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Papers on Ancient Greek Linguistics : Proceedings of the Ninth

International Colloquium on Ancient Greek Linguistics
(ICAGL9) 30 August – 1 September 2018, Helsinki
2020
Vierros , M , Leiwo , M & Dahlgren , S A K (eds) 2020 , Papers on Ancient Greek Linguistics
: Proceedings of the Ninth International Colloquium on Ancient Greek Linguistics (ICAGL9)
30 August – 1 September 2018, Helsinki . Commentationes Humanarum Litterarum , no. 139
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Commentationes Humanarum Litterarum
139 2020
PAPERS ON ANCIENT GREEK LINGUISTICS
Proceedings of the Ninth International Colloquium on

Ancient Greek Linguistics
(ICAGL 9)
30 August – 1 September 2018, Helsinki
Edited by
MARTTI LEIWO, MARJA VIERROS & SONJA DAHLGREN
Societas Scientiarum Fennica

The Finnish Society of Sciences and Letters
Papers on Ancient Greek Linguistics

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139 2020
Papers on Ancient Greek Linguistics

(ICAGL 9)
Edited by
Martti Leiwo, Marja Vierros & Sonja Dahlgren

is part of the publishing cooperation between
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Contents
Introduction i
Martti Leiwo, Marja Vierros & Sonja Dahldren
I Greek in contact
The accusative of respect in Homeric Greek as evidence for language 1

contact
Paola Dardano
The Greek suffix -ινδα within the Micro-Asiatic multilingual context 31

Francesco Dedè
Not overstrong in his Greek: modern interpretation of ‘Egyptian’ 43

Greek texts in the Zenon Archive
Trevor Evans
Phrasal verbs in a corpus of post-classical Greek letters from Egypt 63

Victoria Fendel
Foamy rivers and the wife of the Ocean: Greek ποταμός ‘river’, 99
Τηθῡ́ς ‘mother of all rivers’, and Proto-Indo-European *ku̯ eth2-
‘foam, seethe’ (Vedic kváth-ant- ‘foaming, seething’; Gothic
ƕaþjan* ‘to foam, ἀφρίζειν’)
Riccardo Ginevra
Greek loanwords in post-Biblical Hebrew/Aramaic: some case 111

studies from the midrash Genesis Rabbah
Christina Katsikadeli & Vladislav Slepoy
Notes on Greek loanwords in Classical Armenian 133

Daniel Kölligan
Interaction between Greek and Neo-Phrygian in funerary epigrams 157

from Eastern Phrygia under the Roman Empire
Elisa Nuria Merisio
6
Contact-induced change and language-internal factors: 177

the καὶ ἐγένετο type as a case-study
Liana Tronci
II Discourse analysis
Focus of attention and common ground. The function of the 207

particle δή in Thucydides
Rutger J. Allan
Degrés et nuances de l’acquiescement dans les dialogues de Platon 235

Frédéric Lambert
Discourse markers and text type: γάρ in Thucydides’ narrative and 259
non-narrative text sequences
Rafael Martínez
Im/politeness strategies in Euripides: an approach to linguistic 271

characterisation through qualitative data analysis
Sandra Rodríguez Piedrabuena
III Morphology and syntax
Die Anwendung des Duals bei Hesiod: Beobachtungen über seinen 301
graduellen Schwund anhand der Theogonie und der Erga
Sara Agliardi
Exclamative nominatives and nominatives pro vocatives in Greek 323

and Latin: a possible distinction?
Giulia Bucci
Reduplicated and non-reduplicated imperatives: κλύθι and κλύτε vs 337

κέκλυθι and κέκλυτε
Lucio Melazzo
The preverb μετα-: a cognitive and constructionist analysis 353

Antonio R. Revuelta Puigdollers
Comm. Hum. Litt. Vol. 139 7
Insubordination in Ancient Greek? The case of ὥστε sentences 383

Emilia Ruiz Yamuza
Lexical and syntactic constrictions for the derivation of verbal nouns 403
in –τις / -σις
Jesús de la Villa
IV Modality, semantics, and pragmatics
Modality and Injunctive in Homeric Greek: The role of epistemic 417

particles and adverbs in counterfactual constructions
Annamaria Bartolotta & Daniel Kölligan
A semantic-pragmatic analysis of the augment in epic Greek, 447

applied to some longer passages
Filip De Decker
Oblique optative and inferential evidentiality in Homer 479

Antonio Lillo
A usage-based approach to prosody and second argument realization 495

Alberto Pardal Padín
The augment in Homeric narration from a temporal perspective 509

Sira Rodeghiero
Present counterfactuals and verbal mood in the Homeric poems 529

Roxanne Taylor
Committal verbs in Greek aggressive magic: a pragmatic analysis 545

Mariarosaria Zinzi
Indices 567
List of contributors 577

8
Introduction
This volume is a collection of twenty-nine papers that had their preliminary

presentation at the 9th International Colloquium on Ancient Greek Linguistics
(ICAGL9) that took place in Helsinki 28 August – 1 September, 2018. Thus
they show exciting new lines of research in the field of Ancient Greek linguistics,
where many approaches take advantage of current linguistic methods and
theories.
The Helsinki colloquium had two themes: 1) Language contact between
Greek and other languages and 2) Linguistic research on original documents and
manuscripts. The majority of the papers in this volume focus on these themes,
many of them on both. However, Ancient Greek linguistic research from all angles,
synchronically as well as diachronically studied, was welcomed. Consequently,
all levels and many topics regarding language analysis – morphology, syntax,
modality, discourse analysis, semantics as well as pragmatics – were presented
in the contributions by scholars ranging from those beginning their academic
careers to those with already well established names in the field.
The richness of this kind of volume is in its ability to show the flourishing
continuity of linguistics that uses primary sources of ancient languages and
connects them to the current general linguistic discussion. This approach has
brought the growing community of Ancient Greek linguists new information
on the use of Ancient Greek, bringing it closer to the contemporary research
on living languages with all their similarities, differences and variation. It has
changed the way we view the description of the language by our traditional Greek
grammars on various details.
The volume is especially rich in providing linguistic analysis of many different
aspects of Greek in contact, as attested in original document. The collection is
therefore in the footsteps of such major edited volumes belonging to the sphere
of Ancient Greek linguistics as Adams, Janse & Swain (2002), Evans & Obbink
(2010), Papaconstantinou (2010), and Mullen and James (2012). It is heart-
warming, however, to see how much the topic contents have expanded over the
years since the previous, in many respects memorable, event of the Colloquium
on Ancient Greek Linguistics that took place in Rome in 2015, as well as the
many more meetings centred around the linguistic research of Ancient Greek
since then in various locations. All this research has also been or will be published
in the future in several editions, displaying the current state of the art of Ancient
Greek linguistics ranging from archaic etymologies through Homeric evidentials
10
ii LEIWO, VIERROS & DAHLGREN, Introduction
to Postclassical Greek’s phonology. With all this rich research literature, it is the
Golden Age for those that treat Ancient Greek as any of the living languages still
spoken, analysed within the general linguistic framework. We are proud to have
played a small part in bringing this volume with its many interesting research
articles for the Ancient Greek linguistics community to enjoy.
Helsinki, November 2020
Martti Leiwo
Marja Vierros
Sonja Dahlgren
I Greek in contact
12
The accusative of respect in Homeric Greek as

evidence for language contact
Paola Dardano
1 Introduction and overview1
1.1 Definition of “accusative of respect”
One of the most famous features of Homeric Greek is the widespread use of a
construction including an intransitive predicate and a noun in the accusative case
that restricts the force of the predicate to a part or attribute of the subject:
(1) a. ὃ δὲ φρένα τέρπετ᾽ ἀκούων. (Il. 1.474)

‘and his heart was glad (lit. he was glad with respect of his heart), as he heard.’2
b. μὲν Μενέλαος ὑπείρεχεν εὐρέας ὤμους (Il. 3.210)

‘Menelaus overtopped him with his broad shoulders (lit. overtopped him with
respect of his broad shoulders).’
The accusatives such as φρένα ‘heart’ and ὤμους ‘shoulders’ are known as
“accusatives of respect”. The relation that these have to the predicate is local or
instrumental, though this is not quite so explicitly expressed. These accusatives
are limited to referents that can be seen as inalienably possessed and are almost
exclusively found in relation to the human body.
The term “accusative of respect” is a vague and unsatisfactory one, and serves
to designate a class of uses to which it is difficult to assign definite bounds. Other
definitions are “accusative of specification” (Hahn 1960: 227), “accusative of the
part affected” (Monro 1882: 137), “accusative of reference” (Monro 1882: 137).
Moreover, the German terminology is quite confused and unclear: “Akkusativ
1I am indebted to the anonymous referee for very helpful comments and criticism that helped me
improve the formulation of what follows. I of course remain solely responsible for the contents.
2English translations are those provided in the Loeb series by A. T. Murry for Homer, The Iliad
and The Odyssey. His translation, however, has occasionally been changed slightly to emphasize
particular meanings.
2 DARDANO, The accusative of respect in Homeric Greek
der Beziehung” (La Roche 1861: 12), “Akkusativ des Bezugs” (Brugmann 1910:
121), “Akkusativ des erklärenden Objekts” (Brugmann 1910: 151) or “accusativus
determinationis” (Brugmann 1910: 121).
This construction is typical of Greek: hence this is called accusativus graecus by the
Latin grammarians. The rise of this construction in Latin cannot be an independent
native development neither an inherited feature from Proto-Indo-European, rather
as the name implies, a Greek development, which was borrowed for Latin by the
Hellenizing poets and a few prose-writers of the Golden Age and thereafter.3
1.2 Previous analyses
Terminology aside, even the origin of the accusative of respect is uncertain.

Berthold Delbrück connected the double accusative construction of the whole and
the part (σχῆμα καθ᾽ ὅλον καὶ μέρος) and the accusative of respect. According to
Delbrück, when the double accusative construction undergoes passivization, the
whole (the person) becoms the subject, while the part (the body part) remains in
the accusative, producing the accusative of respect:
Wird die Konstruktion passivisch, so wird der Akk. des Ganzen zum Nominativ,
während der des Theils bleibt. […] Dieser Akk. ist nun von dem Akk. der
Beziehung nicht mehr zu unterscheiden. (Delbrück 1893: 385)4
A few years later Karl Brugmann dedicated a long paper to the accusative of
respect and agreed with Delbrück that the “whole and part” expression cannot be
separated from the accusative of respect; furthermore, this linguist underlined the
antiquity of the construction:
[…] daß man kurz den einen Akkusativ als Hauptobjekt, den andern als
Nebenobjekt bezeichnen kann. Da kommt denn das, was dem Sprechenden
das Hauptobjekt ist, bei passivischer Wendung in den Nominativ, das andere
hingegen bleibt in der Akkusativform. (Brugmann 1910: 125–126)
3 In Latin this construction is a feature of poetry, not of prose. Catullus und Lucretius may be
viewed as having introduced the Greek accusative into the Latin literature, but it is in the Augustan
Age that it becomes more common, at least in poetry. With Vergil the Greek accusative becomes
firmly established in Latin poetry; see Hahn (1960).
4 A similar process has been proposed by La Roche (1861: 12–13).
Brugmann’s view was accepted by Eduard Schwyzer and Albert Debrunner (1950:
81, 84–85). In addition, Adelaide Hahn has analyzed the accusative of respect in
depth, dedicating many essays to this subject (see Hahn 1953, Hahn 1954, and
Hahn 1960) and confirmed that the accusative of respect cannot be separated
from the construction with the double accusative.
One of the principal opponents of Delbrück’s and Brugmann’s theory
was Rudolf Blümel. In an important essay Blümel (1913–14) argued that it is
not possible to derive the accusative of respect from the double accusative of
whole and part.5 The principal reason is the use of the accusative of respect with
intransitive verbs and adjectives (according to Blümel, such extension cannot
occur through analogy). Therefore, an independent explanation was offered:
considering that Proto-Indo-European expressed the direction, or the goal of a
motion by an accusative without a preposition, the accusative of respect is derived
from an accusative denoting motion or extent:
Dagegen kommen wir, […] von selbst auf nichts anderes als auf einen Akkusativ
mit ursprünglich örtlicher Bedeutung. Dieser Akkusativ stammt aus einer
vorhomerischen Zeit, wo die Präpositionen noch nicht als solche entwickelt
waren. (Blümel 1913–14: 45)
Also Ferdinand Sommer (1928) agreed with Blümel that the body part accusative
noun with an intransitive verb derives from a “Richtungsakkusativ”, and praised
the work as not only the best solution to the problem but as being principally
correct.
The analysis offered by Pierre Chantraine is not illuminating, and this view
seems to be closer to Blümel’s than to that of any other scholar:
Les accusatifs ‘d’objet interne’ ou d’‘extension’ ont fini par exprimer simplement
une relation avec le verbe. Ainsi s’est développé le tour dit de l’‘accusatif de
relation’ qui tien une grande place dans la syntax épique. (Chantraine 1953:
47)
A somewhat different approach is that of Carol Rosen, who focuses on the

question of both the synchronic and the diachronic status of the accusative of
respect. Assuming that the double accusative comprising person and body part
and the accusative of respect are both produced by one syntactic rule that is
5 See also Blümel (1927), and Blümel (1935).

homogenous, and based on the framework of the Relational Grammar, Rosen

concludes that the possessor noun undergoes an Ascension rule (a sort of raising):
The possessor is initially a dependent of the body-part noun, not of the verb.
However, Homeric Greek has a rule, which allows the possessor to ascend. This
rule makes the possessor a dependent of the verb. […] The Ascension analysis
has three advantages over the statements found in the grammars: (i) Two
phenomena, the Accusative of Respect and the “Whole and Part” construction,
are reduced to one, which we can call Possessor Ascension. (ii) The lexical
classes that can appear in these constructions are more accurately characterized.
(iii) It is correctly predicted that the two accusatives in the “Whole and Part”
construction should differ in their syntactic behavior, since only one of them,
the ascendee, is the direct object. (Rosen 1977: 289, 290)
Terminology and theoretical framework aside, there are not so many differences
between the approach of Delbrück and Brugmann on one side and Rosen’s on
the other. The accusative of respect is nothing but the result of passivization of a
double accusative construction of the whole and the part.
In the same direction Domenica Romagno has recently argued that:
[…] the accusative of respect represents a strategy to promote the most animate
argument of the construction (i.e., the possessor) to the subject position and,
consequently, to align syntactic roles and case marking with animacy hierarchy.
(Romagno 2017: 82)
Romagno also overcomes a serious difficulty that perhaps vitiates Delbrück’s

explanation, i.e. the fact that the body part noun which in the active is in
apposition with the accusative person noun remains accusative in the passive
instead of continuing to share the case of the (now nominative) person noun (in
other words, there is no double nominative construction paralleling the double
accusative construction of the whole and the part). Furthermore, it was conceded,
the solution is to be found in the alignment of syntactic roles and case marking
with animacy hierarchy:
[…] body parts (the possessum) are less animate than the possessor (a human
being); only the most animate argument is promoted to nominative subject,
in order to match the animacy relationship between possessor and possessum
with grammatical coding. (Romagno 2017: 83)
In sum, there are two different opinions among scholars as to how the accusative
of respect was created: the passivization of a double accusative construction or
the reinterpretation of an original accusative of motion. What is particularly
interesting in this context is the fact that both hypotheses imply endogenous
origin, that is the internal origin, of the accusative of respect. It is important
to note, however, that in recent years Peter Högemann has put forward a new
suggestion to define the accusative of respect. There is no explanation provided to
clarify this construction despite the fact that this has been documented in Hittite,
instead; there is a mere indication of its Anatolian origin:
Er [der accusativus Graecus] ist in der Tat zuerst für Homer bezeugt […].
Wir wissen aber heute, dass auch das Hethitische diesen Akkusativ kannte,
der für eine andere indogermanische Sprache aber bis lang nicht bezeugt ist.
Nun waren Hethitisch und Griechisch im 14./13. Jh. zwar Kontaktsprachen,
so dass hier eine Entlehnung angenommen werden könnte, weil aber direkte
Kontakte zwischen Hethitern und Griechen äußerst begrenzt waren, käme
nach heutigem Forschungsstand wohl eher “die Luwier” in Frage. (Högemann
2003: 9)
Ivo Hajnal also agrees with this hypothesis and gives the following explanation:
On the level of case syntax Högemann 2003, 8f. assumes Anatolian influence
in the case of the Greek accusative of relation – the so-called “accusativus
graecus”. This accusative is found in Greek poetry and is only used to express
an inalienable possession as is the case with body parts. (Hajnal 2018: 2050).
The following reassessment of this topic is directly stimulated by the article of

Peter Högemann. The suggestion that was given meant that it was necessary to
verify the Homeric data again in light of the Anatolian documentation. Based
on the evidence of Hittite, Luwian and Homeric Greek, the hypothesis that the
accusative of respect was an areal feature of some languages spoken in the area of
western Anatolia in the second and first millenia B.C.E will be considered.
The exposition will proceed as follows. In Section 2. the Homeric data will be
described; the semantic values of the forms that appear as an accusative of respect
will be presented. In Section 3. the accusative of respect will be discussed together
with the whole-part constructions in Anatolian languages. In Section 4. there will
be an attempt to demonstrate that the accusative of respect is not to be taken as
an internal development of Greek grammar, but rather as an areal feature shared
by Homeric Greek and Anatolian languages. A fundamental presupposition for

this is the existence of contacts between Greek and Ancient Near Eastern cultures,
as proven by some areal features that are shared by these languages.
2 The accusative of respect in Homeric Greek
2.1 The forms
As the accusative of respect is typical of Homeric Greek but disappears thereafter or

remains limited to poetry, there will be a focus on Homeric Greek and observations
on the latter development where relevant. To begin with, it is vital to classify the
nouns that take the accusative of respect. As might be expected, the construction
appears most frequently with nouns denoting body parts (or the whole body):
(2) a. μελαίνετο δὲ χρόα καλόν. (Il. 5.354)

‘and her (i.e. of Aphrodite) fair flesh was darkened.’
b. χερμαδίῳ γὰρ βλῆτο παρὰ σφυρὸν ὀκριόεντι / κνήμην δεξιτερήν˙

(Il. 4.518–519)
‘for with a jagged stone was he struck on the right leg by the ankle.’
c. οὐ μέν θην κείνης γε χερείων εὔχομαι εἶναι, / οὐ δέμας οὐδὲ φυήν

(Od. 5.211–212
‘Surely not inferior to her do I declare myself to be either in form or stature.’)
d. ἐπεὶ περίεσσι γυναικῶν / εἶδός τε μέγεθός τε ἰδὲ φρένας ἔνδον ἐΐσας.

(Od. 18.248–249)
‘for thou excellest all women in comeliness and stature, and in the wise heart
within thee.’
Closely allied to these is a group of words relating to the emotional or spiritual

dimension and denoting ‘mind, heart, spirit, soul’ or ‘temper’. Many of these
terms were originally physical and concrete in meaning, and subsequently formed
the connecting link:
(3) a. φέροι δ᾽ ἔναρα βροτόεντα / κτείνας δήϊον ἄνδρα, χαρείη δὲ φρένα μήτηρ.
(Il. 6.480–481)
‘and may he carry the blood-stained spoils of the foeman he has slain, and may
his mother’s heart rejoice.’
b. ἀλλὰ φόβηθεν / πάντες, ἐπεὶ βασιλῆα ἴδον βεβλαμμένον ἦτορ / κείμενον

ἐν νεκύων ἀγύρει˙ (Il. 16.659–661)
‘but (the Lycians) were driven in rout one and all, when they saw their king
struck to the heart, lying in a heap of the dead.’
Abstract ideas are not lacking, and qualities or distintive properties can be found
such as ἀρετή ‘excellence’ and κάλλος ‘beauty’:
(4) a.υἱὸς ἀμείνων / παντοίας ἀρετάς, ἠμὲν πόδας ἠδὲ μάχεσθαι, / καὶ νόον
ἐν πρώτοισι Μυκηναίων ἐτέτυκτο˙ (Il. 15.641–643)
‘Of him […] was begotten a son better in all manner of excellence, both in
fleetness of foot and in fight, and in mind he was among the first of the men
of Mycenae.’
b. κούρην δ᾽ οὐ γαμέω Ἀγαμέμνονος Ἀτρεΐδαο, / οὐδ᾽ εἰ χρυσείῃ

Ἀφροδίτῃ κάλλος ἐρίζοι, / ἔργα δ᾽ Ἀθηναίῃ γλαυκώπιδι ἰσοφαρίζοι˙
(Il. 9.388–390)
‘And the daughter of Agamemnon, son of Atreus, will I not wed, not though
she vied in beauty with golden Aphrodite and in handwork were the peer of
flashing-eyed Athene.’
There is a further extension, which is seen in either the human activities or the
ability to perform those activities such as ἔργα ‘feats’:
(5) Ζεῦ πάτερ οὐ νεμεσίζῃ Ἄρῃ τάδε καρτερὰ ἔργα (Il. 5.757)
‘Father Zeus, are you not indignant at Ares for these violent deeds …?’
There can be little question that notions such as ‘lineage’ and ‘family’ also belong here:
(6) a. αὐτῷ γὰρ γενεὴν ἄγχιστα ἐῴκει. (Il. 14.474)

‘for he is most like to him in build.’
b. ἐξ Ἰθάκης γένος εἰμί, πατὴρ δέ μοί ἐστιν Ὀδυσσεύς (Od. 15.267)

‘Of Ithaca I am by birth, and my father is Odysseus.’
To recapitulate, some clarification is needed. First of all, it is important to consider

that body parts represent the overwhelming majority. Secondly, the analysis as an
accusative of motion as proposed by Blümel, may be attractive in certain respects;
nevertheless, this is incomplete and therefore somewhat misleading as this cannot
account for the overall pattern of the uses of the accusative of respect in Homeric
Greek. Moreover, when the uses of the accusative of motion are observed, it is
important to stress that the verb always carries with it, more or less distinctly, the
idea of reaching a point, or arriving, but this is not the case with the accusative of
respect. The use of this with intransitive verbs which do not express a motion and
with adjectives is not clarified by Blümel’s hypothesis.
2.2 The predicates
To prove the validity of the proposal made by Berthold Delbrück the predicates
that the accusative of respect occurs with should be examined. There is little doubt
that this occurs with passive verbs and passive participles. It is well known that the
passive voice is just one of the functions of the ancient Greek middle voice:
(7) a. τὸν δ᾽ ὡς οὖν ἐνόησεν Ἀλέξανδρος θεοειδὴς / ἐν προμάχοισι φανέντα,

κατεπλήγη φίλον ἦτορ, (Il. 3.30–31)
‘But when godlike Alexander caught sight of him as he appeared among the
champions, he was panic-stricken at heart.’
b. λύθρῳ δὲ παλάσσετο χεῖρας ἀάπτους. (Il. 11.169)

‘and with gore were his invincible hands bespattered.’
c. ἐν δ᾽ ὄνθου βοέου πλῆτο στόμα τε ῥῖνάς τε (Il. 23.777)

‘and with the filth of the bulls were his mouth and nostrils filled.’
The more difficult cases are those with active intransitive verbs, and it should be
pointed out that these verbs express either a state or a change of state:
(8) a. μάλιστα δὲ Νέστορι δίῳ / εἶδός τε μέγεθός τε φυήν τ᾽ ἄγχιστα ἐῴκει

(Il. 2. 57–58)
‘and most like was it to noble Nestor, in form and in stature and in build.’
b. γέγηθε δέ τε φρένα ποιμήν˙ (Il. 8.559)

‘and the shepherd rejoices in his heart’
c. τρομέουσι δέ τε φρένα ναῦται / δειδιότες (Il. 15.627–628)

‘and the hearts of the sailors shudder in their fear’
Attestations with participles are very frequent, and these can be either middle or
passive participles:
(9) a. ἀλλά τις ἄγχι / ἕστηκ᾽ ἀθανάτων νεφέλῃ εἰλυμένος ὤμους (Il. 5.185–186)
‘but one of the immortals, his shoulders wrapped in cloud, stands close by
him.’
b. ἀσπίδι ταυρείῃ κεκαλυμμένος εὐρέας ὤμους (Il. 16.360)

‘with his broad shoulders covered with shield of bull’s hide.’
c. Ἀτρεΐδης δ᾽ ἄχεϊ μεγάλῳ βεβολημένος ἦτορ (Il. 9.9)

‘But the son of Atreus, stricken to the heart with great distress, …’
Adjectives and participles of resemblance are also frequent:
(10) ᾧ ἔνι κούρη/ κοιμᾶτ᾽ ἀθανάτῃσι φυὴν καὶ εἶδος ὁμοίη (Od. 6.16)6
‘wherein slept a maiden like the immortal goddesses in form and comeliness.’
It must be stressed that intransitive verbs and adjectives are parallel to each
other, and closely linked in their relationship to the accusative of respect, with
participles probably forming the connecting link between these. As can be seen,
in the following examples there are verbs and adjectives of resemblance that are
shown; this simplifies the explanation for the shift from a finite verbal form (11a)
to a participle (11b) and then to an adjective (11c):
(11) a. αἰνῶς μὲν κεφαλήν τε καὶ ὄμματα καλὰ ἔοικας / κείνῳ, (Od. 1.208–
209)
‘Wondrously like his are thy head and beautiful eyes.’
b. καλὴ Καστιάνειρα δέμας ἐϊκυῖα θεῇσι. (Il. 8.305)

‘fair Castianeira, in form like to the goddesses.’
6 See also 11 (b-c).

c. ὄμματα καὶ κεφαλὴν ἴκελος Διὶ τερπικεραύνῳ, / Ἄρεϊ δὲ ζώνην, στέρνον

δὲ Ποσειδάωνι. (Il. 2.478–479)
‘his eyes and head like Zeus who hurls the thunderbolt, his waist like Ares, and
his breast like Poseidon.’
It is also important to consider the following examples involving the categories of

comparative and superlative adjectives:
(12) a. ἤδη γάρ τις τοῦ γε βίην καὶ χεῖρας ἀμείνων / ἢ πέφατ᾽, ἢ καὶ ἔπειτα
πεφήσεται˙ (Il. 15.139–140)
‘For before now many a one more excellent than he in might and strenght of
hand has been slain, or will yet be slain.’
b. Λαοδίκην Πριάμοιο θυγατρῶν εἶδος ἀρίστην. (Il. 3.124)

‘Laodice, the fairest of the daughters of Priam’
The accusative of respect is often combined with qualifying adjectives referring to

particular physical or mental characteristics:7
(13) a. Τυδεύς τοι μικρὸς μὲν ἔην δέμας (Il. 5.801)

‘Tydeus was small in stature.’
b. φοξὸς ἔην κεφαλήν (Il. 2.219)

‘His head was pointed.’
c. νόον δ᾽ ἀποφώλιός ἐσσι. (Od. 8.177)

‘but in mind thou art stunted.’
Occasionally, the accusative of respect accompanies a noun whose meaning is

similar to that of an adjective:
(14) ὦ πάτερ, ἦ τοι σεῖο μέγα κλέος αἰὲν ἄκουον, / χεῖράς τ᾽ αἰχμητὴν ἔμεναι
καὶ ἐπίφρονα βουλήν˙ (Od. 16.241–242)
7 Such constructions are often true epithets and are directly comparable with compound forms:
πόδας ὠκὺς Ἀχιλλεύς ‘Achilles, swift of foot’ (Il. 1.58); βοὴν ἀγαθὸς Μενέλαος ‘Menelaus, good
at the war cry’ (Il. 2.408).
‘Father, of a truth I have ever heard of thy great fame, that thou wast a warrior
in strenght of hand and in wise counsel …’
Without a doubt the accusative of respect was largely extended beyond the passive
construction; therefore, it is possibly not desirable to separate the accusative of
respect used with adjectives from that used with middle participles, or the latter
from that used with middle finite verbal forms. As can be seen in the examples
above, the only argument of these predicates is a patient, not an agent. Moreover,
all these predicates imply the representation of a state or a change of state: this
appears to be the common denominator of the attestations mentioned up to now.
2.3 The double accusative construction of the whole and the part
As has been seen above, according to some scholars, the accusative of respect results
from the passivization of a double accusative construction, also called σχῆμα
καθ᾽ὅλον καὶ μέρος. This construction is a combination of two substantives,
both in the accusative case, denoting respectively an individual and a body part.8
Its clearest evidence comes from the epic poetry. In Homeric Greek the whole-
part construction typically, but not exclusively, occurs with verbs that indicate
physical contact, such as hitting, touching, striking and wounding:
(15) a. ὃ δ᾽ Ἀρηΐθοον θεράποντα / ἂψ ἵππους στρέψαντα μετάφρενον ὀξέϊ

δουρὶ / νύξ᾽ (Il. 20.487–489)
‘and Areithous, his attendant, as he was turning round the horses, did Achilles
pierce in the back with his sharp spear.’
b. τόν ῥ᾽ Ὀδυσεὺς ἑτάροιο χολωσάμενος βάλε δουρὶ / κόρσην˙ (Il. 4.501–502)

‘Him Odysseus, wroth for his comrade’s sake, smote with his spear on the
temple.’
c. Τρῶας δ᾽ ἄχος ἔλλαβε θυμόν. (Il. 14.475)

‘and sorrow seized the hearts of the Trojans.’
d. Ἕκτωρ μὲν θνητός τε γυναῖκά τε θήσατο μαζόν˙ (Il. 24.58)

‘Hector is but mortal and was suckled at a woman’s breast.’
8The fundamental discussion of this construction in ancient Greek remains Jacquinod (1989:
9–64). See also La Roche (1861: 224–231); Jacquinod (1988, 1995, 2006).
In the double accusative of the whole and the part the whole, which would
normally be a genitive, takes the same case as the part and depends directly on
the predicate.9 This construction is used to express inalienable possession, more
exactly to specify an item as an integral part of a whole:10
(16) a. τόν ῥ᾽ ἔβαλε πρῶτος κόρυθος φάλον ἱπποδασείης (Il. 4.459 = Il. 6.9)
‘Him was he first to strike on the ridge of his helmet with crest of horse-hair.’
b. τὸν δ᾽ Αἴας καὶ Τεῦκρος ὁμαρτήσανθ᾽ ὃ μὲν ἰῷ / βεβλήκει τελαμῶνα περὶ

στήθεσσι φαεινὸν / ἀσπίδος ἀμφιβρότης (Il. 12.400–402)
‘But against him came Aias and Teucer at the one time: Teucer struck him with
an arrow on the gleaming baldric of his sheltering shield about his breast.’ 11
When the double accusative construction of the whole and the part undergoes
passivization, the whole (the person) becomes the subject, while the part (the
body part) remains in the accusative, producing the accusative of respect. Once
the category was established, it was easy to extend this, through analogy, beyond
the passive construction to a much wider range of forms. This may have been
extended by analogy from passive and middle verbs (finite verbal forms and
participles) to adjectives. If this explanation is correct, it is not at all surprising
that all these predicates express a state (that is a property or condition) or a change
of state.
Comparing (17a) and (17b), where an active form of the verb βάλλω is
accompanied by the whole-part construction, with (17c) and (17d), where a
middle form of βάλλω occurs with an accusative of respect, it can be observed
how the accusative of respect may have originated in the double accusative
construction of the whole and the part:
9 I have noticed only few exceptions to the invariable rule that the whole precedes the part. In
γαστέρα γάρ μιν τύψε παρ᾽ ὀμφαλόν ‘In the belly he smote him beside the navel” (Il. 21.180) the
sequence γαστέρα … μιν contrasts with the normal order.
10 Inalienable possession involves entities that cannot be separated from the possessor. The notion
of inalienability cannot be the same in all languages: while body parts are inalienably possessed in
all languages that distinguish between the two types of possession, other entities, like various types
of personal objects, can be the object of inalienable possession as well, but the range of inalienable
possession is language specific.
11 The form περὶ στήθεσσι shows the tendency to add the body part in combination with a
preposition.
(17) a. τόν ῥ᾽ Ὀδυσεὺς ἑτάροιο χολωσάμενος βάλε δουρὶ / κόρσην˙ (Il.

4.501–502)
‘Him Odysseus, wroth for his comrade’s sake, smote with his spear on the
temple.’
b. Ἰδομενεὺς δ᾽ ἄρα Οἰνόμαον βάλε γαστέρα μέσσην, (Il. 13.506)

‘but Idomeneus cast and struck Oenomaus, square on the belly.’
c. Ἀτρεΐδης δ᾽ ἄχεϊ μεγάλῳ βεβολημένος ἦτορ (Il. 9.9)

‘But the son of Atreus, stricken to the heart with sore grief …’
d. βλῆτο γὰρ ὦμον δουρὶ πρόσω τετραμμένος αἰεὶ / ἄκρον ἐπιλίγδην˙ (Il.
17.598–599)
‘For as he stood ever facing the foe he was struck on the top of the shoulder
with a spear, a glancing blow.’
As previously stated in the introduction, the fact that the accusative of respect
developed from double accusative constructions was upheld by Brugmann
(1910: 125–126) and to some extent even earlier by Delbrück (1893: 385). Hahn
agrees that the accusative of respect may have originated in the double accusative
construction, but defines the instances where the accusative referred to the body
part with an active verb remains accusative with the corresponding passive verb
as “the crux of the whole matter” (Hahn 1954: 241). The fact that passivization
is not possible for both accusative arguments shows that these have different
behavioural properites: the body part noun remains accusative in the passive
instead of sharing the case of the (now nominative) person noun. According to
Romagno the reason behind this behaviour must be sought in the alignment of
syntactic roles and case marking with animacy hierarchy, that is “the accusative
of respect represents a strategy to promote the most animate argument of the
construction (i.e., the possessor) to the subject position” (Romagno 2017: 82).
3 The Anatolian data
3.1 The accusative of respect
From the occurrences presented above it can be duly noted that the clearest
evidence for the existence of the accusative of respect comes from Homeric
poetry. Their closest external comparanda are forms of accusative attested in

Anatolian languages. In Hittite the accusative of respect is particularly frequent
with participles, though finite verbal forms are met as well.12 An example occurs
in an incantation listing body parts, roughly from top to bottom.13 The verb
ḫamink- ‘to bind’, to be understood in the sense of ‘to bind through a spell’, is
in the middle voice and the accusative designates the body parts affected by the
curse:
(18) 32 [kui]ša DUMU-aš ḫuelpiš n=aš suppiš tētanuš

33 ḫamiktat kattan=ma=aš ḫupallaš ḫamiktat
34 [na=š] tītitan ḫamiktat n=aš UZUGESTUḪI.A=ŠU
35 =1 [ḫami]kta<t> n=aš UZUKAxU-iš ḫamikta<t> n=aš UZUEME=ŠU
2 ḫamikta<t> UZUḫ[uḫḫurti]n ḫ[amikta<t>]
3 n=aš UZUpappaššalan ḫamikta<t> katta=ma=aš
4 UZUGABA ḫamikta<t> na=aš UZUḫaḫri ḫamikta<t>
5 na=aš UZUNÍG.GIG ḫamikta<t> n=aš genzu ḫamikta<t>

6 n=aš UZUpantūḫaš=šan ḫamiktat
7 n=aš UZUarraš=šan ḫamiktat n=aš UZUgenu=ššit
8 ḫamiktat šer=ma=aš TÚGḪI.A=ŠU ḫamikta<t>
‘And what little child is (here), he was bound with respect of (his) pure hair, he
was bound with respect of (his) scalp (?), he was bound with respect of (his)
nose, he was bound with respect of his ears, he was bound with respect of (his)
mouth, he was bound with respect of his tongue, he was bound with respect
of (his) trachea, he was bound with respect to (his) oesophagus. Beneath, he
was bound with respect to (his) chest, he was bound with respect of (his) lung,
he was bound with respect of (his) liver, he was bound with respect to (his)
genzu (scrotum?), he was bound with respect to (his) bladder, he was bound
with respect of his anus, he was bound with respect of his knee, but he was also
bound with respect of his clothes.’ (KBo 3.8 + KUB 7.1. II 32-III 8)
In (19) a sheep destined for the sacrifice is mentioned, whose eyes are turned to
the sun. The participle neanza agrees with the subject UDUiyanza ‘sheep’, while
IGIḪI.A-wa (šakuwa) ‘eyes’ is accusative of respect:
(19) 11 namma ANA UDUḪI.A ištarna paimi nu=kan kui[š]
12 See Hoffner & Melchert (2008: 248); Cotticelli-Kurras (2016).

13 The text describes the patient’s body; see Oettinger (2004).
12 UDUiyanza IGI[ḪI].A-wa dUTU-i neanza
13 nu=šši=kan SÍGḫuttulli ḫūittiyami

‘Then I go among the sheep and I pluck a tuft of wool from what sheep is
turned with its eyes toward the sun.’ (VBoT 24 III 11-13)
In (20) aiš ‘mouth’ and UZUḫurḫurta ‘throat’ are accusative of respect depending
on the verbal adjective šūwant- ‘full’; the imperative verbal form ēš is addressed to
the patient of the ritual:
(20) 9´ n=ašta anda QATAMMA=pat memaḫḫi aiš=za=kan Ì-it

10´ šūwanza ēš UZUḫurḫurta=ma=za=kan ḫalwamnaz [š]ūwanza
‘And then I say exactly this: ‘Let you, (namely your) mouth, be filled with
fat (lit. let you be filled with fat with respect of your mouth); let you, (your)
throat, be filled with happy laughter (lit. let you be filled with happy laughter
with respect of your throat)’.’ (KBo 12.96+ I 9´-10´)
In (21) the form ZI-an (ištanzanan) ‘mind, soul’ is the accusative of respect
depending on lānza eš-, lit. ‘to be free (with respect of the soul)’.
(21) 25 nu=za apāš EN=ŠU azzikkizzi akkuškizzi kui[t]

26 n=aš ZI-an arḫa lānza
‘Since he (i.e., his master) eats and drinks, (in) his mind he (i.e., the servant) is
relieved.’ (KUB 13.4 I 25-26)
In (22) the participle ḫuwanza agrees with auwariyaš EN-aš (auwariyaš išḫaš)
‘provincial governor’, which is the subject of the clause, and the form IGIḪI.A=ŠU
‘his eyes’ is accusative of respect:
(22) 60 [ANA NAM.R]AḪI.A=ma kuwapi NUMUNḪI.A anniškanzi nu

auwariaš EN-aš
61 [ḫūma]ndaš=ša IGIḪI.A=ŠU šer ḫuwa(n)za ēštu mān
kiššan=ma
62 [kui]ški memai NUMUN=wa=mu pai nu=war=at=za=kan
ammel A.ŠÀ-ni=mi
63 [an]da aniyami namma=ya i[šḫ]uēššar išḫuḫḫi nu šer
64 auwar[iy]aš=pat EN-aš IGIḪI.A[=ŠU] ḫuwanza ēštu
65 maḫḫan[=k]an BURU14-anza kišari n=ašta apūn A.ŠÀLAM
arḫa war[ašdu]
‘When they sow the seed [for the rese]ttled people, let the provincial governor
and everybody else watch (them) (lit. let the provincial governor and everybody
else’s eye be running over (them)). If someone speaks in this way: “Give me
seed. I will plant it in my field, and further I will add (it) to my food supply”,
then let the provincial governor watch (him) (lit. let the provincial governor’s
eye be running over (him)). When the harvest arrives, he shall harvest that
field.’ (KUB 31.84 III 60-65)
In (23) the participle neyanteš agrees with -at ‘they’ (i.e., the head of the guards
and the cupbearer) and the form IGIḪI.A-wa=šma (šakuwa=šma) ‘their eyes’
should be interpreted as an accusative of respect:
(23) 2 ta LÚSAGI.A GAL KÙ.BABBAR

3 GEŠTIN-it LUGAL-i pāi nu GAL LÚMEŠEDI
4 LÚSAGI.A-ya iškišaz
5 EGIR-pa iyattāri
6 IGIḪI.A-wa=šma=at=kan LUGAL-i=pat
7 andan neyanteš
‘The cupbearer gives the king the silver cup with wine. The leader of the bodyguards
and the cupbearer go backwards. Their eyes are turned to the king (lit. they as to
their eyes are still turned toward the king).’ (KUB 2.5 V 2-7)
It is extremely rare for the accusative of respect to be documented with an

adjective. In (24) the accusative plural IGIḪI.A-wa (šakuwa) ‘eyes’ occurs with the
adjective išḫaḫruwant- ‘rich in tears’:
(24) dU-aš IGIḪI.A-wa [išḫ]aḫruwanza

‘the Stormgod, tearful of eyes …’ (KUB 33.113 + KUB 36.12 I 30´-31´)
Likewise, the Luwian participle tittalitāima- refers to the type of decoration of a

garment and is accompanied by the accusative of respect purin ‘rim, hem’:
(25) 2 TÚG=ma! SAG.DUL ZA.GÌN pūrin tittalitāimenzi

‘Two garments, head cover(s), blue, tittalitāi-ed (i.e., decorated in a certain
way) with respect to the border/hem.’ (KUB 12.1 IV 43)
The accusative of respect is not limited to Hittite. In a Cuneiform Luwian ritual

a list of body parts is referred to the ritual patron:
(26) 8´ ni-iš-pa-aš a-ah-ha-ša-a[m-(mi-iš SISKUR.SISKUR-iš EN-aš)

da-a-ru-uš-ša]
9´ mi-ša-an-za ha-aš-ša h[(al-hal-za-ni-in) ú-wa-ra-an-(na-a-hi-ša)]
10´ i-ú-na-a-hi-ša la-a[l-pi-in ku-wa-an-na-n(i-in)]
11´ DINGIRMEŠ-li-in [KASKAL-an]
“Let the ritual patron not be abandoned (with respect to) figure, flesh, bone,
halhanzani, strength, agility, eyelashes, eyebrows, and “divine path”’ (KUB
35.11 8´-11´)
3.2 The double accusative construction of the whole and the part
There is little doubt that in Hittite the accusative of respect arises through the
passivization of the double accusative construction of the whole and the part.
In (27) there is the unique opportunity to compare the double accusative
construction ACC. šakuwa nai- (active) ‘to turn someone, (his) eyes’ (a-b) with
the construction of the accusative of respect NOM. šakuwa nai- (middle) ‘to be
turned as far as the eyes’ (c-d):
(27) a. ‘(If fugitives from Hatti come to the land of the vassal king, he has to
extradite them, “but if you do not put them on the road to Hatti”)
n=aš=kan IGIḪI.A-wa imma ḪUR.SAG-i naitti “(and) you turn their
eyes (lit. them, namely the eyes) to the mountain” (i.e., you incite them to
escape), you will have transgressed your oath.’ (KBo 5.9 III 20)
b. [n=an=kan IGI]ḪI.A=ŠU ḪUR.SAG-i le naištani

‘Do no turn his eyes to the mountain!’ (KUB 23.72 rev. 62)
c. (The patili-priest sprinkles refined oil on the king three times)

n=aš=za=kan IGIḪI.A-wa EGIR-p[a] neyari
‘and he turns back, as far as his eyes are concerned.’ (KBo 17.69 13)
d. nu=za=kan IGIḪI.A-wa etez ANA mPittapara neyaḫḫat

‘I turned (my) eyes from there to Pittapara (i.e., I changed my route of
march) (lit. I, as to (my) eyes, turned myself from there to Pittapara).’
(KBo 5.8 III 18-20)
It is possible to concede that these attestations with the verb nai- ‘to turn’ provide
important proof of the validity of our interpretation regarding the origin of the
accusative of respect in Hittite.
The following examples show that the double accusative construction is
limited to inalienable possession (mostly body parts):
(28) a. takku ÌR-an našma GÉME-an KIR14=šet kuiški wāki

‘If anyone bites off the nose of a slave boy or a slave girl … (lit. bites a slave
boy or slave girl, namely his/her nose).’ (KBo 6.3 I 35)
b. nu=wa=za mNanayan ginuwa ēppun

‘I clasped Nanaya’s knees (lit. I clasped Nanaya, namely (his) knees).’
(KUB 26.69 8-9)
c. nu GIG-an antuḫšan aiš arḫa ḫuittiyat

‘(She) distorted the mouth of the sick man (lit. (she) distorted the sick
man, namely (his) mouth).’ (KUB 14.4 IV 15´)
The following passage is taken from the same ritual of (18). Here the same body
parts of the previous example are mentioned; however, these occur in the double
accusative construction ACCpossessor ACCbody part ḫuek- ‘to conjure someone,
(his) body part’:
(29) 10 … īt=wa MUNUS ḫāšawan

11 pēḫute nu=wa=šši=ššan šer UZUḫupallaš ḫuikdu
12 n=an šuppauš tētanuš ḫuikdu n=an UZUGEŠTUḪI.A=ŠU
13 ḫuikdu n=an UZUtītitan ḫuikdu n=an KA×U=ŠU
14 ḫuikdu n=an EME=ŠU ḫuikdu
—————————————————————
15 n=an UZUḫuḫḫurtin ḫuikdu n=an UZUpappaššalin
16 ḫuikdu n=an UZUGABA KI.MIN n=an UZUḫaḫḫari KI.MIN
17 n=an UZUNÍG.GIG KI.MIN n=an UZUSA KI.MIN n=an
UZUgenzu KI.MIN
18 n=an UZUpanduḫan KI.MIN n=an UZUarraš=šan KI.MIN

19 n=an UZUgenu KI.MIN šer=ma=an TÚGḪI.A=ŠU KI.MIN
‘Go, bring the sorceress! Let her conjure (his) scalp(?), let her conjure (his)
clean hair, let her conjure his ears, let her conjure (his) nose, let her conjure
his mouth, let her conjure his tongue. (§) Let her conjure (his) throat, let
her conjure (his) oesophagus, (his) chest as well, (his) lung as well, (his)
liver as well, (his) intestine as well, (his) genzu (scrotum?) as well, (his)
bladder as well, (his) anus as well, his knee as well, but also his clothes as
well.’ (KBo 3.8 + KUB 7.1 II 10-19)
The double accusative construction is not limited to Hittite, in fact; this is even
present in Cuneiform Luwian (30) and Hieroglyphic Luwian (31):
(30) 21 ku-i-ša-an ša-ah-ha-ni-iš-ša-at-ta ku-i-ša-an

22 ip-pa-tar-ri<-iš>-ša-at-ta EN SÍSKUR-aš-ši-in ALAM-ša
mi-i-ša-an-za
23 ha-aš-ša hal-hal-za-ni-in ú-wa-ra-an-na-hi-ša i-ú-na-hi-ša
24 la-al-pí-in ku-wa-an-na-ni-in ma-aš-ša-na-al-li-in
KASKAL-an
‘Whoever burdened it, whoever distrained it, the ritual patron’s statue,
flesh, bone, halhalzani-, strength, agility, eyelashes, eyebrows, and “divine
path”’ (KUB 35.45 II 21-24)
(31) a. wa/i-tá VIR-ti-i-zi-i (“PES”)pa-ti-zi | ARHA (“MANUS +

CULTER”)REL+ra/i-ha-´
‘I cut off the men’s feet (lit. I cut off a man, namely (his) feet).’
(MARAŞ 4, § 13-14)14
b. á-mu-pa-wa/i-na |za-ti (MANUS)i-sà||-tara/i-na |tà-ha

‘here I took him by the hand’ (KARKAMIŠ A7, § 3)15
The examples illustrated up to this point show the following characteristics:

In Hittite the accusative of respect arises through the passivization of the
double accusative construction and occurs with predicates denoting a state or a
change of state (middle verbs, participles and adjectives).
The double accusative construction of the whole and the part is frequently
attested in the Anatolian languages (Hittite, Cuneiform and Hieroglyphic
Luwian). This construction is used to express inalienable possession, therefore
possession referred to body parts, but also to other referents whose possession
semantically approaches inalienable possession (for instance, ‘clothes’; see (28)).
The noun that designates the whole precedes the noun that designates the part.
14 See Hawkins (2000: 257).

15 See Hawkins (2000: 129).
4 A contact-induced feature?
4.1 Preliminary conclusions
In sum, one may then wonder whether the origin of the accusative of respect
might not in fact be a transfer to Greek of a construction that has been seen in
Anatolian languages. Based on the evidence of Hittite, Luwian and Homeric
Greek, it can be suggested that the accusative of respect was an areal feature of
some languages spoken in the area of western Anatolia in the second and first
millenia B.C.E. To this end, the Homeric Greek and Anatolian material that
seems to shed some new light on various aspects of this construction has been
discussed. Clearly, it has not been possible to discuss each example in detail, but
some important problems of a general order are evident:
First, the accusative of respect occurs peculiarly and almost exclusively in
Greek and in Hittite; in Greek it is attested at an early date and continued to
be very rare in the following ages. Furthermore, such use of the accusative is
not assured in Proto-Indo-European, because of the lack of evidence from other
ancient Indo-European languages. This means that it cannot be an inherited
feature.
Second, the comparison between Greek and Hittite accusative of respect can
be made even more precise by comparing the corresponding double accusative
construction of the whole and the part. It has been recognised that the passivization
of the double accusative construction leads to the formation of a new category,
the accusative of respect. In both languages the double accusative construction
shows an asymmetry between the two accusatives, notably in passivization, where
only the whole can display the properties of a patient and undergo passivization,
while the body part cannot.
Third, the use of the accusative of respect is recessive in the history of the Greek
language. Its recessive status in Homeric Greek is to be interpreted as an archaism,
which has been almost entirely replaced by prepositional phrases or dative.
Combining these observations, it is possible to reach the tentative conclusion
that the accusative of respect – as well as its counterpart, i.e. the double accusative
construction of the whole and the part – is a syntactical feature probably triggered
by contacts within the Anatolian linguistic area, that entered Greek poetic
language through the adoption of certain literary themes from the Near East.
4.2 Type of interference
The possibility of a contact-induced feature is intriguing and needs to be

substantiated. By considering the accusative of respect as an areal feature, it
is possible to ask which type of interference has taken place. It is well known
that, in addition to adding or losing lexical units, languages can also create or
lose an entirely new grammatical category under contact.16 There is little doubt
that grammatical distinctions of various types may be transferred from one
language to another, with or without the borrowing of forms. In some cases,
an additional distinction is added to an already existing grammatical category
and, therefore, a particular category is used in certain instances where it was not
previously used. This is the case with the accusative of respect in Homeric Greek.
The accusative of respect can be analysed as a particularly additional distinction
which Homeric Greek has acquired in a contact situation through reanalysis of
the existing material. Greek, in contact with Anatolian languages, has reorganized
the functions of the accusative case to match those of Anatolian languages (and it
has done so without borrowing any forms, but by reanalysing the already existing
forms of accusative).
A further problem is the possibility of multiple causation. The presence of the
double accusative of the whole and the part in Anatolian languages and Homeric
Greek raises the possibility that the accusative of respect is a reflex of a parallel
development. In is not possible to exclude the possibility that in these languages
the accusative of respect arises in a parallel manner through passivization of the
double accusative construction. In many cases where a contact-induced change
is suggested, there is not sufficient historical data to ensure that there are not
internal reasons for the change. In other words, there is not an adequate degree
of awareness concerning whether the proposed contact-induced changes have
alternative analyses or not. Language contact may have just helped reinforce the
internally developed systems. It should be stressed, however, that a change is not
necessarily either just internal to the language or just caused by contact: these
two can interact, and multiple causation of a change is possible, with a related
structure in a contact language influencing the development or expansion of a
new structure in a given language (Thomason & Kaufman 1988: 57–61).
16 Scales of adoptability, borrowing hierarchies and constrains have been proposed, according to
which different units of language or lexical items are considered to be easier or more difficult to
transfer from one language to another. See Curnow (2001).
Therefore, it should be clear that both possibilities, language contact and

internal reasons for the change, are not mutually exclusive; the impossibility of
always making a clear-cut distinction cannot be used to refute the hypothesis of
interference. If a particular feature is caused partially by contact-induced change,
but partially by language-internal change, there will not be the option to assign
such a change to a single reason. Contact-induced linguistic change (i.e. diffusion)
and system-internally driven linguistic change could take place concurrently. The
similarities that have been observed between Hittite and Homeric Greek are
hard to justify except for the fact that there was some language contact. These
similarities are primarily the result of convergence, while parallel developments
could be invoked as a secondary issue.
4.3 A shared areal feature
This conjecture would be further strengthened if there is the option to suggest that
there were early and intense contacts between Greece and Anatolia. If one accepts
Thomason and Kaufman’s remark that “it is the sociolinguistic history of the
speakers, and not the structure of their language, that is the primary determinant
of the linguistic outcome of language contact”,17 then one needs to position any
given case of contact-induced change within a relevant sociolinguistic paradigm.
Therefore, it could be necessary to question whether there was in the early 2nd
millennium a historical situation to such an extent that borrowing would be
likely.
The subject of relations between pre-classical Greece and ancient Near East
has received ample attention in recent times. The archaeological and textual
evidence clearly demonstrates that there were well-established connections
between the Aegean and western Anatolia during the late-fifteenth through the
thirteenth centuries B.C.E.. Mycenaean texts show clear references to the late
Bronze Age Asia Minor: that is, Mycenaean Greeks were in contact with the
people of south-western Asia Minor. In addition to this the picture that emerges
from the Hittite texts is that, between ca. 1400 and 1200 B.C.E, the Hittite
state had several encounters with Ahhiyawa on Anatolian soil – sometimes in an
apparently peaceful context, but more frequently in a bellicose setting.18 The west
17 Thomason & Kaufman (1988: 35).

18 An increasing number of scholars have now come around to the view that the term Ahhiyawa
in the Hittite texts is used in reference to a kingdom of the Mycenaean Greek world, or perhaps in
some contexts, to the Mycenaean world in general. A useful bibliographical reference work for more
coast of Anatolia appears to have been the stage for these encounters, and it thus
seems reasonable to assume that Ahhiyawa was situated close to this region. The
identification of the Hittite Taruiša with Troy, and that of Hittite Wiluša with
(W)Ilion, has also been the subject of much discussion.19
The possibility of examining the accusative of respect as a contact induced
phenomenon is further strengthened if we consider the following attestations in
Mycenean Greek:20
(32) a. ti-ri-po […] a-pu ke-ka-u-me-no ke-re-a2

‘a tripod with burnt legs’ (PY Ta 641.1)
b. to-no […] a-ja-me-no o-pi-ke-re-mi-ni-ja e-re-pa-te

‘one chair […], inlaid with ivory on the back’ (PY Ta 708.1)
c. to-no a-ja-me-no ku-wa-no pa-ra-ku-we-qe ku-ru-so-qe o-pi-

ke-re-mi-ni-ja
‘one chair, inlaid with blue steel and silver and gold on the back’
(PY Ta 714.1)
This situation also suggests that the Greek language group was in contact with
the Anatolian group, involving the phenomena of languages in contact to be
reckoned with. Greek and Luwian contacts are to be expected in the first place,
as the main zone of contact (the south-western Aegean coastline) was Luwian
speaking. However, contacts between the Greek and Hittite language group are
not to be excluded. Indeed, relations between Greeks and Hittites have been
proved by the existence of a diplomatic correspondence between Ahhiyawa and
Hatti as attested in the Hittite texts.21
general readers is Fischer (2010).

19 Luwian origins have been proposed for Priamos (Pariya-muwa) and Paris (Pari[ya]-). Moreover,
for the toponyms, it could be stated that, once the identity and continuity of the name have been
ascertained, the more specific question, whether Wiluša and Taruiša were only names of cities or
wider designation or regional states, is a matter of minor importance.
20
No attestation with body parts has been found, but this might be due to the nature of the
Mycenaean texts.
21A new edition of the Ahhiyawa texts, with translations and commentaries, is currently published
by Beckman et al. (2011).
Calvert Watkins raised the intriguing possibility of an areal diffusion

from Anatolian to Greek.22 According to Watkins, Western Anatolia gives the
appearance of a partly convergent, diffusional linguistic area. The correlation
between literary texts from the Near East and Greece has been studied most
carefully by Classical scholars, especially Walter Burkert and Martin L. West.23
While the focus has been on the similarities that demonstrate that Greece, like
North Syria and Anatolia, partook in an eastern Mediterranean cultural area,
what is equally interesting is the change across time and space in motifs as these
are adapted to new milieus, which in part respond to the particular interests
of new audiences, as part of a conscious effort to differentiate one culture and
people from another by making idiosyncratic use of a common fund of myths
and legends.
The influence of Anatolia in matters linguistic is becoming clearer and more
impressive every year. There are remarkable convergences and innovations in this
geographical area, and some examples should be considered. As suggested by
Romano Lazzeroni (2006), the Greek allative in accusative plus -de is limited
to nouns with inanimate referents, just like the Anatolian allative in –a.24
The Luwian languages mostly share the property that a derived inflectional
adjective fills the function of the genitive case (the derivational morphemes
are Luwian -ašši/a- or -i/ya-). Aeolic as other dialects of Greek has a relational
adjective in *-i(y)o-, but only in Aeolic the patronymic genitive of the father’s
name was completely replaced by a relational adjective derived from the
father’s name.25 These morphological and syntactic facts certainly strengthen
the hypothesis that Greek and Anatolian languages share some areal features.26
This, together with other evidence, argues that Anatolia was an important
location where Greek-speakers were made aware of Near Eastern epic and
22 See Watkins (2001).

23The fundamental discussions for these themes remain Burkert (1992) and West (1997). On the
epic poetry see Haubold (2002).
24 One may add that Hurrian also has an allative (singular -da and plural -šta), but the Hurrian
allative is not limited to inanimate referents: šen(a)=iffu=da ‘to my brother’ beside šelli=da ‘to the
house’.
25 See Watkins (2001).
26 Also the calquing of Anatolian phrasemes and metaphors into the Homeric repertoire, as
discussed by Puhvel (1991), needs to have occurred quite early in the tradition. However, despite
the manifest influence of Near Eastern religion and literature on Greek culture, especially Greek
epic, made clear by the pioneering works of Burkert and West, the mechanism by which literature
from the Near East reached Greece has not been well studied.
incorporated elements of this into their native Indo-European narrative poetry

glorifying gods and men. Anatolia is the site of the action of the Iliad and the
area where the Ionicized Homeric dialect was created. There is a need to examine
the development of the epic poetry within a broader context, taking into account
some of the Near Eastern influences which may have contributed to the shaping
of its themes, content, and final form. Therefore, it is not easy to avoid the
conclusion that the accusative of respect in Homeric Greek is a syntactic feature,
which is significantly influenced by contacts within the Anatolian linguistic area.
26 DARDANO, The Accusative of Respect in Homeric Greek
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30
The Greek suffix -ινδα within the Micro-Asiatic

multilingual context
Francesco Dedè
1 Introduction
In this paper I am going to discuss some issues relating to a peculiar class of words
of Ancient Greek, namely the adverbs ending in -ινδα which refer to games; in
particular, I will address the topic of their problematic origin in the wider context
of language contact between Greek and the languages of ancient Anatolia.
2 Greek adverbs in -ινδα referring to games
The class of Greek adverbs ending in -ινδα is very peculiar within the Greek
lexicon, both from the formal and the semantic point of view. From the formal
point of view, the sound sequence /nd/ with voiced stop is found in many
Proto-Indo-European roots, but it is not common in grammatical morphemes,
neither derivational nor inflectional. Formations of the Indo-European languages
showing this sequence as part of a formant are usually monoglottic innovations,
the most famous of which are probably the Latin gerunds and gerundives, whose
origin is still a matter of debate.1
The most peculiar feature of Greek -ινδα formations, however, is the fact that
they all are ludonyms, that is words denoting games, especially extemporaneous
games played by children, such as κρυπτίνδα ‘hide and seek’, ἀκινητίνδα ‘who
stirs first’ and so on. The presence within a given language of a suffix entirely
specialised in deriving ludonyms is in itself noteworthy, because it does not seem
to have any typological parallels in other languages.2
1 See Weiss (2009: 443–444).

