 122
Book 47 (cont.) 5 317

69 357 n. 28, 358 8–9 297
116–124 653–654 9 682
135 747 16 320 n. 28
256–257 177 19 263
265–294 206 n. 66 25 682
265–475 87 30–32 615
279 387 31–34 255
418 87 32 302
498–526 117 39 325
610 533 n. 25 39–40 317
39–45 317–318
Book 48 1–89 120, 154 n. 11 53 682
56–62 204 55 317
66 126 59–64 651–652
106–182 120–121, 500 116 322
191–202 470 123 322 n. 34
238–947 154 128 387
301–942 711 129 320 n. 28
302–375 149 148–151 318–319
406–408 544 157–158 318
428–429 544 201 358 n. 36
486 206
551–552 126–127 Book 2 1–11 216–217
564–612 121 1–16 248
602 250 1–60 84
652–688 96 12–20 335–336, 338
883–886 627 n. 3 17 248, 338
890–924 120 18–24 250
897 294 n. 23 20 338
909 701 21 87, 294
943–968 124 35–38 248–249, 338
948–968 109 45 359
962–968 627 51 683 n. 57
972 127 62 339
974 622 70 346
974–978 113–114, 126, 196, 111 682 n. 55
482 n. 5, 483 n. 11, 112–113 345
622
975 150 Book 3 3–5 253
976 622 16–18 583
23 682
41–45 292–293
46–47 582
Paraphrase of St John’s Gospel 51 682
68 682
Book 1 1–5 244–245, 311–312 83–85 256
2 364 112 319
3 425 116 320 n. 28
Book 3 (cont.) 172–182 340–341

125 320 n. 28 182 682
144–148 612–614
157–160 260 Book 8 1–36 313–314
61–62 295–296
Book 4 7 682
17 320 n. 29 Book 9 1–188 267–288
20–21 325 n. 41 5–6 619
48 683 n. 57 27–34 273–274
82 319 99 277
85–109 257 104–105 302
97–118 343–345 112–117 277–278
119–121 321–323 122–124 278
122–127 320–321 147–148 276
196 291 154–158 274–275
167–168 276
Book 5 3–6 649–650 177–180 275
67 683 n. 57 184–188 275
71–78 313
72 359 Book 10 84–107 315–316
89 313 n. 20 92 619
153 682 n. 55 92–94 323–324
154–159 263 n. 39
179 320 n. 30
Book 11 1–188 234–239
Book 6 9 345 3–9 235
53 683 n. 57 7 237
66–69 390 19 236
75–83 608, 652 22 619
76 619 40 236
78 682 50–53 260
84–85 387 54 236
86 682 54–55 358
98 682 66 236
115–118 260–261 84–87 259
146–147 610 103 236
151–153 264 109 236
193– 196 257 109– 115 236–237
206–211 261 112 237–238
218–220 262 121 322
123–124 594–595,
Book 7 11 345 666
31 345 151–171 86
31–34 347–348 158 234–235
37 345 158–180 237
50 345 165–166 238, 611
141 345 173 238 n. 104
142 682 175 238
160 639–640, 642 208 346

Book 12 9–10 619–620 87 390

53 387 91 347
65 623 175–181 254
151–152 637
Book 19 13 358–359
Book 13 11 358 n. 36 66 359
35 367 146–148 348–349
123 359 155 537 n. 45
159–160 348–349
Book 14 61– 67 322
111–114 663–664 Book 20 29 364
72–74 319
Book 15 1 251–252 72–75 45–46
105–108 322 84 390
84–89 84–85, 609
Book 16 7 347 103–105 84–85 (and n. 41)
23–27 322–323 118–122 84–85
43–49 322–324 120 85
65 358 131 317, 325
Book 17 64–69 256 Book 21 44–48 616–618

88–92 341–342 107–108 319
116–118 319
Book 18 16–24 253, 662 n. 89 139–143 659
35 375

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Brill’s Companion to Nonnus of Panopolis

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

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Accorinti, Domenico, editor.