2 Other languages indeed have suffixes which are productive for deriving game names (e.g. It.
-ino and -ella in nascond-ino ‘hide-and-seek’ [< nascondersi ‘hide’] and acchiappar-ella ‘tag game’ [<
acchiappare ‘catch’]), but it is a specialised meaning that is added to the suffix’s primary meaning (in
the above Italian examples, the suffixes -ino and -ella are both diminutives).
32 DEDÈ, The Greek suffix -ινδα within the Micro-Asiatic multilingual context
The corpus of the Greek ludonyms ending in -ινδα is not very large, as
it consists of about 28 forms, which for the most part are attested only by
grammarians and lexicographers within word lists. This attestation deprives us
of important information about the syntactic behaviour of these formations.3
These ludonyms are formed both from nouns and from verbs, and there is also
the interesting form ποσίνδα, built on the adjective πόσος ‘how much?’, which
refers to a game similar to morra. The classification of all of these forms as adverbs
goes back to Greek grammarians and is based almost exclusively on the relevant
fact that they are uninflected. To this we may add that these words usually appear
in the sentence as modifiers of a verbal phrase, which is also a typical adverbial
feature. In a previous paper I pointed out the non prototypical adverbial status
of these formations. On the one hand, unlike normal manner adverbs, these
formations have a very specific and well clearly defined lexical meaning, and not
surprisingly they are often given the definite article and treated as nouns. On the
other hand, while manner adverbs may modify a wide range of verbs, precisely
because of their more general meaning, adverbs in -ινδα may only appear as
modifiers of verbs meaning ‘to play’.4
Besides these peculiarities at the lexical and semantic levels, the morphological
shape of these adverbs, namely the sequence /nd/ which characterises the formant
-ινδα, is difficult to explain within the context of Greek word formation processes.
Back in 1933, Pierre Chantraine observed: “rien n’explique la combinaison -νδ-
qui caractérise le groupe. Nous avons affaire à des procédés semi-argotiques dont
l’origine reste, par définition, une énigme [nothing can explain the combination
-νδ- which characterises the group. We have to do with semi-slang formation
patterns whose origin remains, by definition, an enigma]” (Chantraine 1933:
278). Hence came the hypothesis of a foreign origin of the suffix -ινδα; however,
looking at the Greek lexicon, there seems to be an obvious link between the forms
in -ινδα and the well-known series of adverbs ending in -δόν, -δήν, and -δα, such
as ἀναφανδόν ‘visibly, openly, before the eyes of all’, κρύβδην ‘secretly’, μίγδα
‘promiscuously, confusedly’. Therefore, before any other attempt can be made to
explain the origin of the ludonyms in -ινδα, it is necessary to check whether the
two series are etymologically related or not.
3 Given the small number of these forms and their isolation within the Greek lexicon, very few has
been written on them: some information on single -ινδα forms is found under the entry Spiele of
the RE and in Carbone (2005). Works on the ludonyms in -ινδα as a class are Schmidt (1846),
Frohwein (1868: 129–132), Chantraine (1933) and Dedè (2016).
4 See Dedè (2016: 147–152).
3 Adverbs in -ινδα and adverbs in -δόν/-δήν/-δα
Many scholars in the past interpreted -ινδα as a complex suffix made through
the addition of the adverbial termination -δα to pre-existing forms; this line of
thought was very widespread in the studies on the topic in the 19th century and
in the first half of the 20th century (see e.g. Frohwein 1868: 127). Chantraine,
however, in his aforementioned paper of 1933, while recognising the phonetic
similarity between these adverbs and the series of adverbs in -δόν/-δήν/-δα, did
not consider the two series as etymologically connected and believed the adverbs
in -ινδα to be of foreign origin, namely from Lydia.5
Given the phonetic identity of the ending of the adverbs in -δα and in -ινδα,
connecting the two series would seem to be the easiest and best choice; yet, two
facts make this choice less reasonable than it appears. First of all, with the adverbs
in -ινδα it is difficult to find the forms on which the ending -δα would have been
attached: they were likely forms ending in -ιν, but none of the adverbs in -ινδα of
our corpus is built upon a veritable -i- stem. However, looking outside of ancient
Greek, we could comparatively look at the Latin adverbs ending in -im or -tim,
such as cursim ‘quickly, swiftly’ or raptim ‘violently, greedily’. The importance of
this comparison is reinforced by the existence of a typological parallel between
Greek and Latin: in Greek we find the adverb φαινίνδα, which is built on the verb
φαίνω ‘appear’ and denotes a game in which players played with a ball pretending
– and so, ‘appearing’ – to throw it in a certain direction, but actually throwing it
in another direction. In Latin we have the phrase datatim ludere, literally ‘to play
giving to each other’(or pilā datatim ludere in its more complete form) which
denotes a kind of ball-game.6 This parallel between a Greek adverb in -ινδα and
a Latin adverb in -tim somehow invites to establish an etymological connection
between these two derivational classes, but, regardless of the origin of the Latin
adverbs in -tim – which are most probably grammaticalised accusatives of -ti-
stems –7 we do not have positive evidence of Greek adverbs ending in -(τ/σ)ιν, so
the parallel must remain at the syntactic and semantic level, and the problem of
the base which Greek adverbs in -ινδα are built upon is left unsolved.
The second problem is related to the adverbial suffix -δα itself: the Greek
adverbs ending in -δόν, -δήν, and -δα have recently received great attention, as
proved by the recent contributions by Jeremy Rau (2009) and Audrey Mathys
5 Chantraine (1933: 281–282).

6 hapax in Novius, Exodium, fr. 24, cf. Nuti (1998: 37).
7 Cf. Weiss (2009: 362), Ricca (2010: 115–116, with further references).
(2016). Even though these two papers do not agree in all respects, they do it on
an important point: the forms ending in -δα are by far the less frequent type, and
their distribution and frequency in the texts clearly show that this ending is a
variant of the -δόν type created in the context of epic poetry for purely metrical
reasons. The adverbs ending in -δα are increasingly less attested in the classical
and hellenistic periods and are found almost exclusively in the Homeric and
archaic poetry, where adverbs in -ινδα are totally absent. Of course, the absence
of adverbs in -ινδα from the archaic poetry is not significant in itself, since their
reference to children games makes them almost incompatible with the topics of
the elevated epic style. What is indeed relevant is the fact that while adverbs in
-δα are in most of the cases regarded as doublets of adverbs ending in -δόν (or in
some cases ending in -δήν), there are no such doublets for our adverbs in -ινδα,
nor is the presence of such doublets hinted at anywhere in the Greek grammatical
tradition. These two facts, namely the difficulty of finding a proper base ending
in -ιν to which the termination -δα would be attached and the lack of adverbs
ending in -ινδον parallel to those ending in -ινδα, make the hypothesis of a
common origin of the two series of adverbs very unlikely.8
3.1 Adverbs in -ινδα and adverbs in -ίνδην
There is one more problem which needs to be addressed, because in Greek there is
a very small group of adverbs ending in -ίνδην, which seem to be an exact parallel
to the adverbs in -ινδα. This group is composed of six members: ἀριστίνδην
‘according to excellence’, πλουτίνδην ‘according to wealth’, κρατιστίνδην ‘by
choosing the best’, ἀγχιστίνδην ‘within the near kin’, φαρυ(γ)γίνδην ‘like a
glutton’ and ὀστρακίνδην ‘as in the ὀστρακίνδα game’. Φαρυ(γ)γίνδην is a word
typical of Attic comedy, attested only by lexicographers,9 which is very likely
built on the same pattern of the more serious forms to achieve a comical effect;
ὀστρακίνδην is a hapax legomenon built directly on the adverb ὀστρακίνδα and
attested very late in an oration by Niketas Choniates (12th–13th century AD),10
so it tells us nothing about the original formations in -ίνδην. The other four
8 The fact that recent scholarship tends not to consider the adverbs in -ινδα as etymologically
related to the series of adverbs in -δόν/-δήν/-δα is confirmed by the fact that neither in the recent
papers by Rau and Mathys, nor in the older paper by Otto Haas (1956) there is any mention of
the adverbs in -ινδα.
9Com. Adesp. 1185.1. This adverb is built on the noun φάρυ(γ)ξ ‘throat’, which in Attic comedy is
used also metonymically to refer to the ‘glutton’ (cf. Ar. Ra. 571).
10 Nik. Chon. 59.8.
adverbs form a very coherent group of technical terms of the juridical vocabulary
and can be considered as the core elements of the group.
The striking similarity between the adverbs ending in -ίνδην and those in
-ινδα seems to point to a common origin of these two complex terminations and
invites to interpret the former as adverbs formed by the adverbial suffix -δην, as
we see for instance in στάδην ‘standing still’ or κλήδην/ὀνομακλήδην ‘by name’.
However, here again the picture is complicated by some disturbing factors. On
the one hand, many adverbs ending in -δην and all the adverbs ending in -ίνδην
clearly show a distributive semantic value that is completely absent from the
adverbs ending in -ινδα. On the other hand, the adverbs ending in -δην are built
from verbs, while those ending in -ίνδην are built on nouns or substantivised
adjectives, in three cases even in the superlative form. In the third place, as in the
case of the adverbs in -ινδα, there is no form ending in -ιν which could justify the
phonological shape of the termination -ίνδην.
It can also be noticed that in all the four ‘core’ forms the stem to which the
termination -ίνδην is added ends in a dental stop, which in three cases is preceded
by a consonant /s/. As a result of this complex puzzle, in the attempt to form
adverbs in -δην of the type ὀνομακλήδην with the usual distributive value, and in
light of the difficulty raised by purely phonological reasons, the word formation
pattern somehow crossed with that of the adverbs in -ινδα. This is just a hypothesis
that leaves some important questions open, the most relevant of which is why a
phonological difficulty (the rise of a consonant cluster T+δην) should have been
solved by resorting to a non productive, very idiosyncratic derivational type, thus
giving rise to a more idiosyncratic and even less productive derivational type.
Given the presence of deverbative/denominal adverbs showing the allomorphic
termination -άδην, such as λογάδην ‘by picking out’, or ἀμβολάδην ‘bubbling
up’, one may argue that the shaping of adverbs like *ἀγχιστάδην or *ἀριστάδην
would have been a better and more economic choice. It is very difficult to answer
to these questions; however, the key point here is that the peculiar adverbs ending
in -ίνδην can at most be viewed as parallel formations to the adverbs ending in
-ινδα, but not as their source.
Lastly, two further elements complicate the picture. In one inscription from
Pagai in Megaris, the well-known juridical formula πλουτίνδην καὶ ἀριστίνδην
‘by wealth and excellence’ comes in the shape πλουτίνδα καὶ ἀριστίνδα,11 while
the usual Doric forms of these adverbs are πλουτίνδαν and ἀριστίνδαν. As
interesting as this fact may be, this is too weak of a proof to make these forms the
11 IG VII.188.9.
source of the adverbs denoting games; instead, the shape of the formula in the
Pagai’s inscription could be simply due to the influence of the -ινδα type over the
-ίνδην type. The same observation applies also to the noun ἀριστίνδᾱς, which
denotes a title in Sparta and is attested in two inscriptions of the Roman period
from that polis.12
4 Adverbs in -ινδα as a contact induced phenomenon?
Given the difficulty of finding an inner-Greek explanation for the ινδα-adverbs,13

the hypothesis of their foreign origin comes back into play.
Chantraine on the one hand noticed that in Asia Minor the termination
-ινδα is quite common among toponyms,14 on the other side he drew attention
to the following passage by Herodotus in which the Lydians claimed to have
invented most of the games which at the time were in use among both themselves
and the Greeks:
Φασὶ δὲ αὐτοὶ Λυδοὶ καὶ τὰς παιγνίας τὰς νῦν σφίσι τε καὶ Ἕλλησι
κατεστεῶσας ἑωυτῶν ἐξεύρημα γενέσθαι […] Ἐξευρεθῆναι δὴ ὦν τότε καὶ
τῶν κύβων καὶ τῶν ἀστραγάλων καὶ τῆς σφαίρης καὶ τῶν ἀλλέων πασέων
παιγνιέων τὰ εἴδεα, πλὴν πεσσῶν (Hdt. 1.94.2–3).
‘And, according to what they themselves say, the pastimes now in use among
them and the Greeks were invented by the Lydians […] Then it was that they
12 IG V,1.679.6–7, V,1.680.6–7. Not much is known about this title: Lafond (2018: 410) says
that this term “may mean, to judge by the related adverb aristindēn [‘according to rank, merit’], a
person chosen from the best. In the context of the inscriptions which use this term, it denotes those
who distinguished themselves in the agōgē, Sparta’s supposedly traditional education system”.
Given the morphological and semantic connection between ἀριστίνδᾱς and ἀριστίνδην it is highly
probable that the former is a deadverbial derivative built directly on the latter.
13 Among the proposals made to explain the -ινδα adverbs within Greek, the most fascinating was
made by Jean Taillardat, who saw in the formant -ινδα the result of a resegmentation of the two
adverbs ὀστρακίνδα and χαλκίνδα: according to Taillardat, this adverbs were originally compounds
(*ὀστρακο-κίνδα ‘throwing potsherds’ and *χαλκο-κίνδα ‘spinning copper [coins]’) whose second
member was the stem of the verb *κίνδω ‘set in motion’, not attested in Greek but reconstructable
on the basis of forms such ὀνοκίνδιος, ὀνοκίνδας ‘donkey-driver’ (cf. Taillardat 1956: 191–192).
As fascinating as this hypothesis may be, it requires too many uncertain reconstructive steps to be
fully persuasive.
14See for instance Ἅλινδα and Πίγινδα in Caria, Κάλινδα and Πισίνδα in Lycia, quoted by
Claudius Ptolemy in his Geography.
invented the games of dice and knuckle-bones and ball, and all other forms of
pastime except only draughts’ (transl. A. D. Godley).
It is true that the importance of this quotation should not be overestimated

and that, as observed for instance by Schwyzer (1939: 627), none of the games
quoted by the historian, that is, κύβοι ‘dice’, ἀστράγαλοι ‘knucklebones’ and
σφαῖρα ‘ball’ has a correspondent adverb in -ινδα. However, Herodotus’ testimony
clearly points to a close link between Lydians and Greeks with reference to games,
and, since intense cultural contacts between these two populations are clearly
attested, the possibility that the -ινδα derivational type originated and spread
from Asia Minor is far from impossible.
Accordingly, my proposal is to follow Chantraine’s idea of a Lydian origin
of Greek’s -ινδα adverbs, trying to improve it as to the linguistic details. Given
the scarcity of data available both on the Greek and on the Anatolian side, this
proposal will have to remain hypothetical.
First of all, there are some important facts which must be briefly recalled:
1) the Indo-European languages of the Anatolian branch are known to make
extensive use of relational adjectives, often in substitution of nouns inflected in
the genitive case;15 2) one of the suffixes used to derive such adjectives is the well-
known *-ijo- inherited from Proto-Indo-European;16 3) it is nowadays accepted by
scholars that in Lydian the intervocalic palatal glide gave -d- as outcome, with the
preceding vowel often being subject to syncope, so that the sequence *-ijo- evolved
into Lydian -da-,17 as is proved by forms such as taacda, śfenda, mλυẽnda,18 and
perhaps by the name of the inhabitants of Sardis, śfarda (< śfar ‘Sardis’).19
So, what I propose is in itself very simple: Greek adverbs in -ινδα denoting
games may be viewed as the result of the borrowing of Lydian substantivised
relational adjectives in turn referring to games and built with the morpheme
-da- (itself coming from Proto-Indo-European *-ijo-) attached to stems ending
in -in. The regular outcome of the neuter nominative-accusative plural form
15 Melchert (2012: 273), Dardano (2011: 54).

16 Melchert (1990: 198), Dardano (2011: 54–55).
17 Melchert (1994: 206), Melchert (2004: 139–142).
18 Melchert (1990: 206).
19 Gusmani (1964: 201–203); however, here Gusmani expresses uncertainty whether the -d- in
śfarda is part of the formant or part of the stem of the name ‘Sardis’, since this name is unfortunately
attested only in the dative-locative form śfarλ; Melchert (1990: 206) states that the presence of the
suffix -da- in this word is impossible to determine, while Gérard (2005: 89) deems it likely.
of such formations would in fact have been -inda and, in a second step, Greek
speakers would have reinterpreted the entire termination -inda as a derivational
morpheme attached to Greek stems.
This proposal is highly satisfactory in regards to the explanation of the
phonetic shape of the Greek formant -ινδα and is also reasonable on the morpho-
semantic level. Generic relational adjectives could easily be employed to denote
games as ‘the game relating to something’ or the like. However, it must be clearly
stated that this hypothesis rests on some points which, given the data currently
available, cannot be positively demonstrated. The main open problems are: 1)
there is no extant Lydian word form ending in -inda; 2) in the Lydian lexicon
there is no word, either noun, adjective or adverb, which denotes a game or a
manner of playing and which could provide us with a parallel with the Greek
adverbs in -ινδα; 3) we do not know if in Lydian there were many nominal stems
ending in -in; 4) we must make the hypothesis that a formant, which was in
Lydian a generic derivational morpheme, underwent a semantic specialisation as
it was incorporated in the Greek derivational system.
The first three problems are clearly linked to each other and are due to the
fact that Lydian is a poorly attested language; however, we can bring in some
data, which partially corroborates our hypothesis. The forms mλυẽnda ‘part’ and
śfẽnda ‘property’ seem to prove that a sequence *-enijo- would give -enda- in
Lydian, so it is fairly possible that a sequence *-inijo- would evolve to -inda-; as for
the third remark, in Lydian we find the relational adjective istaminli- ‘belonging
to the family’ which is built on an -in- stem, istamin- ‘family’, and shows the
suffix -l(i)-, whose function is similar to that of the suffix -da-.20 Unfortunately,
we know too little about the distribution of the various Lydian suffixes used to
derive relational adjectives. However, if the suffix used were -da-, the resulting
form would probably have been *istaminda, showing the sequence -inda-.
Regarding the fourth remark, we see that in the cases of contact-induced
acquisition of a derivational morpheme, the morphological and/or semantic
specialisations are fairly normal, and in our case there may be a very interesting
parallel. In a paper about the Greek suffix -ίδᾱς, Paola Dardano (2011) made the
very fascinating and convincing hypothesis that this suffix, used in the first place
to derive patronyms and subsequently anthroponyms, was imported in Greek
from Lydian, where in turn it was the outcome of the Proto-Indo-European suffix
*-ijo-. If that hypothesis were correct, we would have a parallel case of importation,
20To our knowledge -l(i)- is the suffix for deriving relational adjectives most attested in Lydian. In
particular, it is used to express possession (see Melchert 2012: 276).
involving the same suffix in a different environment, and again showing semantic
specialisation (that is, from generic relational adjectives to patronyms).
In conclusion, if my hypothesis were correct, we would have to do with
another phenomenon attesting to the depth of the cultural and linguistic contact
between Greeks and Lydians. This phenomenon would be parallel to the creation
of the morpheme -ίδᾱς, this time not at the high level of epic diction, but rather
at the popular level of children games, and to this respect we must not forget
the cultural and historical value of Herodotus’ testimony. So, although this
hypothesis cannot be fully proved with the linguistic material available to us, the
data we have at our disposal make it fairly reasonable.
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42
Not overstrong in his Greek:

Modern interpretation of “Egyptian” Greek texts
in the Zenon Archive
Trevor Evans
1 Introduction1
Numerous comments on linguistic features are scattered through modern editions

of the Greek documentary papyri from Egypt. These often express unenthusiastic
and even hostile attitudes towards the competence of the ancient usage. And texts
associated with indigenous Egyptian authors tend to be characterised, especially in
older editions, as egregious repositories of “bad Greek”. Such comments owe much
to prejudice and untested assumptions. They are not based on systematic analysis.
They are also often astray. Since they are embedded in the editions and commentaries,
however, and are often enough the assertions of famous papyrologists, they have
the potential to exert an enduring influence on scholarship.
The purpose of the present study is to contribute towards the reassessment of
modern responses to this fascinating material. The specific focus is (what I see as
problematic) attitudes to “Egyptian” Greek in texts preserved within the famous
third-century BCE assemblage known as the Zenon Archive.2 The first part of
the paper will present three case studies that reveal responses to “Egyptian” Greek
texts from some well-known twentieth-century authorities. My aim here is both
to demonstrate weaknesses in their analyses and also to model a more balanced
and effective approach to the kind of Greek in question. In the second part of the
paper I will build on the case studies a consideration of processes of composition in
relation to ethnicity of participants. This is challenging territory. It tends to invite
speculation and guesswork. But it seems to me that there is scope to be clearer
about what we can and cannot know concerning texts associated with Egyptians.
1 It is a pleasure to thank Martti Leiwo, Sonja Dahlgren, Hilla Halla-aho, and Marja Vierros,
convenors of the 9th International Colloquium on Ancient Greek Linguistics (University of
Helsinki), for the invitation to present an early version of this paper and fellow participants for
their responses. I am also grateful to John Lee, Emmanuel Roumanis, Joanne Stolk, and Genevieve
Young-Evans for discussion of various relevant questions.
2For this assemblage see Vandorpe et al. 2015: 447–55 (also accessible via the relevant Trismegistos
entry [TM Arch id: 256] at www.org/archive/256).
44 EVANS, Not overstrong in his Greek
2 Some preliminary observations on methodology
Scholars identify “Egyptian” Greek documents mainly by the name of the author,
as in the following case studies (also in a small number of cases by use of the
Egyptian brush, from bilingual documents, and sometimes from the very milieu
to which a document belongs) (Evans 2012: esp. 112–15). There are limitations
to the reliability of this method of identification (note the comment in §6 below
on untraceable Egyptian scribes), but at the very least it establishes in the majority
of cases the involvement of indigenous Egyptians in the process of composition.
It also provides us with a starting point for analysis.
We need to recognise from the outset that these “Egyptian” Greek documents
do not form a linguistically homogeneous set. In fact to assess their Greek
objectively we ought to begin not from consideration of the ethnicity of authors
(and scribes), but by seeking to establish the degree to which the Greek aligns
with standard usage (cf. Evans 2012: 116). The standard in question, bearing
in mind the inescapable fuzziness of the very concept of standard languages (cf.
Adams 2007: 13–17), has to be that of the relevant time and place (and not, for
example, that of classical Attic prose). To determine it for the Zenon Archive,
I use a “control” group of texts from within the corpus itself. These are the
“officialise” documents written in the name of Apollonios the dioiketes (finance
minister) and texts from his senior subordinates, including the eponymous Zenon
(Evans 2010b: 199–200; Evans 2012: 117). The documents of the control group
unsurprisingly manifest a certain linguistic and stylistic variety themselves—those
of Zenon, for instance, are for the most part more meticulously written than
many others—but in combination they give a good sense of educated everyday
writing from the environment in which the texts associated with Egyptians were
composed. Testing against this kind of control, something that seems rarely to
have been practised by editors of papyri, tends to be very revealing. It allows us
our clearest gauge of the competence of the “Egyptian” Greek material.
3 Case study I: criticism of non-standard Greek
Even the least competent documents tend to reveal greater control, when viewed
in terms of contemporary usage, than editors steeped in classical literature have
sometimes asserted (cf. Evans 2012: esp. 109–123). Consider PCairZen III
59490, a letter from one Pasis to Zenon about unclear problems. Campbell C.
Edgar, the brilliant editor of more than half of the Zenon papyri, states that “It is
one of the most ungrammatical pieces in [the Cairo] collection, and the meaning
can only be guessed at.”3
PCairZen III 59490 (Letter from Pasis to Zenon; date unknown):
Πᾶσις Ζήνωνι χαίρειν. ἀπ[έσταλ]κ̣ά σοι Παλλαμοῦν ἐπιστο-

λήν σοι φέροντα. ἀπόστειλον ἐπ[ὶ] Πετῆσι τὸν μυροπώλης καὶ
ἀκοῦσαι αὐτοῦ. τὴν ἐπιστολὴν τὴν ἐποίησα ἀποδότω σοι. καὶ ἐ-
ξέδυσέν με. καλῶς οὖν ποιήσε[ις ἵ]να μηθεὶς αὐτὸν ἀδικῆι. πρόντι-
5 σον οὖν. ἐγὼ δὲ ἀπέσταλκα αὐ[τὸν] ἐπὶ χρείας τινά.
ἔρρωσο.
BACK:
(Address) Ζήνωνι.
‘Pasis to Zenon greetings. I have sent you Pallamous bringing you a letter. Send
word to Petesis the perfume-seller and listen to him. The letter that I made let
him deliver to you. And he stripped me. So please let no one wrong him. So see
to it. And I have sent him for a certain need. Farewell.’
Back: (Address) ‘To Zenon.’
This text is certainly hard to understand (for what it is worth, the translation
above will act as a kind of commentary indicating my own interpretation), but
Edgar overstates the challenges that the language presents. To begin with, it needs
to be acknowledged that the problem of determining the meaning is only partly
a linguistic issue. It is true that a paucity of linguistic and stylistic indicators
renders it hard or impossible to distinguish the participants at several points.4
3 Edgar, PCairZen III 59490, introd. This comment is reproduced almost verbatim in the Oxford
catalogue record to be found in the text’s Papyri.info entry (accessed 2 November 2019). The Cairo
collection includes almost half the total assemblage. Note also Edgar’s comment on l. 3: “I leave the
reader to punctuate this line and extract what meaning he can from it.” The punctuation of the line
printed in the transcription is my own.
4 For example, the subjects ofἀποδότω in l. 3 (Pallamous?) and ἐ|ξέδυσεν in ll. 3–4 are presumably
different individuals and so too the subject of the latter verb and the person referred to by the
pronoun αὐτόν in l. 4, but none of these distinctions is marked in the text and my proposals here
may not be accurate. And who is αὐ[τόν] in l. 5? It may be Pallamous, but could easily refer to
someone else. The absence of linguistic and stylistic indicators marking participants, incidentally,
is not observable only in non-standard usage; cf. PCairZen I 59044.5–8 (letter from Amyntas
to Zenon) καλῶς οὖν ποιήσεις | ἐπισκεψάμενος μετ’ Ἀρτεμιδώρου τοῦ | ἰατροῦ εἰ φαίνεται
ἀποδοῦναι αὐτῶι | τὸ ἐπιστόλιον ἢ ἐᾶν οἰμώζειν ‘So please consider with Artemidoros the doctor
The original recipient Zenon, however, would probably have had a much clearer
idea of the content and context than is possible for us (and was in a position to
ask Pallamous and apparently Petesis about anything he did not understand).5
Next we need to assess systematically the “ungrammatical” nature of the text.
Edgar presumably has in mind a series of non-standard features, some of which
are Egyptianisms:
a) π for φ in πρόντι|σον in l. 4;6

b) inconsistent and inaccurate deployment of case endings after the preposition
ἐπί in l. 2 (ἐπ[ὶ] Πετῆσι τὸν μυροπώλης) and l. 5 (ἐπὶ χρείας τινά);7
c) article as relative in l. 3;8
d) absence of connective particles where we would have expected them in the
third and fourth sentences;9
e) καλῶς ποιήσεις ἵνα construction in l. 4 (discussed below);
f ) expression ‘make a letter’ in l. 3.10
whether it seems good to deliver the letter to him (i.e. Apollonios) or to let him (i.e. Demetrios)
suffer’. For this interpretation of the sense, first proposed by John Lee, see Evans 2015: 68 and n.
24. The lack of contextual indicators led Edgar (PCairZen I 59044.8n, followed by LSJ s.v. οἰμώζω
2) to a different conclusion. On the educated language of Amyntas see Evans 2010a: 67.
5 Cf. the remarks on Petosiris’ memorandum at Evans 2012: 107. Pasis may not have felt it
necessary or appropriate to set matters out more fully in writing; for the role of the letter-bearer in
providing additional information cf. PCol III 6.14–15 (petition from Simale to Zenon) τὰ δὲ λοιπὰ
| πυνθάνου τοῦ φέροντ̣ός σοι τὰ γράμματα ‘Find out the rest from the one who brings you the
letter’; PIandZen 24.10 (letter from Korragos to Proxenos) τὰ δὲ ἄλλα ὁ φέρων σοι τὴν ἐπιστολὴν
ἐρ\ε/ῖ ‘The one bringing you the letter will tell you the rest’.
6 The conditioned interchange of aspirated and voiceless stops before liquids is a natural Greek
development and should be distinguished from unconditioned interchanges, which are plausibly
linked to bilingual interference; see Gignac 1976: 86 and n. 1, 95.
7On this issue cf. Evans 2012: 107–108; also Vierros 2012: 139–175, on case usage in the Greek
of the public notaries of Pathyris in the second and first centuries BCE.
8On this phenomenon, perhaps a relic of the usage found in some classical dialects (Buck 1955:
§126) and also possibly influenced by the analogy of the article used with attributive participles, cf.
Mayser 1970 [1926]: 58–60. It is not restricted to texts associated with Egyptians; see e.g. PSI VI
636.3–5 (letter from Asklepiades to Zenon) τῶν βοῶν | τῶν μοι ἀπέσ|τειλας εἷς … ‘One of the
oxen that you sent me …’.
9 On the development witnessed here see Evans 2010b: 197–205.
10This specific instance of the expression probably manifests bilingual influence from Egyptian; cf.
Depauw 2006: 244. It may be a mistake, however, to imagine that ποιῶ ἐπιστολήν (contrasting
with the usual γράφω ἐπιστολήν) is unnatural Greek. I cannot find an early parallel, but note
In the past scholars have tended to point to any perceived irregularities in the
Greek of texts associated with Egyptians and criticised whole compositions on
the basis of them. Against the collection of oddities listed above, however, it is
equally important to note the text’s standard features (cf. Adams 2003: 741–749):
a) almost entirely standard orthography;

b) consistently standard verbal morphology—13 forms;
c) mostly standard nominal/pronominal morphology—some 13 forms;
d) jussive infinitive ἀκοῦσαι in l. 3;11
e) genitive of person after ἀκοῦσαι in l. 3;
f ) connective particles where we would have expected them in the fifth, sixth,
seventh, and eighth sentences.
There are rather more standard features here than non-standard ones. In addition,
most of the non-standard features are natural Greek phenomena and may well
have been in regular use in contemporary speech. Note especially the expression
καλῶς οὖν ποιήσε[ις ἵ]να μηθεὶς αὐτὸν ἀδικῆι in l. 4, where Edgar (PCairZen
III 59490. 4–5n.) assumes we have to understand φροντίσας after ποιήσε[ις]
from πρόντι|σον (= φρόν-) in the following sentence to introduce the [ἵ]να
clause. Thus, ‘So please (see to it) that no one wrongs him.’ This interpretation
is inaccurate. The independent ἵνα construction expressing a directive is well
Acta Conciliorum Oecumenicorum 1.1.1.109, ll. 8–9 (letter of Cyril of Alexandria): … τὴν πρὸς
μονάζοντας ἐποίησα ἐπιστολὴν ἀνασειράζειν βουλόμενος τοὺς ἐπὶ τῶι θρύλωι σκανδαλισθέντας,
… ‘… I composed the letter to the monks, wishing to hold in check those offended at the murmuring
[i.e. questioning of ‘orthodox’ doctrine], …’; Theophanes, Chronographia AM 6210: ἐποίησε δὲ
καὶ ἐπιστολὴν δογματικὴν πρὸς Λέοντα τὸν βασιλέα οἰόμενος πείσειν αὐτὸν τοῦ μαγαρίσαι
‘He also composed a doctrinal letter to the Emperor Leo thinking that he would persuade him to
convert’. A thorough investigation of the questions raised by these data is in preparation. I thank
Martin Cropp for first drawing the unusual nature of the ποιῶ ἐπιστολήν expression in Pasis’
letter to my attention many years ago and Genevieve Young-Evans for alerting me to the medieval
evidence.
11 For this use see Kühner & Gerth 1966 [1904]: 19–24; Mayser 1970 [1926]: 303–305. In the
Zenon papyri it is freely used in standard compositions, e.g. PCairZen I 59048.1 (memorandum
to Aratos from Aristeus); also PLond VII 2052. 6 (memorandum to Zenon from Sosikrates), where
the construction is misunderstood by Skeat (l. 6n).
represented in Zenon papyri from authors belonging to lower social levels.12 It is

not restricted to texts associated with Egyptians and a form of it survives into the
modern language.13
Meanwhile, the hanging ‘please’ formula καλῶς οὖν ποιήσεις may be
explained in two ways. For Pasis this expression may have become lexicalised
and have lost any controlling influence on the following construction.14
Alternatively the text may reflect a change of thought and an accompanying
shift of construction, in which case it may perhaps offer a subtle insight into the
process of composition. On either interpretation the sentence is non-standard,
but makes clear sense.
Two points emerge from this analysis and should be borne in mind as we
proceed:
a) the language is not as bad as one might expect from Edgar’s assessment;
b) Edgar’s linguistic control over the material is questionable, for all his technical
mastery as a papyrologist.
4 Case study II: implicit criticism of standard Greek
In some respects more surprising than attacks on non-standard features is criticism

of standard Greek. Sometimes this is implicit rather than baldly stated. Consider
a feature occurring in PLond VII 1976, a petition couched in the form of a letter
from Haynkhis, a disgruntled beer-retailer. This text “shows a good command of
Greek in every respect” (Bagnall & Cribiore 2006: 102).
12 Cf. PCairZen III 59495.3 (petition to Zenon from Petenouris and Samoys); PLond VII 2046.3, 4
(petition to Zenon from Peteermotis); PLond VII 2055.3 (petition to Zenon from Teos); PLond VII
2061.5 (letter from [Pse]ntaes to Zenon); PSI IV 416.4 (memorandum to Zenon from Petakos);
also Mayser 1970 [1926]: 231–232.
13Cf. PCairZen III 59409. 8, from a person with the Greek name Botryis (Clarysse 1981: 308 s.v.
Βότρυις), perhaps a soldier. For the modern use see Holton et al. 1999 [1997]: §5.1.3.
14 Cf. instances of this formula introducing infinitives which may be taken as jussive: PCairZen
III 59317.12–13 (petition to Zenon from Horos) καλῶς | ἂν ποιήσαις καὶ τοῦτο ἐμοὶ δοῦναι,
… ‘Please also give me this, …’; PRyl IV 563.5–6 (letter from Pataikion to Zenon) καλῶς οὖν
ποιήσεις, εἴ σοι εὔκαιρόν ἐστιν καὶ ἂν ἐν δυ|νατῶι ἦι, μετελθεῖν τὸν ἄνθρωπον … ‘So please, if
you have a good opportunity and if it is possible, go after the fellow …’ Steen 1938: 141 associates
such infinitives with influence from other constructions, which may also be a factor. For καλῶς
ποιήσεις as a “mot grammatical” introducing a variety of constructions, some of which are late
developments, see Steen 1938: 142–143.
PLond VII 1976 (docketed 24 March–22 April 253)
Ἁῧγχις Ζή̣νωνι χαίρειν.

λαμβάνουσα ζῦτον ἐκ
τοῦ μεγάλου ζυτοπω-
λίου δι̣ατ̣ίθημ̣ι τὴν
5 ἡμέραν (δραχμῶν(?)) δ, καὶ εὐτακτῶ.
Δημήτρ[ι]ος δέ μου ὁ ἀμ-
πελουργὸς ἀπατήσας
τὴν θυγατέρα ἐξαγα-
γὼν κρύπτει, φάμενος
10 συνοικήσ̣[ε]ιν αὐτῆι ἄνευ
ἐμοῦ. αὕτ̣η δὲ̣ σ̣υνέ̣ν̣εμε̣
τὸ ἐργαστήριον καὶ ἐμὲ
ἔτρεφεν πρεσβυτέραν οὖ-
σαν. νῦν οὖν ζημίαν ποι-
15 ῶ ταύτης ἐξελθούσης, καὶ
αὐτὴ δὲ τὰ δέοντα οὐκ ἔ-
χω. ἔχει δὲ καὶ γυναῖκα
ἑτέραν̣ καὶ παιδία ὧδε
ὥστε οὐ δύ̣ναται συνοικεῖν
20 ἧι ἠπάτησεν. ἀξιῶ οὖν βο-
ηθῆσαί μοι διὰ τὸ γῆρας
καὶ παραδοῦναί μοι αὐτήν.
ἔρρωσο.
BACK:
(Docket) (ἔτους) λβ, Μεχείρ.
25 Ἁῧγχις.
‘Haynkhis to Zenon greetings. Taking beer from the large beer-shop, I dispose
of 4 drachmas (i.e. 4 drachmas’ worth of beer) daily, and I pay regularly. But
Demetrios the vine-dresser has deceived my daughter and carried her off and
is concealing her, asserting that he will live with her without my consent. And
she managed the shop with me and looked after me, since I am getting old(?).
So now I am making a loss, since she has gone away, and also I myself do not
have the necessities. But he also has another woman and children here, so that
he is not able to live with the one whom he has deceived. So I ask you to help
me on account of my old age and return her to me.
Farewell.’
Back: (Docket) Year 32, Mekheir. Haynkhis.
The papyrus is now held in the British Library’s collection of Zenon papyri and
was published in 1974 by Theodore C. Skeat. Pieter W. Pestman subsequently
boosted its familiarity to papyrologists by including a transcription in his New
Papyrological Primer (1990). The enclitic personal pronoun μου in l. 6, within
the sequence Δημήτρ[ι]ος δέ μου ὁ ἀμ|πελουργὸς ἀπατήσας | τὴν θυγατέρα
ἐξαγα|γὼν κρύπτει (ll. 6–9), drew comment from both authorities. Skeat links
it explicitly with the noun θυγατέρα in l. 8, but indicates uncertainty by adding
“apparently”.15 Pestman, on the other hand, connects the pronoun with the name
Δημήτριος at the beginning of the sentence.16
The separation of μου from θυγατέρα must motivate Skeat’s doubt, but
his interpretation is surely correct. The position of the pronoun exhibits the
continuing operation in early Koine Greek of Wackernagel’s Law. This much-
studied phenomenon has Indo-European origins. In simplified terms it describes
the tendency of enclitic words to occupy the second position in their clause.17
Within the second position itself there are also observable patterns to the word
order. Thus, the connective particle δέ, itself a semi-clitic, here has precedence
over μου in contention for that second position (Lee 2018: 126; Collinge 1985:
217). In ancient Greek the tendency is subject to variation and change. Shift
of enclitic pronouns from second position in the clause to second position in
relation to their head-words is already becoming common in the classical period
(Horrocks: 1990: 37–39). But the old pattern of Wackernagel’s Law persists and
is found in all kinds of writing. This mixture of old and new patterns continues
in the early Koine period. The PLond VII 1976. 6 example is far from isolated in
the Zenon Archive.18
15 Skeat, PLond VII 1976.6n: “μου is apparently to be taken with θυγατέρα in l. 8.”
16Pestman 1990: 78 (5.6n.): “Δημήτριος δέ μου: it is not known what was the precise connection
between Demetrios and Haynchis.”
17 For a recent study of its early Koine manifestation see Lee 2018: 123–127 (with literature).
18It is easy to gather examples of both the “old” and “new” patterns; cf. PCairZen II 59179.17–
18 (letter from the finance minister Apollonios to Zenon) … [ἐπι]μελές σοι γενέσθω ὅπως τὰ
γενήμα[τα] | [συ]ναχθέντα διατηρηθῆι ‘… take care that the produce is gathered together and
watched’; PZenPestm 51.10–11 (letter from Hierokles to Artemidoros) ἔστι δέ σοι πάντωμ μὲν
τῶν κακῶν αἴτιος Μητρό|δωρος ‘And Metrodoros is your cause of all the evils’, but contrast PLond
VII 1973.8–9 (letter from Apollonios the finance minister to Zenon) ὅτε γὰρ | ἐγράφομέν σοι τὴν
ἐπιστολὴν ἀνεπεπλεύκεισαν ἤδη ‘For when we were writing you the letter they had already sailed
So the word-order pattern involving enclitic μου in Haynkhis’ letter is

normal Greek. That it does not seem to have been understood by the authorities
is especially interesting for my present purpose. Is it that they simply could not
imagine Wackernagel’s Law would be observed in a letter from someone with an
Egyptian name?
5 Case study III: explicit criticism of standard Greek
Let us now turn to a letter sent to Zenon by one Sto(to)etis. A transliteration

and translation are presented below. The original papyrus, held at Columbia
University, was published as PColZen I 51 in 1934 by William L. Westermann
and Elizabeth S. Hasenoehrl.19 In this case criticism of the language is explicit.
The editors assert that “Stotoetis … writes through a scribe … Despite its
simplicity of statement, the letter is none too clear. The scribe who wrote it was
apparently not overstrong in his Greek” (Westermann & Hasenoehrl, PColZen I
51, introd.).
PColZen I 51 (TM 1767; docketed 2 October 251 or 250)
Ζήνωνι χαίρειν
Στο̣ῆτις. ἔλαβον̣
παρὰ Θεμίστου
ἀράκου ἀρ(τάβας) ρλε (ὧν)
5 ἐν Ἀρσινόηι οε
ἐν Τρικωμίαι κ
ἐν τῶι Μάρωνος ἐποι-
κίωι μ. (γίνονται) ρλε.
ἐνέτυχον οὖν Διογέ-
10 νηι καὶ ἔφατό μο̣ι
γεμίσαντα ὑπο̣ζύγι-
up’, and note in PLond VII 1976 itself the position of μοι in ll. 21, 22. Note also the following
example, where σοι was written twice (I thank John Lee for drawing it to my attention). When the
mistake was corrected it was the second instance that was crossed out, not the one in the ‘right’
position according to Wackernagel’s Law: PLond VII 2008.34–35 (letter from Iason to Zenon) τὰ
δὲ λοιπά | σοι ἀναγγελεῖ ⟦σοι⟧ Σάτυρος ‘But the rest Satyros will report to you’.
19 My transcription incorporates Willy Clarysse’s correction of l. 9 ἐνέτυχον to ἐνέτυχον οὖν,
recorded in Clarysse 2018.
α̣ καταστήσειν εἰς
Πτολεμαΐδα. ἐγὼ δὲ
οὐχ ἑώρακα τὰ παρὰ
15 Διογένει. ἀπέσταλκα
δέ σοι τὸ δεῖγμα τοῦ πα-
ρὰ Μαρων. καὶ ὃ ἂν εὕρῃς
βέλτιον δεῖγμά ἐστιν
τῶν ξ ἀρ(ταβῶν). καὶ τὸ ἕτερον
20 δεῖγμά ἐστιν τῶν
οε ἀρ(ταβῶν) τῶν ἐξ Ἀρσινόης.
γέγραφα οὖν σοι ἵνα εἰδῇς.
σὺ οὖν καλῶς ἂν ποιή-
σαις ἀποστείλας τινὰ
25 ὃς παραλήμψεται. πρὸς
Διο̣γένην δὲ οὐ πεπό-
ρευμαι ἕως ἄν μοι ἀποσ-
τείλῃς.
ἔρρωσο.
BACK:
(Address) Ζήνωνι.
(Docket) (ἔτους) λε̣ Μ̣εσορὴ ιγ.
Στοτοῆτις.
‘To Zenon greetings, Stoetis. I acquired from Themistos 135 artabas of arakos,
of which (there were) in Arsinoe 75, in Trikomia 20, on the farm(?) of Maron
40. They amount to 135. So I appealed to Diogenes and he told me that he
would load up donkeys and bring them to Ptolemais. But I have not seen
the ones(?) from Diogenes. And I have sent you the sample of the stuff from
Maron. And what you may find to be better is a sample of the 60 artabas. And
the other sample is of the 75 artabas that are from Arsinoe. So I have written to
you in order that you may know. So please send someone to receive them. But
I have not gone to Diogenes until you send to me.
Farewell.’
Back: (Address) ‘To Zenon.’ (Docket) ‘Year 35, Mesore 13. Stotoetis.’
None of Westermann and Hasenoehrl’s statements withstands close scrutiny.

That regarding clarity reflects the same tendency to link linguistic competence
with lack of contextualising content that we noted in relation to Pasis’ letter

(Section 2). It can be dismissed immediately.
The specific comment on competence, deploying the complacently dismissive
rhetorical figure “not overstrong” (meaning “weak”) is remarkable. Westermann
and Hasenoehrl present no specific evidence in support of the claim. It is in fact
very hard to find any. The orthography,20 morphology, and syntax all manifest
proficiency.
Two features may appear aberrational, but both can be shown to be standard
phenomena. First, the dative singular of the name Διογένης appears as Διογέ|νηι
in ll. 9–10 and as Διογένει in l. 15. The loss of phonemic distinction between the
spellings -ηι and -ει is a factor influencing this variation (Threatte 1996: 138),
but it would be a mistake to label it merely a spelling error. Declensional mixture
of a-stem and s-stem masculine personal names is already seen in classical Greek,
where the a-stem accusative ending -ην sometimes replaces the -η of s-stems
(Kühner & Blass 1966 [1890]: 434, 512–513). The intrusion of the a-stem
dative ending -ηι into the s-stem type is found in late Attic.21 While original
-ει remains more common in the third century papyri, -ηι is frequent.22 The
occurrence of both forms in one document is striking, but has parallels,23 and
such inconsistencies do not seem to have been problematic in ancient writing.
Second, we encounter in l. 17 what at first glance looks like the nominative
form of the personal name Μάρων depending on the preposition παρά. The
editors suggest that we should “Read παρα Μαρων<ος> [sic]” (Westermann
and Hasenoehrl, PColZen I 51.17n.). If this really is a mistake, it could be no
more than a graphic error, but would more probably indicate limitations in
morphological competence of the sort clearly manifested in Pasis’ letter (Section
3, especially PCairZen III 59490.2 μυροπώλης).24 It would, however, be the only
20The final sigma of εἰδῇς in l. 22 is slightly superscript, but this does not indicate correction of a
graphic error, only management of a lack of space at the right edge of the papyrus (so Westermann
& Hasenoehrl, PColZen I 51.22n.). The writer resorted to a similar remedy to squeeze in ἕτερον at
the end of l. 19, writing the omicron above the top line of the word and modifying the form of nu.
21Threatte 1996: 138: “-ηι is already attested in [the dative of masculine s-stems] in the first [Attic]
inscriptions in the Ionic alphabet.”
22Mayser 1970 [1938]: 37–38, 39 (including the examples of both forms in this text); Gignac
1981: 69 and n. 2, 70 (for Διογένης in the Roman period).
23 Note Mayser 1970 [1938]: 2–3 on the reverse development and both spellings occurring in
single documents.
24 For two more examples of “frozen” nominatives cf. Evans 2012: 108 on supralinear ἐλαιοπώλης
at PCairZen III 59499.64, 96.
such error in Sto(to)etis’ entire text. There are 11 examples of correct morphology
of personal and place names in the letter, and these even include an example of
the genitive Μάρωνος in l. 7. So we can at least say that the writer knew how
to spell that form. The l. 17 instance is most plausibly taken, I contend, as a
conscious abbreviation of the genitive, of a type familiar in Zenon papyri.25 If
this is accepted the edition’s reading ought to be emended to πα|ρὰ Μάρων(ος).
Westermann and Hasenoehrl’s confidence that a scribe is involved is based
on the form of the author’s name in the greeting formula. There (l. 2) it is
written Στο̣ῆτις. In the docket, however, added on the back of the papyrus in
Zenon’s office for filing purposes, it appears as Στοτοῆτις. This is the usual Greek
transliteration of the name in the period. “The error is that of a scribe”, state
Westermann and Hasenoehrl (apparently assuming haplography in the short
form), “since it is not likely that Stotoetis would miss a syllable in writing his
own name” (PColZen I 51.2n.).
The suggestion seems naïve – this type of error should hardly surprise –
but more significantly it is not even relevant. The transliteration of names from
Demotic Egyptian to Greek was not standardised in Ptolemaic papyri and
variations are common (Clarysse 1981: 272). In the case of this particular name
the variant Στοῆτις is well attested.26 There are eight other examples already in
third century BCE papyri and one of them occurs in another Zenon papyrus,
25 See e.g. PCairZen II 59206.19 Ἀπολλωνί(δου) in an account of tax-payments (Muszynski

1981: 559, s.v. Ἀπολλωνίδης); PCairZen II 59292.193 Παῶ(τος) in a grain account (Muszynski
1981: 574, s.v. Παῶς); PCairZen III 59355.151 Πύθω(νος) in a draft of a statement concerning
a loan (Muszynski 1981: 575, s.v. Πύθων); PCairZen IV 59686.14 Δωρίων(ος) in an account of
provisions (Muszynski 1981: 563, s.v. Δωρίων); PColZen I 57.14 Ἐτεάρ(χου) in a note appended
to an apparently unrelated draft of notification for deposit in a bank (Muszynski 1981: 565, s.v.
Ἐτέαρχος, who incorrectly presents the abbreviation as Ἐτεαρχ); PMichZen 119.29 Ἀνόσιτ(ος)
in a grain account (Muszynski 1981: 559, s.v. Ἄνοσις); PZenPestm 31.14 Σωστράτ(ου) in the
docket of a letter (Muszynski 1981: 576, s.v. Σώστρατος); cf. PZenPestm 51.4 Ἐφάρμοσ(τος) in
a letter. This last example is remarkable in being marked by punctuation (Winnicki, PZenPestm
51.4n; Muszynski 1981: 565, s.v. Ἐφάρμοστος). Abbreviation of personal names is not common
in Zenon papyri. It mainly (but not exclusively, as the PZenPestm 51.4 instance shows) occurs in the
environment of accounts and private notes and drafts. Among the examples preserved writers seem
especially prone to abbreviating the genitive form and in instances where another text component
such as a preposition makes clear the case ending to be assumed. This is precisely what we seem
to me to see in the PColZen I 51.17 example. Note, incidentally, that the other parentheses in
my transcription of PColZen I 51 above (ll. 4 (bis), 8, 19, 21) represent common symbols and
abbreviations the marking of which is not relevant to the example in question.
26 See the TM entry for “Stotoetis” (www.trismegistos.org/name/1147). For the original Demotic
name, which also manifests a shorter form, see Lüddeckens et al. 1995: 945–946.
originally published in 1926.27 There is no reason to doubt that the form written
is precisely what was intended.
That is not to assert that the letter is an autograph penned by Sto(to)etis.
There are other reasons (to be considered below) for thinking a scribe has probably
written this text. The confusion over the name does, however, further indicate
the weakness of these editors’ control over the linguistic character of the text. I
cannot see any justification for their derisive comments. Sto(to)etis’ letter is a fine
example of the standard Koine Greek of its time.
6 The question of authorship and processes of composition
By now it should be clear that modern editorial responses to the Greek associated
with indigenous Egyptians are not always reliable, even those of famous scholars
to whom we all owe a heavy debt of gratitude and whom we may be inclined to
trust. In all three cases discussed above the Greek is more assured than the editors
imply. In two of them it reflects the standard everyday usage of educated writers
of the place and time.
At this point we should turn our minds to the question of authorship and
the processes of composition that produced the documents preserved. How
much control did these apparently indigenous authors have over the language of
the texts? What can these texts really tell us about the use of Greek by Egyptians
in the period?
It may be attractive to assume that the quality of the Greek in Sto(to)etis’
letter reflects the expertise of a scribe, not that of the named author. The same,
we could hypothesise, might be true of Haynkhis’ letter. Perhaps none of our
three authors could produce standard Greek at all and Sto(to)etis and Haynkhis
simply had access to better-educated scribes than the one available to Pasis (cf.
Evans 2012: 120).
Papyrologists tend to work with the assumption that Greek documentary
papyri are either written by the named author or dictated by that person (or
by multiple persons) to a scribe (cf. Verhoogt 2009 [no pagination]; Bagnall &
Cribiore 2006: 6–8, 60–65). In the latter case the scribe is often imagined to have
played a key role in crafting the content. Perhaps this happened in many cases.
It would have been inevitable for indigenous Egyptians unable to communicate
27PCairZen IV (p. 287) 59294.38 (the relevant fragment originally appeared in PCairZen II);
PLille I 59.47; PPetr III 130.5; PTebt III 867.15, 164, 204; SB XVI 12414.5; SB XXIV 16272.198.
in Greek at all (cf. Evans 2004: 208; Evans 2010a: 51–2). It is important to keep
in mind, however, that the scribe in this latter scenario would almost inevitably
have been Egyptian as well and that indigenous Egyptian scribes may have been
involved in a now untraceable way in the competent composition of many other
documents preserved in the assemblage (Evans 2012: 122–3 [with literature]).
Another compositional process also needs to be considered. Persuasive
evidence can be found in the personal documents of Zenon himself for the
production of final copies by scribes working from written drafts. There are
various suggestive data in texts from the Archive’s other educated authors that
imply the same process. In particular cases among Zenon’s texts it is obvious that
there was little or no scope for scribes to alter drafts. They were obviously expected
to copy the text verbatim.28 How widespread this practice was among literate
authors is an interesting question, bearing in mind that literacy was probably
more widespread and probably reached to lower social levels than has sometimes
been suggested (cf. Evans 2004: esp. 196–204 [with literature]).
Where we have only one known document from a particular author, as in the
cases of Sto(to)etis, Haynkhis, and Pasis, it is not easy to draw firm conclusions
about the process of composition and the linguistic contribution of the named
author. This is especially true where authors of lower social levels are concerned.
We can, however, say more than nothing.
Our starting point should be handwriting. Sto(to)etis’ letter was “Written in
a small, clear hand probably by a scribe”.29 The evenness of the spacing between
lines, the neat alignment of the script within each line, and its semi-cursive
tendencies suggesting swift production are key indicators that this is probably
the work of an experienced professional. The letter of Haynkhis was “written
28 See e.g. PCairZen I 59015verso, a set of five letter-drafts written in Zenon’s autograph (on
which see Clarysse 2009: 38–39), on the back of a single papyrus. Here one can observe Zenon’s
extreme care in orthography, deletions and additions, minor variations in word order, degrees of
formality, and directions to his scribes. Perhaps most significantly of all he controls choices in
formulaic expressions (for instance, variation between simple and extended greeting formulae) and
even directs minor changes where versions of the same letter are to be sent to different recipients.
To my mind this is evidence of the most compelling kind, demonstrating meticulous authorial
attention to detail in both language and style and an expectation that scribes would copy the
material verbatim. There is more of it in Zenon’s other letter-drafts written in the autograph. The
process of careful preparation of drafts by the author for verbatim copying by scribes is a key feature
of letter-composition in his documents (an extended treatment of the relevant evidence, including
documents from other authors, is in preparation).
29 Catalog Record,
Columbia University (possibly influenced by the editors’ assertions?); cited from
DDbDP entry for PColZen I 51 (via Papyri.info, accessed 2 November 2019).
by a professional. The writer used a thick pen and mostly separated letters but
proceeded at a considerable speed and with a good rhythm” (Bagnall and Cribiore:
102).30 The letter of Pasis was written in a slower capital hand (relative to that
of Haynkhis’ letter) and the line spacing is a little uneven. The valediction is in
lighter ink, but this is probably simply because the pen needed to be replenished;
the hand appears to be the same as that used in the main text.
The evidence of the writing hands thus suggests that an experienced
professional scribe was employed in the cases of Sto(to)etis and Haynkhis, but
probably not in the case of Pasis. Beyond this point we can only speculate. We
have no way of knowing, for instance, whether Pasis employed an amanuensis
(professional or otherwise) possessing modest skill or wrote his letter himself.
We know nothing at all about the ethnicities of any scribes involved and almost
nothing about either Haynkhis or Pasis beyond what we can glean from the two
documents analysed above.31 Dictation seems a plausible process of composition
for both, but even if we imagine that is correct we cannot establish objectively
whether the scribes copied more or less verbatim or elaborated on less precise
instructions?32 It is not even certain (though I would suggest it is probable) that
these authors could speak Greek.33
30 Cf. Skeat, PLond VII 1976, introd: “Written along the fibres in an upright, medium-sized uncial
[i.e. capital hand] with a thickish pen.”
31 The Ἁῧνχις of PZenPestm XX 63.19 may well be the same person as our Ἁῧγχις, who is
mentioned nowhere else in the Archive (see Clarysse, PZenPestm XX 63, pp. 224–5; Clarysse 1981:
306, s.v. Ἁῧγχις). Edgar (PCairZen III 59490, introd.) tentatively links our Pasis with the author
of PCairZen II 59279, but this should be taken as no more than a speculative suggestion of the
pioneering period of Zenon Archive studies. The name is common. Clarysse (1981: 389–392, s.v.
Πᾶσις) identifies up to 49 individuals called Pasis in the Archive, as well as a group of “unidentified
persons” (his no. 50); he places the authors of both PCairZen II 59279 and III 59490 in this
“unidentified” category and there is no reason to connect them.
32 Bagnall & Cribiore 2006: 102: “the writer took down faithfully what Haynchis [sic] dictated”
is a guess motivated by perceptions about the structure of the letter and the high likelihood that a
scribe was employed.
33 See Edgar, PCairZen II 59291 (petition to Zenon from Harmais and Teos), introd. for the notion
of translation from Egyptian as a component of composition: “The petition is a good example

of Egyptian Greek, the work of a native interpreter who translated the complaint of the brick-
makers into the best Greek at his command, much like a present-day petition written in French or
English for the benefit of a European inspector.” Cf. Edgar, PMichZen 29 (petition to Zenon from
Senkhons), introd. for a similar idea. Such speculation presented as fact can be highly influential,
but we need always to remember that it lacks any firm basis in the evidence.
In the case of Sto(to)etis we can go a little further. Apart from his own letter
he is mentioned in three or four other documents.34 Among these the documents
that are dated all belong to the period 251–249. He was by profession a χειριστής
(PCairZen IV 59568.5), and clearly a senior one, since there were other χειρισταί
in his service.35 He was also engaged in professional competition with another
χειριστής called Phanesis (also an Egyptian name), the certain author of the
declaration PMichZen 52.36 This man is very likely also the author of the letter
PSI VI 603, where l. 1 [Φανῆσις χ]ειριστής is a plausible restoration. At any rate
that author’s insinuation of neglect of duty against Sto(to)etis is in keeping with
Phanesis’ aggrieved attitude in PMichZen 52.
At least 22 examples of the term χειριστής occur in the Zenon Archive.37 It
describes some kind of administrator, but precisely what role such a person performed
is unclear.38 Pestman observes that in the Zenon Archive these people tend to be
concerned with provisions and perhaps especially with controlling the supply of
provisions that come out of storage facilities (Pestman, PZenPestm 12, p. 67).
It seems highly likely, then, that people such as Stotoetis and Phanesis would
have been literate. People in these sorts of positions would normally have had to
be so in order to perform their functions effectively. It is in turn probable that
Sto(to)etis was perfectly capable of practising the third process of composition
mentioned above, writing a polished draft of his letter for verbatim copying.
Whether or not he actually did that in the case of PColZen I 51 we cannot expect
to determine, but there is every chance he was directly responsible for the content
34Clarysse 1981: 420, s.v. Στοτοῆτις 3. The certain examples are PCairZen IV 59568.5, PMichZen
52.10, and PSI VI 603.6. For a possible fourth instance see Edgar, PMichZen 88.2n, plausibly
guessing that the preserved Στοτοήτι τ[ may “Perhaps” conceal Στοτοήτι τ[ῶι χειριστῆι.
35 PMichZen 52 (declaration to Pyron from Phanesis), ll. 9–11 … τοῖς | δὲ Στοτοήτιος χειρισταῖς
| χρῶνται, … ‘… and they are employing the kheiristai of Stotoetis, …’; PSI VI 603 (letter from
a kheiristes [name restored in edn as Φανῆσις] to Zenon), ll. 5–7 … οὐ παρόν|των τῶν περὶ
Στοτοῆτιν τοῦ | χειρ[ισ]τ̣οῦ οὐθενός, … ‘… since none of the agents of Stotoetis the kheiristes was
on hand, …’ (note attraction to the plural of παρόντων under influence from the following τῶν).
36The Greek of Phanesis’ declaration, incidentally, is less assured than that of Stotoetis’ letter.
Clarysse (1993: 199) states that it “is written with a brush, but the Greek is faultless.” Note,
however, a confusion over sentence-structure marked in part by δέ in l. 6, the non-standard spelling
ἀπέστηκ[α] in l. 11, and the apparent Egyptianism ἐγράφη in l. 17 (on which see Depauw 2006:
159–69, 171–72).
37 Winnicki 1981: 542 s.v. lists 27 instances, but five of those are largely or entirely restored.
38Clarysse & Thompson, PCount 3.64n: “The precise role of this employee, who operated in banks
and the treasury, is obscure”; Edgar’s “corn-measurer” (PMich 52, transl.) is merely a gloss.
of the text that has come down to us. It would certainly be unwise simply to
assume that he was not.
Reflection on processes of composition ought to remind us that setting up
a category of “Egyptian” Greek at all, at least for the Zenon Archive, has limited
value. It is essentially impossible to establish objectively where responsibility lies
for the linguistic character of the text if we have only one document surviving in
the name of a particular author. And a single document is all we have (certainly
in the case of this assemblage) from most authors with Egyptian names. We can
only speculate on the respective degrees of authorial and scribal involvement. In
some cases, such as that of Sto(to)etis, we can do so with a little more confidence,
but any conclusions we draw remain speculation.
7 Conclusion
The more one works on texts associated with indigenous Egyptian authors in the
Zenon Archive, the more unreasonable assertions of the “bad Greek” type seem.
They amount to a kind of linguistic racial profiling. The central purpose of the
present study has been to demonstrate the need for and also to contribute towards
the reassessment of modern responses to this material. To generalise is almost
inevitably misleading, but my impression is that the attitudes highlighted in my
case studies are widespread in our editions and discussions.39 Their potential for
ongoing influence needs to be understood and addressed.
Papyrology ought to have reached the point now where we can dispense
with the idea that “Egyptian” Greek is all the same and that it is all substandard.
These texts are linguistically and stylistically heterogeneous. And their Greek
much more often than not approaches or aligns with standard usage. I hope
to have demonstrated here an effective method for establishing this, by relating
the linguistic and stylistic content of these documents to the educated everyday
writing of their time and place. Our understanding of “Egyptian” Greek will
always involve an element of imprecision, given the impossibility of isolating all
the material for which indigenous Egyptians were in fact responsible. What we
can say with certainty is that in texts scholars choose to assign to this category
on the basis of onomastics or use of the Egyptian brush, it is usually better, often
much better, than many authorities used to think.
39For a much more positive view of the material see e.g. Clarysse 1993: 200: “In most cases the
Greek [of texts written with the Egyptian brush] is faultless”.
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Phrasal verbs in a corpus of Post-Classical

Greek letters from Egypt
Victoria Fendel
1 Introduction and outline
The term ‘Phrasal Verb’ is borrowed from English linguistics where it refers to
verbal Multi-Word Expressions consisting of a Base Verb (BV) and a second
element. This second element we are going to call P-word with Bertrand (2014)
in order not to make any claims as to its morphosyntactic nature for now. A
P-word complements the semantics of the BV and may also impact syntactically.
P-words in English phrasal verbs, such as to keep on, to go up, to go ahead, formally
(yet not functionally) resemble prepositions or adverbs including some that are
not used outside of phrasal verbs (Thim 2012: 58–59). Compared to adverbs
and prepositions, P-words are more restricted in their positional properties, and
constraints usually apply to the material intervening between the BV and the
P-word.
Phrasal verbs are not mentioned in grammars of Classical Greek or Post-
Classical Greek. However, the combination of a BV and a second element is
discussed for earlier stages of the language, especially with regard to the Homeric
epics, under the keyword tmesis. In earlier stages of the language, we find what
is traditionally called a preverb in Greek linguistics, which is separated from its
BV, such as in (1).
(1) Αὐταρ ἐπεὶ κατὰ τέκνα φάγε στρουθοῖο καὶ αὐτήν (Iliad, 2.317)
‘Yet when it [i.e. the serpent] had eaten up the sparrow’s children and her [i.e.
the mother]’
In (1), the preverb is κατά and the BV is ἐσθίω (aorist ἔφαγον). Part of the
accusative object is situated in the tmetic field between the preverb and the BV
(i.e. τέκνα) (Bertrand 2014: 21–27).
Greek linguistics defines preverbs as a group of one-syllable items that can
either function as preverbs in combination with a BV in compound verbs (e.g.
προσ-έρχομαι ‘to go towards’ or κατ-εσθίω ‘to eat up, to devour’ in (1)) or
even double compound verbs (e.g. ἐπ-αν-έρχομαι ‘to return’) or alternatively as
64 FENDEL, Phrasal verbs
prepositions in combination with a Noun Phrase (πρὸς τὸν δῆμον ‘towards the
people’). The internal development of the Greek language in later periods resulted
in the development of composite prepositions in addition to or to the detriment
of these simple preverb prepositions (e.g. ἐπάνω gaining ground) (Luraghi 2003;
Bortone 2010). By contrast, P-words in phrasal verbs only resemble, formally
(yet not functionally), a preposition or an adverb. Thus, we opt for the term
P-word in order to keep an open mind. This sets phrasal verbs somewhat apart
from the phenomenon dubbed tmesis.
The present chapter considers whether phrasal verbs existed as a productive
pattern in Post-Classical Greek or whether the instances of phrasal verbs which
we find in a select corpus of Post-Classical Greek letters from Egypt must be
attributed to bilingual interference from Egyptian (Coptic). Note that our
main concern here is how Egyptian (Coptic) impacted on Greek rather than
vice versa (Grossman et al. 2017; Hasznos 2006; Hasznos 2012). The wider aim
of this article is to show that a pattern that is not mentioned by grammarians
but is attested in documents is worthy of further investigation in a corpus more
extensive than the one chosen here in order to confirm its status in the grammar
of Post-Classical Greek.
Egypt in the early Byzantine period had been a bilingual country for
more than a millennium. The language contact situation started with punctual
contact sites in the trade metropoleis of the north but spread throughout
the country during the Ptolemaic and Roman periods when Greek was the
de facto official language (Adams 2003: 534). In the early Byzantine period,
the political situation changed and the relative status of Greek and Egyptian
(Coptic) also changed with the latter gaining ground and entering the official
sphere, a former stronghold of Greek.1 Amongst other things, this becomes
clear from sociolinguistic factors such as (i) the acceptability of Coptic as the
language of valid wills (Krause 1969; Fournet 2019; Garel & Nowak 2017)2;
(ii) the establishment of the Coptic alphabet (Quack 2017; Choat 2012:
584–585); and (iii) the crystallisation of a standard dialect of Coptic (Choat
1 Over the course of its history, Egyptian has been written with different yet related writing systems.
The name of the writing system used for the everyday language is, as a rule amongst Egyptologists,
used to refer to the stage of Egyptian in the final stages of the language. Thus, we call the same
language, Egyptian, Demotic during the Ptolemaic and early Roman periods and Coptic during the
later Roman and Byzantine periods.
2 Coptic had been used only rarely in official documents before the sixth century. Examples include
the ostraca from Douch (Oasis Magna) and the documents from Kellis (Oasis Magna) (Choat
2009: 347; Gardner et al. 1999: 254–271).
2009; Depauw 2012). All three aspects taken together hint upon Coptic being
able to sustain its status in a multilingual setting (Matras 2009: chap. 3).
Interaction between the two languages has been studied for the Ptolemaic
period in contracts (Vierros 2007; Vierros 2012), texts written with a rush,
an Egyptian school tradition (Clarysse 1993), and the correspondence of two
successive engineers (Clarysse 2010a); the same is true for the Roman period
Narmouthis ostraca (Bagnall 2007; Leiwo 2003; Rutherford 2010). However, the
early Byzantine period has often been left aside perhaps because of its transitional
nature (historically speaking) (Keenan 2007; Kiss 2007; van Minnen 2007) or
because no literary source comparable to the New Testament for earlier periods
is readily available to compare our documentary texts to.3 Furthermore, from at
least the Roman period onwards, a regional variety of Greek in Egypt seems to
have evolved (Dahlgren 2016; Dahlgren 2017) and has to be taken into account
when considering our texts.
Section 2 considers phrasal verbs from a typological point of view and assesses
their documentation in Greek and Coptic, the two languages of the corpus of
texts on which the present study is based. Section 3 presents the corpus data;
it then asks whether phrasal verbs were a productive pattern in Post-Classical
Greek and determines which formations competed with the pattern of phrasal
verbs. Section 4 contrasts bilingual interference and convergence and asks where
to subsume phrasal verbs. Section 5 summarises the results and concludes by
revisiting the questions posed in Sections 2 to 4.
2 Phrasal verbs
2.1 Typology
Multi-Word Expressions, unlike single-word expressions, consist of several words

that interact at, amongst others, the morphosyntactic and semantic levels.4 One
way to conceptualise the two levels and assess mismatches is the c-structure and
the f-structure of Lexical-Functional Grammar (LFG) (Bresnan et al. 2015).
3Volumes on language contact and bilingualism in Egypt omit the early Byzantine period, e.g.
Cromwell and Grossman (2017) (with chapter 11 considering texts dating up to the third century
AD and chapter 12 considering texts dating from the eighth century onwards).
4 We leave aside phonetic issues here due to the nature of our data sample. In English, for example,
the P-word is usually stressed.
The c-structure, that is the constituent or categorical structure, is the external

structure. For example, a phrasal verb consists of a verb and a P-word. In Greek,
the verb is inflected but the P-word is invariable. The c-structure is language-
specific (cf. the principle of variability). By contrast, the f-structure, that is the
functional structure, is the internal structure, which describes a phrase or clause
in terms of universal grammatical relations (cf. the principle of universality). For
example, a phrasal verb consists of a predicate, the BV, and a second element, the
P-word. Generally speaking, the f-structure conceptualises the semantic level,
that is the assignment of participant roles, whereas the c-structure conceptualises
the syntactic level, that is the argument structure. The c-structure and the
f-structure map onto each other. By accumulating information for a constituent
by means of drawing on the c- and the f-structures, the level of specificity of
the description of this component increases monotonically (cf. the principle of
monotonicity).
In verbal Multi-Word Expressions, mismatches at the levels of morphosyntax
and semantics occur, that is mismatches of the relative weight and prominence,
the partitioning and the structural integration of constituents. An example in
verbal Multi-Word Expressions other than phrasal verbs is the mismatch between
syntactic and semantic prominence in Support-Verb Constructions, such as
English ‘to take a decision’. The Support Verb (‘to take’) largely determines the
argument structure at the syntactic level (c-structure), but the Predicative Noun
(‘decision’) largely determines the participant structure at the semantic level
(f-structure) (Wittenberg 2016: 1–14; Danlos 1992; Schutzeichel 2013: 23–27).
While Support-Verb Constructions consist of a verbal and a nominal component,
phrasal verbs consist of a verbal component and a P-word.
The description of phrasal verbs in terms of the c- and f-structures of LFG above
has shown the main difficulty regarding the description and conceptualisation of
phrasal verbs, that is the exact nature of the P-word. The present chapter does not
seek to answer this question. The observations below solely provide an overview
of how P-words can operate in order to embed our Greek data into the general
discussion around phrasal verbs.
Morphologically speaking, there are different ways to combine a BV with
a P-word. They may be separated (as in English Phrasal Verbs), separable (as in
Dutch or German Separable Compound Verbs) or combined (as in Dutch and
German Inseparable Compound Verbs). Syntactically speaking, some P-words
function like prepositions, in that they combine with a complement, while others
resemble adverbs, in that they do not combine with complements. Moreover,
some P-words affect the transitivity of the resulting Verb Phrase, while others do
not.5 A widely discussed example of the former is German pairs such as arbeiten
(intransitive) and bearbeiten (transitive, + accusative) (Michaelis & Ruppenhofer
2001). The (in)transitivising force of a P-word is however language-specific. For
instance, Kulikov (2012) finds for Vedic that preverbal particles have at best a
weak (in)transitivising force. Semantically speaking, Blom (2004) points out that
the semantic weight in combinations of a BV and a P-word may be either on the
former or on the latter depending on the nature of the combination. Viti (2008)
argues for Greek that preverbs acquire a telic function over time.6
Combining morphosyntactic and semantic observations, Blom (2004)
and Thim (2012) distinguish between several types of P-words. Blom (2004:
9 and 20), with regard to Dutch Separable Compound Verbs, establishes two
morphosyntactic classes of P-words, that is predicative and non-predicative
ones. Predicative P-words appear in change-of-state predicates, such as Dutch
dat hij het huiswerk afmaakt ‘that he finishes the homework’  het huiswerk
is af ‘the homework is finished’. In these, the P-word (i.e. af in the example)
carries the primary semantic weight. By contrast, non-predicative P-words are
likened to adverbial and aspectual modifiers and non-predicative prepositions
/ postpositions. They are further subdivided into semantic classes, that is those
providing (i) an indication of an inferred reference point, (ii) an indication of
orientation, (iii) a description of a path and (iv) an indication of continuation.
Thim (2012: 11–20), with regard to English Phrasal Verbs, establishes three
categories, that is compositional, aspectual, and idiomatic constructions, all of
which align with Blom’s non-predicative category.
For Egyptian (Coptic), Layton (2011, § 181) distinguishes between
rectional and combinative elements after the verb. This distinction is important
because Coptic operates Differential Object Marking (DOM) (Engsheden 2008;
Engsheden 2018; Grossman 2018a) in a number of contexts. Compare (2) and
(3):
(2) ⲉⲡⲉⲓⲇⲏ ⲧⲉⲧⲛ·ⲛⲟⲩϫⲉ ⲙⲙⲟ·ϥ ⲉⲃⲟⲗ ⲙⲙⲟ·ⲧⲛ

epeidē tetn-noudje mmo=f ebol mmo=tn
since 2pl.m/f-thrust dom=3sg.m away from=2pl.m/f
‘since you thrust it away from you’
(Acts 13:46)
5 A full discussion of the phenomenon goes beyond the scope of this chapter (see e.g. Lazard 2002).
6 Telic means that the verb describes a completed rather than an ongoing action lexically speaking.
Rectional elements as in (2) are in essence DOM markers and are purely syntactic.
(3) ⲙⲁⲣⲉ·ϥ·ⲉⲓ ⲉⲡⲉⲥⲏⲧ ⲧⲉⲛⲟⲩ ϩⲓϫⲛ·ⲡⲉⲥ·ⳁⲟⲥ

mare-f-ei epesēt tenou hidjn-pes-stauros
opt-3sg.m-go down now from-his-cross
‘He may descend now from the cross.’
(Mark 15:32)
By contrast, combinative elements after the verb as in (3) resemble phrasal verbs
and are the structures we focus on. Combinative elements have a semantic function.
Layton explicitly points out that elements are often rectional and combinative at
the same time, as in ϣⲓⲛⲉ ⲉ-/ⲉⲣⲟ= šine e-/ero= ‘to visit (somebody)’. The entity
that is visited is integrated into the phrase as the complement of ⲉ-/ⲉⲣⲟ= e-/ero=.
Leaving out ⲉ-/ⲉⲣⲟ= e-/ero= would change the semantics of the Verb Phrase.
By and large, combinations of BVs and P-words seem to form an internally
heterogeneous group of constructions in morphological, syntactic and semantic
terms (cf. Kamber 2008). In the present chapter, we disregard predicative P-words
as they are rectional and focus instead on non-predicative P-words, which are
combinative. We adopt Thim’s categories mentioned above as our overarching
categories.
2.2 Greek
Based on the above considerations, three developments in Greek are of interest,

firstly, the gradual univerbation of preverb / P-word and BV, secondly, the
diachronic relationship between adverbs and prepositions, and thirdly, the link
between the processes of multiple preverbation and semantic bleaching of the
P-word. These are considered in turn.
In order to consider the gradual univerbation of preverb / P-word and BV,
we must begin from the phenomenon called tmesis, which is widely discussed
especially in the context of the Homeric epics. While some consider tmesis in
Homer a stylistic means that is artificially added (most prominently Morpurgo-
Davies), others argue that tmesis is a relic of earlier stages of the language which
is still in use in a limited number of contexts (most prominently Horrocks).
The aim of this is not to side with one or the other view. Rather, three pieces of
evidence discussed in this context are of interest to us.
Firstly, there are still instances of tmesis in Classical comedy and tragedy,
such as (4) (Hajnal 2004: 29).
(4) ἔρωτες ὑπὲρ μὲν ἄγαν ἐλθόντες οὐκ εὐδοξίαν οὐδ᾽ ἀρέταν παρέδωκαν
ἀνδράσιν (…) (Euripides, Medea, 627–628)
‘Loves which have overcome (them) excessively have not brought either a good
reputation nor virtue to men (…)’
In (4), the preverb ὑπέρ and the BV ἔρχομαι (aorist ἦλθον) are separate and a
particle and an adverb intervene. Thus, tmesis was a pattern people were still at
least tangentially familiar with in Classical times.7
Secondly, Greek knows a phenomenon called conjunction reduction for
which Hajnal (2004: 30) quotes (5) as an example.
(5) ὃς δὴ πολλάων κατέλυσε κάρηνα ἡδ’ ἔτι καὶ λύσει (…) (Iliad, B, 117–
118)
‘he [Zeus] has laid low the heads of cities and he will lay (sc. low) even more
(…)’
The compound verb is used in the first instance; in the second instance, only
the BV without the preverb appears. Apparently, there was an awareness of the
internal structure of compound verbs, that is their consisting of a P-word and a
BV.
Thirdly, the P-word used to form the compound verb may be repeated in the
function of a preposition in order to attach a semantic complement, as in (6) (see
further Robertson 1919: 557–565).
(6) ἀπ᾽ αὐτῶν ἀποβάντες (Luke 5:2)

‘those going away from them’
7 If tmesis survived into the Ptolemaic period or even later as a stylistic feature, then it may have
been a pattern strengthened in bespoke language contact setting. If tmesis died out earlier, it may
be coincidental that our phrasal-verb patterns bear a resemblance. The latter is the case for certain
Greek epistolary formulae (the Internal Address) in the select corpus of texts (Fendel 2018: chap.
6). Notably, Mendez Dosuna (1997: 603) makes a case for de-univerbation in Greek and Romance
as ‘a response by speakers to preserve and restore jeopardized transparency’.
The discussion around the register-related status of English Phrasal Verbs is an English-internal one
and irrelevant here (Thim 2012; Wild 2011). In essence, it is a debate about semantic periphrasis
vs. semantic nuancing (Crystal 2008: 358).
This phenomenon can already be observed in Classical Greek. However, with the
gradual loss of some older prepositions (e.g. σύν, ἐκ / ἐξ) and the conflation of
others (e.g. εἰς and ἐν), the variation of such P-words functioning as a preposition
increased in the Post-Classical period.
The three pieces of evidence just discussed show that an awareness of the
structure of compound verbs seems to have been present at all times.
To move on, the diachronic development of Greek adverbs and prepositions
is closely intertwined. As mentioned, Greek preverbs are a defined group of
eighteen one-syllable items that can either combine with a BV to form a compound
verb or with a Noun Phrase then functioning as a preposition (Luraghi 2003).
Many of these can also function as an adverb when not combined with either a
BV or a Noun Phrase. In the Post-Classical period in particular, these eighteen
one-syllable items, Bortone’s “proper prepositions”, were complemented by a
range of “improper prepositions”, such as ὑποκάτω ‘under’ and κατενώπιον
‘in front of ’ (Bortone 2010: 187). The latter developed out of adverbs and
the compounding of proper prepositions and adverbs (Bortone, 2010, chapter
4 and esp. table 4.2 and chapter 5). The older prepositions developed more
metaphorical meanings, whereas the younger ones took over in the areas of
spatial and temporal meanings. Some older prepositions disappeared partly
because of synonymy once semantic nuances were lost, others retreated into
specific genres and registers. Both these processes are expected in the diachronic
development of a language. On the whole, the old preverbs were losing ground
in the function of prepositions, but the newer prepositions could not function
as preverbs.
To finish with, multiple preverbation existed in Greek long before the Post-
Classical period (Imbert 2010). Yet, in the Post-Classical period we observe that
one preverb no longer contributed to the meaning or that the compound verb
had developed an idiomatic meaning (e.g. καταλαμβάνω ‘to visit’) and then
another preverb was added, as in (7) and (8).
(7) καθϋπέγραψα τούτοις μου τοῖς γράμμασιν̣ δέσ̣π̣ο[̣τα (?) -ca.?- ] (P. Lond.
V 1685.6)
‘I have signed these letters of mine, lord [’
In (7), the preverb κατά is prefixed to ὑπογράφω ‘to sign’ (perhaps by analogy
with καταγράφω ‘to inscribe’). The passage quoted is clearly a letter-final formula
identifying the person who signed the letter. Thus, the addition of κατά only
makes sense if we assume that the older ὑπογράφω was semantically bleached
enough that the writer felt the addition of a prefix drawing attention to this
particular act of writing was necessary.
(8) συνκατέλθῃ δὲ αὐτῷ κ̣[α]ὶ [ (P. Köln V 250.13)

‘but he may accompany him and [’
In (8), the context is only suggesting that the writer asks for someone to accompany
a traveller, thus only the preverb σύν contributes semantically.
The processes of developing an idiomatic meaning and of semantic bleaching
are to be expected in the diachronic development of a language (cf. Hopper &
Traugott 2003). Generally, it is interesting to observe that structurally speaking,
compound verbs remained a compositional pattern.
2.3 Coptic
Coptic P-words function like adverbs or prepositions much like English

P-words. Layton (2011: para. 181.b.i–ii) labels the former combinative
adverbs and the latter combinative prepositions. In addition, Coptic has what
Thim (2012) labels phrasal prepositional verbs such as English ‘to look forward
to’, that is combinations of a BV, an adverb-like P-word and a preposition-
like P-word. This is because Coptic has simple and compound prepositions.
Compound prepositions are formed in five main ways (Layton 2011, §§ 208–
213) and are essentially a way to convey more nuanced semantics than simple
prepositions.
(9) Coptic compound prepositions:

i. simple preposition + possessed noun, e.g. ⲛ- n- + ⲥⲁ-/ⲥⲱ= sa-/sō
(‘side’) ‘behind’
ii. simple preposition + ⲡ- p- noun + construction of general relationship,
e.g. ⲉ- e- +ⲡ- p- + ⲙⲁ ma (‘place’) + ⲛ- n- ‘instead’
iii. simple preposition + ønoun (or ⲡⲓ- pi- noun) + ⲛ-/ⲙⲙⲟ= n-/mmo=,
e.g. ϩⲓ- hi- + ⲡⲁϩⲟⲩ pahou (‘rear’) + ⲛ-/ⲙⲙⲟ= n-/mmo= ‘behind’
iv. ⲛⲥⲁ- nsa- + ønoun + ⲛ-/ⲙⲙⲟ n-/mmo=,
e.g. ⲛⲥⲁ- nsa- + ⲃⲟⲗ bol (‘outside’) + ⲛ-/ⲙⲙⲟ= n-/mmo= ‘outside of ’
v. miscellaneous other formations
Univerbated combinations of a P-word and a BV do not exist. The only prefix

that is directly attached to a BV and modifies its meaning is causative ⲧ- t- (see
further Grossman 2018b). With Blom (2004), we would call this a predicative
P-word and with Layton (2011) a rectional element. We disregard these here as
we disregard DOM markers because they are purely rectional elements.
3 Corpus data
3.1 Corpus of texts
The corpus of texts consists of private letters on papyrus which come from Egypt,
date from the fourth to mid-seventh centuries, and belong to bilingual archives.
This selection is based on the following considerations.
The spatial limits are the borders of Egypt since neighbouring countries
have different linguistic makeups. We rely on the provenance of a text, that is
the place where it was found, while acknowledging that texts may travel over
large distances. The temporal limits are set by the date of the earliest Coptic
private letters and by the Arab conquest (AD 642). With the Arab conquest,
the linguistic situation in Egypt dramatically changed as Arabic entered the
picture.
The corpus of texts is designed to maximise the odds of seeing bilingual
(Greek-Coptic) writers at work. For practical reasons, only texts for which a
bilingual environment is particularly likely are considered. This is where papyrus
archives come into play. Papyrus archives are groups of texts that have been
assembled by modern scholars based on the common origin of the texts or on
prosopographical data in the texts indicating that the texts were sent to the same
person or originated from the same community (Clarysse 2010b: 48–53; Jördens
2001; Vandorpe 2009: 226–229). The owner of an archive received or collected
the texts that constitute the archive. If an archive contains Greek and Coptic
texts, we can assume that it originated from bilingual surroundings (Fewster
2002: 236).
The corpus of texts is also designed to maximise the odds of seeing writers
compose passages freely. Therefore, we draw on Biber and Conrad’s (2009:
15) notions of genre and register. The genre perspective focusses on culturally
determined textual norms. The register perspective concentrates on the
production circumstances of a text (see further Adams 2013: 107–110; Bentein
2013; Bentein 2016; Heylighen & Dewaele 2002; Koch & Oesterreicher 1986;
Willi 2003; Willi 2010). Texts belonging to the genre “letter” exist in Greek and
Coptic for the early Byzantine period already and the genre markers are limited to
the start and end of letters so that the letter body is composed freely by the writer.
Private unlike official documents allow writers not only to abstain from revision
and copying of passages in order to achieve perfection but also to show personal
involvement (Clarysse 2010a: 41–45 (on authorial revision); Clarysse 2010c (on
emotions); Luiselli 2010).
The resulting corpus of letters encompasses the archives of Apa Paieous
and Apa Nepherous, both abbots at the Herakleopolite monastery of (P)Hathor
(Hauben 2002; Kramer, Shelton & Browne 1987), the archive of Apa John,
most likely to be identified with the Hermopolite desert monk of literary sources
(Butler 1898, p. 213; Clackson 2010, p. 93; Fournet 2009, p. 437; Wilcken
1927; Zuckerman 1995), and the village archive of Kellis, which falls into smaller
sub-archives, situated in the Daklah oasis (Gardner et al. 2014; Gardner et al.
1999; Worp & Whitehorne 1995). All these capture the situation in the fourth
century.8 The final archive to be included is the large sixth-century archive of
the Antaiopolite nobleman and landowner Dioscoros of Aphrodito (Fournet
2019, pp. 10–14; Fournet & Magdelaine 2008). Importantly, we have a one-
dimensional view of the archive owners’ social networks, in that we only have the
letters addressed to them, but not those written by them (Gardner et al. 1999:
6). Thus, we do not study the archive owners’ but their surroundings’ linguistic
profile.
Table (10) provides a numerical overview of the data sample. The sample
is biased towards the fourth century. Thus, any statistical analysis has to operate
with weighing.9 Word counts are only given for the sample to be analysed. Note
also that word counts in Coptic would heavily depend on traditions of word
division which are far more varied than for Greek.
8 Habermann (1998) provides an explanation for the lack of relevant data in the fifth century.
9 Weighing in statistics means that we assign weights to tokens. For example, we would weigh a
six-century token in the corpus more heavily than a fourth-century token given the distribution of
data in the sample.
(10) Corpus of texts

Archive Time Place (region Coptic Number Number Number
owner range and nome)10 dialect of of Greek of Greek of Coptic
the region11 letters words letters
Apa 4th c. Phator / ME M 6 2219 4

Paieous AD U20
Apa Nep- 4th c. Phator / ME M 18 2455 2
heros AD U20
Apa John 4th c. Hermopolis / M 15 1307 12
AD ME U15
Village of 4th c. Kellis, Wester L 19 2804 89
Kellis AD desert / UE
L16
Dioscoros 6th c. Aphrodito / A 69 4824 30
of Aphro- AD ME U10
dito
TOTAL 127 13609 137
The Coptic dialect of the region is relevant as Coptic dialects affect all aspects of
the language, not only phonetic and phonological ones (e.g. Shisha-Halevy 2007;
Gardner et al. 1999: 84–95; Fendel 2019). At least until the fifth century, Coptic
was split into local dialects and Sahidic only gradually became the standard
dialect for literary works.
3.2 Corpus data
In the select corpus of texts, we find fourteen instances of what looks like a
phrasal-verb pattern.12 Of these, nine are instances of a P-word functioning like
a preposition and five are instances of a P-word functioning like an adverb. Table
(11) provides an overview of these.
10 Regions and nomes are according to Helck (1974).

11 Abbreviations are according to Westendorf (1965: XIII–XXIV) and Gardner et al. (1999: 84).
12 Instances are tokens rather than types.
(11) Phrasal verbs in the corpus of texts

Passage P-word ≈ preposition Passage P-word ≈ adverb
1. P. Herm. αἴρω ἀπόGEN 10. P. Lond. 6 αἴρω ἔξω
17.3–6 1914.35–36
2. P. Lond. 6 καλέω πρόςACC 11. P. Lond. 6 ἔξω αἴρω
1917.21–24 1914.48–50
3. P. Lond. 6 φέρω ἀπόGEN 12. P. Lond. 6 ἔχω ἔξω
1914.39–41 1914.36–37
4. P. Lond. 6 τηρέω μετάGEN(rfl) 13. P. Neph. 9.7–11 ὁμοῦ μετρέω
1914.48–50
5. P. Kell. G. 1 μένω παράDAT(rfl) 14. P. Lond. 6 ἀφίημι ὀπίσω
64.5–10 1914.48–50
6. SB 18 φέρω σύνDAT(rfl)
13588.21–22
7. P. Lond. 6 φέρω μετάGEN(rfl)
1914.8–11
8. P. Kell. G. 1 φέρω μετάGEN(rfl)
71.25–27
9. P. Kell. G. 1 δίδωμι ἅμαDAT
66.16–17
The BVs appearing most frequently are φέρω (4 instances) and αἴρω (3 instances),
the former with a P-word meaning ‘with’ and only once with a P-word meaning
‘away from’ and the latter with a P-word meaning ‘away from’. Relevant instances
accumulate in one letter, P. Lond. 6 1914 (7 instances), which is extraordinarily
long (851 words) with a lengthy descriptive section in the middle.
In five instances, that is τηρέω μετάGEN(rfl) ‘to keep with yourself ’, μένω
παράDAT(rfl) ‘to stay at your own place / at home’, φέρω σύνDAT(rfl) / φέρω
μετάGEN(rfl) (twice) ‘to bring with yourself / along’, the P-word functions like a
preposition and the complement of the P-word is reflexive. The P-word phrase
here seems to have intensifying force rather than contribute a semantic nuance
to the Verb Phrase.
In six instances, material is intervening between the BV and the P-word.
Similar to what Bertrand (2014) found for the tmetic field, four of these six
instances contain a ratified topic expression (P. Herm. 17.3–6, P. Lond.
6.1914.39–41, P. Lond. 6.1914.48–50, P. Kell. G. 1.71.25–27)13; two contain

a focus expression (SB 18.13588.21–22, P. Neph. 9.7–11).14 Also similar to
Bertrand’s (2014) findings, in four of the six instances, the intervening material
is a direct object (P. Herm. 17.3–6, P. Lond. 6.1914.39–41, P. Lond. 6.1914.48–
50, SB 18.13588.21–22), in one instance it is an indirect object (P. Kell. G.
1.71.25–27) and in one instance it is an adverbial phrase (P. Neph. 9.7–11).15
Three aspects are noticeable here. Firstly, the material intervening between a
BV and its P-word is subject to pragmatic and syntactic constraints.16 Secondly, the
distance between a BV and its P-word is comparatively small. Thirdly, the intervening
material is syntactically and pragmatically closely tied to the Verb Phrase (that is the
BV and the P-word) rather than constituting a unit in its own right.
3.3 Phrasal verbs and compound verbs
Given the above observations about compound verbs vs phrasal verbs and related
formations in Greek, it seems that phrasal verbs either did not exist as a productive
pattern or have been overlooked so far. Therefore, Table (12) correlates the phrasal
verb patterns we found in the corpus of texts with compound verbs based on
plausible structural and semantic equivalence.17 The four instances printed in
italics show semantic peculiarities detailed further below.
(12) Phrasal verbs and compound verbs

Passage Phrasal verb Corresponding univerbation
1. P. Herm. 17.3–6 αἴρω ἀπόGEN ἀπαίρω
2. P. Lond. 6 1917.21–24 καλέω πρόςACC παρακαλέω
3. P. Lond. 6 1914.39–41 φέρω ἀπόGEN ἀποφέρω
4. P. Lond. 6 1914.48–50 τηρέω μετάGEN(rfl) συντηρέω
5. P. Kell. G. 1 64.5–10 μένω παράDAT(rfl) παραμένω
13 Ratified topic expressions are ‘expressions whose referents are presented as being already under
discussion’ (Bertrand 2014: 14).
14 A focus expression is an expression referring to (discourse-)new information.
15Greek word order is generally speaking conditioned by information structure (Celano 2013a;
Celano 2013b).
16 Such constraints also apply to English Phrasal verbs (Gries & Stefanowitsch 2004: 110–113).
17 Such correlations do not work for Modern English. For instance, ‘to hold up’ vs ‘to uphold’ are
structurally speaking related but differ semantically. Here, phrasal verbs and compound verbs seem
to be distinct formations.
6. SB 18 13588.21–22 φέρω σύνDAT(rfl) συμφέρω

7. P. Lond. 6 1914.8–11 φέρω μετάGEN(rfl) συμφέρω
8. P. Kell. G. 1 71.25–27 φέρω μετάGEN(rfl) συμφέρω
9. P. Kell. G. 1 66.16–17 δίδωμι ἅμαDAT συνδίδωμι
10. P. Lond. 6 1914.35–36 αἴρω ἔξω ἀπαίρω
11. P. Lond. 6 1914.48–50 ἔξω αἴρω ἀπαίρω
12. P. Lond. 6 1914.36–37 ἔχω ἔξω ἀπέχω
13. P. Neph. 9.7–11 ὁμοῦ μετρέω συμμετρέω
14. P. Lond. 6 1914.48–50 ἀφίημι ὀπίσω ἀφίημι
Structurally speaking, we observe that older σύν alternates with younger μετά
and older ἐκ / ἐξ with younger ἀπό. This is an alternation pattern that already
Robertson (1919) observed for P-words repeated in the function of prepositions
with a compound verb and is in line with the diachronic development of the
language. A similar but even more interesting case is ὁμοῦ μετρέω for συμμετρέω
where we have an ‘improper’ preposition replacing an old preverb. The same is
true for ἀφίημι ὀπίσω (see Section 3.4).
Semantically speaking, we drew attention to the phrasal-verb patterns with a
reflexive complement of the P-word. In essence, the P-word phrase then has the
function of an intensifier (P. Lond. 6 1914.48–50, P. Kell. G. 1 64.5–10). This
is most obvious in μένω παρά / παραμένω ‘to stay / to remain’. Interestingly,
this aligns with Coptic ⲙⲟⲩⲛ ⲉⲃⲟⲗ moun ebol ‘to stay / to remain’ where the sole
function of the combinative adverb ⲉⲃⲟⲗ ebol is to intensify the meaning of the
BV. The BV by itself expresses a durative aspect in Greek and in Coptic.
By contrast, μεταδίδωμι had acquired an idiomatic meaning (‘to inform’) by
the Post-Classical period, thus the choice of ἅμα for σύν may have been deliberate.
συμφέρω primarily means ‘to bring together / to gather’, μεταφέρω ‘to transfer
/ to carry away’ and συνδίδωμι ‘to contribute’. Thus, a semantic difference seems
to exist between the compound verbs and the structurally corresponding phrasal-
verb patterns in the case of φέρω σύνDAT(rfl) / μετάGEN(rfl) and δίδωμι ἅμαDAT.
Given this semantic difference, we regard them as formations different from the
others listed in Table (12). The relevant passages are therefore italicized.
3.4 Phrasal verbs gone wrong
Structurally speaking, the odd one out in Table (12) is ἀφίημι ὀπίσω for ἀφίημι.
The complete context is quoted in (13).
(13) μὴ ἀ̣μ̣ελήσηται οὖν περὶ ἡμῶν, ἀδελφοί, ἐπιδὴ τὰ ψωμία ἀφῆκαν ὀπίσω
ἵνα διὰ τὸν ἐπίσκοπον μήπως ἔξω ἀρθῇ ἵν̣α τ̣υ̣ρῇ αὐτὰ μετʼ αὐτοῦ
‘Now, do not forget about us, brothers, as they sent back the bread in order
that – because of the bishop – in order that it may not be taken away in order
that he may keep it with himself.’
(P. Lond. 6 1914.48–50)
ἀφίημι on its own means ‘to send (away)’. However, the verb seems to be moving
towards ‘to send’ / ‘to let (go)’ in Post-Classical Greek. The correct placement of
the augment in ἀφῆκαν shows that while the preverb may have lost part of its
semantic force, it was still perceived at the structural level. Thus, the addition of
the P-word ὀπίσω seems semantically motivated.
Semantically speaking, the odd one out in Table (12) is καλέω πρόςACC
where the context suggests παρακαλέω as the correct choice. The complete
context is quoted in (14).
(14) πᾶν οὖν ποίησον, ἀγαπηταί,εἵνα γράψῃς κατὰ μονὴν καὶ τῷ ἄπα Σουρ[οῦτι
καὶ τῷ] ἄπα Πεβαί, ἵνα κ[α]ὶ αὐτοὶ ἐλεήμον̣ες γενέσοντε περ[ὶ] ἐμοῦ καλέσωσιν
πρὸς τὸν θαιὸν μαιτὰ σπ̣[ουδῆς πνε]ύ̣ματος̣ ἁγίου θεῷ μεμελημαίνω ἵνʼ οὕτως
καὶ αὐτοὶ [γράψωσι με]τ[ὰ σπου]δῆς ὅλη[ς] καρδίας διὰ̣ [ἐμοῦ εἰς τὰ ἄν]ω̣
μαὶ̣ρ̣η καταατὰ μονὴν ἐντελλώμαινοι περὶ [ἐμοῦ εὔχεσθαι ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣
‘Do everything, beloved one, to write to the monastery and to Apa Sourous and
Apa Pebe in order that they too may have mercy upon me (and) may call to God
with the enthusiasm of the holy spirit, dear to God, in order that like this they
too may write with the enthusiasm of the whole heart about me to the upper parts
(and) to the monastery while asking to pray for me …’
(P. Lond. 6 1917.21–24)
In (14), the writer asks the addressee’s advocacy. He begs the addressee to write
to several people in order that they may have mercy on him (the writer) and
pray for him. The latter is expressed in the phrase καλέσωσιν πρὸς τὸν θαιὸν
‘they may call to God’. However, he clearly wants these people to ask, or even
beg, God to have mercy on him (i.e. the writer) and help him get out of his
desperate situation. The compound verb we would expect in this context and
which usually appears when reference is made to begging God is παρακαλέω,
a compound verb that is semantically no longer compositional but structurally
perceived as a compound verb as the correct placement of the augment in
most cases shows (Mandilaras 1973, §§ 231–275 esp. 238, 244, and 267).
What seems to have happened is that the writer when opting for a phrasal
verb rather than the compound verb replaced the P-word παρά by πρός. Both
παρά and πρός can combine with a BV to form compound verbs, both can also
function as prepositions and then combine with three cases. However, in the select
corpus of texts, πρόςACC is clearly winning out over παράACC (76:13 instances).
παρά, on the other hand, outnumbers πρός in combination with the genitive
and dative cases. Thus, it seems that due to the structural compositionality of the
compound verb, the writer was able to split it into a BV and a P-word. He then
replaced less common παράACC by more common πρόςACC. Yet in the compound
verb παρακαλέω, the combination of the BV and the P-word had acquired an
idiomatic, that is a non-compositional meaning. Consequently, the change of
prepositions affects the meaning of the combination of P-word and BV. In a
semantically compositional compound verb, the splitting up and substituting of
elements may have worked out.
If we correlate these two cases of phrasal-verb formations gone wrong as it
were with the semantic function of the P-word using Thim’s (2012) three-tier
scale, ἀφίημι ὀπίσω qualifies as a compositional construction, whereas καλέω
πρός qualifies as an idiomatic construction. In ἀφίημι ὀπίσω, the diachronic
process that seems to have intervened is semantic bleaching of the P-word in the
compound verb. In καλέω πρός, the mismatch between concurrent semantic
non-compositionality and morphological compositionality seem to underlie the
problematic passage.
4 Bilingualism
4.1 Interference vs convergence
When two languages are used alongside each other, and especially when they
are used by the same individual, these two languages may interact, in that one
language may lend sounds, words, and structures to the other language. With
Matras (2009: 238), we call the language that lends or gives something the
model language and the language that borrows or receives something the replica
language. Languages may interact at several levels and in the interest of clarity we
will adhere to the c-structure (categorical structure – surface level, morphosyntax)
and the f-structure (functional structure – underlying level, semantics) of LFG and
add a conceptual level that is relevant especially in culturally defined expressions
such as formulae (cf. Myers-Scotton 2002: 96; Hengeveld 2008).
We exemplify this using Greeting Sections in letters. Greeting Sections

exist in Greek and Coptic letters and while their purpose seems the same, their
linguistic realisations differ as shown in (15).
(15) Greeting Sections

a. προσαγορεύ-ω / ἀσπάζ-ομαι (somebody)ACC
b. ϯ·ϣⲓⲛⲉ ⲉ-/ⲉⲣⲟ= (somebody)
ti-šine e-/ero=
1sg.m/f-greet to-/to= somebody
In Greek, a Greeting Section consists of one of two verbs, both of which

subcategorise for an object in the accusative case referring to the person to be
greeted.18 In Coptic, a Greeting Section consists of a phrasal verb, that is a BV
and a P-word having rectional and combinatory properties. The person to be
greeted is referred to by the complement of the P-word.
We assume Greek as the replica language and Coptic as the model language.
At the surface level, these two Greeting-Section structures clearly differ and one
may expect a bilingual writer to come up with something like προσαγορεύω
πρός (somebody)ACC as a replicate of the Coptic model. At the underlying level,
the two structures bear more resemblance, in that we have a verb phrase meaning
‘to greet’ and a reference to a person to be greeted in both cases. We may expect
a bilingual writer to come up with something like προσαγορεύω (somebody)
DAT, thus repartitioning the elements in the Coptic model by taking the BV as
one unit and the P-word plus complement as the second unit. Finally, at the
conceptual / cultural level, Coptic, unlike Greek, Greeting Sections often include
a phrase ‘in the Lord / in God’. One may thus expect a bilingual writer to add this
phrase to a Greek Greeting Section (Fendel, 2018, chapter 6).
Of the versions just mentioned, that is (i) προσαγορεύω πρός (somebody)
ACC, (ii) προσαγορεύω (somebody)DAT, and (iii) προσαγορεύω (somebody)ACC
(‘in the Lord / in God’), (i) and (ii) are ungrammatical, and (iii) is unidiomatic
given the formulaic norms. In a formulaic context such as Greeting Sections, we
are fortunate enough to have a large number of instances and can thus identify
those that deviate from the norm. That is, we can gauge the extent of lending
and borrowing that has taken place. Outside of formulaic sections, that is in
the letter body where the phrasal verbs discussed above appear, things are more
complicated, in that we have less comparative material.
18 προσκυνέω is a very rare alternative.

The extent of lending and borrowing that has taken place determines whether
the interaction of two languages results in what we call bilingual interference
or convergence. In theory, these differ in that interferences are idiolectal and
often one-offs without any diachronic path, whereas convergence is a gradual
process that affects all users of a language and takes place over a period of
time. If convergence affects users of a language in only one region, we speak of
regionalisms (cf. Adams 2003: 426; Bubenik 1993: 19–21).19 In reality, we find
structures that we judge to have resulted from the interaction of two languages,
but what tells us whether these are instances of interference or convergence?
In order to distinguish between instances of interference and convergence,
we apply three measures, that is (1) the grammaticality (and idiomaticity) of a
structure, (2) the frequency of a structure and its distribution over the texts of the
corpus and (3) the extent of adaptation that was involved when transferring the
model into the replica language.
Generally speaking, convergence results in structures which are grammatically
correct, reasonably frequent and spread over the writings of a range of writers.20
These structures show the adoption of the model structure and its subsequent
adaptation to the structural constraints of the replica language. By contrast,
interferences are idiolectal features and thus one-offs or limited to the writings of
one writer and they are ungrammatical.21 Interferences often show the imposition
of a model on the replica language with a very limited amount of adaptation to
the structural constraints of the replica language.
4.2 Linguistic and extra-linguistic flags
In addition to the three measures just introduced, multivariate analysis can help
distinguish between instances of convergence and interference. Multivariate
analysis here means cross-referencing the passages containing phrasal verbs with
linguistic flags obtained otherwise.
Linguistic flags were set for (1a) an accumulation of instances of
deviation,22 (1b) an accumulation of instances of deviation in more than one
19For regions other than Egypt, see Bubenik (1993: 16–21), Brixhe (2010), Horrocks (2014:
110–114).
20 Convergence can affect groups of speakers that are smaller than all the speakers of one region, e.g.
sociolects, in-group varieties, etc. (cf. Wenger-Trayner & Wenger-Trayner 2015).

21 In theory, two different individuals could produce the same interference pattern by chance.
22 Deviations are instances that differ from the expected standard and are ungrammatical.
syntactic domain23, (2) the presence of code-switches24, and (3) the treatment
of personal names.25 Extra-linguistic flags were set for information about the
writers of our letters that could be obtained (i) from sources other than the
letters themselves, (ii) from passages in the letters that clearly describe someone
as bilingual or (iii) from the fact that individuals wrote and received letters
in more than one language. The only relevant flag for our data sample is the
bilingual writer Pamour, the writer of P. Kell. G. 1 71 (see also Gardner et al.
2014: 83–117). He wrote, for example, the Coptic letter P. Kell. Copt. 65.
(16) Linguistic and extra-linguistic flags

Letter Linguistic flags Extra-linguistic Phrasal verbs
flags
P. Herm. 17 Personal names ø αἴρω ἀπόGEN
SB 18 13588 ø ø φέρω σύνDAT
P. Neph. 9 ø ø μετρέω ὁμοῦ
P. Lond. 6 1914 Accumulation of de- ø φέρω μετάGEN, αἴρω ἔξω,
viations concerning ἔχω ἔξω, φέρω ἀπόGEN,
Discourse markers ἀφίημι ὀπίσω, τηρέω
μετάGEN, αἴρω ἔξω
P. Lond. 6 1917 Deviations concern- ø καλέω πρόςACC
ing Verbs / Prepo-
sitional phrases /
Discourse markers
P. Kell. G. 1 64 ø ø μένω παράDAT(rfl)
P. Kell. G. 1 66 ø ø δίδωμι ἅμαDAT
P. Kell. G. 1 71 ø Bilingual writer φέρω μετάGEN
(Phrasal-verb patterns that have a meaning different from the structurally corresponding
compound verb are italicized.)
23 The syntactic domains considered are (i) the syntax of verbs, (ii) the syntax of prepositions, (iii)
the syntax of discourse markers (subordinators, coordinators and particles), and (iv) the syntax of
formulaic expressions.
24 Code-switches are imports from a model into a replica language without morphosyntactic
integration in the replica language (Hoffmann 1991: 99–100; Myers-Scotton 2006: 253–260).
25 The morphosyntactic treatment of Egyptian personal names in Greek is a thorny issue (Anderson
2007: 169–170 and 287; Brunsch 1978; Kramer, Shelton & Browne 1987: 38; Muhs 2010).
Generally speaking, the lack of inflectional endings is unexpected in Greek and thus often attributed
to bilingual interference from Egyptian (Fewster 2002: 238–239; Torallas Tovar 2010: 262; Vierros
2003: 16–17; Vierros 2007: 720–721).
Phrasal verbs do not clearly correlate with linguistic or extra-linguistic flags in the
majority of cases. However, the two instances of phrasal-verb formations gone
wrong correlate with linguistic flags. The relevant instances are set in bold in
Table (16).
4.3 Phrasal verbs
Three observations from the previous sections allow us to make some hypotheses
about the status of phrasal verbs in the grammar of Post-Classical Greek: (i) Greek
compound verbs retained structural compositionality but some of them became
semantically non-compositional (cf. Section 2.2). (ii) Phrasal-verb patterns in our
select corpus of texts are grammatical yet not always semantically beneficial (cf.
Sections 3.2 and 3.3). Thus, if we assumed Coptic as the model, we could certainly
posit adaptation to the constraints of Greek syntax. The relevant phrasal-verb
patterns are comparatively frequent and spread across writers. (iii) Our phrasal-
verb patterns do not really correlate with flags intended to point to bilingual writers
(cf. Section 4.2). They appear in letters written by individuals that are likely to have
been bilingual, notably the two instances of phrasal verbs gone wrong, but also in
letters written by individuals for whom we have no indication of bilinguality.
Observations two and three taken together may point to a regionalism. In
order to confirm this hypothesis, we would have to check whether phrasal verbs
appear in other texts from Egypt but not in texts from outside Egypt. Since the
extraction of phrasal-verb patterns is predominantly a manual process, this large-
scale study is left for a later date.
However, observations one and three taken together while focusing on the
phrasal verbs gone wrong suggest another valid hypothesis. Writers may have
decomposed compound verbs due to their structural transparency and therein used
a Coptic model without violating Greek syntax (Butler & Hakuta 2004: 129–134).
Those phrasal-verb patterns that semantically differ from their structurally
equivalent compound verbs point to a third possible hypothesis. Phrasal-verb
patterns may in fact have existed, perhaps limited to certain registers and genres,
and may have been overlooked by grammarians and researchers. Rather than
being alternatives to a compound verb, they may express specific semantic
nuances (cf. Storrer 2009).
In the end, it seems as if not all our phrasal-verb patterns form a homogenous
group. Some may be actual regionalisms (to be confirmed), some may be instances
of bilingual interference from Coptic, and some may be lexical expressions in
their own right.
5 Summary and conclusion
Section 2 introduced the pattern of phrasal verbs. These are Multi-Word

Expressions consisting of a BV and a P-word. Section 2 further outlined phrasal
verbs and related patterns in Greek and Coptic. On the Greek side, we looked
at tmesis, conjunction reduction and multiple preverbation as well as the
development of the prepositional and adverbial systems. On the Coptic side,
we looked at rectional and combinative elements with the verb and explained
why we disregard the former and focus on the latter. Overall, we saw that Greek
compound verbs maintain structural compositionality throughout history, but
that some of them lose semantic compositionality.
Section 3 introduced the select corpus of texts, a corpus consisting of private
letters belonging to bilingual (Greek-Coptic) archives from fourth- to mid-
seventh century Egypt. Fourteen instances of phrasal-verb patterns appear in this
corpus. We noticed that the P-word may either function like an adverb or like
a preposition, that the combination of a P-word and a BV may have a meaning
other than the meaning of the structurally corresponding compound verb and
that in two instances the structural decomposition of a compound verb and the
creation of a phrasal verb seems to have gone wrong. Once, this seems to be
related to semantic bleaching of the preverb; in the other case, this seems to
be related to the development of an idiomatic meaning for the compound verb
while retaining structural compositionality.
Section 4 considered our phrasal-verb patterns in relation to the bilingual
context they emerged from. We distinguished between bilingual interference
and convergence by means of the measures of grammaticality (and idiomaticity),
frequency and distribution of instances and the degree of adaptation to the
constraints of the replica language. We correlated our instances of phrasal-verb
patterns with linguistic and extra-linguistic flags intended to point to bilingual
writers.
All things considered, it seems that our fourteen phrasal-verb patterns have
not emerged from a common source process but form an internally heterogeneous
group in this regard. Section 4.3 considered three hypotheses, (i) phrasal verbs
as a regionalism, (ii) phrasal verbs as the result of bilingual interference and
(iii) phrasal verbs as a pattern in its own right. While confirmation of the first
hypothesis will have to await a study larger in scale, we can confirm hypotheses
two and three based on the analysis above.
6 Catalogue of instances
Passage Verb Phrase Corresponding Type of

as in the text compound verb P-word
1. P. Herm. 17.3–6 αἴρω ἀπό ἀπαίρω L
2. P. Lond. 6 1917.21–24 καλέω πρός* παρακαλέω* I
3. P. Lond. 6 1914.39–41 φέρω ἀπό ἀποφέρω L
4. P. Lond. 6 1914.48–50 τηρέω μετά** συντηρέω** A
5. P. Kell. G. 1 64.5–10 μένω παρά παραμένω A
6. SB 18 13588.21–22 φέρω σύν συμφέρω L
7. P. Lond. 6 1914.8–11 φέρω μετά συμφέρω L
8. P. Kell. G. 1 71.25–27 φέρω μετά συμφέρω L
9. P. Kell. G. 1 66.16–17 δίδωμι ἅμα συνδίδωμι L
10. P. Lond. 6 1914.35–36 αἴρω ἔξω ἀπαίρω L
11. P. Lond. 6 1914.48–50 ἔξω αἴρω ἀπαίρω L
12. P. Lond. 6 1914.36–37 ἔχω ἔξω ἀπέχω L
13. P. Neph. 9.7–11 ὁμοῦ μετρέω συμμετρέω L
14. P. Lond. 6 1914.48–50 ἀφίημι ὀπίσω ἀφίημι L
L = lexical contribution / A = aspectual contribution / I = idiomatic (contribution is not clearly
extractable) * = incorrect interchange of P-word (unintended semantic change) / ** = correct
interchange of P-word (semantics preserved)
(1) P. Herm. 17.3–6 αἴρω ἀπό
μετὰ των Θεὸν τὴν σ̣ὴν βο̣ήθιαν προσδωκῶ, ἵνα ἀξιώ̣σ̣ι̣ς̣ των τριβοῦνω̣ν̣ τ̣ῶν Γούνθων
καὶ ἄρῃ αὐτὰς ἀπὸ τῆς οἰκίας μου, ἐπὶ χήρα γυνή εἰμι.
‘After God(‘s) I count on your support: Ask the tribunus Gounthos to take these away
from my house because I am a widow.’
NB: Note the interchange between long and short /o/ as well as iotacism (ι / η
/ ει). Less clear is the genitive in -ας at the end. At the syntactic level, not the
paratactic complement with ἀξιόω.
(2) P. Lond. 6 1917.21–24 καλέω πρός
πᾶν οὖν ποίησον, ἀγαπηταί, εἵνα γράψῃς κατὰ μονὴν καὶ τῷ ἄπα Σουρ[οῦτι καὶ
τῷ] ἄπα Πεβαί, ἵνα κ[α]ὶ αὐτοὶ ἐλεήμον̣ες γενέσοντε περ[ὶ] ἐμοῦ καλέσωσιν πρὸς
τὸν θαιὸν μαιτὰ σπ̣[ουδῆς πνε]ύ̣ματος̣ ἁγίου θεῷ μεμελημαινω ἵνʼ οὕτως καὶ αὐτοὶ
[γράψωσι με]τ[ὰ σπου]δῆς ὅλη[ς] καρδίας διὰ̣ [ἐμοῦ εἰς τὰ ἄν]ω̣ μαὶ̣ρ̣η καταατὰ
μονὴν ἐντελλώμαινοι περὶ [ἐμοῦ εὔχεσθαι ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣
‘Do everything, beloved one, to write to the monastery and to Apa Sourous and Apa
Pebe in order that they too may have mercy upon me (and) may call to God with the
enthusiasm of the holy spirit, dear to God, in order that like this they too may write with
the enthusiasm of the whole heart about me to the upper parts to the monastery while
asking to pray for me …’
NB: Note the interchange of [ε] and [αι] and iotacism (ι / ει) and the interchange
between long and short /o/. Note that the phrase θεῷ μεμελημαινω occurs
repeatedly in the letter and is only at the very beginning in the syntactically
correct case. This may be a case of copying the phrase incorrectly. Note the
redundant letters in καταατὰ. Syntactically, note the use of διὰ̣ where we may
expect a different preposition (‘about’, ‘regarding’), but the context is severely
damaged here.
(3) P. Lond. 6 1914.39–41 φέρω ἀπό
ἐνεβάλο̣το δ[ὲ] τὰ σκεύη αὐτοῦ ἐν τῇ θαλάσσῃ ὡς αὐτοῦ ἀπωδημοῦντος, καὶ πάλιν

εἰς δεύτερον ἤνεκεν τὰ σκ̣εύ̣η ἀπὸ τοῦ πλοίου, μὴ βουλόμενο̣ς̣ ἀ̣[π]ο̣δ̣η̣μ̣ῆ̣[σ]α̣[ι] ̣ ̣ ̣
‘And he threw his belongings onto the ship as if he wanted to depart, but again, for the
second time, he brought his belongings off the ship, not wanting to depart.’
NB: Note the ending of the first verb ([ο] for [ε]), the interchange between
long and short /o/ in ἀπωδημοῦντος and the omission of Classical [γ] in
ἤνεκεν. Syntactically, note the use of a genitive absolute in the first clause and a
circumstantial participle in the nominative in the second clause. Note also the use
of a compound verb plus preposition in the first clause as opposed to the second
clause.
(4) P. Lond. 6 1914.48–50 τηρέω μετά
μὴ ἀ̣μ̣ελήσηται οὖν περὶ ἡμῶν, ἀδελφοί, ἐπιδὴ τὰ ψωμία ἀφῆκαν ὀπίσω, ἵνα διὰ τὸν
ἐπίσκοπον μήπως ἔξω ἀρθῇ ἵν̣α τ̣υ̣ρῇ αὐτὰ μετʼ αὐτοῦ.
‘Now, do not forget about us, brothers, as they sent back the bread in order that – because
of the bishop – in order that it may not be sent out in order that he may keep it with
himself.
NB: Note the interchange of [ε] and [αι] and iotacism (ι / ει / υ / η). Note
syntactically speaking the repetition of a subordinator after a focalised
prepositional phrase in the second clause. Notable, the subordinator is negative
in the second case.
(5) P. Kell. G. 1 64.5–10 μένω παρά
θαυμάζω ὅπως ἔμεινας παρὰ σοί, ὡς δὲ ἐδηλώσας περὶ τοὺ υἱοῦ, ὡς ὅτι {ε}ἐδέξατό \
τι/ παρὰ τοῦ ἀδελφοῦ Ἀρσενίου.
‘I am wondering how you (could) stay at home and report about the son that he had
received anything from the brother Arsenios.’
NB: Note the parallelism in the first two verbs and the change of person in the
third verb. Note also the connecting particle δέ.
(6) SB 18 13588.21–22 φέρω σύν
φέρ̣αι δ̣ὲ καὶ Παῦλον σὺν [σοί].