Copyright 2016 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands.

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

Introduction: Becoming A Classic 1

1 The Poet from Panopolis: An Obscure Biography and a Controversial

3 The Religious Background of Nonnus 75

4 Nonnus and Dionysiac-Orphic Religion 91

5 The Poet of Dionysus: Birth of the Last among the Gods 111

6 Major Themes and Motifs in the Dionysiaca 125

7 Minor Characters in the Dionysiaca 152

8 Narrative and Digression in the Dionysiaca 173

9 The Psychology in the Dionysiaca 193

10 Nonnus and Biblical Epic 215

11 Approaching the ‘Spiritual Gospel’: Nonnus as Interpreter of

12 Nonnus’ Paraphrastic Technique: A Case Study of Self-Recognition in

13 Nonnus and Christian Literature 289

15 The Mystery Terminology in Nonnus’ Paraphrase 327

16 The Nonnian Hexameter 353

17 Nonnus’ Conventional Formulaic Style 372

18 Nonnus and the Play of Genres 402

20 Nonnus and the Poetry of Ekphrasis in the Dionysiaca 443

21 Nonnus and the Art of Late Antiquity 460

22 Nonnus and the Homeric Poems 481

23 Composing the Masters: An Essay on Nonnus and Hellenistic

24 Nonnus and Imperial Greek Poetry 529

25 Nonnus and the Novel 549

26 Christian Themes in the Dionysiaca 577

27 Pagan Themes in the Paraphrase 601

28 Nonnus and Prophecy: Between ‘Pagan’ and ‘Christian’ Voices 625

29 Nonnus and Late Antique Society 644

30 Brief Notes on the Manuscript Tradition of Nonnus’ Works 671

31 The Reception of Nonnus in Late Antiquity, Byzantine, and

32 The Influence of Nonnus on Baroque and Modern Literature 714

The project of publishing Brill’s Companion to Nonnus of Panopolis started with

Dear Domenico (if I may),

Library, Cornell University, Ithaca, NY). Furthermore, I would like to thank my

figure 0.1 Rudolf Keydell (1887–1982).

figure 0.2 Francis Vian (1917–2008).

ACO E. Schwartz (ed.), Acta Conciliorum Oecumenicorum (Strasbourg,

FGrH F. Jacoby (ed.), Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker

NRSV New Revised Standard Version, © 1989, Division of Christian

Panel with the Triumph of Dionysus from Akhmim (Panopolis), 4th–6th

0.1 Rudolf Keydell (1887–1982). After H.G. Beck/A. Kambylis/P. Moraux

4.2 Duccio di Buoninsegna, Maestà (detail of the inscription on the

Heidelberg (url: http://digi.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/diglit/cpgraec85/

7.13 Engraving by Pieter de Bailliu and Johannes Meyssens after Abraham

(2012) and ‘Contextualizing Nonnus’ Visual World’, an article published in

Jitse H.F. Dijkstra

Daria Gigli Piccardi

David Hernández de la Fuente

Scott Fitzgerald Johnson

Troels Myrup Kristensen

Anna Maria Lasek

Calum Alasdair Maciver

Peter van Minnen

I read yesterday in Mr. Joseph Clarke’s Sacred Literature, that Nonnus

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ��6 | doi ��.��63/9789004310698_002

9 Robertson (2013) 68–69 (= Robertson 2014, 178–179).

15 See now Spanoudakis (2014c).

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ��6 | doi ��.��63/9789004310698_003

10 Calasso (1993) 390–391.

27 Adler (1928–1938) I, x–xi and V, 255–256.

36 Formentin (1983) 43.

52 Shorrock (2005) 374.

78 English translation by Mango/Scott (1997) 141–142.

85 Bentley (1699) 24.

89 Accorinti (1990).

94 Livrea (2000) 58; Beatrice (2007) 3532.

97 Riemschneider (1970) 207.