‘And bring Paul with you!’
NB: Note the interchange of [ε] and [αι]. Syntactically, note the insertion of καί
before the direct object.
(7) P. Lond. 6 1914.8–11 φέρω μετά
ἀκούσαν[τε]ς οὖν οἱ διαφέροντες Ἀθανασίου καὶ ἤλθασιν φέροντες μεθʼ ἑαυτῶν

στρατιότας τοῦ δουκὸς καὶ τῆς παρεμβολῆς, οἰνόμενοι ἤλθασιν ὥρᾳ ἐνάτῃ
συνκλίσαντες τὴν [π]αρεμβολὴν βουλομε<νοι> καὶ αὐτὸν καὶ τοὺς ἀδελφοὺς πιάσαι.
‘Thus, Athanasius’ troublemakers having heard (about it) came bringing with them
soldiers of the dux and the camp, they came being drunk in the ninth hour after closing
up the camp (and) intending to capture both him and the brothers.’
NB: Note the interchange between long and short /o/, the ending on the aorist
ἤλθασιν, and the seemingly missing three letters on βουλομε. Note that the
latter is at the end of a line and the three letters may be lost or simply have been
forgotton.
(8) P. Kell. G. 1 71.25–27 φέρω μετά
φέρε μοι μετὰ σοῦ πελύκιον καὶ βατέλλιον χαλκοῦν κλιβανωτόν.

‘Bring for me with you a small axe and a small iron oven dish.’
(9) P. Kell. G. 1 66.16–17 δίδωμι ἅμα
Traces [ -ca.?- ] δέδωκα ἅμ̣α τινί· οὐδὲν ἔλαβες·

‘I have given (it) to someone to take with them; (but unfortunately) you received nothing.’
(10) P. Lond. 6 1914.35–36 αἴρω ἔξω
ἦλθεν καὶ πιάσας αὐτοὺς κατέσχεν αὐτούς, ἐπιδὴ ἐπὶ συκοφαντίᾳ καὶ δινὰ ἦσαν
γράψαντες κατὰ Ἡραείσκου, καὶ αὐτὸς Ἀρχέλαος τὰ γάμματα ἦρκεν ἔξω.
‘He arrived and after catching them he held them capture because they had been writing
unjustly and rudely against Heraiskos, thus Archelaos himself took the letters outside.’
NB: Note iotacism (ι / ει) and note the missing [ρ] in γάμματα. Morphologically,
note the periphrastic pluperfect. Morphosyntactically, note the asymmetrical
coordination ἐπὶ συκοφαντίᾳ καὶ δινὰ.
(11) P. Lond. 6 1914.48–50 ἔξω αἴρω
himself.
prepositional phrase in the second clause. Notably, the subordinator is negative
in the second case.
(12) P. Lond. 6 1914.36–37 ἔχω ἔξω
ὁ θεὸς οὖν ἐποίησεν καὶ τοὺς τρῖς ἔξω καὶ̣ ἔχ̣ι ἔξω.
‘Now God makes the(se) three (be / go) outside and he keeps them away.’
NB: Note iotacism (ι / ει). Morphosyntactically, note the asymmetrical

coordination in the second half of the sentence.
(13) P. Neph. 9.7–11 ὁμοῦ μετρέω
ἠγόρασα τοίνυν τὸ ἔλαιον καὶ ὁμοῦ εἰς ἀγγῖον ἐμέτρησα ξ(έστας) εἴκοσι, ἑκάστου
ξέστου ἐξ ἀργυρῶν ἑκατὸν τριῶ(ν) ἡμίσους.
‘Now, I bought a bit of oil and measured together twenty xestai into a small cask, every
xestai at the price of 103.5 argyria.’
NB: Note iotacism (ι / ει). Morphosyntactically, note the genitive instead of the
expected accusative in the appositional phrase.
(14) P. Lond. 6 1914.48–50 ἀφίημι ὀπίσω
himself.
prepositional phrase in the second clause. Notable, the subordinator is negative
in the second case.
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98
Foamy rivers and the wife of the Ocean:

Greek ποταμός ‘river’, Τηθῡ́ς ‘mother of all rivers’,
and Proto-Indo-European *ku̯ eth2- ‘foam, seethe’
(Vedic kváth-ant- ‘foaming, seething’; Gothic
ƕaþjan* ‘to foam, ἀφρίζειν’)1
Riccardo Ginevra
1 Introduction
The etymology of Greek (Gk) ποταμός ‘river’ (Il. +) is still controversial. The
term has been traced back to several different Proto-Indo-European (PIE)
roots, namely *peth1- ‘fall’ (LIV2: 477–478), *peth2- ‘extend’ (LIV2: 478–479),
and *peth2- ‘fly’ (LIV2: 479): the latter may indeed find some support in the
Indo-European image of the “flying rivers” (cf. Schmitt 1967: 221–236). At any
case, no proposal seems to have gained wide acceptance yet (cf. Frisk 1960–1972:
585–586; DELG: 931; Beekes 2010: 1225–1226).
The theonym Τηθῡ́ς, name of the wife of the cosmic river Ocean and
mother of all rivers (e.g., Hes. Th. 337), is currently connected either to τήθη
‘grandmother’ (as she and Ocean are mentioned as the gods’ ancestors in, e.g.,
Il. 14.303) or to the Homeric (Hom.) hapax τήθεα ‘sea-squirts’ (Il. 16.747; cf.
Frisk 1960–1972: 890; DELG: 1113; Beekes 2010: 1225–1226). A derivation of
Τηθῡ́ς from τήθη, however, would be unparalleled within Greek; in contrast, the
connection with τήθεα may be worth being pursued, as we shall see.
In the present paper, it will be argued that ποταμός and Τηθῡ́ς are reflexes of
a PIE root *ku̯ eth2- ‘foam, seethe’, among whose derivatives are, inter alia, Vedic
Sanskrit (Ved.) kváth-ant- ‘foaming, seething’ and Gothic (Goth.) ƕaþjan* ‘to
1 For valuable criticism, discussion, and suggestions, I am indebted to Andrea Lorenzo Covini,
Paola Dardano, Daniel Kölligan, Patrick Stiles, and especially José Luis García Ramón. I also wish
to thank Robert Tegethoff for improving my English version. The usual disclaimers apply.
Standard abbreviations are used for classical sources; Rigveda and Yajurveda are cited as RV and
YV, respectively; Old English sources are cited following the Toronto Dictionary of Old English. The
translations are adapted from Duff (1928) (Lucan), Fairclough and Goold (1916–1918) (Virgil),
Gade (2009) (Magnúss saga berfœtts), Jamison and Brereton (2014) (RV), Murray and Wyatt
(1924–1925) (Homer), and Peck (1965) (Aristotle).
100 GINEVRA, Foamy rivers and the wife of the Ocean
foam, ἀφρίζειν’; the current reconstruction of the root as *ku̯ ath2- (LIV2: 374),
with -a- vocalism, relies on the highly problematic (Schrijver 1991: 251–252)
connection with Latin (Lat.) cāseus ‘cheese’ and should be dropped. In what
follows, an attempt will be made to trace the noun ποταμός back to *ku̯ oth2-mó-
‘foamy, foaming, seething’, an adjective of the type of PIE *gu̯ hor-mό- ‘warm’ (see
Section 2), and to analyse Τηθῡ́ς as the outcome of *ku̯ ēth2-ú-h2- ‘foamy-ness,
seething-ness’, the abstract of an adjective *ku̯ ēth2-ú- ‘foamy, foaming, seething’,
the reconstruction of which finds support in the hapaxes τήθεα ‘sea-squirts’ and
τηθύα ‘lagoons’ (see Section 3). On the basis of these assumptions, it will be
argued that both ποταμός and Τηθῡ́ς reflect the traditional (and actually trivial)
association of rivers, ocean, and bodies of water in general with foaming and
seething, attested by texts in Ancient Greek and in various other IE languages
(see Section 4).
2 Greek ποταμός ‘river’ as reflex of *ku̯ oth2-mó- ‘foamy, foaming, seething’
Let us start with ποταμός ‘river’, which may be traced back to PIE *ku̯ eth2-
‘foam, seethe’ either as an inherited primary adjective or as an inner-Greek
denominative formation.
According to the first possibility, ποτα-μός may be the expected outcome
of a *ku̯ oth2-mó- ‘foamy, foaming, seething’, a primary CoC-mó- adjective of
*ku̯ eth2- ‘foam, seethe’ of the same type as PIE *gu̯ hor-mό- ‘warm’ (*gu̯ her- ‘be/
become warm’, cf. LIV2: 219–220), among whose reflexes are Ved. gharmá-
‘heat’ (substantivization), Lat. formus ‘warm’, as well as the reflexes of Proto-
Germanic (PGmc) *warma- ‘id.’ (e.g., Old Norse [ON] varmr, Old English
[OE] wearm, Old High German [OHG] warm);2 ποτα-μός would then reflect a
so-called “transferred epithet” (Watkins 1995: 156) of rivers, i.e., a designation
which may be originally traced back to a traditional epithet, such as, e.g., Ved.
Pr̥ thivī́- ‘Earth’, literally ‘the Broad One’ (feminine of pr̥thú- ‘broad’).
Alternatively, ποτ-αμός ‘river’ may have been formed within Greek itself
from either *πότ-ο- ‘foam’ or *ποτ-ᾱ́- ‘id.’ by means of a secondary suffix -αμoς
after the model of Hom. πλόκ-αμος ‘lock of hair’ (: πλόκ-ος ‘lock of hair,
wreath’, πλοκ-ή ‘lock of hair’) or ὄρχ-αμος ‘chief, ruler’ (: *ὀρχ-ᾱ́́, cf. Myc. o-ka,
if it reflects /orkh-ā-/ ‘command’ : ἄρχω ‘to rule’).3 If this were the case, Gk
2 On the difference in vocalism between these forms and Gk θερμός ‘warm’, the reflex of a (likely
innovative) formation *gu̯her-mό-, see Probert (2006: 242).
3 Aliter Vine (1998: 698–699), who argues for an interpretation as /ōg-ā́-/ (cf. ἀγωγή ‘act of
*πότ-ο- ‘foam’ would be the outcome of *ku̯ óth2-o- ‘foam, seething’, a noun of
the type of τόμος ‘cutting’, whereas *ποτ-ᾱ́- ‘id.’ would reflect *ku̯ oth2-éh2- (of
the type of τομή ‘cutting’) or a collective derivative of the former.4 A derivative
ποτ-αμός of *πότ-ο- ‘foam’ or *ποτ-ᾱ́- ‘id.’ may have either the same semantics
as its derivational basis (thus ‘foam’), as in the case of πλόκ-αμος ‘lock of hair’,
or it may have possessive meaning (thus ‘having foam’), as it is probably the case
of ὄρχ-αμος ‘chief, ruler’ (originally ‘having command’, if it is indeed related to
Myc. o-ka ‘command’).
In order to decide if ποταμός is more likely to reflect an inherited PIE primary
adjective or an inner-Greek denominative formation, two considerations are in
order. On the one hand, the reconstruction of Gk *πότ-ο- ‘foam’ as the derivational
basis of ποταμός would have a close match in the PGmc noun *hwaþ-a- ‘foam’,
which underlies various Germanic formations. More specifically, Goth. ƕaþjan*
‘to foam’ may be analysed as the reflex of *hwaþ-ja- ‘id.’, a denominative verb of
the type of *dōm-ija- ‘to deem’ (: *dōm-a- ‘judgement’; Ringe 2006: 254) of a
PGmc noun *hwaþ-a- ‘foam’.5 The latter may be a reflex of PIE *ku̯ óth2-o- ‘foam’
and thus a perfect match for Gk *πότ-ο- ‘id.’, as well as the derivational basis of
PGmc *hwaþ-ō(n)- ‘foam’ which underlies both Goth. ƕaþo ‘id.’ and Swedish
kva ‘id.’.6
leading, guidance’ : ἄγω ‘lead’). Cf. also Kölligan’s (2018) analysis of οὐλαμός as the reflex of an
-αμoς derivative of *u̯ ol-ó- ‘thronging’ or *u̯ ól-o- ‘pressed together, mass’.
4 The absence of aspiration of *-t- before *-h
2-, though problematic, has a parallel, e.g., in the widely
accepted correspondence between Gk πλατύς ‘wide, broad’ and Ved. pr̥thú- ‘id.’ (both reflexes of
*pl̥ th2-u-). For an overview of scholarly theories on the problem, cf. de Decker (2016), e.g., pp.
98–101 on Gk πλατύς ‘flat’ and Ved. pr̥thú- ‘id.’.
5 An analysis of Goth. ƕaþjan ‘to foam’ as a reflex of a PIE causative or iterative *ku̯ oth2-éi̯ e- (as
per LIV2: 374) and a match for Ved. kvāth-aya-ti ‘to make foam, seethe’ (an innovative formation
according to LIV2: 374 n. 3) is unlikely, as PGmc reflexes of inherited CoC-éi̯ e/o- formations
regularly display the so-called grammatischer Wechsel required by Verner’s Law, cf. PGmc *raiz-ija-
‘to raise’ : *reis-a- ‘to rise’, *naz-ja- ‘to save’ : *nes-a- ‘to survive’, *hlōg-ija- ‘to make laugh’ : *hlah-ja-
‘to laugh’, Ringe (2006: 252–253). The absence of this feature in the supposed Germanic reflexes of
PIE *ku̯ oth2-éi̯ e- (which should have attested a -d- in place of a -þ-), together with the long vowel
of Ved. kvāth-aya-ti (which does not reflect *ku̯ th2-éi̯ e-), allow for an interpretation of the Germanic
and Vedic verbs as independent formations.
Furthermore, one may even argue that the expected outcome of PIE *ku̯ oth2-éi̯ e/o- should actually
be PGmc *hwad-ai/ā-, cf. the development of PIE *sth2-i̯ é/ó- to PGmc *stai- (OHG stēn) / *stā-
(OHG stān), on which see, e.g., Ringe 2006: 134 with literature.
6On PGmc *hwaþ-ō(n)- ‘foam’, cf. also Kroonen (2013: 264), as well as Casaretto (2004: 219–
220), according to whom Goth. hwaþjan* may reflect a deverbative (probably intensive or iterative)
On the other hand, however, oxytone accentuation is consistent among

Greek primary -mό- adjectives (e.g., θερμός ‘warm’, ὠμός ‘raw’, and δοχμός
‘slant’) and paralleled by that of their Sanskrit cognates (and thus likely to be an
inherited feature), whereas secondary formations with this suffix are expected to
have recessive accent in Ancient Greek (Probert 2006: 240). Therefore, given that
a secondary inner-Greek formation should have rather been †πόταμος or the like
(matching πλόκαμος and ὄρχαμος), the accentuation of ποταμός rather speaks
for its analysis as the reflex of a primary adjective *ku̯ oth2-mó- ‘foamy, foaming,
seething’.
3 The theonym Τηθῡ́ς as reflex of *ku̯ ēth2-ú-h2- ‘foamy-ness, seething-ness’
Let us now turn to the name of the mother of all rivers. Hom. Τηθῡ́ς may be the
reflex of an abstract *ku̯ ēth2-ú-h2- ‘foamy-ness, seething-ness’ (personified as a
deity) or, less probably, a feminine ‘she, the foaming/seething one’, to be analysed
as a derivative of the inherited -ú-h2- type (cf. Nussbaum 2014: 276) of Hom. ἰθῡ́ς
‘direction’ (: ἰθύς ‘straight’) and Ved. tanū́- ‘body’ ([*‘length’] : tanú- ‘long’) of an
adjective *ku̯ ēth2-ú- ‘foamy, foaming, seething’. The unexpected lengthened grade
of the root may be due to the influence of a Narten present with Ablaut *ku̯ ḗth2-/
ku̯ éth2- meaning ‘to foam, to seethe’;7 alternatively, *ku̯ ēth2-ú- may be analysed
as an internal derivative with lengthened grade (of the type of Hom. ἤνις ‘of one
year, one-year-old [of cows]’ : ἐνι° in ἐνι-αυτός ‘anniversary, lapse of a year’, cf.
Hesych. ἔνος · ἐνιαυτός […])8 of the weak stem of *ku̯ óth2-u-/ku̯éth2-u- ‘(state
of ) foaming, seething’, an acrostatic -u- abstract of the same root.
formation *hwaþ-ja- ‘to foam’ derived from an unattested verb *hweþ-a- ‘id.’ (PIE *ku̯ éth2-e- : Ved.
kváth-ant-); for the identical meanings of the two verbs, cf. PGmc *draib-ija- ‘to drive’ : *dreib-a-
‘id.’ Ringe (2006: 254).
7 Cf. Höfler 2014 for an analogue case of influence of Narten formations on the vocalism of -s-
neuters. Such a reconstruction would not be contradicted by the only form attested in early Vedic
texts, namely the participle kváthant- (YV, cf. Gotō [1987: 120–121]), and may actually provide
a suitable explanation for the long vowel of the later attested Ved. causative kvāth-aya-ti ‘to make
foam, to make seethe’ (Kauśika-Sūtra, cf. Gotō [1987: 121–122]), unexpected for a root with
structure *CRVth- (cf. Jamison [1983: 209]).
8 As noted by Darms (1978: 113–116), an analysis of ἤνις as a vr̥ddhi derivative is unlikely (for
instance, an accented thematic suffix should be attested); a connection of this formation with ἐνι°
in ἐνι-αυτός ‘anniversary, lapse of a year’ and ἔνος ‘id.’, however, still seems the most plausible one.
Cf. also Perpillou (2004: 17); Le Feuvre (2018: 196 n. 20).
The interpretation proposed would have a partial Greek parallel in the second
member of the mythical fire-thief ’s name Προ-μηθεύς (attesting both lengthened
grade of the root and -θ- as a reflex of PIE *-th2-), which may be transposed
as *°māth2-ḗu̯- (PIE *math2- ‘steal’, cf. Narten 1960: 25 n. 40; Watkins 1995:
255–256 n. 3), closely matching Ved. Māthavá- (*māth2-eu̯ -ó-), the name of a
king who carries fire in his mouth in Śatapatha Brāhmaṇa 1.4.1 (cf. Gotō 2000:
110).9
The reconstruction of an adjective *ku̯ ēth2-ú- as derivational basis of Τηθῡ́ς
exactly matches the adjective *τηθύς which may be argued to underlie (1) the
Hom. hapax τήθεα ‘sea-squirts’ and (2) the Hesychian gloss τηθύα ‘lagoons’.
(1) Hom. τήθεα ‘sea-squirts’ (Il. 16.747; members of the Ascidiacea family)
may reflect the substantivization (via recessive accent) of the neuter plural *τηθέα
of an adjective *τηθύς (cf. neut. pl. βράχεα ‘shallow water’ : adj. βραχύς ‘short’),10
the expected outcome of *ku̯ ēth2-ú- ‘foaming, seething’, possibly referring to
these animals’ habit of violently expelling water from their orifices in specific
situations (cf. English sea-squirt). The synonymous τήθυα ‘sea-squirts’ (Arist.; the
second part of the Hesychian gloss quoted infra probably refers to this form) may
be analysed as the collective plural of a noun *τήθυ, substantivized (via recessive
accent) from the neuter of the same adjective.
(2) The Hesychian gloss τηθύα · τενάγη, ἃ προχέουσιν οἱ ποταμοί. καὶ
εἶδος ὀστρέων “lagoons, which the rivers pour forth; also a kind of oysters”
attests a neuter *τηθύ ‘lagoon at the mouth of a river’, the substantivization (via
ellipsis, possibly originating in a collocation with the neuter τέναγος ‘lagoon’) of
an adjective *τηθύς reflecting *ku̯ ēth2-ú-.11 The semantic shift from *ku̯ ēth2-ú-
‘foaming, seething’ to *τηθύ ‘lagoon at the mouth of a river’ may be due to
these lagoons’ association with rivers, which are in turn generally associated with
foaming and seething, cf. infra (Section 4).12
9 The suffix of Προμηθ-εύς is still of unclear origin (though apparently paralleled by Ved. Māthavá-)
and thus not easily linked to the inherited suffix of Τηθ-ῡ́ς (*-ú-h2-).
10 The late -s- neuter τῆθος is most probably a backformation, as if from *ku̯ēth2-es-h2 (as already
in LSJ).
11 Alternatively, the plural τηθύα could correspond to a singular *τηθύον ‘lagoon’, a thematization
of *τηθύ with no actual semantic difference, cf., e.g., Hom. δάκρυον ‘tear’ from δάκρυ ‘id.’.
12 In arguing for an etymological connection between terms meaning ‘sea-squirt’ and ‘lagoon’,
we may also note that sea-squirts’ favorite environments are precisely lagoons and shallow water
in general, cf. Aristotle’s description of the habitats of various species of shell-fish, including sea-
squirts, in Historia Animalium 548 […] φύεται δ᾿ αὐτῶν τὰ μὲν ἐν τοῖς τενάγεσι […] “Some of
them grow in lagoons […]”.
To sum up: Gk ποταμός ‘river’ is the outcome of *ku̯ oth2mó- ‘foamy, foaming,
seething’, whereas the theonym Τηθῡ́ς may reflect an abstract *ku̯ ēth2-ú-h2-
‘foamy-ness, seething-ness’ derived from an adjective *ku̯ ēth2-ú- ‘foamy, foaming,
seething’, which is indirectly attested by Gk τήθεα ‘sea-squirts’ and τηθύα
‘lagoons’.
4 The association of rivers, ocean, and other bodies of water with foaming
and seething
As for the semantics, both the development from a meaning ‘foamy, foaming,
seething’ to ‘river’ and the interpretation of the name of the wife of Ocean and
mother of all rivers as ‘foamy-ness, seething-ness’ find support in the (fairly
trivial) traditional association of the rivers, the ocean, and bodies of water in
general with foaming and seething, as reflected, e.g., by the formulaic expression
ἀφρῷ μορμύρων ‘seething with foam’, which always refers to rivers and the ocean
in Homeric poetry:
ὡς δ᾿ ὅτ᾿ ἀνὴρ ἀπάλαμνος, ἰὼν πολέος πεδίοιο,

στήῃ ἐπ᾿ ὠκυρόῳ ποταμῷ ἅλαδε προρέοντι,
ἀφρῷ μορμύροντα ἰδών, ἀνά τ᾿ ἔδραμ᾿ ὀπίσσω, (Il. 5.597–599)
‘[…] and just as a man in passing over a great plain halts helpless at a swift-
streaming river that flows on to the sea, and seeing it seething with foam starts
backward’
[…] περὶ δὲ ῥόος Ὠκεανοῖο

ἀφρῷ μορμύρων ῥέεν ἄσπετος· [...] (Il. 18.402–403)
‘[…] and round about me flowed the stream of Oceanus, seething with
foam, a flood unspeakable.’
Ἦ, καὶ ἐπῶρτ᾿ Ἀχιλῆι κυκώμενος, ὑψόσε θύων,

μορμύρων ἀφρῷ τε καὶ αἵματι καὶ νεκύεσσι. (Il. 21.324–325)
‘He (the river Skamandros) spoke, and rushed tumultuously on Achilles,
raging on high and seething with foam and blood and corpses.’
One may also briefly mention the Greek theonym Ἀφροδίτη, currently
understood as ‘she who lights up in the foam’, the reflex of an epithet of the PIE
dawn-goddess in which ἀφρο° ‘foam’ clearly stands for the sea in general (“die im
Meer aufleuchtet”, as per Janda 2005: 360).13
Further parallels may be found in other Indo-European traditions. The
association of rivers with foaming and seething is well attested, e.g., in Latin
(which may of course reflect Greek influence) and Vedic poetry:
non sic, aggeribus ruptis cum spumeus amnis

exiit oppositasque evicit gurgite moles (Verg. A. 2.496)
‘Not with such fury, when a foaming river, bursting its barriers, has overflowed
and with its torrent overwhelmed the resisting banks […]’
Cuncta fremunt undis, ac multo murmure montis

Spumeus invitis canescit fluctibus amnis. (Luc. Bellum Civile 10.321–322)
‘The region roars with his waves, the cliff rumbles loudly, and the foamy river
whitens under the constraint of his flood.’
krátuṃ rihanti mádhunābhí añjate

síndhor ucchvāsé patáyantam ukṣáṇaṃ (RV 9.86.43bc)
‘They lick (him who is) resolve; they anoint him with honey – him, the ox
flying in the burbling up of the river.’
ū́rṇāvatī yuvatíḥ sīlámāvatī (RV 10.75.8ac)

‘The young woman (= the river Sindhu) is rich in wool (= foam), in sīlamā
(plants?)’
The association of foaming and seething with ocean and other bodies of water
has correspondences, e.g., in Vedic itself and in two Germanic traditions, namely
in Old Norse and in Old English. Two nice semantic parallels are provided by a
Rigvedic passage, which possibly mirrors the development of an adjective ‘foamy’
into a term referring to a body of water,14 and by a Norse Skaldic poem where
ON lauðr ‘foam, surf ’ is used metonymically to refer to the sea in general:
13On those features of Aphrodite which may have been inherited from the PIE dawn-goddess, cf.
the overviews in Janda (2005: 349–360) and Kölligan (2007).
14 If, as I believe, Stephanie Jamison is correct in assuming that Ved. ārjīkī́ya- ‘foamy’ refers to a
lake.
ayáṃ te śaryaṇā́ vati

suṣómāyām ádhi priyáḥ
ārjīkī́ye madíntamaḥ (RV 8.64.11)
‘Here is your dear (soma) in the reed-filled (pond?), here in the Suṣomā
(River?) the most invigorating in the foamy (lake?).’
Veðr blæss vegg of tyggja;

viðr þolir nauð í lauðri (Lausavísur from Magnúss saga berfœtts 61-2)
‘The storm-wind fills the sail above the sovereign; the timber (= ship) suffers
distress in the foam (= sea).’
Finally, the association between PIE *ku̯ eth2- ‘foam, seethe’ and the ocean is
supported by the phraseology of the Old English verb hwaþerian/hwoþerian ‘to
foam, seethe, roar’, a reflex of this very root (cf. Kroonen 2013: 264; probably
denominative to an adjective *hwaþra-) whose usual subject is precisely the sea:
[…] Se brym hwoðerode under his fotswaðum […] (ÆCHom II, 28)
‘the sea roared under his footsteps’
[…] þæt gewealc þara yða hwaðerode mid windum […] (ApT 11)
‘the tumult of the waves roared with the winds’
5 Conclusions
The results may be summarized as follows:

(1) Gk ποτα-μός is the outcome of *ku̯ oth2-mó- ‘foamy, foaming’, a primary
CoC-mó- adjective (of the same type as PIE *gu̯ hor-mό- ‘warm’ : Ved. gharmá-
‘heat’, Lat. formus ‘warm’) of PIE *ku̯ eth2- ‘foam, seethe’; its oxytone accentuation,
consistent among Greek primary -mό- adjectives (e.g., θερμός ‘warm’, ὠμός
‘raw’, and δοχμός ‘slant’), speaks against an analysis as a denominative formation
derived by means of a secondary suffix -αμoς from, e.g., a noun *πότ-ο- ‘foam’
(PIE *ku̯ óth2-o-) matching PGmc *hwaþ-a- ‘foam’ (reflected by Goth. ƕaþjan*
‘to foam’, ƕaþo ‘foam’, and Swedish kva ‘id.’).
(2) The theonym Τηθῡ́ς is the reflex of *ku̯ ēth2-ú-h2- ‘foamy-ness, seething-
ness’, an abstract derivative of the type of Hom. ἰθῡ́ς ‘direction’ (: ἰθύς ‘straight’)
and Ved. tanū́- ‘body’ (*‘length’ : tanú- ‘long’) of an adjective *ku̯ ēth2-ú- ‘foamy,
foaming, seething’, which is attested by the Hom. hapax τήθεα ‘sea-squirts’ (Il.
16.747), i.e., animals which violently expel water from their orifices, and by the
Hesychian gloss τηθύα ‘lagoons at the mouths of rivers’. The lengthened grade
of the root may be due to the influence of a Narten present with ablaut *ku̯ ḗth2-/
ku̯ éth2-; alternatively, *ku̯ ēth2-ú- may be analysed as a derivative of the type
of Hom. ἤνις ‘of one year, one-year-old (of cows)’ (: ἐνι° in, e.g., ἐνι-αυτός
‘anniversary, lapse of a year’) of the weak stem of *ku̯ óth2-u-/ku̯éth2-u- ‘(state of )
foaming, seething’.
(3) The semantic development from *ku̯ oth2mó- ‘foamy, foaming, seething’
to ποταμός ‘river’ and from *ku̯ ēth2-ú-h2- ‘foamy-ness, seething-ness’ to Τηθῡ́ς,
name of the spouse of Ocean and mother of all rivers, reflects the traditional
association of rivers, ocean, and bodies of water in general with foaming and
seething, attested, e.g., in the phraseology of Greek itself (e.g., the Homeric
formulaic expression ἀφρῷ μορμύρων ‘seething with foam’, which always refers
to rivers and to Ocean) and of other IE traditions, namely Latin (e.g., Vergil
and Lucan’s spumeus amnis), Vedic (e.g., RV 9.86.43c síndhor ucchvāsé ‘in the
bubbling up of the river’), and Old Norse (e.g., Lausavísur from Magnúss saga
berfœtts 61-2 viðr þolir nauð í lauðri ‘the timber [= ship] suffers distress in the
foam [= sea]).’ The association of PIE *ku̯ eth2- ‘foam, seethe’ with the ocean finds
further support in Old English phraseology, as the verb hwaþerian/hwoþerian ‘to
foam, seethe, roar’ is a reflex of *ku̯ eth2- whose usual subject is precisely the sea
(e.g., ÆCHom II, 28 […] Se brym hwoðerode under his fotswaðum […] ‘the sea
roared under his footsteps’).
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Greek loanwords in post-Biblical Hebrew/Aramaic:

some case studies from the midrash Genesis Rabbah
Christina Katsikadeli & Vladislav Slepoy
1 Introduction
Every scholar interested in Greek loanwords in post-Classical Hebrew and

Jewish Aramaic is confronted with the fact that apart from the monumental
work by Krauss from the end of the 19th century, one must still rely on the later
important, but not exhaustive contributions by Lieberman (i.a. Lieberman 1965)
and Sperber (Sperber 1984, 1986) from the second half of the 20th century; in
other words, there exists no up-to-date “Grammar” or linguistic description for
the Greek loanwords in this vast literary tradition. The study of Greek loanwords
in the major works of rabbinic Judaism still remains a desideratum, especially
because of the interdisciplinary character of the research (cf. Sperber 2012: 55).
In most of the relevant glossaries and the scholarly literature, the corresponding
Greek form of a Hebrew/Aramaic lexeme is merely cited from the major Greek
dictionaries (LSJ, Lampe 1969), without further consideration of Hellenistic,
Early Byzantine and Modern Greek sources and recent publications in Greek
linguistics.
Only in recent years, it has become possible to consult further important,
pioneering publications and tools concerning the linguistic analysis of Greek
loanwords in Rabbinic texts, such as Heijmans (2013) on the lexicon and
phonology of Greek and Latin loanwords in Mishnaic Hebrew and Shoval-Dudai
(Shoval-Dudai 2015, Shoval-Dudai 2017 and Shoval-Dudai fc.) on Classical
and post-Biblical Hebrew. In addition, monographs which investigate contact
linguistics involving Greek loanwords in other Non-Indo-European languages
of the Graeco-Roman periods are also available, such as Butts (2016) on Greek
loanwords in Syriac, Dahlgren (2017) on the transfer of Egyptian phonological
features onto Greek in Graeco-Roman Egypt, while digital tools like the DDGLC-
Project (Database and Dictionary of the Greek loanwords in Coptic1 open up
new dimensions for the research in this field.
1 https://www.geschkult.fu-berlin.de/en/e/ddglc/index.html
112 KATSIKADELI & SLEPOY, Greek loanwords
Nevertheless, a considerable number of existing entries requires

supplementing, and many etymologies have to be corrected in the light of
more recent research and methodology (as proposed by Krivoruchko in 2012).
The present investigation focuses on hapax legomena and problematic cases of
alleged Greek loanwords by examining each attestation of the respective lexeme
within its context and by offering a linguistic analysis, with regard to the origin,
the morphophonology as well as detailed fine-grained semantics. The survey
on Greek loanwords we present here is based on findings originating from a
currently ongoing project2, which aims at providing an up-to-date overview
on the integration phenomena of Greek borrowings in Aramaic, in view of the
fact that the few examples listed in the chapter “Griechische Fremdwörter” of
Dalman’s Grammar from the year 1905 (Dalman 21905 [1894]: 145–150) still
represent the main references on this subject.
1.1 Linguistic setting, text corpus and word list
Greek loanwords, which amount to over two thousand items stemming from
various dialects, make up the largest group of non-native words not only in the
midrash Genesis Rabbah (GenR), but also in the totality of the Hebrew/Aramaic
lexicon (in Mishnaic Hebrew, Jewish Palestinian Aramaic and Jewish Babylonian
Aramaic).3 Our project investigates an important text from the classical period of
Judaism, an exegetical midrash, which is the earliest rabbinic commentary on the
Book of Genesis, compiled during the early 5th c. CE in Roman Palestine. More
than other early rabbinic genres, Genesis Rabbah (GenR) is characterized by its
2 Funded by the FWF (P 30785; 2018–2021) and hosted at the University of Salzburg (Centre
for the Study of Jewish Culture) and at the Austrian Centre for Digital Humanities, Academy of
Sciences in Vienna (https://www.oeaw.ac.at/acdh/projects/genr-loanwords/). The project deals with
the investigation of the - predominantly Greek – but also Latin (or ‘Latinate’) loanwords in the
midrash Genesis Rabbah (GenR). Its objective consists in the compilation of a dictionary both in
digital; open access and in book format, and aims at providing an efficient tool for further cultural
and linguistic analysis; not only for the purposes of the respective midrash and the Rabbinic
studies, but also in order to promote the research on the interaction between Jewish literary
tradition with other cultures in Late Antiquity and also contribute to diachronic Greek linguistics
and lexicography. project supervisor: Susanne Plietzsch; researchers: C. Katsikadeli, V. Slepoy;
e-lexicography: Karlheinz Mörth, Daniel Schopper (Austrian Centre for Digital Humanities, ÖAW,
Vienna).
3 For the main semantic fields of the borrowings cf. Shoval-Dudai (2017: 524). See also Smelik
(2010) for an overview on Aramaization, Hellenization, language choice and sociolinguistics in
Roman Palestine.
frequent use of Greek loanwords (about 400 types in total) and the employment
of concepts and metaphors from the Graeco-Roman culture. GenR contains
short explications of words and sentences, mainly in the variety of Jewish
Palestinian Aramaic, but also highly difficile and subtle narrative explanations
and interpretations of the Biblical text. Although rabbinic texts are considered
complex and their history of transmission is difficult to trace in general, there
are certain features of GenR, which make it special not only as a midrash, but
also within the entire rabbinic literature, and can be summarized – according to
Gribetz and Grossberg (2016: 7) as follows:
a) GenR is the first example of a new rabbinic genre that emerged around the
fifth century, namely the aggadic (“narrative”) midrash;
b) GenR also marks an important starting point in terms of its historical
relationship with its Roman imperial context;
c) Further, GenR “is the first work of rabbinic midrash that post-dates the
Christianization of the Roman Empire.”, cf. Gribetz & Grossberg. (2016: 7).
An important fact with respect to the “main language” of our corpus is, that
we deal with the Jewish Palestinian variety of Aramaic (JPA) and not with post-
Biblical Hebrew, although Hebrew forms also occur.
The lemma list of our investigation comprises all the Greek loanwords in
GenR (or the words which have been identified as “Greek” in the respective
literature, starting with the indices in the Theodor-Albeck (1912–1929)
edition and the entries in Sokoloff’s (2002ab) and Sperber’s (1984) dictionaries;
problematic classifications will be also mentioned, accompanied by the respective
information, cf. also Hirschman (2010).4 It is a commonplace in Rabbinic studies
that the nature of the texts, the manuscript editions and the writing system do not
facilitate the etymology of loanwords not only in GenR but also in the Rabbinic
literature in general. The phonology of loanwords in post-Biblical Hebrew and
Aramaic is very problematic per se. Neither the spelling of the loanwords, nor
their vocalization (where available) are consistent. Unlike Biblical Hebrew,
the Rabbinic literature never obtained a canonical form and the orthography
varies with each manuscript, leaving multiple options for interpretation. The
aforementioned study by Heijmans (2013) is an important groundwork, but it
refers mainly to the rather conservative Mishnaic Hebrew and not to the Aramaic
4 Since we do not have a new critical edition of GenR at our disposal, the team starts every lemma
investigation according to the Theodor-Albeck edition (MsBritMus), despite its shortcomings, but
alongside the permanent consultation of the Ms Vat. 30 and Ms Vat. 60 (online available) and of
the relevant Genizah fragments as well as other editions (Venice, Constantinople).
dialect of a later period and of a different social setting: the loanwords in GenR
also indicate the borrowing into Aramaic through every-day situations.
The following examples are selected from a data set encompassing 100
entries (ca 25% of the types) and aim at highlighting the merits of the respective
lexicographical progress on the Greek loanwords which could eventually
contribute to a deeper general understanding of language contact processes and
language change phenomena in these periods. Parallel to the linguistic analyses of
the Greek lexemes we systematically pursue – where possible – comparisons with
the Greek loaned vocabulary in Syriac Aramaic and Coptic sources, in order to
present the findings in their Eastern Mediterranean context.
1.2 The chronological range of the borrowings
In the last decades our increasing knowledge about post-Classical Greek allows
us to correct or adjust views of the past, some of them justifying choices and
explanations, which Samuel Krauss made in his dictionary (Lehnwörter 1898–
1899): he has been criticized for explaining rabbinic words, as items found
only (or mainly) in poetic literature, or even in Homer. But we now know that
Rabbinic literature did contain some “archaic” even “poetic” words5. Although
these “archaisms” are generally sporadically attested in the rabbinic corpus, GenR
offers at least some evidence, where these items coexist in parallel with other rather
“common” borrowings, such as the following attestations, which are “nested” in
the context of “garments made of animal’s skin”.
(1) ‘Garments of skin [meaning those] that are nearest to the skin. R. Elʿazar
said: goat’s skin.
[R. Aibo said: lamb’s skin.] R. Yehushuaʿ said: Hare’s skin/fur. R. Yose bar
Ḥanina said a garment made of skin (with wool), Resh Laqish (said): white wool/
5 In addition to linguistics, recent research in history provide us with useful information about
the cultural setting and the interaction between Jewish and Greek tradition, for instance, this very
insightful testimony offered by Stemberger (2014: 32): “If his [scil. Libanius’] letter 1098 was
addressed to the patriarch Gamaliel, as seems likely, it shows that the son of the patriarch came to
Antioch to study with Libanius after having studied with Libanius’ disciple Argeios in Caesarea
or perhaps in Berytus. He left shortly after his arrival, but, as the rhetor consoles the patriarch, he
had at least seen ‘so many cities, as Odysseus saw’. The patriarch is expected to understand passing
allusions to Homer and to be unperturbed by the mention of Greek gods. Having been elevated
to the highest ranks within the administration of the empire with an honorary prefecture, the
patriarch knew how to move within the non-Jewish world and Graeco-Roman culture; the same
is true of many of the rabbis of the period and even more so of the common Jewish population.”
fur of the (imported) weasel.’

(GenR 20,12 (I 197: 2)).
a. Garments of skin <sysrnwn> noun m. ‘a garment made of skin’ ~ Gr.

σίσυρνον, f. -να
b. goat’s skin <ʾygyʾh>, <ʾygyyh> /ʾigiʾa/ noun f. ‘goat’s hair, goat’s skin’ ~ Gr.
αἰγεία
c. hare’s skin <lgʾy> /legaʾe/, <lgʾ> /legaʾ/ noun f. ‘hare’s skin’ ~ Gr.
λάγειος/*λαγεία
d. lamb’s kin/fur <ʾgnyyh> /ʾagniyyah/ noun f. ‘lamb’s skin noun’ f. ~ Lat.
(pellis) agnina
e. white wool/fur of the (imported) weasel (?) <glʾqsynwn> /galaqsinon/, <glʾ
qsynwn> /gale qsinon/ noun m.6
In this passage we encounter designations for skin names, the correspondences of

Greek αἰγεία ‘goat’s fur’, of the Latin (pellis) agnina ‘lamb’s fur’, further, the form
<lgʾy> /legaʾe/ (<lgʾ> /legaʾ/) as a feminine *λαγεία < λάγειος for ‘hare’s fur’,
and finally the rather archaic <sysrnwn> noun m. ‘a garment made of skin’ ~Gr.
σίσυρνον, a specialized ‘garment made of skin’ already attested in Herodotus
(4,109,12) and the Aeschylus (Tetralogy 20,A,158a,2).
Just as “early” Greek words may be shown to have survived even into the
Roman period, so Late Hellenistic or (Early) Byzantine words have been proven
to exist in this same period, e.g. <prqṭyʾh> /prakṭeiah/ noun f. ‘official positions’
~ Gr. nom.pl.n. πρακτεῖα < τό πρακτεῖον (cf. Sperber 2012: 71)
(2) ‘In human practice an earthly king is honoured in his province, although he
has not yet built them public baths or given them official positions <prqṭyʾh>.’
(GenR 1,12 (I 11:1))
6 At this stage, we prefer to consider the meaning of this difficult item an open question, since the
linguistic interpretation of this form allows multiple phonological readings and semantic as well as
cultural assignments: i. ‫< גלכטינון‬glkṭynwn> /galakṭinon/ ‘white (wool)’ ~ Gr. γαλακτινόν (Krauss,
LW II 177); ii. ‫< גלאקסינון‬glʾqsynwn> /galʾaqsinon/ ‘(fur of the) weasel imported by the Axeinoi;
ermine’ ~ Gr. γαλῆ Ἀξεινῶν (Jastrow I 243); iii. ‫< גלאקסינון‬glʾqsynwn> /gelaʾqsinon/, ‫גלקסינון‬
<glqsynwn> /gelaqsinon/ ‘imported weasel’ ~Gr. γαλῆ ξένη (Levy I 328), cf. iv b.; iv. ‫< גלא קסינון‬glʾ
qsynwn> /galeʾ qesinun/; = ‫ קסיטן גלא‬/glʾ qsyṭn/ <galeʾ qesiṭan/, ‫< גלא קסיטן‬glʾ qṭyṭn> /galeʾ qeṭiṭan/
‘weasel, marten’ ~ Gr. γαλῆ ἰκτίς (κτίς) (AC I 289); imported weasel ~Gr. γαλῆ ξενία (AC I 289).
Without taking into consideration Later Greek sources, scholars in the past had
concluded that this form represented a corruption of an underlying Greek lexeme
πράξις or even προκοπή ‘honour’. But a Greek nom.pl.n. πρακτεῖα, with the
same meaning proposed here for the form <prqṭyʾh>, is attested twice in the Vita
Chrysostomi (17,35) by the Alexandrinian Patriarch Gregorius (7th c. AD), hence
supporting the assumption of a “correct” form in the rabbinic manuscript.
Another noteworthy example is the lemma <ʾblw> /ablo/ or /avlo/ (‫)אבלו‬, a
puzzling form, which is not mentioned in the dictionaries, and – like <prqṭyʾh>
/prakṭeiah/ – it has been noted down in a separate list (cf. Sperber 2012) of
unetymologized forms:
(3) ‘R. Levi said: [This may be compared] to one who minted his own coinage
in the very palace <ʾblw> of the king’
(GenR 36,7 (I 341:7), trans. Freedman/Simon I: 293)
The context in this passage supports the meaning ‘palace’ or ‘court’ (of a king)
for the form <ʾblw> /avlo/, as attested in the manuscripts British Museum and
Oxford 1. This could indicate the Greek noun αὐλή in its late Hellenistic or
early Byzantine form /avli/ ‘aula, the court, the royal or imperial residence or
head-quarters’. The final vowel -i- of the “Aramaicized” Greek ending (which, as
matter of fact, also agrees with the Later Greek pronunciation for ē <η>) merges
here with a Hebrew masculine possessive suffix -o ‘his court’ and results into
an easy identifiable form. A factor that may have obscured the exact nature of
the lexeme regards the rendering of the Greek diphthong /au/ with the Hebrew
graphemes aleph + bet and not with the “standard” orthography: aleph + waw.
The interpretation of a “synchronic” spelling with a consonantal pronunciation
of the semi-vowel u instead of the “historical” and well attested vocalic one would
have been regarded as a mere conjecture, unless we are in a position to supply
evidence for analogous cases: in fact, this has been at least once secured for the
phonology of the Mishnah (beginning 3rd c. CE; cf. Heijmans 2013: 276), and in
GenR for at least one further lexeme: αὐλός ‘flute’ in the compounds <khrblyn>
/koravlin/, noun m. pl. ‘dancers, flute-players’ ~ Gr. χοραύλης, and <ʾdrblyn>
/ʾdravlin/, <ʾydrblwn> /ʾdravlin/, <ʿdrblyn> /ʿdravlin/, <ʿdrblwn> /ʿdravlon/
noun m., pl. ‘water-organ (players?)‘ ~ Gr. ὕδραυλις (GenR 50,9; 23,3).
Examples like the above (1)-(3) demonstrate the way, in which even a rather
trivial case can be solved only after a systematic phonological survey and the
consideration of the different chronological strata of borrowing.
2 Nominal morphology and word-formation
While phonology is probably the well-studied aspect of the Greek borrowings

since Dalmans Grammar, the investigation of nominal morphology, derivation
and even compounding is still very sparse and unsystematic. Therefore, in our
study we concentrate on summarizing and categorizing our findings in respect
to their morphological aspects and their word-formation patterns. Even well-
identifiable cases may involve some complicating factors, e.g. δῶρον /doron/
‘gift’ vs. δωρεά /doriyyah/ ‘donation; gift’.
The Greek neuter form δῶρον is integrated as a masculine in singular and its
plural encounters in the Aramaic dialect of the Targums as a “regular” masculine
form: <dwrwnyn> /doronin/ (e.g. TargJ Ex 12,46). Interestingly, in GenR the
word displays in different manuscripts feminine plural forms only, namely
<dwrwnwt> /doronot/ and <dwrywt> /doriyyot/. At this stage, we propose a
tentative explanation for this grammatical gender discrepancy, namely that the
feminine plural is justified by a “collective” meaning.
(4a) ‘gift’ noun m. ~ Gr. δῶρον

<dwrwn> /doron/, pl. f. <dwrwnwt> /doronot/ or <dwrywt> /doriyyot/
‘a beautiful gift (<dwrwn>)’ (34,8 (I 319: 4))
‘he (Jacob) started sending them gifts (<dwrywt>)’ (79,6 (II 940: 6)
[MsBritMus])
‘he (Jacob) started sending them gifts (<dwrwnwt>)’ (79,6 (II 940: 6) [ed.
Venice])
The <dwrywt> in 79,6 (II 940: 6) [MsBritMus] can also be a plural form of /
doriyya/7, i.e. it belongs to another frequently occurring lemma:
(4b) ‘donation, gift’ noun f. ~ Gr. δωρεά

<dwryyh>, <dwryh>, <dwryʾ> /doriyyah/, pl. <dwrywt> /doriyyot/
“And he made a release to the provinces (Est 2,18). As the ‘making’ [mentioned]
there (Gen 21,6) [means that] a gift (<dwryyh>) was given to the world, so the
7 Krauss II 194 suggests additional meaning ‘sacrifice’. AC II 156 reads /durun/.

‘making’ [mentioned] here [means that] a gift (<dwryyh>) was given to the
world.” (53,7 (ΙΙ 562: 2))
“He said to him: All the donations (<dwrywt>) which our father Jacob gave
to Esau the nations of the world will return them in the future to the King
Messiah.” (78,12 (II 932: 6))
Thus, the semantic interface of <dwrwn> with Greek δωρεά as /doriyyah/, also
a feminine noun in Aramaic, with both designations ‘donation’ as well as ‘gift’,
seems to have triggered the “shared use” of the form /doriyyot/ as a plural variant
for /doron/.
Our next example pertains to a much more complicated case concerning the
form <byyʾ> (or <byh>) /biyyah/. A “short lexeme” like this is prone to several
possibilities for interpretation. The two most convincing candidates suggested by
various scholars are Greek βία ‘violence’ and – at least for one passage – Greek
βίος ‘life’ in its narrowed sense ‘livelihood, possessions’. We decided to explain
the form <byyʾ>, <byh> /biyyah/ in (5a) as a feminine noun denoting ‘violence,
injustice’, hence corresponding to Greek βία:
(5a) Sense 1 ‘injustice’

‘Bi adoni – you do violence/injustice (/biyyah/) to us, my lord.’
(93,6 (III 1155:2))
In (5b) below we deal with a difficult passage, where the interpretation of /biyyah/
presupposes the assumption of a specialized meaning ‘dominion’, stemming from
the original and rather “neutral” semantics of the word βία, i.e. ‘force’:
(5b) Sense 2 ‘dominion’

‘There is not a single place which does not have an appointed [authority] over
its dominion. The /egdiqos/ in his province is appointed over its dominion /
biyyah/; the /agbah basṭes/ in his province is appointed over its dominion /
biyyah/. Thus, who is appointed over the dominion of his world? The Holy
One, blessed be He, be-yah is his name, /biyyah/ is his name.’
(12,10 (I 108:3–5))
In this passage, /biyyah/ is attested twice in connection with Greek administrative

titles: the <ʾgdyqws> /egdiqos/ noun m. ‘governor, prefect, public prosecutor’
~ Gr. ἔκδικος and <ʾgbh bsṭs> /agbah basṭes/, <ʾgbsṭs>, <ʾgbʾsṭs> /agbasṭes/
noun m. ‘executor, collector of debts, apparitor’ ~ Gr. ἐκβιβαστής. The third

occurrence is “triggered” by a homonymic paretymology based on the Hebrew
be-yah, which refers to God’s name. Traditionally, the semantically appropriate
Greek form βίος for ‘property, livelihood’, has also been suggested for this
difficult passage. Although the word is attested a few times in the rabbinic
literature (not in GenR), this interpretation is not unproblematic, especially
with respect to the phonological integration of a Greek form βίος. According
to our survey, a Greek masculine -(ί)ος formation, should be expected to result
into an Aramaic /bios/ or /bii/ and not /biyyah/: for instance, κύριος occurs as /
qyry(o)s/ and /qyry/, Ἀλέξανδρος as /aleksandros/ and /aleksandryy/ (Dalman
1905: 148). Furthermore, the integration of these (few) examples with Aramaic
suffixation serves as an indication for rather archaic borrowings as well as frequent
use, something that applies to κύριος, Ἀλέξανδρος or ξένος (Dalman 1905:
148), but not to the sporadically attested βίος. Thus, for /biyyah/ in GenR we
assume that the interpretation as Greek βία and as a single lemma with two
senses (‘injustice’ and ‘dominion’)8 is the semantically and morphonologically
more plausible solution.
3 Level of adaptation and linguistic competence
In the particular case concerning ‘skins’ and ‘furs’ discussed above in example (1),
we cannot be certain whether these “nested” Greek items should be considered
cultural “core loans” belonging to the same word field or whether their use involves
intended code-switching. But in example (5b), the “sophisticated” use of Greek
βία is linked with references to Greek administrative titles, and forms a “Greek
appearing” unit on the text level. Hence, the matter of the linguistic competence
of the rabbinic authors arises as the next question, since the phenomenon of code-
switching requires a certain grade of bilingualism. The study of Greek loanwords
in rabbinic texts, however, lacks general categorizations according to the level
of the linguistic integration of the borrowings and the speakers’ competence.
We briefly attempt to demonstrate this issue on a standard typological model
of language contact, such as Matras (2009: 225), which is mainly based on
phonological aspects. As it is well known, the Greek borrowings in post-Biblical
Hebrew and Jewish Aramaic do not go beyond the level of nouns and adjectives
8For further examples of semantic extension of the loanword in post-Biblical Hebrew/Aramaic cf.
Shoval-Dudai (2017).
(verbal borrowings and conjunctions are very rare or not secured), which means
that the contact induced phenomena are on a very low level. Nevertheless, we
witness a transition from the stage A to the stage B in Matras’ typology, and
sometimes we can even speak of a complete fulfilment of the properties of the
second stage, namely:
From stage A: The transition “from the phonological adaptation of word-forms.”

to stage B “the borrowing of phonological features along with word-forms.”
Matras (2009: 225)
This means that the:
“Replicated word-forms are adjusted to match the sound patterns of the

recipient language” [= stage A] to the stage where “borrowed and inserted
word-forms maintain (fully or partly) the original sound patterns of the donor
language (‘authentication’).” [= stage B]
(Matras 2009: 225; see also Section 4.2. below).
Following the mainstream research, we addressed the issue of the phonological

integration of Greek borrowings in JPA in the previous sections, but a topic
particularly crucial for the purposes of our investigation are the implications
concerning linguistic competence and sociolinguistic environment, which arise
from Matras’ typology:
From “the state of semi-bilinguals or monolinguals” to a “fairly widespread

bilingualism”, in other words: From a “Strong loyalty towards, and stability
of the recipient language and a superficial contact” [= stage A] to a “flexibility
in the use of the recipient language and prestigious bilingualism” [= stage B].
(Matras 2009: 225).
Indeed, the literary corpus of GenR displays a command of Greek on a higher level
than the expected “superficial” one, i.e. stage A, as witnessed by the features with
respect to the lexical and derivational level, which we discuss in the following passages.
3.1 Derivational awareness
The fact that Greek loanwords in rabbinic texts are not limited to ‘mere’ core
loans, but are often used in hermeneutical operations, becomes evident in several
cases of wordplay on the lexical level, while sometimes linguistic competence with
respect to word-formation and derivation is additionally involved. GenR 18,4 is
an example for the latter case and regards the demonstration of knowledge about
the mechanism of deriving a female form from a masculine one and vice versa.
This midrashic unit refers to a well-known passage from the Book of Genesis:
(6) “Bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh. Rabbi Tanḥuma said: When
a man takes one of his relations to wife, of him it is said, Bone of my bones,
and flesh of my flesh. She shall be called, woman <’ishah>, because she was
taken out of man <’ish>. From this you learn that the Torah was given in
the Holy Tongue. R. Phinehas and R. Helkiah in R. Simon’s name said: Just
as it was given in the Holy Tongue, so was the world created with the Holy
Tongue. Have you ever heard one say, <gyny>, <gynyh> [Greek]; <’yt’>, <’ytt’>
[Aramaic]; <’ntrwpy>, <’ntrwpy’h> [Greek]; <gbr’>, < gbrt’> [Aramaic]? But
<’ish> and <’ishah> [are used]: why? because one form corresponds to the
other.” (GenR 18, 4, transl. Freedman/Simon)
Here, the rabbis point out the appropriateness of the designation of ‘man’ and
‘woman’ in Hebrew, by <’ish> and <’ishah>, whereas other languages fail: Greek
and Aramaic are not appropriate due to the fact that their masculine or feminine
forms cannot derive the respective form in the other gender: */gini/ would be
the artificial Aramaic masculine correspondence for a Greek form *gunos and
the Aramaic */ginia/ stands for Greek γυνή/ γύναιος,-α,-ο; the same applies to
*/antropi/, an Aramaic masculine form ~ ἄνθρωπος and the occasionalism */
antropia/, along the lines of the operation traditionally covered by the German
term Motionsfemininum (and Motionsmaskulinum respectively). In this way the
authors propose a sophisticated closer linkage between a derivation and its base
than between two different lexemes, and demonstrate their knowledge about
Greek vocabulary and its derivational restrictions. This is one of several learned
puns based on “blocked” morphological or derivational rules. In any case, the
linguistic awareness of the rabbis attested in this passage goes beyond the Stage
A (see under Section 3. above). It is also noteworthy that the Jewish Babylonian
tradition, where the Greek impact was absent, cites the same passage but avoids
mentioning this Greek linguistic pun.9
9‘Rabbi Akiba expounded: When husband (’ish) and wife (’ishah) are worthy, the Divine Presence
abides with them; when they are not worthy, fire (’esh) consumes them.’ (bT Talmud, Ṣoṭ. 17a).
3.2 “Hypecorrect” usage
The competence level can be extended to examples for reinterpretation and/

or “hypercorrect” use of Greek forms. As a case in point, the variants of Greek
compounds demonstrate several facets of this phenomenon. For instance, Gr.
διπρόσωπος,-ν ‘double-faced’ is attested in Aramaic as <dyprwswpwn> /
diprosopon/ noun m. and in the plural masculine form <dwprṣwpyn> /
duparṣufin/ as a phonologically integrated loanword. In our text we encounter
two hypercorrect dissolved forms: <dyʾwprṣwph> /dyoparṣufah/ and the plural
<dyw prṣwpyn> /dyo parṣufin/, i.e. a rendering with δύο instead of δι- in
composition.
(7) ‘R. Shemuʾel bar Naḥman said: When the Holy One, blessed be he, created
the first man, He created him double-faced.’
(GenR 8,1 (I 55:4))
Further, the form diprosop-on in the verse (7) above can be readily explained
either by an Aramaic phonological adaptation (s >n) or by the very common
integration in the form of the oblique case; in this particular occurrence, it could
also point to an active competence for the Greek accusative case triggered by
the syntactical position: the expected borrowed form would be the nominative
/diprosopos/.
3.3 Code-switching: numerals
A more standard situation of code-switching is witnessed in GenR 14,2, where

the Greek numerals <ʾypṭʾ> ‘7’ and <ʾwqṭwn> ‘8’ are used in connection with
Greek letters and Greek imperatives. The passage refers to the viability of a foetus.
According to Rabbi Huna a foetus which was born at the 7th month is viable,
but a foetus which was born at the 8th month is not viable. Rabbi Abbahu gives
a mnemonic based on a pun linking Greek letters, their numerical value and
a paretymological interpretation of their designation: The name of the Greek
letter ‘zeta’ (<zyṭʾ>; numerical value 7 ~ seventh month) sounds like the Greek
imperative ζήτω (‘live!’), while the name of the letter ‘eta’ (<ʾyṭh> /iṭaʾ/, <ʾyṭh> /
iṭah/, <hyṭh> /hiṭah/; numerical value 8 ~ eighth month) is reinterpreted as the
Greek ἴτω (‘let go!’, i.e. ‘die!’).
(8) ‘He replied to them: From your own [language] I will prove it to you:
“Zeṭaʾ (<zyṭʾ> ‘live!’), epṭah (‘seven’)10, eṭah (<ʾyṭh> /iṭaʾ/, <ʾyṭh> /iṭah/,
<hyṭh> /hiṭah/ ‘go!’11, okṭo (<ʾwqṭwn> ‘eight’)12’
(GenR 14,2 (I 127: 3), cf. Freedman / Simon I: 112)
Although this wordplay involves verbal borrowings into Aramaic, their restriction
to imperative forms, cf. also the attested ʾps < áphes ‘leave!’ or ʾgwmyn < ágōmen
‘let us go!’, could also be interpreted in connection with the borrowing of
interjections from the source language. Nevertheless, even if we decide to consider
them transparent verbal forms and not lexicalized items, their borrowing type
would be a ‘direct insertion’, i.e. they display “no modification of the[ir] original
verbal form” (Matras 2009: 176).
3.4 “Productive morphology”
Another aspect of the Greek loanwords in the post-Biblical Hebrew/Aramaic texts

from Roman Palestine concerns some possible examples for Greek “productive
morphology”, i.e. morphologically and semantically predictable Greek forms,
which are not attested in the Greek corpora (by now). Let us have a closer look at
an example, which involves an adjective and its adverbial use: The Greek adjective
πρῶτον/πρῶτος is attested twice in the JPA corpus, both times in the plural
form <prwṭy>, with different contextual references: a) in the Jerusalem Taldmud
(yYom 40d) describing ‘first-quality’ textiles and b) in the midrash Leviticus
Rabbah (28,6) from the 5th c. AD referring to ‘noble’ people. Again, in the same
text (LevR 30,7) we encounter the form <prṭwṭy> /pratoti/, <prwṭwṭy> /prototi/
denoting lit. ‘the very first ones’, the ‘noble ones’.
In GenR we also find a form <prwṭʾṭʾ> /proṭaṭa/, <prʾṭʾṭʾ> /praṭaṭa/. Since
Krauss’ dictionary (1898–1899), this form has been explained as a superlative/
elative form of πρῶτος, i.e. πρώτατος for the ‘first-one’, or the ‘noble one’.
10In GenR 20,6 (I 189: 3) ‫ = = איפטה‬NumR 4,3: ‫< איפטא‬ʾypṭʾ> /epṭaʾ/; Tanh Bemidbar 18; TanhB
Bemidbar 21; Yalq. Bereshit 20 (6c: 54), Yalq. Bemidbar 692 (220d: 13): ‫< אפטא‬ʾpṭʾ> /aptaʾ/; yYev
5d: 7 (corr.): ‫< אבטא‬ʾbṭʾ>
11In GenR 20,6 (I 189: 3) ‫ = היטה‬Yalq. Bereshit 20 (6c: 54); NumR 4,3; TanhB Bemidbar 21;
Yalq. Bemidbar 692 (220d: 13) (corr.): ‫< אוטא‬ʾwṭʾ>; Tanh Bemidbar 18 (corr.) ‫< אוטה‬ʾwṭn> yYev
5d: 7 - (corr.)
12 GenR 20,6 (I 189: 3) ‫ = ;אוקטון‬Yalq. Bereshit 20 (6c: 54): ‫< אוכטא‬ʾwkṭʾ> /okṭaʾ/; NumR 4,3:
‫< אוכטי‬ʾwkṭy>; Yalq. Bemidbar 692 (220d: 13), Tanh Bemidbar 18 (corr.): ‫< ארנון‬ʾrnwn> (in Yalq
emend.); TanhB Bemidbar 21: ‫< אקטו‬ʾqṭw> /aqṭo/; yYev 5d: 7 - (corr.)
(9) ‘Shimʿob ben Azzai says: And Thy condescension hath made me great (II
Sam 22,36): A human being mentions his name [first] and then his praise: So-
and-so Augustalis, so-and-so, (I am) the nobel <prwṭʾṭʾ>. But the Holy One,
blessed be He, is not so, but he mentioned His name only after he had created
all necessities of the world - At the beginning created and then: God.’
(GenR 1,12 (I 11: 1))
From the point of view of historical linguistics, the formation πρώτατος/-α seems
to be “trivial”, i.e. a regular superlative formation –τατος. Nevertheless, this
“option” is not attested in the entire Greek corpus until the late Middle Ages: since
Homeric Greek we encounter the “well-established” form πρώτιστος.13 Hence,
as long as there is no further evidence from Greek sources, which would indicate
that this formation was in use among Koine speakers in Late Antiquity and early
medieval times, we are entitled to consider the form <prwṭʾṭʾ> /proṭaṭa/, <prʾṭʾṭʾ>
/praṭaṭa/ a “regional” Palestinian variant or even a special rabbinic word creation.
3.5 Compounding
While the derivation on Greek bases via suffixes is not secured, it seems that
we may assume a certain degree of competence for compounding operations
according to the Greek pattern(s). The assumption of this creative aspect provides
us with the necessary condition for further explanation, as for instance in the case
of the hapax legomenon <drwmlys> /dromalis/, <drwmwlys> /drom(a)ulis/ noun
m. ‘tent/court on the road (side)’ Gr. *δρόμαυλις/*δρόμαυλος (?)
(10) ‘R. Abbahu said: The tent of our father Abraham was open to both sides.
R. Yudan said: He was like that court or tent on a road (side) (<drwmlys>
<drwmwlys>) he said: If I see them turn aside, I will know that they are coming
to me. When he saw them turn aside, immediately he ran to meet them.’
(GenR 48,9 (II 486: 3))
Several interpretations have been proposed for this formation. Following Krauss
(1898: 217), we analyze the form as a compound *δρόμ-αυλος or *δρόμ-αυλις,
consisting of a first member δρόμος ‘course; road’ and a second member αὐλή
‘(open) court(yard)’ (Krauss’ suggestion; cf. also /avli/ under 1.2 above) or αὖλις
f. ‘tent or place for passing the night’ (Hom+), as supported by the orthography
13 The adverb πρώτατα (14x) occurs only in the poems of Theodorus Metochites (13–14 c. CE).
in Ox 1 and Vat 1. The analysis here is based a) on the documented ability of

Aramaic speakers to form new determinative nominal compounds from Greek
input and b) on the high probability that both of the compound members
involve frequently used loanwords. These arguments allow us to evaluate other
“adventurous” interpretations involving unattested forms and/or suffixation as
far-fetched. 14
4 The Eastern Mediterranean context
The formation of novel Greek endocentric determinative compounds of the

types [Noun+Noun]Noun/Adj and [Adjective+Noun]Noun/Adj is scarce but possible
in post-Biblical Hebrew/Aramaic texts.15 From other Aramaic dialects we have
some evidence for another type of compounds that must have been a Greek
influence, namely the group of dvandva(“like”)-compounds. Before we deal with
the question, whether this specific type occurs in Jewish Aramaic, we briefly cite
some examples from Classical Syriac, which has been in contact with Greek for
many centuries. In this Aramaic dialect, it is remarkable that we find “quasi-
coordinative” formations functioning as renderings of Greek coordinative
compounds, which became a productive category in Later Greek, namely:
(11) ʾalāh-barnāš ‘God-man’ ‘God-son-of-men’ ~ θεάνθρωπος

ḳleḇ- barnāš ‘dog(s)-men’ ‘dog-son-of-men’ ~ κυνάνθρωποι
laylay-ʾīmām ʻnight-dayʼ ~ νυχθήμερον (Edzard 2006: 142)
While θεάνθρωπος belongs to the core vocabulary of the patristic literature, and
therefore we can assume a Greek influence on Classical Syriac, i.e. a calque, the
14 On the basis of contextual and linguistic arguments, we regard another suggestion as less plausible:
Some scholars (following AC II 154–155) interpret the underlying Greek lexeme as *δρομώλης
‘runner’ and read the passage differently, i.e. the word refers to Abraham and to the following
context “he ran to meet them”: “R. Abbahu said: The tent of our father Abraham was open to both
sides. R. Yudan said: He (i.e. Abraham) was like that fast runner (‫ ;)סילמורד‬he said: If I see them
turn aside, I will know that they are coming to me. When he saw them turn aside, immediately
he ran to meet them (i.e. as a fast runner (‫”)סילמורד‬. The same applies to other explanations, such
as Lat. dormitio. Jastrow I 322 interprets the lemma as corr. Gr. δίπυλος, i.e. he has a different
explanation for the Greek word, but understands the lemma as referring to “the tent”.
15Shoval-Dudai (2017: 516–519) has collected 16 nominal compounds not attested in the Greek
dictionaries: 15 endocentric; 1 bahuvrīhi.
case of νυχθήμερον ‘night and day’ (also attested in Claudius Ptolemaeus and
Galenus) as a prototype for laylay-ʾīmām is not entirely clear, for the following
reasons: The Greek formation has a competitor, which becomes more frequent
in Hellenistic and Byzantine Greek and survives as the only choice for the same
context in Modern Greek, namely ἡμερο-νύκτιο(ν) ‘day and night’. Thus, although
the compositional pattern of laylay-ʾīmām speaks for structural borrowing from
Greek, the low frequency of its Greek correspondence νυχθήμερον as well as its
semantics (by placing ‘night’ before ‘day’) could indicate an indigenous formation,
provided that older Semitic dialects, and in particular Syriac Aramaic, could form
dvandva-like appositions as quasi-compound nouns. Although examples for
dvandvas in Jewish Aramaic are not secured16, by consulting the Syriac material
we are at least in a position to regard the borrowing of this compound type from
Greek into a Semitic language as a possible phenomenon.
Interestingly, in GenR we find at least one instance of a formation, which
must have been understood as a co-ordinative compound by the rabbis in
Roman Palestine: the form <ʾndrwgynws> ~ ἀνδρόγυνος in the meaning ‘man
and woman’ and not in the reading ‘a human bearing both male and female
(characteristics)’.
(12) ‘The passage says: “When the Holy One, blessed be he, created the first
man, He created him as a man [and] woman <ʾndrwgynws>’
(GenR 8,1 (I 55:3))
As a matter of fact, there exists evidence that <ʾndrwgynws> can have the meaning
‘hermaphrodite’ in the legal context of the Mishnah (mBik 4,1). In GenR,
however, the word is used in its “genuine” dvandva reading (Vedic mitravarunau
= Mitra and Varuna).17 The treatment of the same passage in the Babylonian
tradition is also worth mentioning: Ιn bTalmud Eruvin 18a we find <dyw
prṣwp>, <dywprṣwp> ~ διπρόσωπος instead of <ʾndrwgynws>, probably in
order to avoid the “default” widespread sense ‘hermaphrodite’ for the loanword.
While <ʾndrwgynws> might be listed as an example for the speakers’
competence of interpreting already existing compounds, some other forms are
attested, which suggest a certain degree of independent coinage of compounds,
16 Shoval-Dudai (2017: 516, 518) lists two possible co-ordinate compounds *ῥοδό-μυρον, *μακρο-
έλαφρος (GenR), the interpretation of which is unfortunately not clear.

17A corresponding Modern Greek formation with a “genuine” dvandva-reading is the noun
ανδρόγυνον n. ‘married couple’ (in contrast to the adj. ανδρόγυνος “androgynous”).
without borrowing from Greek. Provided that some formations are not direct
loans, we could assume that there are cases, where we deal with instances of
“autonomous” word-formations, comparable to neologisms in technical
languages, with which we are familiar in the context of modern Greco-Latin
“internationalisms”. The examples may involve “predictable” compounds, such
as the wide-spread determinative type for titles in the case of <archikritis>
*ἀρχικριτης ‘chief judge’ in GenR 50, 3. In a way parallel to the Syriac evidence,
our investigation pursues – where possible – comparisons with the Greek loaned
vocabulary in Coptic sources, in order to capture the nature of the findings
in their Eastern Mediterranean context. And indeed, this highly predictable
form <archikritis>, which is not attested in the Greek corpora, occurs three
times in a Later Coptic (Bohairic) source. According to the sources, the Greek
tradition always denotes the ‘chief judge’ as ἀρχιδικαστής.18 Hence, in this case
we encounter a culturally motivated terminological divergence between the
“epichoric” Koine and the other languages of the Graeco-Roman provinces.
In what follows, we briefly illustrate the merits of such a comparison between
the Greek borrowed forms in other recipient languages than JPA by means of
another example: The Aramaic form for Greek θεμέλιος (λίθος) ‘cornerstone;
foundation’ occurs as <tymylyʾws> /temeliʾos/ noun m., but it also displays the
variants <tymlywsym> /timeliosim/19, <tmylywsyn> with the same meaning.
(13) ‘He lit lights and lanterns, to know where to set the foundation(s)
<tymylyʾws> (Vat 2 tymlywsym; Ox 1 <tmylywsyn>)’
(GenR 3,1 (I 19:1))
The respective dictionaries interpret the latter forms as corrupted <tmlywsys> for
Gr. θεμελίωσις20 (cf. Krauss 1899: 587 and Sokoloff 2002: 580). Nevertheless,
we prefer the interpretation as “regular” Hebrew/Aramaic plural themelios-im (-in)
to the assumption of a corruption or a phonological adaptation of θεμελίωσις,
since the final -ς of a Greek ending -ις is normally retained in Mishnaic Hebrew
and Aramaic (cf. βάσις <bsis>, pl. <bsyot> /basiot/, πάρδαλις <prdls>, ἰσάτις
<ʾstys>). In addition, the form θεμέλιος (λίθος) is by far more frequently attested
in the Greek corpora – with an increasing number of tokens in Late Antiquity
– compared to the nomen rei actae θεμελίωσις, a fact that could have enhanced
18 For details and further examples cf. Katsikadeli (2018).

19 Also attested in ySan 10,2 (29a); yKet 5,1 (29c: 53); ySot 6,1 (20d: 62).
20 Aquila Ps. 86,1; LXX Esdr II 3,12.
the borrowing “impact” of the former “candidate”. Furthermore, the cultural

borrowing of θεμέλιος (λίθος) is evident in Graeco-Coptic, where we also find
the loanword themelios ‘corner-stone’ (CFM).
5 Summary and outlook
In the last decades the revision of older proposals regarding alleged Greek lexemes
in post-Classical Hebrew/Aramaic showed on the one hand that some of them
are the result of a misinterpretation and that several of them are not even Greek
but of Iranian or of other Semitic origin. On the other hand, some are indeed
identifiable Greek or Latin words, which are not listed in the dictionaries. A
great number of these items have been collected by Sperber (2012: 56–75) in
“A select list of two hundred and eighty-eight new entries”. Crucial secondary
evidence for Greek contained in sources such as GenR can provide a meaningful
contribution to the investigation of such forms as well as the more exact dating of
several phenomena. In our survey we concentrated on the classification of several
borrowing phenomena against the background of theoretical frames of contact
linguistics and the typology of borrowing. On the level of “borrowing” defined as
the “import of linguistic structures from one language to another”, GenR displays
the expected pattern as far as lexical categories are concerned. The group of Greek
loanwords in post-Classical Hebrew/Aramaic encompasses nouns (vast majority),
some interjections and traces of verbal elements. The nominal borrowings display
either a replicated phonological representation or are integrated by following
the native Hebrew/Aramaic gender assignment and inflectional pattern. But the
study of the Greek loans in GenR enables us to go beyond this rather common
level of linguistic description and explore further fields in the study of language
contact:
a) In order to evoke associations with the Greek philosophical, cultural
and social setting, GenR displays stylistically (and hermeneutically) motivated
conversational code-switching, which goes beyond the mere lexical cultural
borrowing that usually results into “isolated” and “opaque” items for the target
language speaker. In fact, the findings in GenR indicate a transition from Stage
A (cf. <dwprṣwpyn> /duparṣufin/) to Stage B (cf. <sysrnwn>) for the speakers of
Roman Palestine, along the lines of Matras’ (2009) typology of bilingualism (see
Section 4. above). Additionally, although it is difficult to extract generalizations
on code-switching from historical corpora, it is precisely the midrashic “dialectics”
and its cultural setting, which triggers conversational code-switching, that allows
us to gain some deeper insights in this area. A tentative code-switching hierarchy

would encompass the following categories: nouns > adjectives/adverbs (cf. Section
3.4) > numerals (cf. Section 3.3) > verbs/interjections (cf. Section 3.3).
b) Some cases provide evidence for the fact that the bilingual Greek speaking
communities in the Eastern Mediterranean did not exclusively depend on the
existing Greek terminology, but speakers were also able – at least to some extent –
to produce novel word-formations, especially compounds, according to the Greek
compositional pattern. Despite the fact that recent research is based on scattered
material until now, first results are by no means trivial: More recent investigations
on contact phenomena of derivations and compounds in various languages in
the Eastern Mediterranean and the Near East confirm that borrowing between
typologically different systems can take place, not only on the phonological level;
also “slight” or “mid-slight” structural borrowings are possible, provided that
a sufficiently long timespan, fairly strong cultural pressure, and a large group
of bilingual speakers are given. Instances of Greek “neo-compounds” found in
Semitic dialects, such as Jewish and Syriac Aramaic, arise the question, whether
the various “structural borrowing hierarchies” should also regularly integrate the
feature of “compositional pattern”. In our case, this involves not only the “right
headed” endocentric Greek nominal compound vs. the Semitic (“left headed”)
construct, but also the co-ordinative (“dvandva-like”) compound/apposition.
Finally, we would like to draw attention to a significant desideratum: the
need for further digitization and creation of databases, which will facilitate
future research on the following topics: a) Although the material indicates a “low
position” of the Greek items in the borrowing hierarchy, the integration of loans
stemming from a three-gender nominal system into the Aramaic one with two
genders (and by extension to other Afro-Asiatic dialects) proves to be a fruitful
testing ground for investigating gender assignment in recipient languages; b) The
study of integration of the Greek (and Latin) loanwords according to different
borrowing strata: loans into Aramaic dialects displaying Hebrew/Aramaic plural
endings or derivational affixes vs. replicated ones, and their respective chronological
distribution21; c) The consideration of re-borrowings: some of the loans concern
lexemes, which are explained as Greek due to their earlier attestation in the Greek
corpora and their “Greek-like” form. Sometimes, however, they concern isolated
lexemes without a proven Greek etymology, e.g. the aforementioned σίσυρνα (in
Herodotus’ text it refers to the garments of Scythian nomads) or γέρδιος ‘weaver’
(scarcely mentioned in the papyri and an Aramaic counterpart available). These
21 As investigated by Butts (2016) for Classical Syriac.

items, in fact, seem to originate from and are more frequently attested in various
Near Eastern cultural contexts and dialects; and finally d) The investigation of the
regional distribution within the Jewish Palestinian and Jewish Babylonian literary
traditions and the carving out as well as the alignment of “internationalisms” in
the Eastern Mediterranean area during Late Antiquity and the early Middle Ages
in order to promote research not only in linguistics, but also to improve historical
lexicography and cultural disciplines.
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Notes on Greek loanwords in Classical Armenian1

Daniel Kölligan
1 Multilingualism in ancient societies and Greek culture in ancient Armenia
Despite recent interest in language contact and bi- or multilingualism in ancient

societies,2 Graeco-Armenian language contact has largely remained outside the focus
of research. Both Greek inscriptions in Armavir, a region of ancient Armenia, from
ca. 200 BC,3 and direct and indirect loanwords in Armenian provide evidence for
contact between these two languages.4 Reports of ancient historians about Graeco-
Armenian contacts start with Tigran II. (Tigran the Great, 140–55 BC), who is said
to have transferred Greek settlers from Cappadocia and Cilicia to Mesopotamia (Plut.
Lucull. 14.5; 21) and to have installed Greek colonists in his new capital Tigranokert
(Strabo 11.14.15), building a theatre and inviting Greek artists for its inauguration
(Plut. Lucull. 29.4). In 53 BC, Greek actors were playing Euripides’ Bacchae at the
theatre of Artašat (Artaxata), the city founded by King Artaxias I. in 176 BC, in
the presence of the Parthian king Orodes II. (Ὑρώδης), when the news of Crassus’
defeat against the Iranian army at Carrhae came in and his head was thrown into the
middle of the company as a sinister trophy of the Roman defeat (Plut. Crass. 33).5
In contrast to neighbouring regions like Cappadocia, Hellenistic influence
in Armenia did not oust the vernacular language, nor did Iranian languages like
Parthian and Middle Persian, although their influence was much stronger and
they provided a huge number of loanwords and calques.6 Speakers of Armenian
1 Abbreviations of Armenian authors: Buz = Bowzandaran Patmowt‘iwnk‘, MX = Movsēs Xorenac‘i,
Agath = Agathangelos.
2 Cf. e.g. Adams (2003), Adams et al. (2005), Biville (2008), Tribulato (2012).
3 Cf. Manandyan (1946), Robert (1952), Mahé (1994/1996). Seven inscriptions were found on
two rocks in 1911 (rock 1, inscriptions nos. 1–3 [Mahé 1994], Canali de Rossi 2004: IK 9, 10, 11)
and in 1927 (rock 2, nos. 4–7 [Mahé 1994], IK 12–15), cf. also Peek (1997), SEG 44 nos. 1291–
1297. Destroyed in 1942 during the 2nd World War, they were either writing exercises (cf. Habicht
1953, Bousquet 1995) or the legacy of historical persons, maybe a temple and oracle of Mithra and
Anahita / Apollo and Artemis/Athena (Trever 1953; Mahé 1996: 1294–1295, Merkelbach 1995,
1998). In any case, they betray the presence of Greek language and learning in ancient Armenia.
4Cf. Brockelmann (1893), Hübschmann (1897: 322–391), Thumb (1900), Olsen (1999: 921–
930), Morani (2010), Clackson (2020).
5 Cf. also Morani (2010: 148).
6 Hübschmann (1897: 91–259) counts 686 loanwords.
134 KÖLLIGAN, Notes on Greek loanwords in Classical Armenian
also came into contact with Aramaic (Syriac) in northern Mesopotamia and
northern Syria, where the main cities of Syriac Christianity, Edessa (Arm. Urhay)
and Nisibis (Arm. Mcbin), had a mixed population including speakers of both
languages:7 Hübschmann (1897) lists 133 Syriac loanwords in Armenian,
which range from religious and technical terms of learning – Armenia was first
christianized by the Syriac church – such as tʻargman ‘translator’ : Syr. targmānā,
and kʻahanay ‘priest’ : Syr. kāhnā to every day vocabulary items such as xanowtʻ
‘shop’ : Syr. ḥānūtā and mašk ‘skin, hide’ : Syr. mškā ‘skin’.8 Syriac also served as
intermediary for some Gk. loanwords, cf. Arm. połotay ‘street’ : Syr. pəlāṭīā ←
πλατεῖα (cf. Section 3.1).
Also the earliest larger text of Classical Armenian, the Bible translation
made in the early 5th c. by Saint Mesrop Maštoc‘ and his disciples,9 reflects these
multiple influences on Armenian, both in terms of its translation, which shows
influences of the Syriac texts of the Gospels, and in terms of the various layers of
loanwords and calques present in the language.
In the following pages, the Greek loanwords found in the Bible translation
will be studied with respect to their vowels (3)10 followed by a few remarks on
questions of morphology (4) and lexicon (5). The guiding question will be what
these data can tell us about the various stages of the development of post-classical
Greek and which features are to be attributed to Greek, Armenian or a possible
intermediary language.11 Before this, a brief look will be taken at Greek as possible
mediator between Latin and Armenian.
7 Cf. Garsoian (1992), Greppin (1997), van Rompay (2011).

8Probably via Middle Iranian, cf. MP mašk and (reborrowed from MP) Syr. mašk (Morani 2011:
130, Ciancaglini 2008: 210).
9 The earliest written records of Classical Armenian starting in the 5th c. are inscriptions in Jerusalem
and historical Armenia, cf. Greenwood (2004). There is also a Greek papyrus using the Armenian
alphabet datable roughly between the 5th and 7th c., cf. Clackson (2000). The earliest Armenian
mss. date from the 9th c.
10 Due to lack of space the consonants will not be treated here. In general, Gk. voiced stops are
represented as voiced stops, while voiced fricatives are attested from the 7th c. onward, voiceless
stops as voiceless stops and aspirated stops either as plain voiceless or as aspirated stops. There is
no indication that the Greek forms had voiceless fricatives in the 5th c. If Asia Minor Greek had
fricatives already in the 5th c. (cf. Brixhe 1987: 43), the loanwords may show a diatopic and/or
diastratic difference. The first sibilant in šłoros : χλωρός (no. 81) Rev 6.8 is due to the translation of
this book into Armenian in the 12th c. Cf. also fn. 21.
11 Calques in the classical texts and those of the so-called hellenizing school will not be studied here,
cf. for the latter Muradyan (2012).

2 Latin loanwords
Probably the oldest Greek loanword in Armenian is Latin Caesar → Gk. καῖσαρ
→ Arm. kaysr with a notable retention of the diphthong /ai/12 and morphological
integration as an r-stem (gen. kayser, cf. e.g. dowstr ‘daughter’, gen. dster) beside
kesar, gen. kesarow (e.g. in MX), Kesaria = Caesarea (Buz, MX, Agath, etc.) and
Kesariac‘i ‘inhabitant of Caesarea’ (Acts 21.16) reflecting the later pronunciation
as /e/.13 Since the earliest evidence for the change /ai/ > /e/ in Greek dates from
the 2nd c. AD,14 the form is likely to have entered Armenian before this time,
either via Greek or directly from Latin – Armenia became a Roman protectorate
in 66 BC. The latter possibility has to be considered, as there are other probably
early loanwords from Latin in Armenian such as the name of the emperor Nero
(Νέρων, regn. 54–68) which became Arm. neṙn ‘antichrist’,15 and the imperial
title Augustus > Arm. Awgostos with the Greek ending -os, but a troublesome
word-internal -o-: Schmitt (2007: 167) explains this as an assimilation from
Augustos to Awgostos in Armenian, cf. similar cases like mekʻenay instead of
*mekʻanay ← μηχανή and mełedi (Ganjaran) ← μελωδία.16 However, a sound
change /u/ > /o/ is well attested in Vulgar Latin and subsequently in the Romance
languages, cf. from the Appendix Probi17 prescriptions like columna non colomna,
turma non torma, etc., and Span. Port. Ital. agosto. The form Awgowstos occurs
only as the name of the month, and Greek usually has Αὐγούστος (at least in
the Bible, e.g. Luke 2.2 παρὰ Καίσαρος Αὐγούστου).18 A Latin colloquialism
*Augostus/-os may thus have been the precursor of the Armenian form, speaking
for an oral, not literary transmission of the name. This might also apply to kaysr
12 As in Goth. kaisar, German Kaiser, OE cāsere where /ā/ presupposes /ai/.

13 Cf. Hübschmann (1897: 354 no. 171).
14 Cf. Allen (1987: 79).
15 Cf. e.g. 1 John 2.18 neṙn galocʻ ē ‘ἀντίχριστος ἔρχεταιʼ. This meaning is probably due to an
interpretation of Rev 13.18 (giving 666 as the number of the beast) as referring to the emperor:
the Hebrew transliteration of Νέρων Καῖσαρ – nrwn qsr – yields 666 if the numerical values of
the letters are added up: nun = 50 × 2 = 100, resh = 200 × 2 = 400, waw = 6, qoph = 100, samech
= 60, Σ 666.
16Arm. yopop ‘lapwing’ could either be a borrowing from Gk. ἔποψ with assimilation or an Arm.
onomatopoetic creation (cf. Olsen 1999: 55). For mek‘enay Syriac mediation is likely, cf. Section 3.1.
17 Cf. Heraeus (1935).
18 Except for some late inscriptions with Αὐγοστ-, which are not particularly close to Armenia,
cf. Macedonia SEG 31.626 Αὐγόσ̣[της, Sicily SEG 54.929,2 Αὐγόστῳ, Rome CIG 9902
Αὐγοστησίων.
and the name of the emperor who installed the Armenian king Tigranes VI. on
the throne of Armenia in 58 AD: Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus. While the initial
aspiration in Hṙom ‘Rome’ speaks for Greek mediation (: ‘Ρώμη), it is difficult
to find more criteria that would allow to differentiate direct borrowings from
mediated forms, although one may imagine that terms referring to the Roman
army and designating concrete objects may have been heard in the speech of
Roman soldiers first, cf. legeōn ← legiō(nem) ‘legion, army’ (: λεγεών/λεγιών),
kantʻeł ← candela ‘taper’ (: κανδήλη), skutł ← scutella ‘bowl’ (: σκουτέλλιον,
σκούτλιον), pʻos ← fossa ‘ditch’ (: φόσσα) and krkēs ← circus/(ludi) circenses
‘circus, races’ (: κιρκήσια).19
While in these cases Greek may or may not have served as an intermediary
between Latin and Armenian, in others Greek words entered Armenian through
Iranian. This has been discussed in detail by Bolognesi (1960), among others,
e.g. in the case of Ir. /δ/ which is regularly represented in Arm. as /r/, cf. aparan
‘palaceʼ ← *apaδāna- (OP apadāna- [m.] ‘palace’), while in Greek loanwords
δ is represented as /d/, cf. adamand ← ἀδάμας, -αντος. It follows that Iranian
mediation is likely for Greek loanwords with /r/ in Armenian, cf. Arm. lampar
‘lamp’ indirectly from Gk. λαμπάς, -άδος,20 and beside the immediate loanword
drakʻmē ← Gk. δραχμή the mediated form dram, cf. Manichaean Middle Persian
drahm (Modern Persian deram) implying a sound change *xm > m.21 Parthian
mediation is to be assumed for Arm. yakownd/-tʻ ‘jacinth [stone]ʼ (Anania
Širakacʻi, Geography, 7th c.) with /u/ vs Gk. ὑάκινθος, cf. Parth. y’kwnd /yakund/
(n.) ‘ruby, hyacinth’22 beside Arm. yakintʻ borrowed directly from the Greek.23
19 kar̥kʻ ʻwagon, chariotʼ from Gaul. carros, latinized carrus (cf. OIr. carr, PIE *kr̥sos, ~ Lat.
currus) is ambiguous, it may have been borrowed either from Latin or from the Celtic Galatians
migrating into Asia Minor in the 3rd c. BC. In any case, the addition of the plural marker -kʻ, i.e.
morphological integration, speaks for an early loanword. Cf. also Hübschmann (1897: 322 fn. 3)
who assumes that words like kaysr may have been borrowed already in the 1st c. AD.
20 Cf. Bolognesi (1960: 66–67), Morani (2010: 153).
21 Cf. Bolognesi (1960: 37).
22 Cf. Durkin-Meisterernst (2004: 372).
23Attested e.g. in translations made in the 12th/13th c. such as the revision of Rev by Nersēs
Lambronac‘i (21.20), and the Georgian chronicle (Kʻartʻlis cʻxovreba).
3 Greek loanwords
In the following discussion of Greek loanwords in Armenian this complex

situation of possible multiple sources for Armenian words will have to be kept in
mind. The forms attested in the Bible and relevant for the following discussion
are given in the list below.24
1. adamand ἀδάμας, -ντος *εὐρακύκλων

2. akaṙn ἄκρα 27. kʻaɫban χαλβάνη
3. akat ἀχάτης 28. kʻaradr / kʻaɫadr χαραδριός
4. ametʻovs ἀμέθυστος 29. kʻartēs χάρτης
5. apʻsē ἀψίς, -ίδος 30. kʻɫamid χλαμύς, ύδος
6. argasikʻ ἐργασία 31. kʻriwsoprasos χρυσόπρασος
7. asori Ἀσσύριος 32. kampʻsak καμψάκης
8. baɫanikʻ βαλανεῖον 33. kanon κανών
9. balistr baɫistr βαλλίστρα 34. kasia κασία
10. barbaros βάρβαρος 35. kaysr Καῖσαρ
11. biwreɫ βήρυλλος 36. kesar Καῖσαρ
12. denar* δηνάριον 37. kēt κῆτος
13. didrakʻmay δίδραχμα 38. kinamomon / kinamom κιννάμωμον
14. dstikon δίστεγον 39. kipros κύπρος
15. eklēsiastēs Ἐκκλησιαστής 40. kivaws / kivōs κύβος
16. episkopos ἐπίσκοπος 41. kiwrakē / kirakē κυριακή
17. gaṙagiɫ γαλεάγρα 42. konkʻ κόγχη
18. gayison γαῖσον 43. krkēs κιρκήσιον
19. hagni ἄγνος 44. lapter λα(μ)πτήρ
20. halowē ἀλοή 45. legēon λεγεών/λεγιών
21. herovdianos Ἡρῳδιανός 46. libanos/libanon λίβανος, -ον
22. het‘anos ‘heathen’ ἔθνος 47. litr λίτρα
23. himēn ἡμίνα 48. lōdik λωδίκιον/λῶδιξ
24. hiwpatos ὕπατος 49. mamonay μαμ(μ)ωνά
25. hndik ἰνδικός 50. maneak μανιάκης
26. iwrakiklovn (v.l. ewra°, iwrakokłovn)25 51. mangɫion μάγγανον
24Excluding Hebrew words attested in the Bible and transliterated in the Armenian version, e.g.
amēn ἀμήν, dabir δαβίρ ‘inner sanctum’, ep‘owd ἐφούδ ‘priestly garment’, etc. For ease of reference
the order of elements follows the Latin alphabet.
25 Cf. Alexanian (2012: 80).
52. manragor μανδραγόρας 76. sardion σάρδιον

53. margarit μαργαρίτης 77. sater/satr στατήρ
54. marmar- (marmareay) μάρμαρος 78. sikarean σικάριος
55. mekʻenay, menkʻenay μηχανή 79. sikɫ σίκλος
56. meɫrapop μηλοπέπων 80. skowtɫ σκουτέλλιον
57. mɫon μίλιον 81. šɫoros χλωρός
58. mnas μνᾶ(ς) 82. speɫani σπληνίον
59. moros μωρός 83. spowng σπόγγος
60. nardos νάρδος 84. sring σῦριγξ
61. neṙn Νέρων, -ωνος 85. stamokʻs στόμαχος
62. pʻegana(y)/pʻegenay πήγανον/ 86. stoman στάμνος
φαίκανον 87. tʻēatron θέατρον
63. pʻilon φελόνης/φαιλόνης 88. taɫand τάλαντον
64. Pʻiwnik Asori Συροφοινίκισσα 89. tartaros Τάρταρος
65. pʻiwnik Φοίνικες 90. tip* (tpaworem) τύπος
66. pʻoɫ φόλλις 91. titan Τιτάν
67. pʻos φόσσα 92. tokosikʻ τόκος
68. paɫatit παλάθη 93. toms τόμος
69. pandoki πανδοκεῖον 94. tpazion τοπάζιον
70. pentakostē πεντηκοστή 95. yakintʻ ὑάκινθος
71. pnak πίναξ, -ακος 96. yaspi/yaspis ἴασπις
72. poṙnik πορνή/πόρνος (πορνικός/-ή?) 97. Yisows Ἰησοῦς
73. pras πράσα 98. yovt ἰώτα
74. ṙetin ῥητίνη 99. zmelin σμιλίον
75. saɫmos ψαλμός
The representation of Greek vowels in loanwords in Armenian can be seen in the

following table. Due to lack of space the ensuing discussion will focus on some of
the more unusual correspondences.
Gk. Arm. exx.

α a 1-10, 12-13, 15, 17-21, 24, 26-36, 38, 41, 44, 46, 49-54, 58, 60,
62, 68-69, 71, 73, 75-78, 87-89, 94-96
ay 13, 49, 55, 62
e 55, 62
o 85, 86
ε e 4, 15, 16, 22, 61, 70

i 14, 63
a 6
ē 45, 87
o 56
η e 12, 21, 44, 55, 56, 62, 74, 77
ē 15, 20, 29, 37, 41, 43, 70
i 23, 97
iw 11
a 70, 82
υ i 26, 30, 39, 40, 90, 95
iw 24, 31, 41
o 7
ov 4
e 11
zero 84
o o 10, 14, 16, 18, 21, 22, 24, 31, 38, 39, 42, 46, 51, 52, 57, 59, 60,
66, 67, 69, 70, 75, 76, 81, 87, 89, 92-94
u/zero 94
ō / aw 40
ow 20, 83
a 56, 85, 86
ω ov 21, 26, 98
o 33, 38, 45, 49, 59, 60
ō 48
u/zero 61
ι i / y/_V 6, 7, 9, 13, 15, 16, 21, 34, 38, 46-48, 53, 65, 74, 76, 78, 79, 82,
84, 91, 94-99
ē 5, 23
e 99
zero 14, 25, 43, 57, 71
ου ow [u] 80, 97
ει i 8, 69
ευ iw/ew 26
οι iw 64, 65
αι ayi 18
ay 35
e 36
ια ea [ja] 50
3.1 α: ay
This correspondence seems to show that the Greek plural form was borrowed:
μηχαναί → me(n)k‘enay ‘machine(s); intrigues’. Hübschmann (1897: 365)
points out that the plural mek‘enayk‘ is more frequent than the singular, e.g. in
the Bible: 2× abl. sg. vs 6× acc. pl., 6× gen.dat.abl. pl., 3× instr.pl., 26× loc.
pl., which corresponds to a similar pattern in the Septuagint: μηχαναῖς (1×),
μηχανάς (11×), μηχανῶν (1×) vs μηχανήν (1×). However, the word has also
been borrowed into Syriac, cf. mʾknʾ, myknʾ,26 and Syriac words ending in -ā
are generally represented with an ending -ay in Armenian, cf. beside the exx.
mentioned in Section 1 (kʻahanay ʻpriestʼ, połotay ‘street’) forms like abeɫay
ʻ(unmarried) priestʼ ← Syr. abīlā ʻmonachus’ and zopay ʻhyssopʼ ← Syr. zōpā.
The same explanation probably applies to Mamonay beside Gk. Μαμμωνᾶ, the
name of a Syrian deity, cf. Syr. māmōnā ‘money, riches’, and to pʻegana(y)/pʻegenay
: Gk. πήγανον ‘rue, Ruta graveolens’ : Syr. piganā.27 There does not seem to be a
direct correspondence for didrakʻmay, Gk. δίδραχμα/δίδραγμον and its variants,
in Syriac, but in the light of the Syriac forms dydrkmwn /dīdrakmōn/, drhm,
drkmwn and drkms ‘drachma’, one may perhaps also suppose a form *dydrakmā
vel sim. borrowed into Armenian.
3.2 ε: e/i
Beside the regular correspondence Gk. /ε/ : Arm. /e/ found e.g. in episkopos
ἐπίσκοπος ‘bishop’, there are cases where a Greek /ε/ is represented as /i/ in
Armenian, cf. dstikon ← δίστεγον ‘of two stories, room on the upper floor’
(Acts 9.37, 20.9) and pʻilon ← φελόνης / φαιλόνης ‘cloak’ (2 Tim 4.13; Lat.
26 Cf. Butts (2016: 105). , see also Morani (2010: 153f.), Morani (2011: 132f.) who sides with
Hübschmann, pointing out (Eus., hapax) agonistayk' (Morani 2010: 164, 2011: 133) and siwłobay
< συλλαβαί, cf. Syr. sullāb(ā), unless -bay reflects a folk-etymological connection with bay ‘word’,
cf. also hegenay ‘syllable, alphabet’.
27Note the variety π. ὀρεινόν/ἄγριον ‘mountain rue, Ruta (c)halepensis’, ἀγριοπήγανον ‘Syrian
rue’.
paenula). In the first case, the loss of unstressed /i/ in the first syllable is regular in
Armenian (cf. Section 3.12), but the raising of /e/ to /i/ in the second syllable is
unexpected. Brixhe (1987: 53–54) has pointed out examples for a possibly closed
pronunciation of Greek /ε/ in ancient Anatolia, e.g. μηδίνα, οὐδίνα, ξενοδόχεν
= -ιν ← -ιον (cf. Section 3.12), ἑπό = ὑπό (implying <υ> /i/). It is noteworthy
that the words showing this feature belong to the everyday language as opposed
to words related to cult, religion and politics such as episkopos, hence this may be
a diastratic difference.
3.3 ε: a
For the correspondence argasikʻ ἐργασία ‘work’ one may compare the case of
Gk. ἐξορία ʻexileʼ, Arm. akʻsorkʻ / akʻsorankʻ (Buz), akʻsorem ʻto exileʼ (MX)
and Syr. ʼkswryʼ /ˀeksōrīā/, i.e. Syriac mediation is possible, cf. Syr.ʼergaṭā
‘ἐργάτης, operarius’.28 But also folk-etymology may have played a role, viz. a
connection of argasikʻ with Arm. -arg in y-argi ‘dear, expensive’, y-argoy ‘good’
(y- is the form of the preposition i ‘in’ before a vowel), an-arg ‘worthless’,29
since argasikʻ often means not any ‘work, deeds’, but ‘worthy, good deeds (of
the saints, etc.)’, cf.
(1) zargasisn bareacʻ azgin (3 Macc 3.4)

‘the deeds of goodness (=good deeds) for/of the people’ (performed by the
Jews)
(2) zbazmaxowṙn argaseōkʻ srbocʻn (Agath §898)

‘the many and various deeds of the saints’
(Thomson).30
3.4 η: ē/e/i
Gk. η is represented in words attested in the Armenian Bible as է <ē> (7×, type
kēt κῆτος), ե <e> (8×, type denar δηνάριον), and ի (2×). Armenian է <ē>
and ե <e> differ only in their degree of openness, in many instances the former
28 Greek words with initial spiritus lenis acquire a glottal stop in Syriac, cf. Butts (2016: 78).
29 Borrowed from Iranian, cf. Av. arǝg- ‘be worth’, MParth. ‘rg’w ‘noble, fine’.
30 Eznik uses argasikʻ in the neutral sense ‘result, product’, but this may be a semantic development
from ‘(good) deeds’ to their ‘fruits’.
represents an original diphthong *ei̯ (e.g. 3sg prs act PIE *-e-ti > *-e-i̯ i > *-ei̯ > -ē)
which might speak for its being more closed than ե <e>. The triple representation
of Gk. η could indicate different diastratic, diatopic and / or diachronic layers,
note e.g. Gk. κῆτος in Arm. ketos (Philo) and kitos (Alexander Romance) beside
kēt (gen. kiti) attested in the Bible. The latter form, however, is likely to be a
remodeling after the pattern of nouns with the productive change ē : i, cf. ēš, gen.
iši ‘donkey’, vēm, gen. vimi ‘stone’, mēg, gen. migi ‘cloud’, etc., hence the vowel in
kēt cannot be taken at face value as a representation of Gk. η.
Allen (1987: 74) argues that η began to move towards a closed /e/ and later
/i/ from the 2nd c. AD onwards, since confusion between the signs <η> and <ι>
begins around 150 AD in Attic inscriptions. Learned pronunciation may have
retained the value [ē] up to the 4th c., note that also in the Gothic Bible translation
from the 4th c. Gk. η is usually spelt <ē>. Thumb (1900: 395) lists 25 cases of η =
e vs 3 = ē, 6 = i for the 5th c., while in later times i prevails by a small margin. He
takes the Arm. spellings with <e> and <ē> vs as evidence that Armenians still
heard Gk. η as e-vowel in the 5th c., while would point to the pronunciation
of different regions. In fact, until the modern era the neighbouring Pontic dialects
have retained η as /e/ mostly in unstressed position while stressed ή has mostly
become /i/, e.g. ἠγάπησεν > /e'γapesen/ ‘(s)he loved’, but also /i-'ʃera/ < ἡ χήρα
‘the widow’.31 It is also noteworthy that some Greek inscriptions in Asia Minor
keep η apart from ι and ει = /i/, cf. e.g. from Ephesos, mid AD I, δηνάρια vs
χείλια, τειμαῖς.32 Words showing Gk. η as Arm. /i/ must then either have entered
Armenian at a later stage or from different regions with a more advanced vowel
system, e.g. Yisows (Ἰησοῦς), Grigor (Γρηγόριος, 5th c.), akowmit (ἀκοίμητος
‘sleepless’, 5th c., Koriwn 16.64 as a PN/epithet of Mesrop), dimos (δῆμος, 5th c.),
dimosakan ‘public’ (Koriwn 16.66), siwnkɫitos / sinkɫitos (σύγκλητος ‘senate,
senator’, Eɫišē [p. 72]; Syr. swnqlyṭws).
3.5 η: a
The apparent correspondence Gk. πεντηκοστή : Arm. pentakostē need not imply
a pronounciation of η different from those just discussed. Either pentakostē has
been analyzed as a compound in Armenian and got the Armenian compound
vowel -a- (cf. μηλοπέπων mełr-a-pop with folk-etymological adaptation to
mełr ‘honey’), or there was a Greek form *πεντακοστή built after forms such as
31 Cf. Drettas (1997: 98), Morani (2010: 160).

32 Cf. Kearsley (2001: 20).
τριάκοντα, τεσσαράκοντα, etc., cf. in papyri forms like πεντακαιδέκατον33 and

other compounds with πεντα- like πενταφυής ‘of five-fold nature’ (AP 7.383),
πεντάπους ‘five feet long’ for earlier πεντέπους, etc. The spelling <ντ> might
speak in favour of the latter explanation, cf. also Section 5.
3.6 η: iw?
a) βήρυλλος ‘beryl’ : Arm. biwreɫ is descriptively a case of metathesis,34 but since

Armenian has nouns in -iwɫ such as gewɫ ‘village’ and ewɫ ‘oil’, a form *beriwɫ
would probably be acceptable.35 Maybe analogy to biwr ‘10.000, countless’ has
played a role, although only circumstantial evidence can be given for this: i) beryls
occur in the Bible in lists of precious stones (e.g. Ezek 28.13), ii) in Armenian
folklore biwr occurs in an apparently formulaic phrase describing the price the
suitor has to pay for the bride, in MX 2.50 in the story of the wedding of Satʻinik,
princess of the Alans, and king Artašēs:
Ew owsti tacʻē kʻaǰn Artašēs hazars i hazaracʻ ew biwrs i biwrowcʻ ǝnd

kʻaǰazgwoy koys ōriordis Alanacʻ
‘And whence will brave king A. give thousands upon thousands and ten
thousands upon ten thousands for this brave girl of the Alans?’36
iii) The marriage ceremony includes pearls:
Teł oski tełayr i pʻesayowtʻeann Artašisi, tełayr margarit i harsnowtʻean

Satʻinkann
‘A shower of gold rained at the wedding of Artašēs, it rained pearls at Satʻinik’s
wedding.’
Biwreł for *beriwł may thus have been understood as the ‘pearl worth 10.000
(other pearls vel sim.)’, the ending -eł may have been identified with the suffix
33 Upz 2 180, Hermonthis, 113 BC.

34Cf. Hübschmann (1897: 331 “Umstellung von Vokalen”), Olsen (1999: 407, 923). The NBHL
quotes one passage for the transliteration beriwł only (Oskek‘arn ew beriwłn. Brs. aṙ ǝnč‘ełs.).
35 There do not seem to be other phonologically similar nouns for precious stones that might have
triggered the metathesis. Syriac has blwrʼ /belurā/, brwlʼ /berulā/, brwlḥ(ā) /brulḥā/, but no form
with /u…e/, cf. also MP bylwr /bēlūr/, NP bilūr/bulūr, cf. Ciancaglini (2008: 128–129).
36 Cf. e.g. in Homer Il. 16.190 μυρία ἕδνα ‘ten thousand/ numberless wedding gifts’.
-eł used to derive adjectives from nouns, e.g. ah ‘fear’ → aheł ‘fearful, terrible’.37
b) Another instance seems to be Gk. θηριακή ‘antidote (against snake
poison)’: beside the near transliteration tʻer(i)akē there is also tʻiwrakē. The form
tʻeriakē closer to the Greek original is attested in Eznik (64.2), whereas the
variant with unexpected iw occurs e.g. in the Bowzandaran Patmowtʻiwnkʻ (5.24),
a collection of originally epic tales, which may speak for tʻiwrakē as a vernacular
form. A possible model for a folk-etymological remodelling could be the adjective
tʻiwr ‘slanted, twisted’, from which tʻiwrem ‘to turn aside, bend’38 is derived. The
‘antidote’ tʻiwrakē could have been understood as ‘turning away, bending away
the poison’.39
An alternative interpretation of the correspondence η : iw would be that
after early loanwords with Gk. υ [y] were written with <iw> as an approximation
of both the fronted and labial features of [y], Gk. υ changed to [i], but the
spelling <iw> was maintained in Armenian and could then also be used for η [e]
moving towards [i], similar to the Gk. spelling ἑπό for ὑπό quoted in Section
3.2. In this case, however, one would probably expect more cases of <iw> for
Gk. <η>.40
3.7 υ: i/iw
By the time of the borrowing Gk. υ was probably pronounced as /i/ in the following
cases: kʻɫamid χλαμυδ-, ew/iwrakiklovn *εὐρακύκλων (beside v.l. -kokłovn with
assimilation), kipros κύπρος. In yakintʻ [ja-] from ὑάκινθος prevocalic /i/ has
become /j/ in Armenian. In sring σῦριγξ we see the regular syncope of pretonic
/i/ in Armenian as in inherited words, cf. sirt ‘heart’ : gen. srti [sǝrt'i], so this
presupposes a pronunciation /siring/ as input form (cf. Section 3.12).
Allen (1987: 67–69) assumes that Gk. υ was still pronounced /y/ in the 4th
c., as e.g. Wulfila found it necessary to adopt the Greek letter in transcribing the
υ of Greek words. Confusion between υ and ι is found in Egyptian papyri of the
37 Cf. Olsen (1999: 405–407).

38 In Modern Eastern Armenian tʻiwrel ‘to slant, pervert’.
39 Cf. also Ps 17.27 ǝnd ǝntrealsn ǝntreal ełicʻes, ew |ənd tʻiwreloyn tʻiwrescʻis| “With the pure
thou wilt shew thyself pure; and with the froward thou wilt shew thyself froward.” (KJV) Note the
v.l. |ztʻewrsn korcanescʻes| ‘and you will destroy the crooked’.
40Cf. Morani (2010: 158f.), who takes <iw> in t'iwrakē to be a hypercorrection. Brockelmann
(1893: 38) proposed a sound change *e > iw /__r, but then one would expect Ἡρωδ- to result in
*Hiwrovd- and Νέρων in *Niwṙn.
2nd/3rd c., which may be a regional peculiarity (as Allen supposes), whereas the
Byzantine naming of the letter ὐ ψιλόν ‘simple υ’ contrasts it with the diphthong
οι which had become /y/, too. This would imply that in some varieties of Greek,
υ maintained its pronunciation as /y/ until the end of the 1st millenium. This
ambiguity is reflected in the Gk. loanwords in Armenian, too, as beside the
“regular” correspondence with /i/ we also find words with the digraph <iw>
apparently used as an approximation to Gk. /y/, cf. hiwpatos ὕπατος ‘consul’
(beside hipat[os]) (1 Macc 15.16), kiwrakē κυριακή ‘sunday’ (later form kirakē)
and kʻriwsoprasōs χρυσόπρασος ‘chrysoprase [LSJ: a precious stone of golden-
green colour]’. Thumb (1900: 397) counts both 14 cases of <iw> and 14 of for
Gk. <υ> in 5th c. Armenian texts and therefore rejects the idea of a chronological
layering and assumes diatopic differences. Alternatively, these might be learned
/ high register (/iw/) vs low register variants (/i/) or the contrast iw / i might
pace Thumb reflect diachronic differences: the Greek term for the Roman consul,
ὕπατος, attested at least since Polybius [200–118 BC], may be a loanword dating
from the earliest contacts of speakers of Armenian with the Roman empire (cf.
Section 2). It is unlikely that hiwpatos is only a transliteration, as i) it is inflected
in Armenian, cf. the loc. in -oǰ in i hi(w)patoǰn ‘under the consulate of x’, and ii)
serves as the basis for derivatives, cf. hiwpatikʻ (tal hiwpatis ‘to make somebody
consul’), hiwpatosakan ‘ὑπατικός’, hiwpatosowtʻiwn ‘consulate’ and the collective
form hiwpatean ‘the (class of ) consuls’ (MX 2.50).41 Both facts speak for a
certain degree of integration. So between the second half of the 1st c. BC and
the first half of the 5th c. AD, the date of the Armenian Bible translation, Gk. υ
was pronounced /y/ by those speakers who came into contact with speakers of
Armenian.
3.8 υ: o
A troublesome case is Arm. asori (gen. -woy) ‘Syrian’ beside Gk. Ἀσσύριος. The
Armenian form cannot be borrowed directly from Syr. suryōyō or suryā. Olsen
(1999: 923) tentatively explains the difference between Gk. υ and Arm. o as a case
of dissimilatory umlaut in Armenian, *asuri > asori. An alternative account might
start from the fact that in Eastern Syriac /u/ becomes /o/ in stressed closed and
open unstressed syllables, cf. neqṭól ‘he kills’ < *naqṭúl, kositā ‘hood’ < *kusi̯ etā.42
Hence, there may have been an Eastern Syriac pronunciation of the Greek form
41 See NBHL s.v.; cf. also sikarean in Section 4.

42 Cf. Brockelmann (1965: 31), Butts (2016: 89).
Asúr.ios as Asorios which was borrowed as Arm. Asori. Contrived as this might
seem, there is a form Ἀσοραιος in a Greek inscription from Palmyra (‘sry and
‘srw in the Palmyrene version), dated to 147 AD, which could show such a
pronunciation of Greek Ἀσσυρ-.43
3.9 o: o/u
Beside the correspondence o : o found in pandoki πανδοκεῖον ‘inn’, dstikon

δίστεγον, etc., Arm. spowng from Gk. σπόγγος ‘sponge’44 may either speak
for a closed pronunciation of Gk. /o/, cf. for Asia Minor Greek forms like
Ποστόμω for Lat. Postumus, τὴν στουάν (στοάν), διαφέροσα (διαφέρουσα),
τῶτο (τοῦτο),45 or for an Armenian sound change o > u /_N, which would be
a repetition of the same process in Proto-Armenian (cf. hown ‘ford’ < *pontos).
Tpazion from τοπάζιον ‘topaz’ seems to imply an intermediate form *tupazion,
probably showing *o > *u before the labial stop, followed by regular reduction of
pretonic /u/.46
3.10 ι: i/ē/e
As in the case of yakintʻ : ὑάκινθος (cf. Section 3.7) prevocalic Gk. ι is rendered
as /j/ in Arm. yaspi(s) ἴασπις. The aberrant pair apʻsē ἀψίς ‘bowl’ (OT 3×)47
43 Cf. Gawlikowski (1970: 65–66), Hillers/Cussini (1996: 238), Brock (1975: 83). Brockelmann
(1893: 12) assumes an early borrowing with Gk. <υ> as /u/ lowered to /o/ __/r/ in Armenian, but
the Gk. shift of /u/ > /y/ is probably pre-5th c. BC (cf. Allen 1987: 65–67) and there is no other
evidence for such early Gk. loanwords in Armenian.
44Gen. spowngi, spngi, spngoy (Matt 27.48, Mark 15.36, John 19.29); Syr. (‘)spwg’. The word also
occurs as an “inherited” substrate word in Armenian as sownk, sowng ‘mushroom, cork-tree’, cf. Lat.
fungus ‘mushroom, sea-, tree-mushroom, mushroom-like ulcer’.
45 Cf. Brixhe (1987: 55–56).
46 Cf. also Thumb (1900: 394). Clackson (2020) has pointed out instances of Gk. /ο/ apparently
represented as Arm. /a/, e.g. in the inscription of Tekor (late 5th c., cf. Greenwood 2004: 80)
episkaposi and kat'ałikosowt'ean (unless the latter is a case of assimilation, cf. also the variant
kat'owłikos). This could reflect an inner-Armenian sound change of /o/ > /a/, the conditions of
which are, however, disputed; cf. also Weitenberg (1993) on kat'ałikos in the Lazarean gospel ms.
and forms in modern Armenian dialects continuing kat'ał-, and Karst (1901: 57) on the dialect of
Akǝn (t'anir ‘oven’ < Cl. Arm. t'onir, maxir ‘ash’ < Cl. Arm. moxir, etc.).
47 Num 4.7 acc.pl. zapʻsēsn, 1 Esdr 2.13 nom.pl. apʻsēkʻ, 4(2) Ki 25.15 acc.pl. zapʻseaysn which may
reflect a secondary plural stem *apʻseaykʻ, cf. zkatsaysn ‘the pots, cauldrons’ (nom. sg. kat[ʻ]say) in the
verse preceding this hapax in the Bible and the small group of collectives in -eay: andeay ‘herd of cattle’,
may reflect an early Gk. morphological change from a stem in -ιδ- to one in
-η common in later medieval Greek, cf. Gl. Laod. (9th c.) 117.2 ἡ διάλυση for
διάλυσις, Hermen. Vat. πελάμη ‘tunny’ for πελαμίς.48 Himēn ἡμίνα ‘half ’ and
zmelin σμιλίον ‘scalpel, knife’ could point to a lowered pronunciation of Gk. /i/.
3.11 Diphthongs
Beside the unremarkable correspondences of the earlier diphthong ου : ow

[u] (skowtɫ σκουτέλλιον ‘dish’49) and of ει : i showing well established itacism
(pandoki πανδοκεῖον ‘inn’, baɫanikʻ βαλανεῖον ‘bath’), Arm. iwrakiklovn for
an otherwise unattested Gk. *εὐρακυκλων (cf. Section 5) seems to show that
Gk. ευ was still a diphthong [eu̯], not [ev] with a fricative, since iw is likely
to have been [iu̯] or, as in Modern Armenian, [ju].50 The correspondence οι :
iw (Συροφοινίκισσα Pʻiwnik Asori [Mark 7.26], pʻiwnik Φοίνικες) implies a
pronunciation of <οι> as monophthong [y], since Arm. <iw> also represents Gk.
<υ>, while Arm. <oy> was probably [oj] (Modern Eastern Armenian [uj]). The
change of Gk. [oi] to [y] seems to have started in Attic in the late 1st c. AD, cf.
ανυγησεται for ἀνοιγήσεται (SEG 21.500) and from ca. 240 AD ποιανεψιωνα
for πυαν°.51 On αι : ay in one of the earliest loanwords kaysr Καῖσαρ beside the
later form kesar (MX 2.18, etc.) cf. Section 2. The spelling <ayi> in gayison γαῖσον
(/-ος) ‘javelin’ is unexpected, since <ayi> usually renders Gk. <αϊ>, cf. mayis
μάϊος ‘May’, Trayianos Τραϊανός, etc. The diphthong of the originally Celtic or
Germanic word (cf. OIr. gae, Gaulish PN Gaeso-rix, OE gār, etc.)52, borrowed
into Latin as gaesum, could have been spelt simply as <ay> in Armenian, or, if
the borrowing occurred later, as <e> as in kesar. Arm. gayison occurs 3×, only
in the book of Joshua, in the chapter about the fall of the city of Ai, Γαι in the
Septuagint53 and Gay in the Armenian version, cf.
aɫxamaɫxeay ‘multitude, variety of goods’, arowarjaneaykʻ ‘neighbourhood, neighbouring villages’.

48 Cf. Dieterich (1898: 161), Thumb (1900: 425). Olsen (1999: 923) suggests that the Armenian
form is based on the plural, but ἀψίδες would probably not be borrowed as Arm. apʻsē. The change
in inflectional class probably became viable with the shift of η to /i/.
49 Note that Armenian uses the digraph ow following the model of Gk. ου.
50 [ev] would probably have been spelt <եվ> <ev>.
51 Cf. Allen (1987: 81).
52 Cf. Matasović (2009: 154).
53 Γ- reflects the Hebrew article (hā-‘āy).
(5) Ew asē Tēr cʻYesow. Jgea zjeṙn kʻo gayisonawd or i jeṙin kʻowm i veray
kʻałakʻin, zi i jeṙs kʻo matnecʻi zna … ew jgeacʻ Yesow zgayisonn ew zjeṙs
iwr i veray kʻałakʻin (Josh 8.18).
LXX: καὶ εἶπεν κύριος πρὸς Ἰησοῦν Ἔκτεινον τὴν χεῖρά σου ἐν τῷ γαίσῳ τῷ
ἐν τῇ χειρί σου ἐπὶ τὴν πόλιν εἰς γὰρ τὰς χεῖράς σου παραδέδωκα αὐτήν …
καὶ ἐξέτεινεν Ἰησοῦς τὴν χεῖρα αὐτοῦ, τὸν γαῖσον, ἐπὶ τὴν πόλιν
‘Then the Lord said to Joshua, ‘Stretch out the javelin that is in your hand
toward Ai, for I will give it into your hand.’ … And Joshua stretched out the
javelin that was in his hand toward the city.’
(6) Ew Yesow očʻ darjoycʻ zjeṙn iwr zor jgeacʻ gayisonawn minčʻew
nzoveacʻ zamenayn bnakičʻsn Gayacʻwocʻ (Josh 8.26).
‘And Joshua did not take back his hand which he had stretched out with his
spear, until he had killed all the inhabitants of Ai.’
The connection established in this story about lifting the javelin (γαῖσον) and
the destruction of the city of (G)Ai may have led the translator(s) to introduce
a paretymological connection between the two words and to note this by an
explicit spelling of the diphthong as <ai> with <y> marking the transitional glide,
i.e. ga(y)i-son as the annihilator of Gay and its inhabitants, the Gay-acʻikʻ. In
contrast to this, the other attestation of γαῖσον in the Septuagint is translated
with Arm. nizak ‘spear’, cf.
(7) Zi ahawasik asorestaneayn … yowsacʻan i nizaks ew i spaṙazinowtʻiwns

(Jdt 9.7[6]).
= *ἰδοὺ γὰρ Ἀσσύριοι … ἤλπισαν ἐν δόρατι καὶ ἐν πανοπλίᾳ
LXX: ἰδοὺ γὰρ Ἀσσύριοι … ἤλπισαν ἐν ἀσπίδι καὶ ἐν γαίσῳ
‘Look upon the Assyrians … they have trusted [Arm.:] in their spears and their
full armour / [Sept.:] in their shield and spear.’
This makes it likely that in Joshua gayison next to Gay is an intentional pun and
that the “plene” spelling <ayi> was chosen to ensure the assonance of the two terms.
In turn, this implies that at the time of the translation the original diphthong of
Graeco-Latin γαῖσον/gaesum had already been monophthongized to /e/.
3.12 Syncope
Syncope of /o/ in the final syllables /ios, ion/ is attested in Greek from the 3rd c.
BC onward,54 e.g. in Asia Minor τὸ ἐράριν ʻtreasuryʼ from Lat. aerarium,55 cf. the
loanword Arm. zmelin* (Jer 36.26 zmelinaw) ‘penknife’ from σμιλί(ο)ν. Inner-
Armenian changes are (a) syncope of vowels in final syllables (or of the whole final
syllable) outside this context, cf. stamok‘s ← στόμαχος (1.Tim.5.23 gen. stamokʻsi;
Eznik §257 abl. i stamoksʻē), toms ← τόμος ʻscroll, tableʼ (Jes 8.1), koms (Agath
§37) ← κόμης ← Lat. comes, stikʻs (also stikʻ, stiwkʻs; John Chrys.) ← στίχος/
στοιχεῖον ‘row, element’56 and (b) syncope of /i, u/ due to the inner-Armenian
reduction of unstressed vowels, cf. dstikon* δίστεγον, hndik ἰνδικός, krkēs
κιρκήσιον, mɫon μίλιον, pnak* πίναξ, -ακος, sring σῦριγξ, tpazion τοπάζιον.57
Beside the learned form t‘ēatron θέατρον there is t‘atr (John Chrys., Euseb.) with
loss of /ē/ and the ending (cf. Modern Eastern Armenian t‘atr, t‘atron).
3.13 Summary
The preceding survey allows the following tentative conclusions regarding the
pronunciation of the variety/-ies of Greek that Armenian borrowed from:
ε was a closed vowel spelt Arm. , cf. dstikon, pʻilon.
η shows three reflexes from open to closed vowel: <e>, <ē>, , probably
reflecting diatopic and diachronic differences. There is no good evidence for η
represented phonologically as Arm. iw.
υ was /y/ at the time of the earliest borrowings such as hiwpatos and kiwrakē,
later /i/.
υ represented as Arm. o is probably due to Syriac influence.
o was perhaps rather closed, especially in labial and nasal context, cf. tpazion
< *tupaz-, spowng ← σπόγγος.
54 Cf. Horrocks (2014: 175).

55 Laodicaea, second half of 2nd c. AD, cf. Kearsley (2001: 70). Cf. also ξενοδόχεν in Section 3.2.
56 Cf. Thumb (1900: 415–428) for the distribution of borrowings with (41) and without (38)
Greek endings. Stressed final vowels tend to be retained. The hierarchy of resistence to deletion is
(from most to least resistant) ο → η → α → ι. Final unstressed /i/ is also deleted in Northern Greek
and Pontos dialects, cf. from the latter /'treʃ/ ‘run.3sg’ < τρέχει (Drettas 1997: 62), /'fer/ ‘carries’ <
φέρει, /'arθop/ < ἄνθρωποι (id. 97).
57 Hübschmann (1897: 330) objects that there are more loanwords not showing this feature,
but at least for the Bible the numbers are rather even and words without syncope appear to be
cultisms such as episkopos and titan, i.e. lack of syncope may be a diastratic feature (cf. furthermore
didrak‘may, kinamom, libanos, sikarean). This may also apply to K‘ristos, gen. K'ristosi which should
be *K‘rstosi: the name/title may continually have been reborrowed from Greek (cf. episkopos), cf.
against this neṙn with syncope of the last vowel, morphological integration and semantic change.
ι is sometimes reflected as Arm. <e> which seems to speak for an approximation

of /i/ and /e/, cf. ε.
ει = [i], itacism was established at the time of the borrowing.
αι = [aj] in earliest loanwords, later [e].
οι = [y]
syncope in final syllables in Greek: zmelin, Armenian syncope of unstressed
/i, u/: mɫon, krkēs, sring
4 Inflexion
A detailed discussion of how Greek loanwords are integrated into the Armenian
inflexional classes can be found in Thumb (1900: 421–428). Both (a) phonological
and (b) semantic triggers are relevant, e.g. (a) for words ending in /r/ in Greek
or due to apocope of the ending in Armenian, inflection as a consonant stem
becomes available, cf. kaysr, gen. kayser, and skowtł, gen. skteł, like e.g. inherited
dowstr, gen. dster ‘daughter’, and astł, gen. asteł ‘star’. In akaṙn ‘citadel, tower’ (9×,
only in Macc) it seems that the Gk. accusative ἄκραν was borrowed and served
as basis for the inflexion as n-stem (gen.dat.abl.pl akaṙanc‘).58 (b) Episkopos can
inflect as an a-, i- and n-stem, the latter in the plural like erēcʻ ‘priest’. The model
for both may have been mianjn ‘monk’, derived from anjn ‘self, soul, person’, i.e.
‘one person (only)’ translating Gk. μοναχός, cf. the plural forms mianjownkʻ,
ericʻownkʻ and episkoposownkʻ.
The unexpected suffix -ean in Arm. sikarean ‘murderer’ (Acts 21.38) beside
Gk. σικάριος (← Lat. sīcārius; cf. sīca ‘curved dagger’) has been explained as a
rendering of Gk. -ιος/ν,59 for which there are no further examples, cf. e.g. in
contrast to this tpazion and zmelin. It may be relevant that sikarean occurs in the
plural and refers to a group of people:
(8) mi ardewkʻ՝ do՞w icʻes egiptacʻin, or yaṙaǰ kʻan zays awowrs

apstambecʻowcʻer ew haner yanapat čʻors hazars ars՝ sikareans։ (Acts 21.38)
οὐκ ἄρα σὺ εἶ ὁ Αἰγύπτιος ὁ πρὸ τούτων τῶν ἡμερῶν ἀναστατώσας καὶ
ἐξαγαγὼν εἰς τὴν ἔρημον τοὺς τετρακισχιλίους ἄνδρας τῶν σικαρίων;
58 Cf. also Morani (2010: 164). Differently Hübschmann (1897: 339) who proposes ἄκρα →
*akaṙ + article -n, but there do not seem to be more instances of such a development. Arm. ṙ
regularly replaces r before n and word-initially (cf. neṙn, poṙnik, ṙetin).
59 Cf. Olsen (1999: 385), Thumb (1900: 435).
‘Are you not the Egyptian, then, who recently stirred up a revolt and led the
four thousand men of the Assassins out into the wilderness?’
The suffix -ean originally forms patronymics (‘son of x’), but already in Classical
Armenian may designate general family relationship and membership in a
class of people, e.g. epikowreancʻ (Acts 17.18) ‘of the Epicureans’.60 The typical
appearance of the σικάριοι as a group may thus have triggered the replacement
of -ιος by Arm. -ean.
5 Lexicon
The final question to be addressed is whether the Armenian data allow the
reconstruction of Greek words not attested elsewhere, cf. the discussion of
pentakostē (Section 3.5). A case in point is iwrakiklovn (Acts 27.14) ‘[a wind]’
corresponding to εὐρακύλων (v.l. εὐροκλύδων) in the Gk. NT: it seems
reasonable to assume an influence of κύκλος in the sense of ‘whirlwind’,61 i.e.
*εὐρακύκλων, but impossible to decide whether this form is a unique creation of
the Armenian translator(s), as Thumb (1900: 442) supposes, or a form known also
outside this circle. Dstikon* ‘upper chamber’ (Acts 9.37 -i, 20.9 -ē) vs δίστεγον
probably presupposes a form *δίστεχος/ν due to influence of δίστοιχος ‘in two
rows’ and/or δίστιχος ‘id.’, lapter ‘lamp’ vs λαμπτήρ a form *λαπτήρ with loss of
the nasal /_labial in Greek,62 since -mp(t)- is not generally replaced with -p(t)- in
Armenian, cf. kampʻsak (-i) ‘cruse’ ~ καμψάκης.63 Similarly, kʻaradr (Lev 11. 19)
/ kʻaɫadr (Deut 14.18) ‘[name of a bird]’ beside Gk. χαραδριός, may have been
dissimilated in Armenian, but there is a name of a community in Elis, Χαλάδρα/
Χάλαδρος,64 which is likely to be derived from the same base, χαράδρα f. ‘dry
bed of a mountain river, ravine’, cf. χέραδος n. ‘debris, rubble’, Myc. ka-ra-do-ro.
This makes the existence of a Gk. form *χαλαδριός at least possible.
60 Cf. Olsen (1999: 385).

61 Cf. the modern creation cyclone (Piddington 1848+).
62 As in e.g. ἀντιλα[μ]βανομένου, Mayser (1923: 190), πέ[μ]πτῳ, Gignac (1976: 117).
63Note also the variant καψάκης (Lat. capsaces) borrowed as Arm. kapʻsak (Anania Širakacʻi 31.3;
34.8).
64 Cf. Schwyzer (1923: 214, 415).
6 Summary
In some cases the representation of Greek vowels in Armenian loanwords seems

to be close to that of Greek inscriptions in Asia Minor from the 1st c. AD
onward, excepting official terms like episkopos. The consonants seem to be more
conservative, if indeed fricatives were already established in the region in the
5th c. This may reflect a learned pronunciation. As will have become obvious in
the preceding discussion, one should always consider possible Iranian and Syriac
influence as intermediate languages for Greek (and Latin) elements in Armenian.
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Tribulato, Olga. 2012. Language and linguistic contact in ancient Sicily. Cambridge:
Weitenberg, Jos J. S. 1993. On the interpretation of postclassical Armenian
linguistic data. In Henning Lehmann, J. J. S. Weitenberg (eds.), Armenian
texts: tasks and tools, 65–74. Aarhus: Aarhus Univ. Press.
Interaction between Greek and Neo-Phrygian in

bilingual funerary epigrams from Eastern Phrygia
under the Roman Empire1
Elisa Nuria Merisio
1 Introduction
The Phrygian language belongs to the Indo-European family and it is particularly

close to the Greek and Thracian languages; it is commonly agreed that its native
speakers migrated from the Balkans and from northern Greece to Asia Minor
at a very early date, probably at the end of the Bronze Age.2 At present two
different chronological variants of Phrygian are known: Palaeo-Phrygian and
Neo-Phrygian. Palaeo-Phrygian was based on an alphabetic script, many letters
of which are similar to those of the Proto-Greek alphabet and it was the language
of the palatial society that expanded around the city of Gordion. The relevant
inscriptions attest to a use of the script for very different purposes (religious,
political, funerary and graffiti).3 The earliest documents written in this language
date back to 740 BC whereas it seems to disappear after the early 3rd century
BC. Afterwards no local language is attested in Phrygia for 300 years, that is
until the 1st century AD, when the Phrygian language reappears in a new variant
written in the Greek alphabet, known as Neo-Phrygian. So far 129 Neo-Phrygian
inscriptions have been published; approximately half of them are bilingual
Phrygian-Greek documents, the rest being monolingual documents and a few
ambiguous inscriptions.4 All of them are funerary inscriptions and, except for
very few documents, they coincide with curses on grave robbers. The last Neo-
Phrygian documents have been dated to the 3rd century AD.5
1 I would like to thank the anonymous reviewer for his or her valuable comments and suggestions
that helped improving the quality of this paper.
2 Brixhe (2002: 246–247) and Brixhe (2008: 69); Roller (2011: 560–561).
3 Roller (2011: 565–566).
4 See, most recently, Anfosso (2017: 11); in n. 11 an exhaustive list is provided that includes all the
inscriptions published over the last few years.
5 Brixhe (2002: 248).
158 MERISIO, Interaction between Greek and Neo-Phrygian
While the Palaeo-Phrygian texts have been found in a number of sites

scattered across a wide territory which probably corresponded to the Phrygian
monarchy’s sphere of influence,6 the Neo-Phrygian inscriptions come from a
much smaller area covering north-eastern Phrygia and the borders with Galatia
and Lycaonia.7 One of the most interesting aspects of Neo-Phrygian documents
is their being mostly Greek-Phrygian bilingual texts. In this paper the focus will
be on two funerary verse inscriptions from the area of Amorion, a city located
in central-eastern Phrygia that underwent a process of widespread Romanisation
from the early Imperial period owing to the large number of Roman veterans who
settled there.8 The above inscriptions have been selected among many bilingual
Greek and Neo-Phrygian inscriptions because, to my knowledge, they are the
only two surviving examples of Greek metrical inscriptions followed by a curse
written in the Neo-Phrygian language. In this paper the relationship between
the two languages will be examined along with their respective functions in the
society that produced them.
2 The funerary epigram for Symphonos and Prima
The first inscription is an epigram made up of two elegiac couplets dedicated

to a man named Symphonos and to his wife Prima.9 The dedicator of both the
6 Since the publication of a corpus of Palaeo-Phrygian inscriptions by Claude Brixhe and Michel
Lejeune (1984), new findings have expanded the territory under Phrygian influence as far as
Dorylaion in the north and central Lycia in the south; as far as Uşak (Temenothyrai) and beyond, as
far as the middle course of the river Hermos and Thyateira in Lydia in the west; as far as Daskyleion
in Mysia and Vezirhan in Bithynia, close to the river Sangarius, in the north-west and Tyana in
Cappadocia in the east; see Brixhe (2002: 247–248) and Brixhe (2008: 70–71).
7In particular, the area where the Neo-Phrygian inscriptions known so far have been found is
bounded by Eskişehir (ancient Dorylaion) to the north, by the northern coast of lake Tatta (modern
Tuz Gölü) in Galatia to the east, by the towns of Konya (ancient Ikonium) and Ladik (ancient
Laodikeia Katakekaumene) to the south and by the territory of Dinar (ancient Apameia) to the
west; see Brixhe (2002: 248) and Brixhe (2008: 71).
8 Broughton (1959: 703).
9 Brixhe and Drew-Bear (1997: 98–101) = SEG 47.1725 = SGO 16/43/02. Photographic
reproductions of the inscription are included in Brixhe and Drew-Bear (1997: 99–101, figures
18–21).
monument and the inscription is the couple’s son Eutaktos. The inscription is
engraved on a marble block vertically split into two pieces. Each piece contains
a section of the epigram, which is engraved above a central listel. The breaking
of the block has cut each verse of the epigram almost in half, thereby causing the
loss of a few letters in the central part. The layout of the text is quite refined, with
the pentameters in eisthesis. The monument has been dated much later than the
early 3rd century AD.10 Two garlands are sculpted in high relief on the left and
right sides of the listel and on the right section of the block, in the space between
the central listel and the garland on the right, a Neo-Phrygian curse formula is
partially preserved. The text of the inscription is quoted below.
1–2 1 Σύμφωνος Πρεῖμ[α τ᾽ Ἀ]/ρ̣ούντιοι ἐνθάδε κεῖνται |

3–4 2 v οὓς κτερίσας μ[. . ./. . .] τῇδε κόνει πέτασεν |
5–6 3 Εὔτακτος υἱὸς ἄρι̣[στο]/ς̣ ἑο̣ὺ̣ς γ̣ονέας προπόλοιο |
7–8 4 v τειμήσας τειμα̣[ῖς μ]/ν̣η̣μοσύνης ἕνεκεν.
5–8 ιος νι σε[μουν κνου]μα|6νει κακ[ουν αδ]δ[ακ]ετ |7

τιε τιτ τετικμενος |8 ειτ[ου].
1 Πρεῖμα l. Πρῖμα Ἀ]/ρούντιοι Brixhe – Drew-Bear Ἀρ]/ρούντιοι Merkelbach –

Stauber 2 μ[όνος] Pleket (SEG, app.) μ[οῦνος] Herrmann (SEG, app.) fortasse
μ[άκαρας] Brixhe – Drew-Bear puncto distinxerunt post πέτασεν 3 ἄρι[στο]
ς Brixhe – Drew-Bear; Merkelbach – Stauber ε . . στο νέας Brixhe – Drew-Bear;
Merkelbach – Stauber 4 τειμήσας τειμαῖς l. τιμήσας τιμαῖς.
5–8 Brixhe – Drew-Bear suppleverunt.
10 Brixhe and Drew-Bear (1997: 100).

The nomen Ἀ(ρ)ρούντιοι11 and the names Σύμφωνος12 and Εὔτακτος13 seem
to point to a family of freedmen, but it remains a matter for conjecture. The
presence of the poetic term πρόπολος could suggest that one or more members
of the family served as ministers of a deity at a local shrine. The lacunae in the
central part of the verses have been variously restored by the previous editors: at
v. 1, considering the small size of the lacuna, I agree with the restoration proposed
by Brixhe and Drew-Bear, which features only one ρ in Ἀ(ρ)ρούντιοι, since the
spelling of this name is not uniform in epigraphic documents;14 moreover, the
simplification of geminates occurred very frequently in Asia Minor during the
Imperial period.15 At v. 3 the restorations proposed by Pleket and Herrmann
look unconvincing; the adjective μάκαρας may be a possible alternative since
it is associated with deceased individuals in other inscriptions found in an area
neighbouring the one where this epigram was discovered, even though it is always
inserted in a specific formulaic structure that is missing in this instance.16 At v.
3 the restoration ἄριστος referred to the son who erected the monument looks
11 This Roman nomen gentilicium was rather widespread in Asia Minor; for a survey of its attestations
in both Greek and Latin inscriptions, see Christol and Drew-Bear (1986: 57–59). The two scholars
maintain that the spread of this nomen is related to either a family of Italian immigrants or to some
Arruntii belonging to the senatorial order who served as consuls between the late 1st century BC
and the early 1st century AD; see Christol and Drew-Bear (1986: 58–59, n. 77).
12 This name is unattested elsewhere in Phrygia and it is seldom attested in other areas of the
Greek-Roman world: in a honorary inscription from Bithynia dated after AD 212 (I.Prusias 8,
I.37: Κλαύδιος Σύμφωνος is included among the names of the dedicators); in an inscription from
Lydia dated to AD 259/60 where it is the name of one of the two artisans who carved the stele
(Akkan and Malay [2007: 19–20, no. 4, l. 19]) and in a list of names of members of a Dionysian
thiasus inscribed on the base of a statue dedicated to the priestess Agrippinilla (IGUR I 160, II.B.9;
dated to the mid-2nd century AD). It is perhaps a name denoting servile status that is based on an
adjective expressing a positive quality (σύμφωνος meaning ‘harmonious’). Its feminine equivalent
exists too; see Brixhe and Drew-Bear (1997: 100, n. 57).
13The name Εὔτακτος was rather widespread in Asia Minor; it too is a name based on an adjective
that indicates positive qualities (it literally means ‘disciplined’). Originally it was perhaps typical of
people of servile status but in the Imperial period it spread to other social classes as well; see Firatli
and Robert (1964: 161–162).
14 Brixhe and Drew-Bear (1997: 100, n. 63).
15 Brixhe (1987: 32–33).
16 Cf. SGO 16/41/03 (Phrygian Highlands, n.d.): το[ύτ]ους ὡς μάκαρας λι[τὴ σορὸς ἐνθάδ’
ἔκ]ε̣υσεν (v. 6); 16/41/04 (Phrygian Highlands, n.d.): τούτους ὡ⟨ς⟩ μάκαρας ἡρ|ῷ[ον] ἐνθάδ’
ἔκευσεν (v. 6); 16/41/05 (Phrygian Highlands, Christian): τούτους ὡς μάκαρας λιτὴ σορὸς
ἐνθά⟨δε⟩ κεῦ⟨σ⟩ε (v. 5).
convincing, whereas ε . . στο νέας προπόλοιο – as restored by Brixhe and Drew-

Bear and accepted by Merkelbach and Stauber – should be emended to read ἑο̣ὺ̣ς
γ̣ονέας προπόλοιο, which is more convincing from a palaeographic point of view
and makes more sense in this context.17 Broadly speaking, the epigram is written
in high poetic Greek, as a term like πρόπολος18 and the Homeric verb κτερίζω19
show. It is worth mentioning a peculiar use of the verb πετάννυμι, ‘to lay on [on
the ground]’ in this instance (v. 2) – further examples of this use of the verb
in funerary inscriptions do not seem to be attested – and the figura etymologica
τειμήσας τειμαῖς.20 Generally speaking, the metric pattern is respected.21
17 In the two previous editions προπόλοιο was deliberately coupled with νέας to mean ‘of the young
minister’ and Merkelbach and Stauber assumed that the deceased had served as a minister to some
goddess (“Vielleicht war Prima die Dienerin einer Göttin”; SGO 16/43/02, ad v. 3). Taking into
account the reading ἑο̣ὺ̣ς γ̣ονέας suggested above, it seems more reasonable to combine προπόλοιο
with τειμαῖς in the following verse, thereby qualifying the noun – which would otherwise remain
somewhat incomplete within the figura etymologica – through a genitive of pertinence. The
expression ‘honours of a servant/minister’ (πρόπολοιο … τειμαῖς) can be interpreted either as an
indication of the family’s social status (if they were freedmen) or as having a religious connotation
that expresses deceased people’s devotion to the above goddess (the genitive is more likely to refer
to the recipient of the honours than to those who bestow them); the noun is most commonly used
with reference to gods (see n. 18). Finally, another reading suggested by the anonymous reviewer
is worth mentioning: the sequence ΠΡΟΠΟΛΟΙΟ should be divided into πρὸ and πολοῖο (= πρὸ
πολλοῦ), to be combined with τειμήσας τειμᾶις. In this case, the interpretation of vv. 3-4 would
be quite different.
18 Πρόπολος is a poetic term indicating the ‘servant’ or the ‘minister’ of both a person and a deity
(cf. LSJ, s.v.). The term occurs in other metrical inscriptions too: cf. SGO 01/20/13 (Miletus, 3rd
c. BC): Μουσῶν ἠϋκόμων καὶ Βρομίου πρόπολος (v. 2); SGO 14/07/06 (Ikonion in Lycaonia,
n.d.): […] Κόρης τε θ̣ε̣ᾶς πρόπολοι καὶ Διονύσου (v. 11).
19 The verb κτερίζω is a Homeric term indicating the burial ceremony and the last honours paid
to the deceased (cf. Il. 11.455; 18.334 et al.). Subsequently it was reused in poetry, notably in both
literary and epigraphic funerary epigrams: cf. e.g. AP VII 75.2; VII 180.4; SGO 09/05/41 (Nicaea
in Bithynia, Imperial period, v. 3); SGO 18/11/01 (Pisidia, 2nd–1st c. BC, v. 6).
20 This formula is typical of honorary inscriptions; cf., inter alia, MAMA IV 151 (Apollonia in
Phrygia, 2nd c. BC): ὁ δῆμος | ἐτίμησεν ἰσοθέοις τιμαῖς (II, ll. 1–2); I.Pergamon Asklepieion 21
(Pergamon in Mysia, AD 118): τιμηθέντ[α] | [θρι]αμβικαῖς τ̣[ιμαῖς (ll. 4–5), honorary inscription
dedicated to the consul C. Iulius Quadratus Bassus by the town of Seleukeia in Commagene. As can
be seen in the above examples, the noun τιμαί is always qualified by an adjective, replaced in this
instance by the genitive of pertinence in the preceding line (see n. 17).
21 It is worth noting the final long α of the name Πρ(ε)ῖμα which, therefore, should be accented
as follows: Πρείμα. In Greek epigraphic epigrams, however, the variation in the prosodic length
of α in the direct cases of feminine nouns derived from Latin is such that it would be unfair to
deem it a ‘mistake’. For other instances of long α, cf. SGO 09/09/17 (Klaudioupolis in Bithynia,
The Phrygian text is shorter and, as mentioned above, records a tomb-

protecting curse. The curse is written in Greek script, as is usually the case in
Neo-Phrygian inscriptions, and it consists of two sentences, a conditional
protasis (ιος νι σεμουν κνουμανει κακουν αδδακετ) and an apodosis that
spells out the consequences of the curse (τιε τιτ τετικμενος ειτου).22 The
protasis begins with the relative pronoun ιος, which combined with the particle
νι takes on an indefinite value, which corresponds to that of the Greek ὅστις.
The words σεμουν and κνουμανει agree in the dative singular case: σεμουν
is a demonstrative adjective deriving from the stem *se/o with the addition of
a parasitic ν (ἐφελκυστικὸν),23 whereas κνουμανει is the dative of the neuter
noun κνουμαν, which probably designates the tomb.24 Κακουν, a substantivized
adjective very close to the correspondent Greek adjective κακός, serves as the
object of the final verb αδδακετ, the short-vowel third-person subjunctive of
a verb deriving from the Indo-European root *dheH (cf. Greek τίθημι and
Latin facio) with the prepositional prefix αδ. Therefore, the protasis must mean
something like ‘Whoever damages this tomb…’. The apodosis is marked by the
particle τιτ (< *tid), which signals the beginning of the main clause; the particle is
preceded by the problematic word τιε: different conjectures have been advanced
for the sequence τιετιττετικμενος.25 I follow the suggestion made by Lubotsky
and partially adopted by Brixhe: τιε could be the dative singular of a proper name
Tiyes, indicating the deity to whom the offender shall have to account for his
sacrilegious act.26 Τετικμενος is a perfect participle with reduplication, a form
2nd – 3rd c. AD): ἦ μεγ]άλης ἀρετῆς Τερτύλλα κῦδος ἑλοῦσα (v. 3) and Τερτύλλα· τόσση μὴ μ’
ἔχοι ἀφροσύνη (v. 20); SGO 10/03/04 (Amastris in Paphlagonia, Imperial period): Παυλεῖνα.
– τίνος, εἰπέ, γυνή; – Φιλομή[τ]ορος […] (v. 2; here the lengthening of the final α may be due to
the presence of a strong pause after the proper name); SGO 14/06/21 (Laodicea Katakekaumene in
Lycaonia, n.d.): τοὔνομα Ῥωμᾶνα, πόσειος ποθέουσα, σαόφρων (v. 5).
22 The linguistic analysis of the Phrygian section of the inscription is based on SGO 16/43/04
(commentary on the Phrygian section by Brixhe); Brixhe (1997) and Brixhe (2008).
23See Haas (1966: 75–76); Brixhe (2002: 264). Brixhe himself (2002: 264, n. 61) has suggested
that this form might be the result of the conflation of singular accusative and dative endings of the
thematic declension in the Phrygian language; cf. Brixhe (2002: 265).
24 It looks very close to the Greek noun κένωμα, which indicates the empty space around the tomb
in a funerary inscription from Kibyra in Lycia (I.Kibyra 151, l. 6); see Brixhe (2002: 258); Kubińska
(1968: 140). Lubotsky (1998: 414, n. 4) conversely thinks that this noun may be related to the
Greek verb κνύω (‘to scratch’).
25 Haas (1966: 87–88 and 96); Lubotsky (1989) and Lubotsky (2004); Brixhe (1997).
26 See Lubotsky (1989: 82–85); Brixhe (1997: 42–47). It is worth mentioning that the name of
very similar to the Greek one, coming from a root *stig (the same as Greek στίζω,
στίγμα);27 ειτου is the third-person active imperative deriving either from the
root *es (‘to be’, cf. Greek ἔστω/ἤτω) or from *ey (‘to go’).28 Hence, the second
part of the curse should mean ‘may he be “marked” (ill-favoured) by the god’.
3 The funerary epigram for Quadratus’ bride
The second inscription is a funerary epigram made up of two hexameters and two
elegiac couplets dedicated to the young bride of a man named Quadratus and
of a Neo-Phrygian curse engraved in slightly smaller characters just below the
Greek verses.29 The text is engraved on a funerary column. The writing surface
is damaged on the right side and, as a consequence, several letters are lost. Even
though the inscription is complete, the name of the deceased is missing: in all
likelihood it was carved on the upper part of the column, which has not been
preserved. The inscription has been dated to the 2nd–3rd c. AD by Merkelbach
and Stauber (cf. SGO 16/43/04). The text of the inscription is as follows:
the deity is also given in the dative form in a Greek curse formula: cf. SGO 16/31/96 = Strubbe,
ΑΡΑΙ 193 (Appia? in Phrygia [modern Egret, a Turkish village], 2nd–3rd c. AD): τίς ἂν κακῶς
ποήσι τούτῳ μνήματι, / οὕτω[ς ἀώροις περιπέσοιτο] συνφορα⟨ῖ⟩ς / καὶ θεοῖς ἅπασι κατη⟨ρ⟩
αμένος ἤτ[ω].
27Haas (1996: 88) has interpreted the verb as meaning ‘brandmarken’ [‘to brand, ‘to mark’]: in
antiquity branding was a punishment deemed fit for religious offences such as the desecration of a
tomb; conversely, Anfosso (2017: 15) has suggested a different etymology: it may derive from the
root teik- < i.e. *deik- (with consonant mutation), as is the case with the Greek words δική, δικάζω,
and, in particular, καταδικάζω (‘to condemn’); therefore, it should mean something like ‘to be
damned’, ‘to be branded with infamy’.
28 Haas (1966: 89) believes that this form cannot derive from *estot (from the verbal stem of ‘to
be’) owing to the loss of internal σ, a phenomenon that can hardly be justified in the archaic stage
of language development; conversely, he maintains that the imperative form derives from *ei-mi,
where the verb ‘to go’ comes to mean ‘to become’.
29Calder (1922: 123–124, no. 7) = SEG 1.454 (Crönert) = Friedrich (1932: 139, no. 82) = MAMA
VII 258 = Haas (1966: 125, no. 82), for the Phrygian section only = Wilhelm (1980: 86, no. 112)
= SGO 16/43/04.
[ – – – ]
1-2 1 [ἕ]κ̣τ̣ον καὶ δέκατον ἐ̣[πιδ]|ο̣ῦσα ἔτος ἔνθα τέθα[πται]· |
3–4 2 ἐκ τοκετοῦ δύσμο⟨ι⟩ρ̣[ον] | ἀνήρπασε βάσκανος ῞Α[ιδης] |
5–6 3 εἰκόνα σωφροσύνης [καὶ αἰ]|δοῦ[ς] μεγάλης ἐπὶ [γαίῃ] |
7–8 4 καὶ μετ’ ἐπιστήμ[ης] | ἔργ’ ἐπιδεικνυμένη· |
9–10 5 πέντε ἔτη δὲ συνοικήσθαι | καὶ αἴλινα κ[λ]αῦε Κοδρᾶτος |
11–12 6 γῇ κρύπτων σ’, οἴην | ἐλπίδα καὶ γονέων. |
13–14 ιος νι σα του μανκα κακουν αδ|14δακετ τι̣ τ̣ετικμενος ειτου.
1 τέτα[πται] Calder; Friedrich τέθα[ψαι] Crönert; Wilhelm (τέθα[μμαι] dub.);

Merkelbach – Stauber finem versus puncto distinxerunt Calder, Crönert, Wilhelm 2
ΔΥΣΜΟΡ[ lapis δυσμόρ[ου γὰρ] Calder; Friedrich δύσμορ[φος] Crönert; Wilhelm
δύσμοιρ[ον] postul. Wilhelm; Merkelbach – Stauber 4 ἐπιδεικνυμένη⟨ν⟩ Crönert;
Wilhelm 5 συνοικήσθαι Calder (συνοικήσθη dub.); Crönert (συνοίκησεν prop.);
Friedrich; Wilhelm συνοίκησε̣ν Calder (MAMA); Merkelbach – Stauber κ[λ]αῦε
Calder; Friedrich; Wilhelm; Merkelbach – Stauber κ[λ]αῦ⟨σ⟩ε prop. Crönert κλ̣αῦε
Calder (MAMA) 6 [σ’] Calder (MAMA).
14 τιτετικμενος Calder; Crönert; Friedrich; Wilhelm τι τετικμενος Haas; Merkelbach

– Stauber.
The young woman – whose name, as mentioned above, is unknown – died in

childbirth (ἐκ τοκετοῦ);30 in the first elegiac verse her virtues (σωφροσύνη,31
αἰδώς and ἐπιστήμη) are praised, whereas in the second one the focus is on
the grief of Quadratus, who buried her, and of her parents. The metric pattern
presents some irregularities, of which the hypermetric hexameter ending with the
30 This expression does not seem to be attested in other epigraphic epigrams, whereas it occurs in
several medical texts and in an epigram by Leonidas which is included in the series dedicated to a
young woman called Prexò – on which see Garulli (2012: 116–134) – who died in childbirth: AP
VII 163: […] Θνῄσκεις δ’ ἐκ τίνος; —Ἐκ τοκετοῦ. — (v. 4).
31 Σωφροσύνη is, along with ἀρητή, the moral quality most frequently mentioned in funerary
epigrams as early as the 4th century BC (see Tsagalis: 2008, 135–160); with reference to a woman, it
mostly expresses ‘temperance’ in sexual behaviour rather than a general notion of ‘moderation’ and
‘common sense’, which fits neatly with αἰδώς mentioned just below; see North (1966: 252–253),
Pircher (1979: 22–23 and 34–35) and, as far as the archaic age is concerned, Rademaker (2005:
96–97).
man’s name (v. 5) is perhaps the most striking. The level of the Greek language
is quite high, even though the verses show some peculiarities in the syntactic
structure and in the choice of expressions. For example, at v. 4 an accusative form
of the participle ἐπιδεικνυμένη would be expected, whereas the text presents a
nominative ending.32 The verb συνοικήσθαι at v. 5 – if it is to be understood as
συνοικήσθη, as argued by Calder – takes a less common deponent form instead
of the active one,33 and the verb κλαῦε in the same verse is probably to be
read as κ[λ]αῦ⟨σ⟩ε.34 A very striking feature is the use of the expression εἰκόνα
σωφροσύνης, ‘an example of temperance’, which is attested only in Christian
authors from the Imperial period onwards,35 and of the neuter plural adjective
αἴλινα, functioning as an adverb: this use is only attested from Callimachus
onwards36 and it is very frequent in Nonnus of Panopolis’ works, where it
corresponds to either the first or the second-last metron of the verse.37
Unlike the former inscription, the Neo-Phrygian curse follows on seamlessly
after the Greek text. As it can be easily seen, the overall structure and the individual
words are very similar to those of the curse examined above; the expression σεμουν
κνουμανει is replaced by another demonstrative adjective and noun in the dative
case, that is σα … μανκα, where σα (feminine singular) agrees with the noun
32 The participle should be in the accusative case and in agreement with the unexpressed object
of ἀνήρπασε; it looks like a mistake due to poor command of the Greek language rather than an
instance of the loss of a final nasal.
33The emendation συνοίκησεν proposed by Crönert (SEG 1.454, app.) would normalize the text
even further, even though it seems somewhat to distort the text from a palaeographic viewpoint.
34 Calder (1922: 123) believed that the term κλαῦε reflected the local pronunciation. Even though
the possibility of an imperfect tense κ[λ]αῖε has to be ruled out because the context requires the
use of an aorist, a pronunciation implying the loss of intervocalic σ seems highly unlikely. The
explanation is perhaps more straightforward: it is a mere slip for κλαῦσε and it can be emended as
suggested by Crönert; moreover, the absence of augment is rather frequent in metrical epigraphy:
cf. SGO 16/31/83 (Appia in Phrygia, about AD 300): κλαῦσε δέ με κὲ | Φλῶρος πενθερὸς κὲ
Ἀμμιας | πενθερὰ Ἰσκομαινοί (vv. 7–9) and 16/35/03 (Nakoleia in Phrygia, Imperial period):
[κουριδίην ἄλοχον(?) Στ]ρατ[ον]είκην τήνδε θανοῦσαν / Εἵερος ἐκθύμως κλαῦσε [φί]λος
γαμέτης (vv. 1–2).
35 Cf. e.g. Clem. Al. Paed. III 8.41.4–5: Ὀνειδίζων τις μοιχείαν ἀσελγῆ καλὴν εἰκόνα σωφροσύνης
ἐδείκνυεν φιλανδρίαν (referring to Penelope’s love for her husband Odysseus); Bas. Anc. virg.
(MPG 30.716.10): οὕτω καὶ ἡ παρθένος σωφροσύνης εἰκὼν […].
36 Ap. 20: οὐδὲ Θέτις Ἀχιλῆα κινύρεται αἴλινα μήτηρ.
37 Cf. D. 2.82; 12.120 et al. (first metron); D. 17.310; 19.182 et al. (second-last metron). The
adverbial use of this neuter plural adjective in the above metrical positions is probably to be taken
as an early occurrence of a 5th-century epic stylistic element.
μανκα, whose exact meaning is still uncertain; it is likely to designate an element

of funerary architecture.38 The two words are separated by the particle του, which
is meant to reinforce the demonstrative σα.39 The apodosis lacks the component
τιε, whereas the particle τιτ features the loss of the final dental consonant (τι).
4 Greek and Phrygian curse formulae: a comparison
Curses invoked against grave robbers and desecrators are a distinctive feature
of funerary inscriptions from Asia Minor. Most curses that have been preserved
are written in Greek, but it is worth noting that inscriptions coming from the
other parts of the Greek-speaking world hardly feature such curses. This detail
allows us to assume that curse formulas met the needs of the local populations
of the Greek East.40 Even though the number of curses written in Greek is much
larger than that of curses written in local languages, one should bear in mind
that, since the Greek documents mostly date back to the Imperial period, the use
of Greek was simply a later development of a phenomenon that was originally
expressed in the local languages.41 Greek curses exhibit a much greater variety in
terms of expressions and content compared to Neo-Phrygian curses,42 notably
with regard to the nature of the punishment that would befall the desecrator.
These punishments, which are meant to affect the life, health and family of the
violators, are described in much more detail than the threats contained in the
Neo-Phrygian curses just analysed43 and they are often coupled with fines to be
38 SGO 16/43/04, ad loc.; Brixhe (2008: 78).

39In all likelihood it is a crystallized form of anaphoric *te/to > τος, which at the beginning of the
apodosis sometimes appears to be linked with the pronoun ιος of the protasis; see Brixhe (1997:
63) and Brixhe (2008: 77).
40The reason probably lies in a different conception of death and the afterlife, leading to a different
understanding of the function of the grave, which was thought of as the sacred and eternal resting
place of the deceased; see Strubbe (1991: 40); Cormack (2004: 125).
41The earliest Greek curse formulae come from Lycia and date back to the late 4th century BC. A
number of these documents are bilingual texts and it is quite apparent that Greek formulae draw
extensively upon those expressed in the local language; see Strubbe (1991: 38–39).
42Greek curses featuring formulae and ideas associated with the pagan world have been collected
by Strubbe (1997); besides the above-mentioned study by Strubbe (1991) it is worth mentioning
Robert (1978) and the repertory included (along with a commentary) in Haas (1966: 37–47).
43For an overview of the forms of punishment mentioned in Greek curse formulae, see Strubbe
(1997: XVII–XIX).
paid to local communities or shrines. This measure was intended to maintain

the social connection between the deceased and his or her community even after
death.44
I will now shift my focus to some Phrygian curses written in Greek script that
feature a very similar structure and language to those of the two Neo-Phrygian
curses examined above. As far as the protasis is concerned, two inscriptions can be
mentioned: MAMA IV 23 (Prymnessos, 1st–3rd c. AD): ὃς ἂν | τούτῳ τῷ μνημείῳ
κακῶς προσποι<ήσει> [— — —] (ll. 2–3), and MAMA IX 103 = Strubbe, ΑΡΑΙ
159 (Aizanoi, late Imperial period): τ̣ί̣ς ἂν τῷ μνημείῳ | [κ]α̣κ̣ῶς προσποιήσει,
| σ̣τερηθῇ τῶν ἰδίων | αὐτῶν. The parallels between the two languages are
striking: the pronouns ὅς (a relative pronoun, as in Phrygian) and τις followed
by ἄν fulfil the same function as the Phrygian ιος αν; in the first inscription
the funerary monument is mentioned in the dative case, as it is in the second
inscription, with a demonstrative τούτῳ corresponding to Phrygian σεμουν/σα.
The Phrygian object κακουν is replaced by the adverb κακῶς, whereas the final
verb is perhaps one of the most interesting signs of the influence exerted by the
Phrygian language on Greek: the Greek verb προσποιέω is only found with the
meaning of ‘to damage’ in this context45 and it looks like a slavish calque of the
Phrygian verb αδδακετ.46 Furthermore, as far as the apodosis is concerned, a
few more examples from Phrygian inscriptions can be mentioned: CIG 3882b =
Strubbe, ΑΡΑΙ 261 (Prymnessos, Imperial period): [ὅσ]τις ἂν τῷ ἡρῴῳ | τούτῳ
κακῶς ποιήσει, ὑποκα|τάρατος ἔστω (ll. 3–5); MAMA IV 184 = Strubbe, ΑΡΑΙ
302 (Apollonia – Senirkent, 3rd c. AD): τίς ἂν τούτω ἡρώω κ[ακὴν] | χέρα
προσοίσι, ἔστω κεχαρισμένος Δεὶ Εὐροδ[αμηνῶ] (ll. 4–5); MAMA X 2 =
Strubbe, ΑΡΑΙ 175 (Appia, ca. AD 200): τίς τούτῳ μνήματι κακῶς | [ποιήσ]ει ἰς
θεοὺς κατη̣[ρ]αμένος ἤτω (ll. 3–4). The structure of the Greek apodosis reflects
that of the Phrygian one: like the Phrygian curse, the last two inscriptions feature
a form of the middle participle (from χαρίζω47 and καταράομαι respectively)
44 Cormack (2004: 128–129).

45 See LSJ, s.v., no. 2; in the Greek language the verb is mainly used in the middle form to mean
‘procure for oneself ’, ‘lay claim to’, ‘pretend to do or to be’ with infinitive, et al.
46 Brixhe (1987: 105) and Brixhe (2002: 262).
47 As for the value to be attached to this participle and its relationship, if any, with the Phrygian
participle γεγαριτμενος, see the discussion in Strubbe, ΑΡΑΙ 300: it may mean ‘dedicated to’ with
the name of the deity involved in the dative case. Strubbe does not believe that the participles in
the two languages are related and wonders whether the Greek participle should be interpreted as
‘agreeable’ in the original sense of the verb.
that in the first inscription is replaced by the adjective ὑποκατάρατος.48 All of

these words are linked to forms of the imperative of the verb εἰμί, respectively
in the Attic form ἔστω and the koine form ἤτω.49 The last and more impressive
example that can be mentioned is a curse having the protasis in Greek and the
apodosis in Phrygian: MAMA VI 382 (Prymnessos, n.d.): ὃς ἂν τούτῳ τῷ
μνημείῳ κακῶς προσποιήσει ἢ τοῖς | προγεγραμμένοις ὑπεναντίον τι πράξῃ
μ̣ε δεως κε | ζεμελως κε τι τετικμενος ειτου.50 In this case the apodosis features
an additional expression that is quite common in Phrygian curses, that is με
δεως κε ζεμελως κε: two nouns in the dative plural are joined by the copulative-
correlative conjunction κε51 and preceded by the preposition με,52 which should
mean something like ‘[may he be marked] among gods and men’.53 The similarity
of the curses in the two languages is quite apparent and, considering the more
ancient Eastern tradition of funerary curses, it is reasonable to assume that the
original version of the curse was expressed in the local language, perhaps orally,
and that subsequently it was readapted and enriched by resorting to Greek.
I will just hint at another interesting aspect of funerary curses in both
the Phrygian and Greek languages, i.e. the rhythmical and metrical pattern
that characterizes curse formulae even when they are accompanied by prose
inscriptions. This distinctive feature is closely related to the sacred and magic
nature of the formula, where the effectiveness of the wording is enhanced by
the rhythmical and musical structure.54 Greek curses coming from the Phrygian
area feature dactylic and iambic rhythms,55 in the so-called East Phrygian Curse
Formula (τίς δὲ τούτῳ κακήν χεῖρα προσοίσει, ὀρφανὰ τέκνα λίποιτο χῆρον
βίον οἶκον ἕρημον)56 and North Phrygian Curse Formula (τίς ἂν προσοίσει χεῖρα
48This adjective seems to be typical of the formulae found in the Prymnessos area; cf. Strubbe,
ΑΡΑΙ 247 and 248.
49It is a vulgarism of the former form, which is often found in curse formulae; see Robert (1978:
262 and n. 113); Gignac (1981: 407); Brixhe (1987: 85).
50 Haas (1966: 116, nr. 96) = Waelkens, Türsteine 493. Waelkens has dated this inscription to the
reign of Antoninus Pius (AD 138–161). As for the sequence τι τετικμενος ειτου, I follow the word
division suggested by Lubotsky (1989: 82).
51 Brixhe (1978: 1–2).
52 Brixhe (1979: 184–186).
53 On the meaning of this formula, see Haas (1966: 92–94).
54 Strubbe (1991: 41).
55 The first exhaustive study of these formula types was done by Robert (1978).
56 See Strubbe (1991: 41–42) and Strubbe (ΑΡΑΙ, 289–292).
τὴν βαρύφθονον, οὕτως ἀώροις περιπέσοιτο συνφοραῖς) respectively.57 Our

knowledge of the Phrygian language is too scant to detect a specific prosody and
metrics, but Alexander Lubotsky had noted that Phrygian formulae too feature
a dactylic rhythmical structure.58 Conversely, Martin L. West has detected some
sequences of more ancient Greek lyrical metres such as glyconics and pherecrateans
in Phrygian formulae; he has put forward two different hypotheses: either the
Phrygians borrowed these Greek metrical structures in an archaic age along with
the Greek alphabet or these structures go back to some Indo-European metrical
scheme from which both Greek and Phrygian metrics derived independently.
The latter hypothesis sounds more convincing to West, who compares the curses’
metrics to the Vedic metrics of the Rigveda.59
5 Conclusion
In the light of the large number of inscriptions featuring curses in Greek which
have been found, one may wonder why the commissioners of the two epigrams
examined above decided to have the Neo-Phrygian curse engraved after the Greek
metrical inscription. It is quite apparent that the texts written in two different
languages fulfil a complementary function: Greek is used to commemorate the
deceased and his or her family, whereas the Phrygian language fulfils a both
practical and religious function.60
Generally speaking, the corpus of Neo-Phrygian inscriptions61 includes
non-formulaic inscriptions providing further pieces of information about the
deceased and the donors in addition to the far more frequent curse formula.62
Such inscriptions bear witness to the active use of Neo-Phrygian by at least a
57 See Strubbe (1991: 41) and Strubbe (ΑΡΑΙ, 285–288).

58 Lubotsky (1998).
59 West (2003).
60The curse formula is very seldom written in both languages within the same inscription; cf.
MAMA VII 214 (Klaneos? [Turgut] in Galatia): [ιος] σεμον τι κνουμανι κ[ακ]|[ον α]βερετι ζ̣ει[
․․․] παρταντο [ ․] | [ ․․․]υ̣τι[ ․․․․]ατια τιτικμενος |[ειτ]ου. | [τίς ἂν] τούτω κακὴν χεῖρα |
[προσ]οίσει, ὀρφανὰ τέκνα λ[ί]|[ποιτ]ο χῆρον βίον οἶκον ἔ|[ρημ]ο̣ν (ll. 6–13).
61For Neo-Phrygian inscriptions the reference study is still Haas (1966), where 110 epigraphic
documents are grouped. Additional inscriptions have been published over the subsequent few
decades: an updated list is provided in Anfosso (2017: 11, n. 61).
62These inscriptions are as follows: nos. 15, 18, 30, 31, 69 from Haas’ corpus (1966) and no. 116
(Brixhe and Neumann [1985]); see Brixhe (2002: 252).
fraction of the local population, in all likelihood the one that was at the bottom
of the social ladder and unable to have monuments erected and inscriptions
engraved. As a consequence, the active use of Phrygian in everyday life must have
favoured its use – albeit in a partial form and in a wide variety of situations – by
the upper classes, whose monuments and inscriptions have come down to us.63
This fact, combined with the presence of syntactic and phonetic phenomena in
the local Greek inscriptions that betray the influence exerted by a substratum
language,64 does not support the assumption that the Phrygian language was
utilized to convey a sense of local identity to counter the dominant role played by
the Greek language.65 Furthermore, in a rural and hardly Hellenised territory like
Phrygia in the Imperial period, Greek was always considered to be a more suitable
language to convey the social and cultural prestige of individuals. Besides, it was
also the language that favoured the spread of epigraphic epigrams throughout the
region, as is clearly demonstrated by the astonishing number of Greek metrical
inscriptions found in this territory. Although their composition often reflects a
poor command of the Greek language and metrics, these texts eloquently reveal
a desire on the part of the commissioners to display their paideia. The definition
of ‘identity-conveying language’ better applies to Greek than it does to Phrygian,
at least as far as most inscriptions and, above all, most epigrams known so far are
concerned.
As for the two inscriptions analysed in this paper, the high level of the Greek
language used in the epigrams seems to point to Greek-speaking dedicators66 and
to a bilingual setting, even though the language used in drafting an inscription
does not necessarily correspond to that spoken by its donors in everyday life. But
why did these individuals decide to have the curse written in Phrygian since the
Greek variant was very popular too? It is not easy to answer this question, but
63 Brixhe (2002: 256).

64This influence is exerted mainly from a phonetic and lexical viewpoint; see Brixhe (2002: 259–
263).
65 For this assumption, see Rutherford (2002: 202); Roller (2011: 568).
66 See Brixhe and Drew-Bear (1997: 102); the fact that a few people mentioned in both inscriptions
bear Latin names does not seem to provide further evidence concerning the interaction between
Greek and Neo-Phrygian. As mentioned above (in the Introduction), a lot of Roman veterans settled
in the area of Amorion, but in all likelihood from the very beginning they had to resort to the Greek
language in order to interact with the local population, as is shown by the large number of Greek
inscriptions in this territory dating back to the Imperial period. However, it is worth stressing that
the presence of Latin names in inscriptions does not necessarily mean that the people concerned
came from the Latin part of the Empire.
two assumptions may be made. The former is related to the target readers of the
inscription within the community: the number of those able to understand the
Phrygian language was larger than that of people able to understand Greek. As
a result, the tomb-protecting text targeted a larger share of the local population
than the text intended to commemorate the deceased, which could only be
understood by Greek-speaking people. Needless to say, this assumption raises the
issue of literacy:67 speaking a language and reading it do not amount to the same
thing, but a few fixed and very well-known formulae could perhaps be recognized
even by poorly educated people.68 The latter assumption is more closely related
to the nature of the Phrygian text: it is a religious formula with a magical and
sacred quality and the decision to have it written in Phrygian – the local and more
ancient language, deeply rooted in the territory – rather than Greek may have to
do with the belief that the words of the formula would prove more effective.69
In any case the choice was up to the commissioner of the inscription and it is far
from easy to detect a general social trend.
The inscriptions considered in this article shed light on just one of the several,
varied linguistic situations in Phrygia under the Roman Empire. The relationship
between the Phrygian and Greek languages seems to take on a different form
and to reach a different point of equilibrium in each area or, better said, in each
inscription, which is therefore worthy of an in-depth and detailed study. The
analysis of every single document might therefore contribute to identifying
general trends in Greek-Phrygian bilingualism, which presents a few distinctive
features within the linguistic framework of Hellenised Asia Minor.
67 On the spread of literacy during the Imperial period, see Harris (1989: 175–322); on the interior
of Asia Minor, see in particular De Hoz (2008).
68 Cormack (2004: 143).
69 See Anfosso (2017: 19–20), including further references concerning other assumptions about the
function and the value of the Phrygian language within inscriptions, and Roller (2018: 135–136),
who investigates the use of the local language in curse formulae within the broader framework of
cultural manifestations of Phrygian identity in the early Imperial period.
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176
Contact-induced change and language-internal

factors: the καὶ ἐγένετο type as a case-study1
Liana Tronci
1 Introduction
This paper deals with the syntactic configurations of the verb γίνομαι in the New
Testament (henceforth NT) and focuses on clauses such as (1a-b), where γίνομαι
is inflected in the third person singular of the aorist (ἐγένετο), occurs at the
beginning of the clause, is either preceded by καὶ (καὶ ἐγένετο) or followed by δέ
(ἐγένετο δέ), and is combined with a temporal clause or phrase and, in the final
position, a finite verb clause.
(1) a. καὶ ἐγένετο ὅτε ἐτέλεσεν ὁ ’Ιησοῦς τοὺς λόγους τούτους ἐξεπλήσσοντο
οἱ ὄχλοι ἐπὶ τῇ διδαχῇ αὐτοῦ (Mt 7.28).
‘now when Jesus had finished saying these things, the crowds were astounded
at his teaching.’2
b. ἐγένετο δὲ τοῦ δαιμονίου ἐξελθόντος ἐλάλησεν ὁ κωϕός (Lk 11.14).
‘when the demon had gone out, the one who had been mute spoke.’
The verb γίνομαι does not seem to function like a true verb in this syntactic
configuration, since it does not govern any argument, its inflection is unchangeable
as well as its position in the clause. According to the grammar by Blass (1898: 288),
it is meaningless and resembles a grammatical marker, functioning as a clause-
introductory element before “[s]tatements of time, which mark a transition” (cf.
also the expanded version of the grammar by Blass, Debrunner and Funk 1961:
248). According to Dalman (1902 [1898]: 32) the clause-opening formula “is
used to introduce an added definiteness to an action about to be reported”.
1 This research was carried out within the project Multilingualism and Minority Languages in Ancient
Europe [HERA.29.015| CASSIO], funded by Hera Joint Research Programme “Uses of the Past”,
Horizon 2020 – 649307.
2 English translations of the Bible are taken from the New American Standard Bible, available on
the website https://unbound.biola.edu/ (accessed July 2020), with some adjustments.
178 TRONCI, Contact-induced change and language-internal factors
It is well-known that the structure beginning with καὶ ἐγένετο is calqued on

Biblical Hebrew (henceforth BH), to be precise the construction called wayyehî
or “imperfect + waw consecutive”, which “commonly occurs at the beginning
of narratives to signal the recital of past events” (Ellis 2006: 165). The formula
ἐγένετο δέ, instead, is the “Graecising” counterpart, since it exhibits the Greek-
like post-verbal particle δέ instead of the preverbal καί, which is not genuinely
Greek (cf. Hogeterp and Denaux 2018: 309). Both of them can be translated
by ‘and there was’, ‘and it happened’; often they are not rendered in modern
translations of the Bible. They also occur in the Septuagint (henceforth LXX),
which is considered to be the model for their use in the NT (see discussion in
Section 2.2). The fact that these structures are used in the NT proves that they had
become Greek and that Greek speakers understood (and presumably used) them.
I will discuss in greater detail the issue of the Semitic influence later. For the time
being, I wish merely to observe that the topic concerned is a good illustration
of what is argued by Kranich (2014), namely that translation is a peculiar case
of language contact, and that it also provides evidence that language change can
arise from language contact.
Even though the hypothesis that καὶ ἐγένετο is a syntactic calque on BH
is well-established, some questions remain unanswered. They concern, on the
one hand, how the Greek language could accept a syntactic structure which was
completely foreign to its own system, and, on the other hand, why the verb
γίνομαι was employed instead of other verbs, such as the existential εἰμί or the
eventive συμβαίνω. These two aspects, one more general and one more specific,
are correlated with each other. The first one meets the structural compatibility
requirement, namely the borrowability of structural elements of the source
language which do not correspond to the developmental tendencies of the
target language (Jakobson (1990 [1938]: 208). For a discussion of this, I refer
to Thomason and Kaufmann (1988: 17ff.), Harris and Campbell (1995: 123ff.).
The second issue concerns the syntax of the verb γί(γ)νομαι in Ancient Greek and
its changes from Classical Greek to Post-Classical Greek, with special attention
to New Testament Greek. I will argue that the καὶ ἐγένετο constructions were
calqued on BH in the LXX and were used in the NT, since they met some
structural configuration of γί(γ)νομαι already existing in Classical Greek.
The structure of the paper is as follows. Section 2 is devoted to the καὶ
ἐγένετο constructions. I will investigate their occurrences in the NT, with
special attention to Luke’s Gospel, where the structures under scrutiny are more
frequent than in the other Gospels and show more variants as regards the types of
construction. In Section 3 I describe the other two main syntactic constructions
in which the verb γίγνομαι occurs in Ancient Greek and a fortiori in the NT
and the LXX, namely the copular type and the existential type. I will show that
a subclass of the existential type offered the pragmatic-informational pattern for
the καὶ ἐγένετο constructions to be calqued. The discussion will also touch on
the reasons why the verb γίνομαι was used for calquing BH wayyehî. Finally, in
Section 4 some conclusions are drawn as well as some insights for further steps
in the research.
2 The καὶ ἐγένετο / ἐγένετο δέ structures in the NT
The structures under scrutiny are distributed as follows in the NT. The clause-
opening formula καὶ ἐγένετο occurs in Matthew’s (6 occurrences), Mark’s (3
occurrences) and Luke’s (23 occurrences) Gospels. The clause-opening formula
ἐγένετο δέ only occurs in Luke’s Gospel (15 occurrences) and in the Acts (12
occurrences), and this is why it is considered peculiar to Luke’s Greek. No
occurrence is found in John’s Gospel. Table 1 summarizes the quantitative data:3
Table 1. Quantitative distribution of clause-opening formulae in the NT

καὶ ἐγένετο ἐγένετο δέ TOTAL
Mt’s Gospel 6 -- 6
Mk’s Gospel 3 -- 3
Lk’s Gospel 23 15 38
Acts -- 12 12
TOTAL 32 27 59
In the LXX, there are almost 400 occurrences of the καὶ ἐγένετο / ἐγένετο δέ
constructions. The frequency of the καὶ ἐγένετο constructions in Luke’s Gospel
and in the Acts is considered to be evidence of the LXX source of the construction
(cf. Robertson 1919: 1042 and discussion later).
3Data were collected from the TLG (http://stephanus.tlg.uci.edu/) and compared with the NA28
edition, available on the website of the Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft, and the text of the PROIEL
Treebank (https://proiel.github.io/). The corpus consists of the following occurrences: Mt 7.28,
9.10, 11.1, 13.53, 19.1, 26.1; Mk 1.9, 2.23, 4.4; Lk 1.8, 1.23, 1.41, 1.59, 2.1, 2.6, 2.15, 2.46,
3.21, 5.1, 5.12, 5.17, 6.1, 6.6, 6.12, 7.11, 8.1, 8.22, 9.18, 9.28, 9.29, 9.33, 9.37, 9.51, 11.1,
11.14, 11.27, 14.1, 17.11, 17.14, 18.35, 19.15, 19.29, 20.1, 24.4, 24.15, 24.30, 24.51; Acts 4.5,
5.7, 9.19, 9.32, 9.37, 11.26, 14.1, 16.16, 19.1, 22.6, 22.17, 28.17.
Before discussing the data, I will briefly discuss the BH source of the
construction (Section 2.1) and the hypotheses concerning the Semitic influence
on Luke’s Greek (Section 2.2).
2.1 The formula καὶ ἐγένετο as a translation of Hebrew wayyehî
The clause-opening formula καὶ ἐγένετο is the word-for-word translation of the

BH form wayyehî ‘it came to pass’ (initial waw ‘and’ + the verb hayah ‘to be, to
exist, to happen’), which is used in BH to bring the reader’s attention to the new
event expressed by the main verb and its temporal setting. The main event is
placed at the end of the clause and its temporal setting usually occurs in second
position, after the wayyehî / καὶ ἐγένετο opening-clause formula. In his Semitische
Syntax Beyer (1968: 29) explains the function of wayyehî in BH syntax:
Im hebräischen Verbalsatz steht grundsätzlich das Verbum an erster Stelle.

Diese Regel gilt natürlich ausnahmslos für das in der Erzählung so beliebte
Imperfektum consecutivum [...], bei dem sich die hier zu besprechende
Konstruktion wahrscheinlich entwickelt hat: Wenn nähmlich der hebräische
Erzähler eine allgemeine Zeit- bzw. Situationsangabe machen oder die gleitende
Nebenumstände mitteilen möchte, bevor er die Haupthandlung einsetzen
lässt, so entnimmt er dem Impf. cons. [=Imperfektum consecutivum], mit
dem die Handlung beginnt, einen allgemeinen Ausdruck des Geschehens in
gleicher grammatischer Form (das Hebräische bietet ihm dafür das kurze und
prägnante ‫ )יׅה ְיַו‬uns setzt diesen zusammen mit der Zeitbestimmung voran.
As Joüon and Muraoka (2018) claim in their Grammar of Biblical Hebrew, the
waw ‘and’ occurring at the beginning of the clause may have different values in
BH: it may be a simple conjunction of simultaneous actions, as in Lat. comēdit et
bibit ‘he ate and drank’, but it may also mark that the second action is subsequent
to the first, as in comēdit et ivit cubitum ‘he ate and went to bed’, or that there
is a consecutive or final relationship between the two actions, as in ita ut (sic)
imperes ‘so that you may rule’, et sic imperabis ‘you will thus rule’ (consecution),
ut imperes (purpose) ‘so that you may rule’, etc. (examples are taken from Joüon
and Muraoka 2018: 350ff.). The two scholars remark that “[f ]rom a logical point
of view one may therefore distinguish between an et only of juxtaposition and
an et carrying overtone of succession, consecution or purpose. We shall call the
first et “simple et” and the second one “energic et””. When the “energic” waw
combines with the stative verb meaning ‘to be, to happen’, it may occur at the
beginning of the clause with the meaning “et erat (“and it was”), et fuit (“and it
has been”)” and also “et evēnit (“and it happened”), et factum est (“and it came to
pass”)” (Joüon and Muraoka 2018: 361). According to them, this combination,
“do[es] not necessarily mark a continuing state which prevailed in the past, but
the emergence of a state”.
The clause-opening formula καὶ ἐγένετο is the literal translation of BH
wayyehî, whilst ἐγένετο δέ is the “Graecising” form (cf. Jeremias 1980: 26;
Johannessohn 1926: 63; Reiling 1965: 160; Gault 1990: 388; Hogeterp and
Denaux 2018: 309). The clauses beginning with waw ‘and’ are not marked in
BH narratives; in Greek, instead, clause-initial καί is marked and usually avoided.
The post-verbal particle δέ is usually used in Greek to mark a new step or a
new event in a narrative. Most scholars agree in recognizing no differences in
meaning between the two clause-opening formulae, against Gault (1990: 391)
who distinguishes between ἐγένετο δέ as a “discontinuous episode marker” and
καὶ ἐγένετο as a “continuous event marker” (for a discussion of this distinction,
which is far from unproblematic, cf. Hogeterp and Denaux 2018: 317). In terms
of frequency, “the more Hebraistic καὶ ἐγένετο occurs almost twice as often
in Luke’s asyndetic clauses with the ἐγένετο formula” according to Hogeterp
and Denaux (2018: 309). The co-occurrence of the two features, namely the
καὶ ἐγένετο formula and asyndesis, is evidence of the consistent source-language
orientation.
2.2 The Semitic influence on Luke’s Greek: some hypotheses
The occurrence of the construction under scrutiny in the LXX is usually explained
as a calque on the original BH text. Its occurrence in the synoptic Gospels, and
especially Luke’s Gospel, has been considered either as a peculiar feature of the
Greek used in the Jewish-Christian communities or as evidence of a Hebrew “Ur-
Evangelium”, which might have existed and circulated before the Greek Gospels,
especially that of Luke. The Semitic influence and the nature of Semitisms are to
be analysed in a different way if we accept the former or the latter hypothesis. In
the former, the “indirect influence of BH may stem from LXX Greek” (Denaux
and Hogeterp 2015/2016: 19), whilst in the latter it must be assumed that there
was a direct influence of BH because of the translation.
The hypothesis of the “Ur-Evangelium” was suggested in nineteenth
century studies, e.g. Dalman (1902 [1898])4 and was recently proposed again
4 Dalman (1902 [1898]: 32) remarked that “[a]ny one desiring to collect instances in favour of a
by Edwards (2009) and Baltes (2011) with some changes. This is a fascinating
hypothesis but it is very difficult to demonstrate. The idea of the indirect Semitic
influence, instead, has received much more attention by scholars, who tried to
explain the Semitisms in Luke’s language as an imitation of the style of the LXX
(see discussion in Reiling 1965). Accordingly, all non-Greek features of Luke’s
language are claimed to be due to the influence of the LXX, since “if Luke was
an author who only understood Greek in a Greek-speaking culture of education,
then Semitic features other than LXX Greek would fall outside the scope of this
author” (Denaux and Hogeterp 2015/2016: 26). More recent studies, however,
have shown that some features of the Gospels, which were assumed to be Jewish,
also characterise the language of the documentary papyri and, therefore, may be
considered to be genuine Greek and not influenced by Hebrew (George 2010:
274–276). In view of the latter observation, the idea that the language of the LXX
was the unique model for Luke’s Greek is problematic. Firstly, the language of
the LXX is not homogeneous, because translators were different and the periods
in which the books were translated covered several centuries. Secondly, not all
Hebraisms in Luke’s Gospel may be explained as “Septuagintisms”. According
to Walser (2001), Luke’s language was heavily influenced by the sociocultural
environment of the Ancient Synagogue, namely “the environment in which texts
with religious content were produced by the Jews and the early Christians in the
period c. 200 BC to c. AD 200” (p. 1). Therefore, several Hebraisms in Luke’s
Gospel are not Septuagintisms and can be explained in socio-linguistic terms.
In a similar line of reasoning, Notley (2014) investigated Hebraisms in Luke’s
Gospel and Acts and concluded that “[s]ome are postbiblical, while others are
an even more literal rendering of biblical Hebrew idioms than the Septuagint’s
Greek translation” (p. 346). According to him, there is evidence “that Luke had
access to non-canonical sources that were marked by a highly Hebraized Greek”
(p. 346).
A sociolinguistically oriented hypothesis was suggested by Watt (1997), who
argued for a three-level code-switching in Luke’s language, namely the standard
Koine Greek, the mid-range register, and the Semitized Greek. There is evidence
for bilingual or multilingual settings in Palestine in the first century CE. Hebrew
presumably was a spoken language, next to Aramaic for Palestinian Jews, so a
bilingual background can be assumed for Luke’s linguistic repertoire. As Denaux
Hebrew primitive gospel would have to name in the first rank this καὶ ἐγένετο”. In his opinion, it
is important to remark that “it is plainly Luke who makes so frequent use of the phrase, and that,
too, throughout both his writings, not, as might be expected, exclusively or chiefly in his initial
chapters, for which many postulate a Semitic original”.
and Hogeterp (2015/2016: 37) point out, “[t]he mixed linguistic evidence of
Semitisms in Luke’s Greek may point to several language backgrounds. These
backgrounds include biblical language, Middle Aramaic, and Hebrew of the
Hellenistic and early Roman periods”.
2.3 The data: types of clauses and textual distribution
Let us now turn to the data of the NT. As mentioned in the dictionary by Thayer
(1889, s.u. γίνομαι 2.b), there are some syntactic variants of the constructions
exemplified in (1). One of these exhibits the co-ordinating particle καί just
before the finite verb clause which expresses the main event: we will name this
configuration καί-type. The following examples in (2a-b) show this variant in
clauses beginning with καὶ ἐγένετο and ἐγένετο δὲ respectively:
(2) a. καὶ ἐγένετο ἐν μιᾷ τῶν ἡμερῶν καὶ αὐτὸς ἦν διδάσκων, καὶ ἦσαν
καθήμενοι Φαρισαῖοι καὶ νομοδιδάσκαλοι οἳ ἦσαν ἐληλυθότες ἐκ πάσης
κώμης τῆς Γαλιλαίας (Lk 5.17).
‘one day, while he was teaching, Pharisees and teachers of the law were sitting
near by (they had come from every village of Galilee and Judea and from
Jerusalem).’
b. ἐγένετο δὲ ἐν μιᾷ τῶν ἡμερῶν καὶ αὐτὸς ἐνέβη εἰς πλοῖον καὶ οἱ μαθηταὶ
αὐτοῦ (Lk 8.22).
‘one day he got into a boat with his disciples.’
Even though the clause seems to be composed by two coordinates, namely the
clause with ἐγένετο and that introduced by καί, grammarians either consider the
second καί to be redundant (cf. Turner 1963: 334-335) or think that it functions
like the completive subordinator ὅτι. Robertson (1919: 426), for instance, claims:
“[i]n the use of καί […] after ἐγένετο the paratactic καί borders very close on to
the hypotactic ὅτι”.
In some rare occurrences, the finite verb clause is introduced by καὶ ἰδού, as
in (3). The καὶ ἰδού-type only occurs in clauses beginning with καὶ ἐγένετο and
never occurs in clauses beginning with ἐγένετο δὲ:
(3) καὶ ἐγένετο αὐτοῦ ἀνακειμένου ἐν τῇ οἰκίᾳ, καὶ ἰδοὺ πολλοὶ τελῶναι καὶ
ἁμαρτωλοὶ ἐλθόντες συνανέκειντο τῷ ’Ιησοῦ καὶ τοῖς μαθηταῖς αὐτοῦ (Mt 9.10).
‘and as he sat at dinner in the house, many tax collectors and sinners came and
were sitting with him and his disciples.’
Besides the co-ordinating configurations (the καί-type, the καὶ ἰδού-type and
the asyndetic type), there is also a subordinating strategy, in which the accusative
with infinitive (AcI-type) replaces the finite verb clause:
(4) a. καὶ ἐγένετο αὐτὸν ἐν τοῖς σάββασιν παραπορεύεσθαι διὰ τῶν

σπορίμων, καὶ οἱ μαθηταὶ αὐτοῦ ἤρξαντο ὁδὸν ποιεῖν τίλλοντες τοὺς
στάχυας (Mk 2.23).
‘one sabbath he was going through the grainfields; and as they made their way
his disciples began to pluck heads of grain.’
b. ἐγένετο δὲ ἐν ταῖς ἡμέραις ταύταις ἐξελθεῖν αὐτὸν εἰς τὸ ὄρος
προσεύξασθαι, καὶ ἦν διανυκτερεύων ἐν τῇ προσευχῇ τοῦ θεοῦ (Lk 6.12).
‘now during those days he went out to the mountain to pray; and he spent the
night in prayer to God.’
In this structure, the initial verb ἐγένετο functions as an impersonal verb meaning
‘it happened’, which is followed by its expected clausal complement. Even though
this construction seems to sound perfectly Greek, it must be remarked that the
verb γίγνομαι does not occur in this type of clause in Classical Greek. We will
return to this topic later.
Evidence that the καὶ ἐγένετο constructions are calqued on BH is also given
by their several occurrences in the LXX, where they originated as a result of the
contact with original Hebrew texts. This concerned especially the καί-type and
the καὶ ἰδού-type, which seem to reproduce a word-for-word translation from
BH. Both constructions are unusual for Greek syntax. Some examples of the καὶ-
type and the καὶ ἰδού-type taken from the Pentateuch are provided below:
(5) a. καὶ ἐγένετο ἡνίκα ἤρξαντο οἱ ἄνθρωποι πολλοὶ γίνεσθαι ἐπὶ τῆς γῆς,
καὶ θυγατέρες ἐγενήθησαν αὐτοῖς (Ge. 6.1).
‘now it came about, when men began to multiply on the face of the land, and
daughters were born to them.’
b. καὶ ἐγένετο πρὸ τοῦ συντελέσαι αὐτὸν λαλοῦντα ἐν τῇ διανοίᾳ, καὶ ἰδοὺ
Ρεβεκκα ἐξεπορεύετο […] ἔχουσα τὴν ὑδρίαν ἐπὶ τῶν ὤμων αὐτῆς (Ge. 24.15).
‘before he had finished speaking, behold, Rebekah came out with her jar on
her shoulder’
The Semitic origin of these diverse καὶ ἐγένετο structures has been much debated.
According to Robertson (1919: 107), the constructions calqued on BH are the
asyndetic type and the καί-type, which are also frequent in the LXX. The fact
that the AcI-type belongs to vernacular Greek is evidenced by its occurrence in

Hellenistic papyri as well as its absence in the LXX (Robertson 1919: 1042; cf.
also Thackeray 1909: 50). Some scholars, however, do not agree with the Semitic
origin of the asyndetic type. For instance, Moulton (1906: 16) considered only the
καί-type to be a Hebraism but not the asyndetic type, which was Greek, according
to him, even though “unidiomatic” and “rather an experiment”. He mentions its
occurrence in Medieval Greek as well as its comparison with constructions such
as English It happened, I was at home that day, which show that the asyndetic
construction with verbs meaning ‘happen’ is not peculiar to Hebrew. According to
Thackeray (1909: 51–52), both the asyndetic type and the καί-type are Hebraisms;
however, “the apposition of the two verbs without καί was rather more in the spirit
of the later language, which preferred to say e.g. ‘It happened last week I was on a
journey’ rather than ‘It was a week ago and I was journeying’”.
We may claim that the asyndetic type and the AcI-type show a more
Graecising clausal syntax. They only occur in the Gospel of Luke, who presumably
created them to reshape a Hebrew construction in a Greek way: “Luke’s use
of the egeneto-phrase shows a steady process of adjusting it to Greek usage to
the extent that the un-Greek elements finally disappeared almost completely”
(Reiling 1965: 159).
The clause-opening formula καὶ ἐγένετο / ἐγένετο δέ is commonly
recognized as one of the peculiar features of Luke’s narrative identified as “biblical
Hebraisms from Septuagint Greek”, together with the temporal use of ἐν τῷ +
infinitive and the discourse marker καὶ ἰδού (Denaux and Hogeterp 2015/2016:
37). These features also occur combined with one another in several instances of
Luke’s Gospel:
(6) a. καὶ ἐγένετο ἐν τῷ εἶναι αὐτὸν ἐν μιᾷ τῶν πόλεων καὶ ἰδοὺ ἀνὴρ πλήρης
λέπρας5 (Lk 5.12).
‘while He was in one of the cities, behold, there was a man covered with leprosy.’
b. καὶ ἐγένετο ἐν τῷ ἀπορεῖσθαι αὐτὰς περὶ τούτου καὶ ἰδοὺ ἄνδρες δύο
ἐπέστησαν αὐταῖς ἐν ἐσθῆτι ἀστραπτούσῃ (Lk 24.4).
‘while they were perplexed about this, behold, two men suddenly stood near
them in dazzling clothing.’
5 The existential verb εἰμί is missing in this clause; its “actualising” function is expressed by the
adverb ἰδού.
As far as the temporal clause expressed by ἐν τῷ + infinitive is concerned, Turner

(1963: 144–145) remarks that it is “a marked feature of the style of Luke; in a
temporal sense it occurs about 30 times in Lk, but only 5 in Ac [=Acts, LT]. In
its temporal sense it is a Hebraism and non-classical […]. Very often in Luke it
is combined with ἐγένετο-constructions as a subordinate clause; Luke’s imitation
of LXX is particularly plain here”. The combination of the two features is also
remarked by Janse (2007: 652): “[o]ften (καὶ) ἐγένετο is followed by ἐν τῷ with
the infinitive to express time corresponding to the Hebrew b + infinitive. This
construction is characteristic of Luke and of Acts”. For further details see Notley
(2014: 325, fn. 21).
Let us now turn to the textual functions of the clause-opening formula
καὶ ἐγένετο / ἐγένετο δέ. Scholars generally agree on the fact that syntactically,
the formula serves the purpose of relating the main event, which is new, to its
temporal setting. According to Levinsohn (2000: 177) “[t]his combination is a
device found in the LXX that Luke often uses to background information with
respect to the following foregrounding events. […] In particular, it picks out
from the general background the specific circumstance for the foreground
events that are to follow” (my emphasis). We can also argue that the opening-
clause formula καὶ ἐγένετο / ἐγένετο δέ was redundant for Greek syntax, as
Reiling (1965: 155) claims: “[s]yntactically the LXX translators did not need the
egeneto-phrase because the Greek language had several means of expressing what
wayyehî expressed in Hebrew”. It was presumably considered as an oddity by
Greek native speakers or, rather, as a peculiar feature of Jewish-Greek narratives.
It goes without saying that neither Classical Greek nor Koine Greek needed this
opening-clause formula. Jewish-Christian Greek, though, exhibited this formula
as a distinctive feature in some narrative patterns.
Scholars have also tried to account for the textual distribution of the formula
and the semantico-pragmatic functions of the clauses in which it occurs. I refer
to Hogeterp and Denaux (2018: 317–320), who describe in great detail all the
occurrences in Luke’s Gospel and Acts. They also caution readers that “[w]ithin
Luke’s narrative structure, the ἐγένετο formula has been deemed neither ‘the
only nor an exclusive criterion of structure; it has but a supplementary cogency’
(Denaux 1993 [2010]: 23). This leaves the question of whether introduction
by the ἐγένετο formula marks the significance of events which are subsequently
narrated” (p. 317). One can also mention Reiling (1965: 153–163), who suggests
five major functions for our constructions, namely to introduce a narrative or
the event line within a narrative, to mark a climax or a narrative transition, and
finally to mark the closing of a narrative. This proposal is well supported by the
analysis of data but the classification is too heterogeneous and lacks consistency.
Other accounts, e.g. by Neirynck (1989: 94–100) and Gault (1990: 391), are too
general and do not seem well supported by data.
Summing up, the formula καὶ ἐγένετο / ἐγένετο δέ is a grammatical
device which links the main event, expressed by the finite verb clause, with
its temporal frame or setting. Reiling (1965: 154) also draws attention to this
aspect, remarking that: “[t]he placing of wayyehî at the beginning of the sentence
makes it possible to give the expression of time its place and to keep the verb in
the consecutive imperfect. Without an expression of time there would be no
need of introductory wayyehî” (my emphasis). The relationship with the time
expression is crucial for the syntax of the clauses under scrutiny here. In the
following Section I will discuss this aspect in greater detail.
2.4 The importance of time: types of time expression in the (καὶ) ἐγένετο (δέ) structures
I focus here on time expressions, which are an essential element of the structures
under scrutiny. They are usually placed in second position, between the clause-
opening formula and the main event clause. Syntactically, there are no constraints
on the time expression, which may be a temporal prepositional phrase (7a), a
dependent clause introduced by the conjunctions ὅτε (1a) or ὡς (7c), a genitive
absolute (7d=3), or finally a non-finite temporal clause introduced by ἐν τῷ + AcI
(7e). The unique constraint on this second-position element concerns semantics:
it must refer to time, namely the temporal setting of the main event.
(7) a. καὶ ἐγένετο ἐν ἐκείναις ταῖς ἡμέραις ἦλθεν Ἰησοῦς ἀπὸ Ναζαρὲτ τῆς
Γαλιλαίας καὶ ἐβαπτίσθη εἰς τὸν Ἰορδάνην ὑπὸ Ἰωάννου (Mk 1.9).
‘in those days Jesus came from Nazareth in Galilee and was baptized by John
in the Jordan.’
b. καὶ ἐγένετο ὅτε ἐτέλεσεν ὁ ’Ιησοῦς τοὺς λόγους τούτους ἐξεπλήσσοντο

οἱ ὄχλοι ἐπὶ τῇ διδαχῇ αὐτοῦ· (Mt 7.28).
‘when Jesus had finished these words, the crowds were amazed at His teaching’
c. καὶ ἐγένετο ὡς ἤκουσεν τὸν ἀσπασμὸν τῆς Μαρίας ἡ ’Ελισάβετ,

ἐσκίρτησεν τὸ βρέϕος ἐν τῇ κοιλίᾳ αὐτῆς (Lk1.41).
‘when Elizabeth heard Mary’s greeting, the baby leaped in her womb.’
d. καὶ ἐγένετο αὐτοῦ ἀνακειμένου ἐν τῇ οἰκίᾳ, ἰδοὺ πολλοὶ τελῶναι καὶ

ἁμαρτωλοὶ ἐλθόντες συνανέκειντο τῷ Ἰησοῦ καὶ τοῖς μαθηταῖς αὐτοῦ (Mt 9.10).
‘then it happened that as Jesus was reclining at the table in the house, behold, many
tax collectors and sinners came and were dining with Jesus and His disciples.’
e. καὶ ἐγένετο ἐν τῷ ἐλθεῖν αὐτὸν εἰς οἶκόν τινος τῶν ἀρχόντων τῶν
Φαρισαίων σαββάτῳ φαγεῖν ἄρτον, καὶ αὐτοὶ ἦσαν παρατηρούμενοι αὐτόν
(Lk 14.1).
‘it happened that when He went into the house of one of the leaders of the
Pharisees on the Sabbath to eat bread, they were watching Him closely.’
When the temporal expression is clausal, its subject is different from that of
the clause expressing the main event. This syntactic constraint is related to the
functional property of these time expressions which give the frame or setting for
the main event to happen. In this way, the event expressed by the temporal clause
functions as a temporal anchoring for the main event clause.
The time anchoring may also be expressed by an adverb or a complement
which refer to the moment of the day (“the morning”, “the evening”) or have
deictic reference (“the day after”, “in this day”). This type of time expression
occurs frequently in the LXX, e.g. (8), but seldom in the NT, e.g. (9):
(8) a. ἐγένετο δὲ πρωὶ καὶ ἐταράχθη ἡ ψυχὴ αὐτοῦ (Ge. 41.8).

‘now in the morning his spirit was troubled.’
b. ἐγένετο δὲ τῇ ἐπαύριον καὶ εἶπεν ἡ πρεσβυτέρα πρὸς τὴν νεωτέραν (Ge.

19.34).
‘on the following day, the firstborn said to the younger.’
c. ἐγένετο δὲ ἐν τῇ ἡμέρᾳ ἐκείνῃ καὶ παραγενόμενοι οἱ παῖδες Ισαακ

ἀπήγγειλαν αὐτῷ περὶ τοῦ ϕρέατος (Ge. 26.32).
‘now it came about on the same day, that Isaac’s servants came in and told him
about the well.’
(9) a. καὶ ἐγένετο ἐν τῇ ἡμέρᾳ τῇ ὀγδόῃ ἦλθον περιτεμεῖν τὸ παιδίον, καὶ

ἐκάλουν αὐτὸ ἐπὶ τῷ ὀνόματι τοῦ πατρὸς αὐτοῦ Ζαχαρίαν (Lk 1.59).
‘and it happened that on the eighth day they came to circumcise the child, and
they were going to call him Zacharias, after his father.’
b. καὶ ἐγένετο μετὰ ἡμέρας τρεῖς εὗρον αὐτὸν ἐν τῷ ἱερῷ καθεζόμενον ἐν

μέσῳ τῶν διδασκάλων καὶ ἀκούοντα αὐτῶν καὶ ἐπερωτῶντα αὐτούς (Lk
2.46).
‘then, after three days they found Him in the temple, sitting in the midst of the
teachers, both listening to them and asking them questions.’
The importance of time expressions surfaces in occurrences where the main event
is anchored to the age and the life of some essential character, such as Noah and
Abraham respectively:
(10) a. καὶ ἐγένετο ἐν τῷ ἑνὶ καὶ ἑξακοσιοστῷ ἔτει ἐν τῇ ζωῇ τοῦ Νωε, τοῦ
πρώτου μηνός, μιᾷ τοῦ μηνός, ἐξέλιπεν τὸ ὕδωρ ἀπὸ τῆς γῆς (Ge. 8.13).
‘now it came about in the six hundred and first year, in the first month, on the
first of the month, the water was dried up from the earth.’
b. ἐγένετο δὲ Αβραμ ἐτῶν ἐνενήκοντα ἐννέα, καὶ ὤϕθη κύριος τῷ Αβραμ

καὶ εἶπεν αὐτῷ (Ge. 17.1).
‘now when Abram was ninety-nine years old, the Lord appeared to Abram and
said to him.’
The regularity of this clause type allows us to analyse instances such as (11) as
follows. The complement ἐν τῇ ὁδῷ is governed by the clause-opening formula
ἐγένετο δέ and expresses the expected time reference, whilst the following
complement ἐν τῷ καταλύματι is the locative governed by the verb of the main
clause συνήντησεν. Our reading of the clause, indeed, is different from that given
in most available translations: hereafter, we give the translation of the NASB and
our translation in brackets.6
(11) ἐγένετο δὲ ἐν τῇ ὁδῷ ἐν τῷ καταλύματι συνήντησεν αὐτῷ ἄγγελος

κυρίου καὶ ἐζήτει αὐτὸν ἀποκτεῖναι (Ex. 4.24).
‘now it came about at the lodging place on the way that the Lord met him and
sought to put him to death.’ (lit. ‘it happened on the way that an angel of the
Lord met him at the lodging…’).
6 The translation of the New English Translation of the Septuagint (NETS), available on http://
ccat.sas.upenn.edu/nets/edition/ (accessed July 2020), is similar: ‘now it happened on the way at
the lodging, an angel of the Lord met him and was seeking to kill him’. Italian translations such
as Nuova Riveduta and CEI/Gerusalemme, available on https://www.laparola.net/ (accessed July
2020), suggest a reading of the clause similar to mine: ‘Mentre si trovava in viaggio, il Signore gli
venne incontro nel luogo dov’egli pernottava, e cercò di farlo morire’.
2.5 Summing up
The καὶ ἐγένετο / ἐγένετο δέ constructions are complex sentences in which the
main clause event is related to its temporal setting. The latter is rarely expressed
by a simple time reference expression, such as “in this day”, “in the morning”,
etc. Rather, it consists of a temporal clause, which reports another event with
respect to that of the main clause, which gives the temporal setting of the latter.
The καὶ ἐγένετο / ἐγένετο δέ formula acts as a device for linking the two events.
This is absolutely unnecessary for Greek syntax. It is calqued on BH, where the
corresponding clause-opening wayyehî is, instead, necessary in this type of clause.
Many studies have already investigated several aspects concerning the syntax,
semantics, pragmatics and stylistics of this type of construction. Some questions,
however, remain unanswered. Why was the verb γίνομαι employed? Are there
some features, internal to the Greek syntax of γίνομαι, which can help us to
understand the reason for this calque?
In order to answer these questions, I focus in the following section on the
constructions of γίνομαι in which the verb is combined with nominal arguments.
I will name these constructions “monoclausal” to distinguish them from those
discussed above where the verb, whatever its function may be, is not monoclausal.
My aim is to argue that the semantic and syntactic features of γίνομαι in one
specific monoclausal construction are comparable to those concening the type
καὶ ἐγένετο / ἐγένετο δέ. In other words, I aim to show that internal linguistic
analysis may help us to understand the calque and that the calqued καὶ ἐγένετο
/ ἐγένετο δέ constructions bear some structural similarity to the authentically
Greek syntax of γίνομαι.
3 The monoclausal verb γίνομαι in the New Testament
Dictionaries of Ancient Greek (LSJ 1996 [1843]), New Testament Greek (Thayer
1889, BDAG 2000) and LXX (Muraoka 2016) unanimously assign two basic
syntactic configurations to γί(γ)νομαι, besides the καὶ ἐγένετο type just discussed.
In the first type, the verb is an inchoative copular predicate combined with a
semantic predicate, which is related to the subject of the clause. The semantic
predicate can be either a N[oun]P[hrase] or a P[repositional]P[hrase]. The whole
construction means ‘to come into X’ / ‘to become X’, where X is the semantic
predicate. In the second type, γί(γ)νομαι functions as an inchoative existential
predicate which means ‘to come into being’. It is combined with a noun (its
subject in the clause), which can designate a person (‘to be born’), a thing (‘to be
produced’) or an event (‘to take place’). Examples (12) and (13), taken from the
NT, show the two types of clause. Both of them are attested in Classical Greek
as well.
(12) καὶ ὁ λόγος σὰρξ ἐγένετο καὶ ἐσκήνωσεν ἐν ἡμῖν (Jn 1.14).
‘and the Word became flesh and lived among us.’
(13) καὶ ἰδοὺ σεισμὸς ἐγένετο μέγας (Mt 28.2).

‘and suddenly there was a great earthquake.’
3.1 Previous studies on γίγνομαι
The distinction between copular and existential uses of γίγνομαι is commonly

accepted by scholars, with the exception of Kahn (1973). In his book on the
verb εἰμί in Ancient Greek, which also includes some observations on γίγνομαι
and other verbs meaning ‘to be’, ‘to exist’, ‘to happen’, he argues that the two
concepts of “copula” and “existence” are not consistent and cannot be compared,
because they refer to different levels, namely syntax and semantics (p. 80–84).
He suggests distinguishing copulative and non-copulative uses of the verb ‘to be’.
He also includes locative constructions in the copulative type, in accordance with
the transformational grammar by Zellig S. Harris. This is not unproblematic as
regards the semantic-syntactic interface. Locative and copular constructions seem
to be comparable from a syntactic point of view, since in both of them the verb
relates one noun, i.e. the subject, to a predicative element, expressed either by the
locative or the copulative noun/adjective. Despite this superficial similarity, the
noun and its predication do not exhibit the same semantic relationship in the two
types. In the case of copular constructions, the predication is not referential, the
unique referent in the clause being the subject. In locative constructions, instead,
the locative is a referential noun or a deictic expression, so its semantic content is
not dependent on that of the subject.
A more detailed classification of constructions with verbs of ‘being’,
‘existing’ was proposed by Kölligan (2007: 84ff.) who distinguishes four types of
constructions, namely (a) existential, (b) locative, (c) copular, and (d) possessive.
His classification is based on two morphosyntactic parameters, namely the clause
structure and the different types of adjuncts. According to the first one, he
distinguishes the type with null-adjunct in (a) vs the types with adjuncts in (b),
(c), and (d). According to the second one, he recognizes three types of adjuncts,
namely locative (b) vs nominal predicate (c) vs genitive/dative possessor (d).

This classification was not used here since it includes constructions that are not
considered in this study and I comply with the opposition between copulative
and existential clauses.
Another aspect investigated by scholars concerns the differences between εἰμί
and γίγνομαι. According to Kahn (1973), γίγνομαι is the “dynamic”, “kinetic”
or “mutative” counterpart of the “static” or “stative” εἰμί: “[h]ence the be-become
contrast in Greek is practically co-extensive with the static-kinetic aspectual
opposition” (p. 195-196). So, become/γίγνομαι is “an aspectual variant on be
produced by some general verb operator like begins (to be) or comes (to be), which
operates on other verbs as well (begins to rain, comes to prefer)” (p. 207). The
relationship with εἰμί is also made evident by some suppletive exchanges of the
two verbs, e.g. the aorist of γίγνομαι instead of the missing aorist of εἰμί (Kahn
1973: 384). According to Kölligan (2007: 98) “innerhalb des Aspektsystems
ἐγενόμην das ingressive und in einigen Fällen auch komplexive Aoristpendant
zum stativischen εἰμί darstellen kann”. In the NT, the imperfect of εἰμί usually
replaces that of γίγνομαι: “[o]ut of a total of 2194 LXX and 669 NT instances of
γίνομαι, 25 LXX and 3 NT cases are imperfect” (Bailey 2009: 23). Besides, the
future of γίγνομαι is replaced by that of εἰμί, as Bailey (2009: 228) claims: “εἰμί
dominates the future tense, but γίνομαι still occurs occasionally. For both LXX
and NT, of 7780 instances of εἰμί, 1719 (22%) are future; but of 2664 instances
of γίνομαι only 12 are future (i.e. 0.45%), and of those 11 occur in the NT”. The
convergence of the two verbs is shown in (14), where the aorist of γίνομαι and
the present of εἰμί occur in a copular structure without any syntactic or semantic
difference:
(14) οὐχ οὕτως ἔσται ἐν ὑμῖν· ἀλλ’ ὃς ἐὰν θέλῃ ἐν ὑμῖν μέγας γενέσθαι ἔσται
ὑμῶν διάκονος, καὶ ὃς ἂν θέλῃ ἐν ὑμῖν εἶναι πρῶτος ἔσται ὑμῶν δοῦλος (Mt
20.26–27).
‘it will not be so among you; but whoever wishes to be great among you must
be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be your slave.’
The convergence is also evidenced in Latin translations, e.g. the Vulgate,

where γίνομαι is often translated by Latin sum instead of the expected fio. The
translation by sum is usual for the following two forms: (a) the aorists of γίνομαι,
which are identified by Latin translators as the past suppletive forms of εἰμί, e.g.
(15); (b) the imperatives of γίνομαι, which are expectedly translated by the future
imperative of sum, because the imperative of fio is very rare, e.g. (16):
(15) a. καθὼς γὰρ ἐγένετο ’Ιωνᾶς τοῖς Νινευίταις σημεῖον, οὕτως ἔσται καὶ
ὁ υἱὸς τοῦ ἀνθρώπου τῇ γενεᾷ ταύτῃ (Lk 11.30).
b. nam sicut Ionas fuit signum Ninevitis ita erit et Filius hominis generationi isti
‘for just as Jonah became a sign to the people of Nineveh, so the Son of Man
will be to this generation.’
(16) a. διὰ τοῦτο καὶ ὑμεῖς γίνεσθε ἕτοιμοι, ὅτι ᾗ οὐ δοκεῖτε ὥρᾳ ὁ υἱὸς τοῦ
ἀνθρώπου ἔρχεται (Mt 24.44).
b. ideoque et vos estote parati quia qua nescitis hora Filius hominis venturus est
‘therefore you also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected
hour.’
In the following two Sections (3.2 and 3.3) I will discuss the data of the NT
according to the classification of γίνομαι as a copular and existential verb. Section
3.4 will be devoted to analysing a third type of monoclausal γίνομαι, which has
not received much attention until now. This third type is crucial for our analysis.
3.2 The inchoative copular type
In copular clauses with γίνομαι the verb combines with two elements, like copular
εἰμί. They are the subject of the clause and its semantic predicate, which is a noun
or an adjective. The subject of the clause is usually a concrete and non-eventive
noun: this is a crucial difference with respect to the existential types discussed
later in Section 3.3. The semantic predicate is a bare noun, i.e. a noun without a
determiner, e.g. (17), or an adjective, e.g. (18).
(17) a. εἰ υἱὸς εἶ τοῦ θεοῦ, εἰπὲ τῷ λίθῳ τούτῳ ἵνα γένηται ἄρτος (Lk 4.3).
‘if you are the Son of God, command this stone to become a loaf of bread.’
b. καὶ Ἰούδαν Ἰσκαριώθ, ὃς ἐγένετο προδότης (Lk 6.16).

‘and Judas Iscariot, who became a traitor.’
c. ὅσοι δὲ ἔλαβον αὐτόν, ἔδωκεν αὐτοῖς ἐξουσίαν τέκνα θεοῦ γενέσθαι (Jn
1.12).
‘but to all who received him, he gave power to become children of God.’
d. ἀλλὰ τὸ ὕδωρ ὃ δώσω αὐτῷ γενήσεται ἐν αὐτῷ πηγὴ ὕδατος ἁλλομένου

εἰς ζωὴν αἰώνιον (Jn 4.14).
‘the water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to
eternal life.’
(18) a. τὰ δὲ ἱμάτια αὐτοῦ ἐγένετο λευκὰ ὡς τὸ ϕῶς (Mt 17.2).

‘his clothes became dazzling white.’
b. καὶ ὅταν σπαρῇ, ἀναβαίνει καὶ γίνεται μεῖζον πάντων τῶν λαχάνων (Mk
4.32).
‘yet when it is sown it grows up and becomes the greatest of all shrubs.’
c. ἤδη γὰρ συνετέθειντο οἱ ’Ιουδαῖοι ἵνα ἐάν τις αὐτὸν ὁμολογήσῃ Χριστόν,
ἀποσυνάγωγος γένηται (Jn 9.22).
‘the Jews had already agreed that anyone who confessed Jesus to be the Messiah
would be put out of the synagogue.’
In a few cases, the semantic predicate surfaces as a prepositional phrase, e.g. (19).
This example is common to three synoptic Gospels and is presumably a proverb,
also attested in Ps. 118.22.
(19) λίθον ὃν ἀπεδοκίμασαν οἱ οἰκοδομοῦντες, οὗτος ἐγενήθη εἰς κεϕαλὴν

γωνίας (Mt 21.42 = Mk 12.10 = Lk 20.17).
‘the stone that the builders rejected has become the cornerstone.’
As regards the form of the semantic predicate, there are some differences from
one Gospel to another. For instance, the simple noun δένδρον in the Gospel of
Matthew corresponds to the prepositional phrase εἰς δένδρον in that of Luke,
with reference to the same situation:
(20) a. ὅταν δὲ αὐξηθῇ μεῖζον τῶν λαχάνων ἐστὶν καὶ γίνεται δένδρον (Mt
13.32).
‘[it is the smallest of all the seeds,] but when it has grown it is the greatest of
shrubs and becomes a tree.’
b. καὶ ηὔξησεν καὶ ἐγένετο εἰς δένδρον (Lk 13.19).

‘[it is like a mustard seed that someone took and sowed in the garden;] it
grew and became a tree.’
As further evidence of the copulative syntax of γίνομαι, one can mention the
several instances of γίνομαι translated into Latin Vulgate by the plain copular
verb sum instead of the expected fio. As already pointed out, the translation by
sum is frequent when the clause is a copular one. Besides examples (15)-(16)
mentioned in Section 3.1, see γένησθε υἱοὶ / sitis filii (Mt 5.45); γένηται
ἁπαλὸς / tener fuerit (Mt 24.32); ἐγένετο κατὰ μόνας / esset singularis (Mk
4.10); πιστὸς ἐγένου / fidelis fuisti (Lk 19.17); ἐγένετο ἀνὴρ προϕήτης / fuit
vir propheta (Lk 24.19); γίνεσθε ϕρόνιμοι / estote prudentes (Mt 10.16); γίνεσθε
οἰκτίρμονες / estote misericordes (Lk 6.36); γίνεσθε ἕτοιμοι / estote parati (Lk
12.40). The translation by sum is very rare, instead, when the clause belongs to
the existential type.
3.3 The inchoative existential type
In her thesis on nominal clauses in the Iliad, Lanérès (1994: 598–599) mentions
the existential use of γίγνομαι and remarks that “[c]onformément à son sens
étymologique, (ἐ)γένετο indique un avènement, marque l’entrée dans un état ;
il dit précisément d’une chose non pas qu’elle est, mais qu’elle se produit : Α
188 Πηλείωνι δ’ ἄχος γένετ’(ο) Μ 392 Σαρπήδοντι δ’ ἄχος γένετο, Λ 50 βοὴ
γένετο Μ 144 γένετο ἰαχή Α 493 γένετ’ ἠώς”. In these examples, it is said that
something happened, namely the “event” described by the noun, which can be
a feeling (ἄχος), a noise or sound (βοὴ, ἰαχή) or an atmospheric phenomenon
(ἠώς).7
This type of clause is extensively attested in the NT. There occur nouns which
designate natural or human events, referring to time (e.g. πρωΐα ‘morning’, ὀψία
‘evening’, σάββατον ‘sabbath’, ὥρα [πολλή, ἕκτης] ‘hour’, ἡμέρα ‘day’), to the
atmosphere (e.g. σκότος ‘darkness’, βροντή ‘thunder’, νεϕέλη ‘cloud’), to natural
catastrophes (e.g. σεισμός ‘earthquake’, γαλήνη ‘calm’, λαῖλαψ [μεγάλη ἀνέμου]
‘furious storm’, λιμός ‘famine’), to human and social activities (e.g. γάμος
‘wedding’, ἀνταπόδομα ‘repayment’, σωτηρία ‘salvation’, ζήτησις ‘searching,
inquiry’, σχίσμα ‘division’, δείπνον ‘meal’, θόρυβος ‘noise’, θλῖψις ‘pressure’), to
feelings and psychological attitudes (e.g. εὐδοκία ‘good will’, ϕιλονεικία ‘rivalry’,
φόβος ‘fear’, χαρά ‘joy’). One example for each class of nouns is given hereafter:
7 When a feeling is involved, another noun, i.e. the experiencer, mandatorily occurs in the clause,
since the feeling cannot be produced itself outside of an experiencer. This is a constraint of
psychological predicates.
(21) a. ὡς δὲ ὀψία ἐγένετο κατέβησαν οἱ μαθηταὶ αὐτοῦ ἐπὶ τὴν θάλασσαν

(Jn 6.16).
‘when evening came, his disciples went down to the sea.’
b. ταῦτα δὲ αὐτοῦ λέγοντος ἐγένετο νεϕέλη καὶ ἐπεσκίαζεν αὐτούς (Lk

9.34).
‘while he was saying this, a cloud formed and began to overshadow them.’
c. τότε ἐγερθεὶς ἐπετίμησεν τοῖς ἀνέμοις καὶ τῇ θαλάσσῃ, καὶ ἐγένετο

γαλήνη μεγάλη (Mt 8.26).
‘then He got up and rebuked the winds and the sea, and it became perfectly
calm.’
d. ἰδὼν δὲ ὁ Πιλᾶτος ὅτι οὐδὲν ὠϕελεῖ ἀλλὰ μᾶλλον θόρυβος γίνεται (Mt
27.24).
‘so when Pilate saw that he could do nothing, but rather that a riot was
beginning.’
e. καὶ ἐγένετο ἐπὶ πάντας φόβος τοὺς περιοικοῦντας αὐτούς (Lk 1.65).
‘and fear came over all their neighbors.’
According to several studies which, since Grimshaw (1990) onwards, have dealt
with nominal predication, these nouns can be classified as Simple Event Nominals
(SEN). They are predicative nominals, since they combine with predicates such
as take place, last x time and be interrupted, unlike Referential Nominals (RN)
which cannot do so. They differ, however, from Argumental-Structure Nominals
(ASN) such as construction, examination, which can combine with predicates such
as take place, last x time and be interrupted as well, since SEN are not deverbal
nouns, whereas ASN are. So, the difference between SEN and ASN concerns the
lexical vs grammatical coding of their eventive features. Eventivity is coded in the
lexicon for SEN and in the grammar for ASN, via derivation from verbs (cf. Roy
and Soare 2013 and references therein for further details).
Evidence for the predicative function of the eventive nouns in (21) is given
by their status of bare nouns. The determiner, be it definite or indefinite, is usually
considered to be a marker of the referential value of nouns. There exist, however,
other constructions in the NT, which exhibit the event noun combined with the
definite article, as the examples in (22) show:
(22) a. ἐγένετο τότε τὰ ἐγκαίνια ἐν τοῖς ‘Ιεροσολύμοις (Jn 10.22).

‘at that time the festival of the Dedication took place in Jerusalem.’
b. γενηθήτω τὸ θέλημά σου, / ὡς ἐν οὐρανῷ καὶ ἐπὶ γῆς (Mt 6.10).

‘your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.’
c. προσεύχεσθε δὲ ἵνα μὴ γένηται ἡ ϕυγὴ ὑμῶν χειμῶνος μηδὲ σαββάτῳ·

(Mt 24.20).
‘pray that your flight may not be in winter or on a sabbath.’
d. οἴδατε ὅτι μετὰ δύο ἡμέρας τὸ πάσχα γίνεται (Mt 26.2).

‘you know that after two days the Passover is coming.’
e. εἰς τί ἡ ἀπώλεια αὕτη τοῦ μύρου γέγονεν; (Mk 14.4).

‘[but some were there who said to one another]: “Why was the ointment
wasted in this way?”’
f. αὕτη ἀπογραϕὴ πρώτη ἐγένετο ἡγεμονεύοντος τῆς Συρίας Κυρηνίου (Lk

2.2).
‘this was the first registration and was taken while Quirinius was governor of
Syria.’
g. εἰ ἐκείνους εἶπεν θεοὺς πρὸς οὓς ὁ λόγος τοῦ θεοῦ ἐγένετο (Jn 10.35).
‘If those to whom the word of God came were called “gods”.’
The subject nouns of the clauses in (22) do not differ from plain referential nouns
syntactically. Besides the determiners and the deictics, e.g. αὕτη in (22e) and
(22f ), they also govern the genitive, e.g. (22c) and (22g). Their eventive character
is, nevertheless, unquestionable, according to the definition of SEN given earlier,
since they combine with a verb meaning to take place. However, they are different
from eventive nouns in (21). Together with the formal differences, there is also a
semantic one. In (22) the noun is presupposed, since the existence of the notion
associated to it is not predicated by the clause, but pre-exists the clause itself. This
is an important difference with respect to examples (21), where the existence of the
notion associated with the subject noun is predicated by the clause. For instance,
in (21a) ὀψία does not exist until its existence is predicated by ὀψία ἐγένετο.
It can be argued that γίνομαι does not predicate the coming into existence of
anything in examples (22). The verb γίνομαι is not a plain existential verb here.
Evidence for this is also given by the mandatory presence of another argument
in this type of clause, e.g. ἐν τοῖς ‘Ιεροσολύμοις in (22a), ὡς ἐν οὐρανῷ καὶ ἐπὶ
γῆς in (22b), χειμῶνος e σαββάτῳ in (22c) and so on. These elements seem to
be adjuncts of the clause, since they are not specified in terms of constituency and
semantic content. As regards constituency, there is broad variation: prepositional
phrases, e.g. μετὰ δύο ἡμέρας in (22d), oblique noun phrases, e.g. χειμῶνος and
σαββάτῳ in (22c), absolute participial clauses, e.g. ἡγεμονεύοντος τῆς Συρίας
Κυρηνίου in (22f ). As regards the semantic content of these complements, they
can denote the location of the event, as in (22a) and (22b), the time of the event,
as in (22c), (22d) and (22f ), the goal and the recipient of the event, as in (22e)
and (22g). These constituents are semantically related to the event nominal which
occurs as the subject of the clause. The verb γίνομαι provides the syntactic linkage
between the event and its setting, be it the location, the time, etc. Therefore,
γίνομαι is not a plain existential verb. It does not predicate the taking place of
the event; rather, it focuses on the setting of the event itself. It may be called a
setting-focusing verb.
The function of γίνομαι as a setting-focusing verb is well illustrated in (23a)
and (23b) where the event is not lexically specified and the deictics τοῦτο δὲ ὅλον
and ταῦτα occur in subject position.
(23) a. τοῦτο δὲ ὅλον γέγονεν ἵνα πληρωθῶσιν αἱ γραϕαὶ τῶν προϕητῶν

(Mt 26.56).
‘but all this has taken place, so that the scriptures of the prophets may be
fulfilled.’
b. ἐγένετο γὰρ ταῦτα ἵνα ἡ γραϕὴ πληρωθῇ (Jn 19.36).

‘these things occurred so that the scripture might be fulfilled.’
The deictics τοῦτο δὲ ὅλον and ταῦτα replace the event described in the preceding
clauses and γίνομαι acts as a syntactic link between them and the purpose-setting
expressed by the final clauses.
The difference between the plain existential γίνομαι and the setting-focusing
γίνομαι is illustrated by the couple of clauses in (24), where the feature [± definite
event noun] creates a sort of minimal pair. In (24a) the subject noun ϕωνή is a
bare noun and the verb ἐγένετο predicates its coming into existence. Both the
prepositional phrase ἐκ τῆς νεϕέλης and the participle λέγουσα are adjuncts
which may also be suppressed. In (24b), instead, the ϕωνή as a part of the noun
phrase ἡ ϕωνὴ τοῦ ἀσπασμοῦ σου is referential, as indicated by the definite
article and the genitive. In the latter case, the function of γίνομαι is to establish
the syntactic relationship between the subject NP and its local setting, namely εἰς
τὰ ὦτά μου.
(24) a. καὶ ϕωνὴ ἐγένετο ἐκ τῆς νεϕέλης λέγουσα (Lk 9.35).

‘then from the cloud came a voice that said.’
b. ἰδοὺ γὰρ ὡς ἐγένετο ἡ ϕωνὴ τοῦ ἀσπασμοῦ σου εἰς τὰ ὦτά μου, ἐσκίρτησεν
ἐν ἀγαλλιάσει τὸ βρέϕος ἐν τῇ κοιλίᾳ μου. (Lk 1.44).
‘for as soon as I heard the sound of your greeting, the child in my womb leaped
for joy.’
The setting-focusing function of γίνομαι is even more apparent in sentences

with a contrastive focus, such as (25), where the second argument exhibits the
semantic role of beneficiary (διά + accusative) and is under the contrastive focus
(οὐ... ἀλλά):
(24) ἀπεκρίθη καὶ εἶπεν ’Ιησοῦς, Οὐ δι’ ἐμὲ ἡ ϕωνὴ αὕτη γέγονεν ἀλλὰ δι’
ὑμᾶς (Jn 12.30).
‘Jesus answered: “this voice has come for your sake, not for mine”.’
In summary, the structures with event nouns + γίνομαι are of two different types:
(a) plain existential type and (b) setting-focusing type. In the former type, the verb
γίνομαι predicates that an event takes place. The clause is basically constituted
by the event noun as a subject and the verb γίνομαι; other constituents are not
necessary. The event noun is a bare noun. In the setting-focusing type, instead,
γίνομαι does not predicate the event, but the relationship between the event and
some aspect of its setting, e.g. location, time, beneficiary, purpose, cause, and so
on. The event nominal is never a bare noun and may be part of a complex SN,
with determiners and complement in the genitive. All these features evidence the
referential value of the NP.
3.4 Setting-focusing γίνομαι and καὶ ἐγένετο structures: explaining the relationship
My hypothesis is that the existence in Greek (both Classical and Koine Greek) of
the setting-focusing γίνομαι provided the syntactic and semantic conditions for
calquing the καὶ ἐγένετο type from BH. It can be said that in both constructions
γίνομαι does not predicate the coming into existence or the happening of an
event. Rather, it acts as a setting-focusing verb, since it focuses on the setting of

the event itself, which mostly concerns the temporal frame (this is the case in the
καὶ ἐγένετο type), by relating this setting to the event itself.
It goes without saying that the two constructions are different in terms
of syntax. In the setting-focusing type the structure is monoclausal, whilst in
the καὶ ἐγένετο type this is not the case (see the coordinating, juxtaposing and
subordinating strategies of the καὶ ἐγένετο type illustrated in Section 2.3). They
are comparable, though, in terms of pragmatic-informational features, since in
both of them there is an event and its setting, and the function of the verb is to
predicate the relationship between them.
If my hypothesis is correct, we can claim that the setting-focusing γίνομαι
provided the semantic and pragmatic-informational pattern for the καὶ
ἐγένετο structures to find place. At the surface, the syntax of the καὶ ἐγένετο
structures, particularly the coordinating strategy, was modelled on BH, but this
is unproblematic for my hypothesis, since it is a contact-induced phenomenon.
The construction of καὶ ἐγένετο + AcI in Luke’s Greek can be considered to be
an attempt to “Graecise” the superficial syntax of the καὶ ἐγένετο type, which
undoubtedly sounded as foreign, odd and unfamiliar to Greek speakers.
I would finally mention another question which needs further investigation.
It concerns the choice of γίνομαι, instead of other verbs, as a calque for the BH
wayyehî construction. The verb συμβαίνω, for instance, mostly in the aorist form
συνέβη, usually occurs as an impersonal verb meaning ‘to happen’ in constructions
with AcI in Classical Greek (cf. Buth 2014: 268–273; Hogeterp and Denaux
2018: 338–339). Only one occurrence of this construction is found in the NT,
precisely in the Acts: ὅτε δὲ ἐγένετο ἐπὶ τοὺς ἀναβαθμοὺς, συνέβη βαστάζεσθαι
αὐτὸν ὑπὸ τῶν στρατιωτῶν διὰ τὴν βίαν τοῦ ὄχλου (Act.Ap. 21.35) ‘when he
got to the stairs, he was carried by the soldiers because of the violence of the
mob’ (lit. ‘when he got to the stairs, it happened that he was carried…’). The
innovation made by Luke to “Graecise” the syntax of καὶ ἐγένετο structures by
combining ἐγένετο with AcI presumably produced some changes in the syntax
of γίνομαι and some overlapping in use with συμβαίνω. Further research could
be directed to investigate the diachronic changes of the two verbs in terms of
syntactic and textual distribution (which types of constructions, which types of
texts, of which periods, etc.). In this regard, it is interesting to observe that the
“free Greek books” of the Old Testament, that is Maccabees 2‒4, “retain the
Classical συνέβη + Inf. and do not use the καὶ ἐγένετο structures” (Thackeray
1909: 52).
4 To conclude
It is well-known that the clause-opening formula καὶ ἐγένετο / ἐγένετο δέ was

calqued on BH wayyehî (waw ‘and’ + the verb hayah ‘to be, to exist, to happen’)
and was used in both LXX and NT Greek. Its function is to introduce a new
event in the story and to establish a relationship with its temporal frame. From
the point of view of the construction, the clause-opening formula is followed
by a time expression (temporal clause, temporal complement, adverbs) and the
clause expressing the main event. The syntactic connection between the latter
and the clause-opening formula is by coordination, juxtaposition and completive
subordination (the main event clause is an AcI). The first two strategies are
considered to be Hebraizing, whilst subordination is Graecising.
The relationship between the Greek construction and its BH counterpart has
received much attention in the literature. No attempt has been made to explain
why γίνομαι was used for calquing the BH structure and whether and how this
influenced the syntax of γίνομαι and triggered some relevant and longstanding
changes. In this contribution, some suggestions have been proposed concerning
the first question. My hypothesis is that the verb γίνομαι was used to calque
BH wayyehî because the syntax of this verb in Greek allowed a setting-focusing
pattern. This pattern was used in monoclausal structures in Greek-native
syntax: the verb γίνομαι links an event noun with some aspect of its setting,
e.g. temporal, local setting, which is focused on. In terms of surface syntax, this
pattern is not comparable with the καὶ ἐγένετο / ἐγένετο δέ structures, since the
latter are not monoclausal, and the verb γίνομαι seems to be semantically empty
and syntactically redundant, especially in the coordinating type. Despite these
differences, γίνομαι acts as a setting-focusing verb in both structures. So it can
be claimed that the pragmatic-informational pattern of the monoclausal setting-
focusing γίνομαι allowed the BH wayyehî constructions to be calqued in Biblical
Greek καὶ ἐγένετο / ἐγένετο δέ structures.
Some questions remain unanswered and call for further research. In particular,
the relationship between the new structures with ἐγένετο, particularly ἐγένετο
+ AcI, and the Classical Greek constructions of the impersonal verb συνέβη ‘it
happened’ + AcI. The analysis of the distribution of the two verbs in texts of
different types, particularly literary and non-literary texts, Hebrew-Christian
texts, etc., could shed new light on several topics concerning the diachrony of
Greek, the relationship between contact-induced variation and language change,
and the influence of Hebraising linguistic models in Koine Greek.
References
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II Discourse analysis
206
Focus of attention and common ground.

The function of the particle δή in Thucydides
Rutger J. Allan
1 Introduction
The particle δή is without any doubt one of the Greek particles inspiring most
controversy among scholars. As the authors of the recently published Cambridge
Grammar of Classical Greek (CGCG) rightly observe: ‘δή has a particularly
wide range of uses. Its basic function is difficult to ascertain, and the subject
of considerable scholarly debate’ (CGCG: 686). There are indeed many, often
strongly diverging, opinions on δή.’
To give a full overview of the different ideas on δή would go well beyond
the scope of this chapter, and I will therefore focus on those opinions that seem
to dominate the current debate on δή.1 As always, a useful startingpoint is
Denniston, who defines the particle’s meaning as follows:
(1) The essential meaning seems clearly to be ‘verily’, actually’, ‘indeed’. δή

denotes that a thing really and truly is so: or that it is very much so (in cases
where δή is attached to words, such as adjectives, which ἐνδέχονται μᾶλλον
καὶ ἧττον: πολλοὶ δή, ‘really many’, or ‘very many’ (Denniston 1954: 203–
204).
Denniston also distinguishes a number of more specific meanings of the particle:

(1) emphatic, (2) ironical, and (3) connective. According to Denniston, the
particle’s essential meaning is present in the emphatic and ironical meanings,
while the connective use is easily derived from the former two meanings.
A somewhat different approach is that of Ruijgh (1971) and Wakker (1994,
1997), who stress the particle’s function as an attention-getter. According to
Ruijgh, δή signals ‘l’importance du fait nouveau qui est le contenu de la phrase’
(Ruijgh 1971: 646–7), and he suggests that the value of the particle can be
1 To gain an impression of the enormous variety of ideas on δή, it is worthwhile to consult the
extremely rich and useful Online Repository of Particle Studies, compiled by Bonifazi, Drummen
and De Kreij (2016), which includes an entry on δή.
208 ALLAN, The function of the particle δή in Thucydides
paraphrased by ‘voici un fait important’. Wakker follows Ruijgh and characterizes

δή as ‘an attitudinal particle which demands the addressee’s special attention for
the (important and interesting) proposition presented by the speaker.’ (Wakker
1994: 351).
A rather different approach to δή revolves around the idea of evidentiality.2
Prominent advocates of this view are Sicking and Van Ophuijsen, who characterize
the meaning of the particle as:
(2) a. [I]t is possible to describe δή as a primarily ‘evidential’ sentence particle

which presents a statement as immediately evident to the senses or the
understanding or as common knowledge. It thus implies that the speaker and
hearer are in the same position with respect to this statement. (Sicking and Van
Ophuijsen 1993: 52)
b. (...) the basic value of the particle relates to what is visible to the mind’s eye
as well as to the organ of sight, (...) (Sicking and Van Ophuisen 1993: 141)
The evidentiality approach to δή goes back to earlier scholars, such Kühner-

Gerth, who describe its evidential meaning as a development from an original
temporal meaning:
(3) (...) aus dieser [temporalen Bedeutung, RJA] entwickelte sich die bildliche,
in der es auf bereits (iam) Bekanntes, Offenbares, Augenscheinliches
hinweist, so dass es sich oft durch gewiss, offenbar erklären lässt. (Kühner-
Gerth, 2, 123)3
In sum, there are roughly two dominant approaches to the particle: one stressing
that the particle is used to emphasize or to draw attention to what is said; the other
pointing out that the particle is used to express that what is said is presumed to be
evident to the addressee. In this chapter, I take a synthetic approach, combining
2 The term ‘evidential’ is somewhat unfortunate since it is used to refer to two different notions.
In general linguistic literature, the term more often relates to linguistic markers which express
the specific source of information (e.g. perception, hearsay, inference). See for this notion of
evidentiality, Aikhenvald (2004, 4) and Van Rooy (2016).
3See also Smyth (1956: 646) who has a very similar characterization of the particle’s function. The
evidentiality approach to δή is also taken by Bakker in his analysis of the particle in Homer (Bakker
1997: 78–79).
the two dominant strands of thought on δή: in my view, both views on δή are
insightful and capture essential properties of the particle’s function.
A useful notion that will serve as a framework for my approach is the notion
of Common Ground, the body of background information that is presupposed
by the interlocutors. In the words of the language philosopher Stalnaker, one of
the most prominent theoreticians of Common Ground:
(4) ‘To presuppose something is to take it for granted, or at least to act as if one
takes it for granted, as background information – as common ground among
the participants in the conversation.’ (Stalnaker 2002: 701)
The notion of Common Ground prominently figures in those academic fields

that are interested in communication, such as the philosophy of language,
linguistics and conversation analysis. Common Ground is usually defined as
‘[...] the sum of [two people’s] mutual, common, or joint knowledge, beliefs,
and suppositions’ (Clark 1996: 93), and it is seen as a crucial aspect crucial of
successful communication:
(5) Everything we do is rooted in information we have about our surrounding,

activities, perceptions, emotions, plans, interests. Everything we do jointly
with others is also rooted in this information, but only in that part we think
they share with us. The notion needed here is common ground. [...] When my
son and I enter a conversation, we presuppose certain common ground, and
with each joint action – each utterance, for example – we try to add to it. To do
that, we need to keep track of our common ground as it accumulates increment
by increment. (Clark 1996: 92)
Common Ground is not a monolithic thing, but consists of an number of

components. Its various components are insightfully discussed by the cognitive
linguist Langacker, who – somewhat confusingly – uses the term Current
Discourse Space instead of Common Ground.
Langacker defines the Current Discourse Space as: ‘the mental space
comprising those elements and relations construed as being shared by the speaker
and hearer as a basis for communication at a given moment in the flow of
discourse’ (Langacker 2001: 144).
The various components of the Current Discourse Space are represented by
the following figure:
(6) Current Discourse Space in Cognitive Grammar (Langacker 2001: 145)
Usage Event = utterance, actual instance of language use
The Current Discourse Space (Common Ground) contains a number of

components.4 Central to the Common Ground are the speaker (S), the hearer
(H), and the time and space of the speech event.5 It goes without saying that
every form of linguistic communication presupposes the presence of a speaker
and hearer at a particular time and at a particular location.
The second element of the common ground is the speaker’s and hearer’s
joint attention (indicated by the dashed arrows). Speaker and hearer direct their
attention to some real or imagined entity or situation (object of conceptualization),
and they are mutually aware that they both attend to the same entity. This entity
is in the focus of their attention.6 This focused entity is located within a larger
viewing frame, a window (or, to use a theater metaphor, an “on stage” region),
4The following description of the various components of the Common Ground is strongly based
on Allan (2020).
5 Confusingly, Langacker calls the ensemble of speaker, hearer, time and space of the speech event
the Ground (which roughly equals the notion of deictic center in other approaches). This means that
Langacker’s Ground is only a particular part of the larger Common Ground/Current Discourse
Space. That fact that Langacker already uses the term Ground, is probably the reason that he avoids
the term Common Ground and uses the term Current Discourse Space, instead.
6 It should be noted that the term focus (of attention) as it is used here is different from the
information-structural notion of Focus (i.e. new information). In this chapter, the term focus (of
attention) is used in a broader sense, as the – old or new – conceptual content which is fully active
in the consciousness (i.e., in the focus of attention) of the interlocutors at some point in time.
which is in the periphery of our attention. The speech act participants are
mutually aware of one another’s focus of attention, knowledge and perspectives
(the double-headed dashed arrow between S and H).
The third element of the common ground is the immediate context of the
speech event: the various physical, mental, social, and cultural circumstances of
the conversation.
The fourth element is the body of knowledge shared by the interlocutors.
Shared knowledge can roughly have two sources: either it is general knowledge,
which is often based on a shared community or culture (communal Common
Ground). Shared cultural knowledge includes knowledge about social practices,
cultural norms, cognitive schemas/frames/scenarios, stereotypes, topoi, genre
conventions, etc. Shared knowledge can also be based on shared personal
experiences (personal Common Ground).
The fifth element relates to the discourse context of the utterance. A speaker
may presuppose that the information conveyed by their previous utterances is
known to the addressee, and the speaker may also presume that the addressee
entertains specific expectations about how the conversation will further develop.
In addition, trivial inferences based on the immediate context, on shared
knowledge or on the discourse context, can also be taken for granted by the
speakers as part of the Common Ground.
In this chapter, I argue that δή can be analyzed as a grounding device, a
linguistic device playing a role in the way interlocutors construct and manage
their Common Ground during their conversation. A grounding device can be
seen as a speaker’s instruction to the addressee how to relate the utterance to the
Common Ground already established between the interlocutors.7 I propose the
following definition of δή’s function in discourse:
(7) The particle δή serves to focus the joint attention on an entity (person,
object, property, proposition, or speech act) which is (or construed as being)
part of the common ground.
Δή may focus the attention on different types of entities, properties, persons,

objects, states of affairs, propositions and even speech acts, which correlates with
δή’s syntactic scope: the particle may have scope over adjectives, (pro)nouns,
7 For the importance of Common Ground for the semantics of discourse markers, see e.g.
Karagjosova (2003), Verhagen (2005), Fetzer and Fischer (2007), Simon-Vandenbergen and Aijmer
(2007), Allan and Van Gils (2015), Allan (2017), Thijs (2017), and Allan (2020).
verbs and whole clauses. In accordance with Wackernagel’s Law, δή will be placed
in second position in the syntactic unit in its scope.8
It is often observed that the use of δή is frequently associated with an
additional emotional tone, such as a sense of irony, contempt, indignation,
sarcasm etc.9 These additional senses seem to arise both from δή’s function as
an attention-getting and as a Common Ground marker. The addressee is invited
to interpret the entity or state of affairs flagged out by the speaker (or narrator)
as being worthy of contempt, indignation, irony, sarcasm or scepticism. The
particle’s Common Ground-oriented function also comes into play: when the
addressee realizes that the state of affairs marked by δή is, in fact, not so obvious
– and therefore not part of the Common Ground –, the addressee will interpret
the utterance as ironic or sarcastic. Common Ground markers developing ironic
uses are well-attested in other languages.10 These special uses of δή show how the
particle can be employed for persuasive purposes: to encourage the addressee to
take the same emotional or evaluative stance toward the entity at issue.11
In some contexts, δή’s attention-focusing function seems to give rise to
yet another pragmatic side-effect: exclusivity. In these contexts, δή emphasizes
that the proposition is true only for the entity in its scope, in contrast to a set
of (implicit) potential alternative entities. In these cases, δή’s meaning can be
rendered as ‘only X’ or ‘precisely X’, thus semantically bordering on more typical
focus particles such as γε and -περ. The potential alternative values may also be
ordered on a scale: ‘precisely X ― no more, no less’.
8Occasionally, however, δή may also be separated from the item in its scope by one or more words
or it may be placed before the item in its scope (Denniston 1954: 228–229). For δή’s scope, see also
Bonifazi, Drummen and De Kreij (2016: IV.4.§100).
9 Denniston (1954, 229–36) has an extensive inventory of ironical (or contemptuous, indignant
etc.) cases of δή.
10 See e.g. Simon-Vanderbergen and Aijmer (2007) (English) and Schrickx (2011) (Latin).
11 The communicative process of coordinating the interlocutors’ perspectives is what Verhagen
(2005) refers to as intersubjective coordination.
(8) Occasional pragmatic side-effects of δή’s attention-focusing function
That δή so frequently acquires additional contextually-bound senses is not so

surprising. In normal communication, a speaker may take for granted that the
addressee is already attending to the topic of conversation. Similarly, a speaker
may take for granted that the information in the Common Ground is already
accessible to the addressee. In other words, under normal circumstances, using a
linguistic item that points toward already known information, is unnecessary, as
it would violate Grice’s Maxim of Relation (‘Be relevant’). After all, why would
one point out information that is already known or obvious to the addressee? This
means that, when a speaker uses an item such as δή, the addressee is invited to
construe its use as somehow relevant to the ongoing communication, for example
by interpreting it as carrying additional implied meanings such as noteworthiness,
exclusivity, irony or indignation.
I have argued elsewhere that viewing δή as a grounding device helps to
understand the multifarious use of δή in Greek tragedy. In this chapter, I will take
a closer look at Thucydides’ use of δή, to see whether it is possible to analyze the
particle as a grounding device in Thucydides, too. What δή in Thucydides makes
especially interesting is the fact that the particle is an explicit sign of the narrator,
directly addressing the reader in order to navigate the reader comfortably through
the narrative, or to convey a particular point of view to the reader.12 Thus, δή may
bring us closer to Thucydides as a narrator, who normally remains so reticent and
invisible in his narrative.
12 I use the term ‘reader’ here in a theoretically naive way, as referring both to the text-internal
reader (narratee) and to real, concrete readers of Thucydides’ text.
2 Thucydides’ use of δή
In order to get an impression of the textual distribution of δή in Thucydides it is

insightful to see to what constituent the particle is attached.
Table 1. Constituent to which δή is attached

Anaphoric pronoun/adverb 50
Superlative 42
Quantifier 21
Conjunction 17
Adverb 16
Negation 13
Noun 13
Relative pronoun/adverb 11
Verb 10
Adjective 3
Particle 4
Interrogative pronoun 1
Total 201
It can be observed in the table that δή is most frequently attached to an anaphoric

pronoun or adverb (e.g. οὗτος, ἐνταῦθα, οὕτω, τότε), to a superlative or to a
quantifier. I will discuss these specific contexts at a later stage. The following
discussion of δή’s uses in Thucydides will be structured in terms of the particular
component of the Common Ground to which the particle relates.
2.1 Immediate context
There is one example in Thucydides, which is perhaps not so surprising since

the narrator Thucydides does not share an immediate physical context with his
readers. The one example relates to Nicias, who, of course, does share an immediate
context with his addressees.
(9) [Nicias to his men:] ἀλλ’ ὁρᾶτε δὴ ὡς διάκειμαι ὑπὸ τῆς νόσου (7.77.2).
‘Indeed you see how I am in my sickness’13
13 The translations are Crawley’s, in the revised edition by Strassler (1998).

Nicias points out to his men that he is not stronger than they are. To support this
claim, he draws their attention to the fact that it is plainly visible to them, and
therefore part of their Common Ground, how affected he is by his disease.
2.2 Shared knowledge
The Common Ground may also be based on common general or cultural-specific

knowledge. Examples are the following:
(10) ταύτην ἀπῴκισαν μὲν Κερκυραῖοι, οἰκιστὴς δ᾽ ἐγένετο Φαλίος

Ἐρατοκλείδου Κορίνθιος γένος τῶν ἀφ᾽ Ἡρακλέους, κατὰ δὴ τὸν παλαιὸν
νόμον ἐκ τῆς μητροπόλεως κατακληθείς (1.24.2).
‘The place [Epidamnos] is a colony from Corcyra, founded by Phalius, son
of Eratocleides, of the family of the Heraclids, who had according to ancient
usage been summoned for the purpose from Corinth, the mother country’
The old custom, that an oikist should be summoned from the original mother-
city, is supposed to be common knowledge of Thucydides’ Greek audience.
(11) λέγεται δὲ καὶ Ἀλκμέωνι τῷ Ἀμφιάρεω, ὅτε δὴ ἀλᾶσθαι αὐτὸν μετὰ

τὸν φόνον τῆς μητρός, τὸν Ἀπόλλω ταύτην τὴν γῆν χρῆσαι οἰκεῖν (2.102.5).
‘There is also a story that Alcmaeon, son of Amphiaraus, during his wanderings
after the murder of his mother was bidden by Apollo to inhabit this spot’
That Alcmaeon wandered through Hellas (to end up in Psophis in Arcadia) after
his matricide was a well-known ‘fact’ of Greek mythology.
(12) ἠξίουν τοὺς στρατηγούς, οἷον δὴ ὄχλος φιλεῖ θαρσήσας ποιεῖν, ἄγειν
σφᾶς ἐπὶ Κατάνην (6.63.2).
‘[The Syracusans] (...) called upon their generals, as the multitude is apt to do
in its moments of confidence, to lead them to Catana’
It is a fact of common knowledge that a confident multitude will call on their

general to lead them to the enemy. Δή also seems to carry an additional sense of
contempt for the thoughtless behaviour that is so typical of a multitude.14
14Denniston (1954: 220–221) gives more examples of οἷος δή with an ironical or contemptuous
undertone. Other examples of δή marking common knowledge in Thucydides are: 1.24.2,
I conclude this section with a note on the use of δή in combination with

indefinite pronouns and adverbs. According to Denniston (1954: 212), “δή τις is
used in two senses: (a) The speaker cannot, or does not trouble to, particularize
(aliquis, nonnulli) : (b) he can, and does particularize in his own mind, but keeps
the particularization to himself (quidam).”
This category is highly doubtful, and opens to a number of objections. (1)
it is unusual and therefore suspect that in this particular use, the particle precedes
the word it relates to. Denniston explains this speculatively by assuming that it is
a relic of the original placement of δή before the word in its scope. (2) Denniston
seems to ascribe a “particularizing” function to the particle in this context. It is,
however, not very clear how this special function relates to δή’s more common
uses (according to Denniston) as an emphatic, ironical or connective particle.
(3) Denniston’s description of δή τις is not capable of distinguishing it from the
use τις without δή. Τις without δή is also used when “the speaker cannot, or does
or trouble to, particularize” (non-specific reading), and it is also used when the
speaker “keeps the particularization to himself ” (specific reading). Thus, in LSJ
we find a use of τις (A.II.3) “in reference to a definite person, whom one wishes
to avoid naming.”15
I propose an alternative explanation, which can be illustrated by the sole
example in Thucydides.
(13) τοῦ δ᾽ αὐτοῦ χειμῶνος καὶ Δῆλον ἐκάθηραν Ἀθηναῖοι κατὰ χρησμὸν
δή τινα (3.103.1).
‘The same winter the Athenians purified Delos, in compliance, it appears, with
a certain oracle’
The first point to make is that δή preceding an indefinite pronoun should not be
taken as having semantic scope over (nor as being prosodically prepositive with
respect to) the following indefinite pronoun. Δή, in fact, is placed at its regular
second position in the phrase in accordance Wackernagel’s Law. In our example,
therefore, it has semantic scope over the whole phrase κατὰ χρησμὸν δή τινα.
Semantically, too, δή can explained in accordance with its usual function – it
seeks attention and it refers to Common Ground. The example from Thucydides
can thus be translated as “undoubtedly/of course in accordance with some oracle”.
1.93.4, 3.66, 6.92.5, 7.87.6. The latter is an example of δή’s use to mark well-known quotations
(πανωλεθρίᾳ δὴ τὸ λεγόμενον); see Denniston (1954: 235).
15 Compare also Schwyzer-Debrunner’s (II: 214) “verhüllendes τὶς, τὶ”.
That the purification was based on an oracle was either common knowledge of
Thucydides contemporaries, or it was readily inferable: a drastic ritual purification
as that of Delos will normally only take place after consultation of an oracle,
and the reader may also have had in mind the previous purification of Delos by
Pisistratus, mentioned by Herodotus as being ordered by an oracle (Hdt. 1.64.2).
Which particular oracle Thucydides is referring to is unclear (see Hornblower’s
extensive discussion ad loc.). It is tempting to interpret δή as carrying an ironic
undertone, as Gomme and Hornblower do, conveying Thucydides’ scepticism
toward the oracle.
2.3 Discourse context
The particle is often used to focus the attention (again) on a referent or a whole
proposition that is already known to the addressee from the preceding discourse.
Typically, there is some distance between the δή-clause and the entity or state of
affairs referred to. This use of δή can be labelled as anaphoric or resumptive (for the
latter term, see Denniston 1954: 225–227). Δή is used to help the addressee, at
crucial junctures, to navigate through the discourse; for example, by summarizing
a preceding paragraph, by returning to the main topic after an introduction or a
digression, or by reminding the reader of information given at an earlier stage in
the discourse. Examples are:
(14) [Teres, king of the Odrysians] οὗ δὴ ὄντα τὸν Σιτάλκην οἱ Ἀθηναῖοι

ξύμμαχον ἐποιοῦντο (2.29.4).
‘Sitalces, his son, was now sought as an ally by the Athenians’
The relative clause reminds the reader of what was said a little earlier in 2.29.1:
βουλόμενοι Σιτάλκην σφίσι τὸν Τήρεω, Θρᾳκῶν βασιλέα, ξύμμαχον γενέσθαι
(“(...), and they wished this prince to become their ally. Sitalces was the son of
Teres and king of the Thracians”). Δή seems to be somewhat ambiguous as to
what it refers to specifically: either it reminds the reader that it has already been
mentioned in 2.29.1 that Sitalces was Teres’ son, or that it had already been
mentioned that the Athenians wanted to make him their ally ― or perhaps both.
(15) a. (...) ἰσχυριζόμενοι ὅτι δὴ εἴρητο, ἐὰν καὶ ὁτιοῦν παραβαθῇ, λελύσθαι
τὰς σπονδάς (4.23.1).
‘(...) insisting upon the clause by which the slightest infringement made the
armistice void’
b. ὅτι δ᾽ ἂν τούτων παραβαίνωσιν ἑκάτεροι καὶ ὁτιοῦν, τότε λελύσθαι τὰς

σπονδάς (4.16.2).
‘That if either party should infringe any of these terms in the slightest particular,
the armistice should be at once void’
The Athenians refuse to give back a ship because of an alleged attack on the fort
at Pylos, which has, according to the Athenians, made the armistice void. The
relative clause ὅτι δὴ εἴρητο refers back to terms of the armistice listed in 4.16.2
(ex. b.). There is also a sceptical undertone present as to the infringements alleged
by the Athenians.
(16) καὶ ὡς προσέμειξαν τοῖς μετὰ τοῦ Δημοσθένους ὑστέροις τ᾽ οὖσι καὶ
σχολαίτερον καὶ ἀτακτότερον χωροῦσιν, ὡς τῆς νυκτὸς τότε ξυνεταράχθησαν,
εὐθὺς προσπεσόντες ἐμάχοντο, καὶ οἱ ἱππῆς τῶν Συρακοσίων ἐκυκλοῦντό
τε ῥᾷον αὐτοὺς δίχα δὴ ὄντας καὶ ξυνῆγον ἐς ταὐτό (7.81.2).
‘They [i.e. the Syracusans] first came up with the troops under Demosthenes,
who were behind and marching somewhat slowly and in disorder, owing to
the night-panic above referred to, and at once attacked and engaged them,
the Syracusan horse surrounding them with more ease now that they were
separated from the rest, and hemming them in on one spot’
Δή either has scope over the adverb δίχα, or over the entire participial clause
δίχα δὴ ὄντας. For the interpretation of δή, however, this difference is of little
importance. Δή points out that the fact that Demosthenes’ troops were separated
from the rest of the Athenians has already been given in the preceding context,
more specifically, by ὑστέροις τ᾽ οὖσι.16
It goes without saying that the anaphoric use of δή is also responsible for the
very frequent combination of the particle with anaphoric pronouns and adverbs.
Again, it is not very difficult to recognize the double function of δή: on the
one hand, δή marks that the referent of the anaphoric expression is part of the
Common Ground. This is, in fact, a trivial observation since anaphoric pronouns
and adverbs by definition refer to entities that already have been mentioned in
the preceding discourse.
Δή combined with anaphoric pronouns and adverbs also has its attention-
steering function: it serves to bring a particular referent in the center of the
16Other examples of this backward-referring use of δή in Thucydides are: 2.21.1, 4.59.4, 4.117.2,
5.10.8, 5.26.3, 5.105.3, 6.61.2, 7.13.2, 7.81.2. See also Classen-Steup, ad loc.
reader’s attention, typically at a discourse boundary; that is, at the start or at the
conclusion of a discourse segment.17
(17) a. καὶ οὐχ ἧσσον λῃσταὶ ἦσαν οἱ νησιῶται, Κᾶρές τε ὄντες καὶ Φοίνικες·
οὗτοι γὰρ δὴ τὰς πλείστας τῶν νήσων ᾤκησαν (1.8.1).
‘The islanders, too, were great pirates. These islanders were Carians and
Phoenicians, by whom most of the islands were colonized’
b. τοῦτο δὴ τὸ ἄγος οἱ Λακεδαιμόνιοι ἐκέλευον ἐλαύνειν (1.127).

‘This, then, was the curse that the Lacedaemonians ordered them to drive out’
In 1.8.1 (a.), δή occurs at the start of a digressive discourse segment (note the
presence of γάρ) in which Thucydides provides evidence that the early islanders
were Carians. In 1.127 (b.), δή occurs in a sentence that concludes the story of
Cylon, and probably serves to refer back to τὸ δὲ ἄγος ἦν τοιόνδε in 1.126.2.
Incidentally, this example also demonstrates that δή not only serves as an
attention-getter (as some scholars maintain), but also as a Common Ground
marker. If δή would only be an attention-getter there would be no objection to
combine it also with cataphoric (forward-referring) expressions, such as τοιόνδε
in 1.126.2. However, δή is never combined with cataphoric expressions, while its
use with anaphoric expressions is extremely frequent. This striking asymmetry
shows that δή can only refer to entities that are already known from the previous
discourse; that is, δή can only refer to entities in the Common Ground.
There may also be an additional sense of exclusivity present in these instances:
the particle seems to be used to single out a particular referent, to the exclusion
of potential alternative candidates (‘This X – and no other’). “It was they (and no
others) who colonized most of the islands”; “it was this particular curse (and no
other) that the Lacedaemonians ordered to drive out”.
Another context in which δή typically occurs is in summaries of preceding
discourse segments. In this context, δή is naturally combined with the particle
μέν, marking that the host clause serves as a preparation for the subsequent
clause (marked with δέ), which opens the next discourse segment and, typically,
introduces a new discourse topic. Examples are:
(18) a. οἱ μὲν δὴ τοιαῦτα εἶπον· τῶν δὲ Κερκυραίων τὸ μὲν στρατόπεδον (...) (1.53.3).
‘Such was what they said, and all the Corcyraean armament (...)’
17 For δή occurring at discourse boundaries, see also Bonifazi et al. (2016: IV.3.§127–128).
b. οἱ μὲν δὴ ἐν τῇ Πλαταίᾳ οὕτως ἐπεπράγεσαν, οἱ δ᾽ ἄλλοι Θηβαῖοι, (...)

(2.4.8).
‘While such was the fate of the party in Plataea, the rest of the Thebans (...)’
c. οἱ μὲν δὴ τῶν Πλαταιῶν ἄνδρες οὕτως ὑπερβάντες ἐσώθησαν. Ἐκ δὲ τῆς

Λακεδαίμονος (...) (3.24.3).
‘In this way the Plataean party got over and were saved. From Lacedaemon (...)’
d. ἡ μὲν δὴ ἐκεχειρία αὕτη ἐγένετο (...). Περὶ δὲ τὰς ἡμέρας ταύτας (...)
(4.119.3).
‘Such was the armistice (...). In the days (...)’
e. Οἱ μὲν δὴ Μήλιοι τοσαῦτα ἀπεκρίναντο· οἱ δὲ Ἀθηναῖοι (...) (5.113.1).

‘Such was the answer of the Melians. The Athenians (...)’
Δή has scope over the entire clause and it signals that the content of the clause is
supposed to be known to the reader, since it is a recapitulation of the preceding
discourse segment. Note, in this connection, also the presence of an anaphoric
pronoun or adverb later in the clause, referring to the previous discourse
segment.18
There are also cases of δή combined with an anaphoric pronominal adjectives
that show a summary-like function.
(19) a. [The Athenians are indignant about the razing of Panactium by the
Spartans, the breached clauses of the treaty, and the Spartans’ alliance with
the Boeotians.] κατὰ τοιαύτην δὴ διαφορὰν ὄντων τῶν Λακεδαιμονίων πρὸς
τοὺς Ἀθηναίους, οἱ ἐν ταῖς Ἀθήναις αὖ βουλόμενοι λῦσαι τὰς σπονδὰς
εὐθὺς ἐνέκειντο (5.43.1).
‘The breach between the Lacedaemonians and Athenians having gone thus far,
the party at Athens, also, who wished to cancel the treaty, immediately put
themselves in motion’
18 In some cases, δή does not recapitulate earlier information in the strict sense, but signals that
the event is an obvious outcome of a preceding event. For example, in 1.46.1 (αἱ μὲν δὴ νῆες
ἀφικνοῦνται ἐς τὴν Κέρκυραν “The ships indeed arrived at Corcyra”) the arrival of the ships in
Corcyra is highly predictable from the fact that they were sent off to Corcyra in 1.45.1. A similar
case is 4.39.3.
b. [The Peloponnesians demand their pay from Tissaphernes and Astyochus.

Syracusan and Thurian sailors attack Astyochus.] Κατὰ δὴ τοιαύτην διαφορὰν
ὄντων αὐτοῖς τῶν πραγμάτων πρός τε τὸν Ἀστύοχον καὶ τὸν Τισσαφέρνην
Μίνδαρος διάδοχος τῆς Ἀστυόχου ναυαρχίας ἐκ Λακεδαίμονος ἐπῆλθε καὶ
παραλαμβάνει τὴν ἀρχήν (8.85.1).
‘The discontent of the army with Astyochus and Tissaphernes had reached
this pitch, when Mindarus arrived from Lacedaemon to succeed Astyochus as
admiral, and assumed the command’
c. [When Agesandridas attacks by surprise, the Athenian sailors were not by

their ships but away purchasing provision.] διὰ τοιαύτης δὴ παρασκευῆς οἱ
Ἀθηναῖοι ἀναγαγόμενοι καὶ ναυμαχήσαντες ὑπὲρ τοῦ λιμένος τῶν Ἐρετριῶν
ὀλίγον μέν τινα χρόνον ὅμως καὶ ἀντέσχον (8.95.5).
‘The Athenians, forced to put out so poorly prepared, engaged off the harbour
of Eretria, and after holding their own for some little while notwithstanding’
In these examples, the preceding discourse segment is recapitulated in the adverbial

participle clause. Preposed adverbial clauses typically have a Setting function; that
is, they have a grounding function with regard to the following main clause: they
specify the time, location or other circumstantial states of affairs. Apart from this
link to the subsequent discourse, they typically also create a coherence link to the
preceding discourse by recapitulating information given in the previous discourse
segment. In this way, they constitute a coherence bridge between the preceding
and the following discourse unit.19
Frequent combinations of anaphoric adverbs with δή include ἐνταῦθα δή
(7 x), οὕτω δή (13 x) and τότε δή (12 x). Again, the particle shows its dual
function: on the one hand, the anaphoric expressions refer to an entity (typically
a moment in time) that is specified in the preceding discourse context (typically
by a subordinate clause), and therefore part of the Common Ground. 20
On the other hand, the particle also shows its focusing function: it brings a
particular moment in time (or other circumstance) in the center of the reader’s
attention, stressing that this particular moment in time was crucial turning point
19 For the notion of Setting, see Simon Dik (1997, 2: 397), Allan (2012, 2014). For a detailed
investigation of the discourse function of preposed adverbial clauses in Classical Greek, I refer to
Buijs (2005).
20One may speculate whether there may also be a secondary effect of δή present in these contexts,
that the event described by the main clause is presented as an obvious and understandible
consequence of the event described in the preceding subordinate clause.
in the course of events. The event at issue could only occur at that particular
moment in time, or on this particular condition – to the exclusion of any other
time or circumstance: ‘only then’, ‘precisely then’, ‘at that very moment’, ‘then at
last’. In the typical cases, there is a factor that prevents a particular event from
taking place, but the very moment this blocking factor is removed, the blocked
event occurs.
(20) a. [The Athenians refrained from charging any Corinthian ships.]

ἐπειδὴ δὲ ἡ τροπὴ ἐγίγνετο λαμπρῶς καὶ ἐνέκειντο οἱ Κορίνθιοι, τότε δὴ
ἔργου πᾶς εἴχετο ἤδη καὶ διεκέκριτο οὐδὲν ἔτι (1.49.7.)
‘[B]ut when the rout was becoming patent, and the Corinthians were pressing
on, the time at last came when everyone set to, and all distinction was laid
aside (...)’
b. οἵ τε οὖν Ἀθηναῖοι τοὺς πρέσβεις, ὥσπερ ἐπεστάλη, κατεῖχον, καὶ ὁ

Θεμιστοκλῆς ἐπελθὼν τοῖς Λακεδαιμονίοις ἐνταῦθα δὴ φανερῶς εἶπεν ὅτι
ἡ μὲν πόλις σφῶν τετείχισται ἤδη (1.91.4).
‘So the Athenians detained the envoys according to his message, and
Themistocles had an audience with the Lacedaemonians, and at last openly
told them that Athens was now fortified (...)’
c. ὡς δὲ ἀφίκετο ἐς τὸ στρατόπεδον καὶ ἔγνω ὁ Ἀρχίδαμος ὅτι οἱ Ἀθηναῖοι

οὐδέν πω ἐνδώσουσιν, οὕτω δὴ ἄρας τῷ στρατῷ προυχώρει ἐς τὴν γῆν
αὐτῶν (2.12.4).
‘As soon as he arrived at the camp, and Archidamus learnt that the Athenians
had still no thoughts of submitting, he at length began his march, and advanced
with his army into their territory’
In (a.), the Athenians initially refrain from charging the Corinthian ships for
some time. But once they realize that the rout was becoming manifest and the
Corinthians were pressing on, only then (cf. Crawley’s ‘at last’) they all engage in
the battle.21 In example (b.), Themistocles only tells the Spartans (‘at last’) that
21 Note that the preceding subordinate clause contains the conjunction ἐπειδή. It is commonly
thought that there is not much difference between ἐπεί and ἐπειδή. However, I would suggest that
δή still carries its exclusive focus function (‘only when’, ‘once’, ‘precisely when’, ‘not before’). This
seems to be confirmed by the fact that ἐπειδή is often followed by δή in the main clause: ‘(precisely)
when ..., (precisely) then ...’. This is, however, matter for further research. I do not think δή in
ἐπειδή marks ‘narrative progression’ (Bonifazi et al. 2016: IV.4.6.§110): it is necessary to posit a
the Athenians have built a wall, after he is assured that the Spartan envoys are
kept detained in Athens. In (c.), once Archidamus realizes that the Athenians do
not intend to submit, only then (‘at length’) he decides to march against Athens.
There are many cases in Thucydides, but certainly also in other authors,
where δή is used with an ironical undertone.22 Consider the following example:
(21) a. [Athenians:] τῆς δὲ ἐς Λακεδαιμονίους δόξης, ἣν διὰ τὸ αἰσχρὸν δὴ

βοηθήσειν ὑμῖν πιστεύετε αὐτούς, μακαρίσαντες ὑμῶν τὸ ἀπειρόκακον οὐ
ζηλοῦμεν τὸ ἄφρον (5.105.3).
‘But when we come to your notion about the Lacedaemonians, which leads you
to believe that shame will make them help you, here we bless your simplicity
but do not envy your folly’
b. [Melians:] ὅμως δὲ πιστεύομεν τῇ μὲν τύχῃ ἐκ τοῦ θείου μὴ ἐλασσώσεσθαι,

ὅτι ὅσιοι πρὸς οὐ δικαίους ἱστάμεθα, τῆς δὲ δυνάμεως τῷ ἐλλείποντι τὴν
Λακεδαιμονίων ἡμῖν ξυμμαχίαν προσέσεσθαι, ἀνάγκην ἔχουσαν, καὶ εἰ μή
του ἄλλου, τῆς γε ξυγγενείας ἕνεκα καὶ αἰσχύνῃ βοηθεῖν (5.104).
‘But we trust that the gods may grant us fortune as good as yours, since we are
just men fighting against unjust, and that what we want in power will be made
up by the alliance of the Lacedaemonians, who are bound, if only for very
shame, to come to the aid of their kindred’
In (a.), the Athenians state that the Melians are naive since they think the Spartans
will come to their help out of shame (διὰ τὸ αἰσχρὸν δή). With these words, the
Athenians refer back to what the Melians had said just before (ex. b.), that the
Spartans must come to the aid of the Melians because of their kinship and out of
shame (αἰσχύνῃ). This means that δή here has an anaphoric function. However,
emphatically (δή) reminding your interlocutor of his or her own words will
normally serve a special function. Often, δή is used by a speaker in such contexts
to distance him or herself from the addressee’s words in an ironical or sceptical (or
otherwise depreciatory) way.23
separate function of δή marking ‘narrative progression’.

22 For the use of δή with an ironic undertone, see also Bonifazi et al. (2016: IV.4.5.5, 4.6.4).
23Classen-Steup and Denniston interpret the following instances as ironic: 1.39.1, 3.10.5, 4.23.1,
4.46.5, 4.59.4, 4.67.3, 5.85, 5.105.3, 6.10.5, 6.54.4, 6.61.2, 6.63.2, 6.80.1, 6.80.2, 7.26.2,
7.86.4, 8.9.1, 8.48.5 (bis), 8.84.3, 8.87.1.
Those instances of δή labelled ‘connective’ by Denniston (1954: 238) in

Thucydides can also be interpreted as cases in which δή relates to the preceding
discourse context.
(22) a. [Pericles:] οὐδὲ γὰρ ὑμεῖς μελετῶντες αὐτὸ εὐθὺς ἀπὸ τῶν Μηδικῶν
ἐξείργασθέ πω· πῶς δὴ ἄνδρες γεωργοὶ (...) ἄξιον ἄν τι δρῷεν; (1.142.7).
‘If you who have been practising at it ever since the Median invasion have not
yet brought it to perfection, is there any chance of anything considerable being
effected by an agricultural (...) population (...)?’
b. [Phormio:] (...) ἐπεὶ οὐκ ἄν ποτε ἐνεχείρησαν ἡσσηθέντες παρὰ πολὺ

αὖθις ναυμαχεῖν. μὴ δὴ αὐτῶν τὴν τόλμαν δείσητε (2.89.4–5).
‘(...) they [the Lacedaemonians] would never, after such a decided defeat, have
ventured upon a fresh engagement. You need not, therefore, be afraid of their
dash’
Denniston (1954: 238) observes that δή in these examples has its “full logical
force”. In both cases, δή signals that the speech act at issue should be accepted by
the addressee as a natural, expected, understandable, logical continuation of the
discourse, inferable on the basis of the preceding discourse. Note, in passing, that
these examples show that δή not only can have scope over entities, properties, or
propositions, but also over speech acts (in [a.] a – rhetorical – question, in [b.] a
directive).
I would hesitate, however, to analyze this use of δή as an newly emerging
“connective” function, as Denniston does. In view of Occam’s razor, it is more
attractive not to posit a distinct “connective” function, but to interpret δή in
such contexts still as a modal or interactional particle with its usual Common
Ground-marking function. The absence of a connective particle (asyndeton) in
these contexts is unsurprising: asyndeton is a frequent phenomenon between two
sentences of which the former expresses a cause, the latter its consequence: “Der
vorausgehende Satz enthält den Grund des folgenden, der folgende asyndetisch
die Wirkung oder die Folge” (Kühner-Gerth, II: 342).
The final use of δή I would like to discuss here is certainly not the least one.
Table 1 above shows that δή frequently has scope over superlatives and quantifiers
(such as πᾶς, ὀλίγος, πολύς, etc.). In this particular context, too, δή shows its
dual nature: it directs the attention of the superlative or quantifier in its scope,
and it signals that the narrator or speaker presents the property at issue as known
or otherwise evident to the addressee and as such part of the Common Ground.24
That δή is so often combined with superlatives and quantifiers need not
surprise us: they inherently relate to highly salient and unique properties that
tend to attract the focus of attention. Less evident is that δή in this context also
marks that the property at issue is (presented by the speaker or narrator as) a part
of the Common Ground.25
Let us first consider some frequency data of the combination of superlative
+ δή:
Table 2. Μέγιστος δή: singular or plural

+ δή - δή Total
Singular 12 68 80
Plural 1 40 41
Total 13 108 12
As Table 2 shows, there is a strong (and statistically significant) inclination for

superlatives plus δή to be singular (12 instances vs. only 1 plural). This is an
indication that saliency is indeed a factor playing a crucial role in the appearance
of δή with superlatives. Singular entities are by nature cognitively more salient —
because usually more easily identifiable and perceptually discrete — than plural
entities.26
24 I will not discuss the cases of quantifiers + δή in Thucydides, but they can be explained in a
similar way (i.e. attention-focusing + Common Ground – the latter function being perhaps the
moot point in this context): 1.33.2 (ὀλίγοις δὴ ἅμα πάντα ξυνέβη: it is obvious that only a few
will acquire all these advantages at once); 2.62.1 (μόνον δὴ τοῦτο: anaphoric phrase, referring to an
already known entity); 6.61.1 (πολὺ δὴ μᾶλλον: apodosis is a logical consequence of the protasis);
7.44.1 (μόνη δή: it is understandable that it was the only night-time battle between large armies in
the war, since battles at night were strongly avoided); 7.55.1 (οἱ μὲν Ἀθηναῖοι ἐν παντὶ δὴ ἀθυμίας
ἦσαν: the Athenians’ despondency has already become clear in the preceding narrative).
25Elsewhere (Allan 2020) I have argued that in Greek tragedy, too, δή combined with a superlative
both serves an attention-getting function and a Common Ground marking function.
26For the cognitive salience (foregroundedness) of singularity (vs. plurality), see e.g. Hopper and
Thompson 1980, Wårvik 2004.
Table 3. Superlatives and δή: text types

+ δή - δή Total
Direct Speech 4 49 53 (44%)
Indirect Speech 0 18 18 (15%)
Narratorial comment 7 18 25 (21%)
Narrative proper 2 23 25 (21%)
Total 13 (11%) 108 (89%) 121 (100%)
There are a number of other features of the distribution of superlatives that are
worthy to note. First, as can be seen in Table 3, superlatives are more frequently
used in direct speech (53%) and in narratorial comment (21%).27 This can be
explained by the fact that superlatives are typical subjective-evaluative elements,
associated with the presence of an overt speaker (or narrator), explicitly giving his
or her opinion on the situation.
Second, the combination superlative plus δή is most frequently used in
narratorial comments (7 out of 13 instances: a considerable number given that
narratorial comment covers only about 8% of the Histories’ text). Apparently,
superlatives are an attractive rhetorical device for Thucydides, in his role as
commentator, to convey his point of view.28
Third, only 11% (13 out of 121 instances) of the superlatives counted were
accompanied by δή. This means that the addition of δή to a superlative is far
from an automatic phenomenon, and is clearly only used for a special purpose.
To show the function δή combined with a superlative, I will discuss the first five
instances of the combination μέγιστος δή in Thucydides:
27 The percentage of occurrence in narrative proper is also 21%, but given that more than half of the
Histories’ text consists of narrative proper, it actually scores relatively low in the use of superlatives.
The overall percentages of text types in Thucydides are approximately as follows: direct speech
(23%), indirect speech (17%), narratorial comment (8%), narrative proper (53%). The percentages
relating to the occurrence of the text types in the Histories are based on a sample consisting of the
first clauses of every fifth page of Jones’s OCT edition. Note, incidentally, that δή is distributed
roughly equally over the various text types in Thucydides (pace Bonifazi et al. 2016: IV.4.6.5.§127).
Bonifazi counted 54 (26%) of the 201 instances in direct speech (Bonifazi et al. 2016: IV.4.6.§111).
The percentage of 26 % in direct speech is roughly equal to 23% of direct speech in Thucydides.
28 For the different roles Thucydides assumes in his work and their linguistic ramifications, see Allan
(2013, 2018).
(23) a. κίνησις γὰρ αὕτη μεγίστη δὴ τοῖς Ἕλλησιν ἐγένετο καὶ μέρει τινὶ τῶν
βαρβάρων (1.1.2).
‘Indeed this was the greatest movement yet known in history, not only of the
Hellenes, but of a large part of the barbarian world’
b. ναυμαχία γὰρ αὕτη Ἕλλησι πρὸς Ἕλληνας νεῶν πλήθει μεγίστη δὴ τῶν
πρὸ αὑτῆς γεγένηται (1.50.2).
‘This battle has proven far greater than any before it, any at least between
Hellenes, for the number of vessels engaged’
c. στρατόπεδόν τε μέγιστον δὴ τοῦτο ἁθρόον Ἀθηναίων ἐγένετο, ἀκμαζούσης

ἔτι τῆς πόλεως καὶ οὔπω νενοσηκυίας (2.31.2).
‘This was without doubt the largest army of Athenians ever assembled, the state
being still in the flower of her strength and yet unvisited by the plague’
d. [Pericles:] γνῶτε δὲ ὄνομα μέγιστον αὐτὴν ἔχουσαν ἐν ἅπασιν ἀνθρώποις

διὰ τὸ ταῖς ξυμφοραῖς μὴ εἴκειν, πλεῖστα δὲ σώματα καὶ πόνους ἀνηλωκέναι
πολέμῳ, καὶ δύναμιν μεγίστην δὴ μέχρι τοῦδε κεκτημένην (2.64.3).
‘Remember, too, that if your country has the greatest name in all the world, it
is because she never bent before disaster; because she has expended more life
and effort in war than any other city, and has won for herself a power greater
than any hitherto known’
e. πάθος γὰρ τοῦτο μιᾷ πόλει Ἑλληνίδι ἐν ἴσαις ἡμέραις μέγιστον δὴ τῶν
κατὰ τὸν πόλεμον τόνδε ἐγένετο (3.113.6).
‘Indeed, this was by far the greatest disaster that befell any one Hellenic city in
an equal number of days during this war’
In each passage, δή has its usual double function: it directs the attention to the
superlative form that is (presented as) known or otherwise evident. The famous
use of μεγίστη δή in 1.1.2 (ex. a.) is, admittedly, one of the more difficult cases
to interpret. Kühner-Gerth (1904) translate μεγίστη δή in this passage rightly
as ‘entschieden, ohne Zweifel die grösste’ (‘decidedly, undoubtedly the greatest’),
compare also Crawley’s ‘indeed’.
Thucydides rhetorically opens his magnum opus by stating that it deals with
‘evidently the greatest movement in history’. There are two ways in which one may
interpret this claim. Either one takes δή as only referring to the Peloponnesian
war itself. On that interpretation, Thucydides statement constitutes an apparent
and gross exaggeration. The use of δή, on that reading, is a bold rhetorical move
intended to trump, by means of a ‘preemptive strike’, any possible doubts on the
part of the reader as to the greatness of the work’s topic.
A more plausible reading of the passage, however, is that the ‘movement’
does not only refer to the war itself but has a broader scope referring to ‘the
whole movement which culminated in the Peloponnesians and Athenians reaching
the acme of their power’ (Hornblower ad loc). That Thucydides meant more by
‘movement’ than just the war itself is also suggested by ἀκμάζοντές τε ᾖσαν
ἐς αὐτὸν ἀμφότεροι παρασκευῇ τῇ πάσῃ in 1.1. On this reading, Thucydides
may have more rightly assumed that the reader would be inclined to agree with
him – hence δή. It should also be noted that Thucydides statement does not
come entirely out of the blue; it is already prepared for by ἐλπίσας μέγαν τε
ἔσεσθαι καὶ ἀξιολογώτατον τῶν προγεγενημένων in 1.1. So, κίνησις γὰρ αὕτη
μέγιστη δή in 1.1.2 is not a bold statement intended to overwhelm the reader
unexpectedly; it is more likely that Thucydides presumes that the reader will agree
with his point of view, and that it is already part of their Common Ground.
The other examples of μέγιστος δή, too, relate to statements that are
prepared for by the preceding context. The clause in which μέγιστος δή occurs do
not provide new or controversial information, but rather recapitulates previous
information by way of conclusion. In other words, the information at issue is
already part of the Common Ground.
Thus, in 1.50.2 (ex. b.), the battle of Sybota is called the greatest sea battle
between Greeks ever because of the high number of ships. The high number
of ships involved in the battle is not new information but has already been
mentioned several times in the preceding account of the battle. In 2.31.2 (ex. c.),
the observation that the army ravaging Megara was the largest of Athenians ever
can, again, be interpreted as part of the Common Ground (‘cf. Crawley’s ‘without
doubt’): it is prepared for by the preceding discourse in which the number of
ships is mentioned, and it is also supported by the unprecedented number of
hoplites and light troops mentioned in 2.31.2. In 2.64.3 (ex. d.), Pericles presents
the uncontroversial fact that Athens ‘has won for herself a power greater than any
hitherto known’ as part of the Common Ground between him and the Athenians
(cf. also the factive main verb γνῶτε, construed with participle, which expresses
that the state of affairs is regarded by the speaker as a presupposed fact). In 3.113.6
(ex. e.), finally, Thucydides’ concluding claim that this was the greatest disaster,
befallen to a Greek city in the war in such a short time span, has been prepared
by the preceding anecdote about the Ambraciot herald (3.113.1–5), and it is
therefore presented as part of the Common Ground (cf. Crawley’s ‘indeed’).
We have seen that δή + superlative signals that we are dealing with Common
Ground information. However, δή certainly also carries its usual attention-getting
force. As we have seen in the examples above, it is used to mark historically
unique and unprecedented events; with δή, Thucydides emphatically points out
to his reader to take special note of the event at issue, as it constitutes a milestone
in his account of the war, or even of human history in general.29
By contrast, μέγιστος without δή lacks this sense of noteworthiness: the
entity or event at issue does not have the same importance. Another difference
is that the state of affairs at issue may, but need not, be part of the Common
Ground. Consider the first five instances in Thucydides:30
(24) a. οὔκουν ἀπιστεῖν εἰκός, οὐδὲ τὰς ὄψεις τῶν πόλεων μᾶλλον σκοπεῖν ἢ
τὰς δυνάμεις, νομίζειν δὲ τὴν στρατείαν ἐκείνην μεγίστην μὲν γενέσθαι τῶν
πρὸ αὑτῆς, λειπομένην δὲ τῶν νῦν (1.10.3).
‘We have therefore no right to be skeptical, nor to content ourselves with an
inspection of a town to the exclusion of a consideration of its power; but we
may safely conclude that the armament in question surpassed all before it’
b. πεποίηκε γὰρ χιλίων καὶ διακοσίων νεῶν τὰς μὲν Βοιωτῶν εἴκοσι καὶ
ἑκατὸν ἀνδρῶν, τὰς δὲ Φιλοκτήτου πεντήκοντα, δηλῶν, ὡς ἐμοὶ δοκεῖ, τὰς
μεγίστας καὶ ἐλαχίστας (Th. 1.10.4).
‘He has represented it as consisting of twelve hundred vessels; the Boeotian
complement of each ship being a hundred and twenty men, that of the ships
of Philoctetes fifty. By this, I conceive, he meant to convey the maximum and
the minimum complement’
c. πρὸς τὰς μεγίστας δ᾽ οὖν καὶ ἐλαχίστας ναῦς τὸ μέσον σκοποῦντι οὐ

πολλοὶ φαίνονται ἐλθόντες, ὡς ἀπὸ πάσης τῆς Ἑλλάδος κοινῇ πεμπόμενοι
(Th. 1.10.5).
‘So that if we strike the average of the largest and smallest ships, the number
of those who sailed will appear inconsiderable, representing, as they did, the
whole force of Hellas’
29 The other instances of μέγιστος δή in Thucydides are 5.74.1, 6.13.1, 6.17.5, 6.92.5, 7.75.7,
8.1.2, 8.41.2, 8.96.1.
30 The instances at 1.10.3 and 1.122.4 are left out of account here since they occur in indirect
discourse which appears to block the use of superlative + δή in a categorical manner (see statistics
above).
d. εἰ δὲ ἐν τῇ Ἀττικῇ ἢ ἄλλοθί που ἡ μεγίστη ἑορτὴ εἴρητο, οὔτε ἐκεῖνος

ἔτι κατενόησε τό τε μαντεῖον οὐκ ἐδήλου (ἔστι γὰρ καὶ Ἀθηναίοις Διάσια
ἃ καλεῖται Διὸς ἑορτὴ Μειλιχίου μεγίστη ἔξω τῆς πόλεως, ἐν ᾗ πανδημεὶ
θύουσι πολλὰ οὐχ ἱερεῖα, ἀλλ᾽ <ἁγνὰ> θύματα ἐπιχώρια) (Th. 1.126.6).
‘Whether the grand festival that was meant was in Attica or elsewhere was
a question which he never thought of, and which the oracle did not offer to
solve. For the Athenians also have a festival which is called the grand festival
of Zeus Meilichios or Gracious, viz. the Diasia. It is celebrated outside the
city, and the whole people sacrifice not real victims but a number of bloodless
offerings peculiar to the country’
Examples (a.), (b.) and (c.) are from the Archaeology. In (a), Thucydides explicitly
argues that the size of the army against Troy is not very significant as it is surpassed
by present armies. The absence of δή can be explained by the fact that Thucydides
does not want to draw special attention to the fact that it may have been the
largest army at that time, since the main point here is to proof that present armies
are larger. A possible additional factor explaining the absence of δή is the fact that
it is not so clear whether Thucydides sees the ‘fact’ that the army against Troy was
the largest at that time as part of the Common Ground. The epistemic hedges
εἰκός ... νομίζειν (‘it is reasonable to assume’) seems to leave room to the reader
to disagree with Thucydides’ reasoning.
Examples (b.) and (c.) involve plural forms, indicating that the superlative
does not relate to a single, outstanding individual or event, but to a set of
comparable entities. Further, μέγιστος is not used predicatively but attributively;
that is, it is merely used to identify a particular subset of referents within a larger
set, instead of ascribing a property to a referent. In other words, in these contexts
there is no special reason to draw the reader’s attention to the property of being
μέγιστος.
In some cases, also Common Ground issues seem to come into play. In (b.),
for example, the hedging phrase ὡς ἐμοὶ δοκεῖ explicitly states that the reader
does not have to share the same opinion; that is, state of affairs at issue is not
part of the Common Ground. In (d.), ‘the grand festival’ (ἡ μεγίστη ἑορτή) is
does not refer to a specific festival, but to that festival that is called ‘the grand
festival’ in every city. The second occurrence in (d.) ‘the grand festival of Zeus
Meilichios’ (Διὸς ἑορτὴ Μειλιχίου μεγίστη) refers to the name that is given to
the festival by the Athenians. In both cases, the use of μεγίστη is linked to a
particular perspective (e.g. that of the Athenians), and it is not presented as part
of the Common Ground (i.e. as shared knowledge or point of view) between

Thucydides and his readers.
3 Conclusion
It goes without saying that the Common Ground, ‘the sum of mutual, common,
or joint knowledge, beliefs, and suppositions’ (Clark 1996: 93), is of crucial
importance to successful communication. Many linguistic phenomena can be
best analyzed as grounding devices; that is they are linguistic items that serve,
not so much to describe a state of affairs in the real (or imagined) world, but
to manage the development of the Common Ground in the ongoing discourse,
and, more specifically, to instruct the addressee how to ground new information
into the already established Common Ground between speaker and addressee.
The function of many discourse particles can also be analyzed insightfully as
grounding devices.
The particle δή is evidently one of the most elusive of the Greek particles,
inspiring strong and highly divergent opinions. In the synthetic approach to δή
advocated here, two opinions which are dominant in the debate on the particle,
are combined, and the particle is analyzed as an instruction from the speaker
to the addressee (1) to focus the joint attention on an entity (person, object,
property, proposition, or speech act) which is (2) (presented as being) a part of
the Common Ground.
What is particularly interesting about the use of δή in Thucydides is that
this highly expressive and interactional particle provides us with a glimpse of the
point of view of the narrator Thucydides, who so often remains invisible in his
narrative.
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Degrés et nuances de l’acquiescement

dans les dialogues de Platon
Frédéric Lambert
1 Introduction
L’origine de ce travail est un peu ‟atopon” voire ‟achronon”: il s’agit d’une

exploration des valeurs discursives de OK en français contemporain. Autant il est
clair que ce marqueur d’accord relève bien du contact de langues puisqu’il s’agit
d’un emprunt à l’anglo-américain, autant il n’y a évidemment aucune chance qu’un
contact de ce genre ait pu concerner le grec ancien. C’est pourquoi, le thème du
contact de langue est à prendre ici en sens inverse: la fonction de OK correspond à
des processus liés à l’échange linguistique qui ne sont pas apparus avec ce marqueur.
Pour aborder les processus similaires que le grec ancien peut nous offrir, il
est nécessaire de rappeler les propriétés discursives de OK. Il me semble qu’elles
correspondent aux sept composantes suivantes :
- L’emploi de OK relève du dialogue et plutôt du dialogue familier.

- Le type d’accord auquel il correspond est très variable et il dépend largement du
contexte mais il est plutôt minimal.
- L’apparition de OK est souvent lié à un contexte conflictuel.
- L’usage de OK comporte fréquemment une valeur concessive ou de compromis.
- OK permet de mettre un terme, de clore un thème discursif.
- Utiliser OK a en général une valeur collaborative dans un échange conversationnel.
- Enfin OK a un caractère polyfonctionnel au sens de Wakker (1997), qui distingue
3 niveaux discursifs (représentationnel, présentationnel et interactionnel). OK
peut ainsi concerner la valeur de vérité, les liens entre des composantes discursives
(caractère conclusif ) et les liens entre interlocuteurs (concession ou intimidation
dans les OK interrogatifs).
La souplesse polysémique et polyfonctionnelle de OK explique sans doute sa

généralisation quasi universelle dans la mesure où il peut s’adater à un très grand
nombre de situations interlocutives.
Les propriétés de OK sont sans doute présentes, sans correspondre forcément
à un marqueur exclusif, dans toutes les langues. Il y a donc de forte chance qu’elles
236 LAMBERT, Degrés et nuances de l’acquiescement dans ... Platon
aient fonctionné en grec ancien. Par exemple, en grec moderne, si OK s’emploie

couramment, il serait plutôt en régression, et on rencontre plutôt εντάξει en un
seul mot, έγινε ou en langage jeune ισχύει.1
Le corpus platonicien par sa forme (dialogue) et son objet (discussion d’idées),
même s’il ne peut pas être considéré comme véritablement familier, présente un
cadre privilégié pour offrir des contextes compatibles avec un marqueur comme
OK. On sait en particulier que les raisonnements présents dans ces dialogues
procèdent par étapes successives, souvent très brèves, et qui nécessitent l’assentiment
de l’interlocuteur du meneur de jeu, que ce soit Socrate ou un autre personnage.
Ces marques d’assentiment paraissent précisément aussi monotones et vagues que
notre OK, et elles semblent ainsi correspondre à une fonction assez artificielle, où
le principe même de l’échange dialogal paraît très formel.
A l’intérieur du corpus platonicien, je me suis limité provisoirement à trois
dialogues dont les types de discussion sont assez différents: il s’agit du Phédon, du
Cratyle et du Gorgias.
Mon objectif consiste à montrer comment les différentes propriétés
d’acquiescement de OK apparaissent sous d’autres formes dans l’échange dialogique
platonicien et à préciser leurs fonctions discursives.
2 Les marques d’accord
Les marques d’accord entre interlocuteurs sont plus variées qu’il n’y paraît:
a) On a par exemple des variations autour de παν- :

Πάνυ γε ‘tout à fait certes’, πάνυ μὲν οὖν ‘oui tout à fait’, πάνυ μὲν οὖν
ἀληθῆ λέγεις ‘oui tout à fait tu dis vrai’, πάνυ ἔχει οὕτως ὡς λέγεις ‘c’est tout
à fait comme tu dis’,
παντός γε μᾶλλον ‘plus que tout certes’, πάντων μάλιστα ‘le plus de tout’,
πάντως δήπου ‘totalement je suppose’, πάντως που (idem),
παντάπασί γε ‘en tout point certes’, παντάπασι οὕτω φαίνεταί μοι ‘cela me
semble en tout point comme ça’, ἀλλά μοι δοκεῖς παντάπασιν ἀληθῆ λέγειν
‘en tout cas ce que tu dis me semble en tout point vrai’
On trouve un exemple de variations dans un passage du Phédon où la diversité des

formes ne semble pas correspondre à des différences sémantiques claires. Il s’agit plutôt
1 Je dois ces informations à Sophie Vassilaki.

de s’adapter à la forme des énoncés proposés par Socrate et auxquels Simmias acquiesce:
1. Phédon 65b-d
Πότε οὖν, ἦ δ’ ὅς, ἡ ψυχὴ τῆς ἀληθείας ‘A quel moment donc, dit Socrate, l’âme
ἅπτεται; ὅταν μὲν γὰρ μετὰ τοῦ saisit-elle la vérité? Chaque fois en ef-
σώματος ἐπιχειρῇ τι σκοπεῖν, δῆλον ὅτι fet qu’elle se sert du corps pour tenter
τότε ἐξαπατᾶται ὑπ’ αὐτοῦ. d’examiner quelque chose, il est évident
qu’elle est totalement trompée par lui.
Ἀληθῆ λέγεις. Tu dis vrai.
Ἆρ’ οὖν οὐκ ἐν τῷ λογίζεσθαι εἴπερ που Alors? N’est-ce pas dans l’acte de raison-
ἄλλοθι κατάδηλον αὐτῇ γίγνεταί τι τῶν ner, et nulle part ailleurs, qu’en vient à se
ὄντων; manifester à elle ce qu’est réellement la
chose en question?
Ναί. Oui
Λογίζεται δέ γέ που τότε κάλλιστα, Et, je suppose, l’âme raisonne le plus
ὅταν αὐτὴν τούτων μηδὲν παραλυπῇ, parfaitement quand ne viennent la per-
μήτε ἀκοὴ μήτε ὄψις μήτε ἀλγηδὼν turber ni audition, ni vision, ni douleur,
μηδέ τις ἡδονή, ἀλλ’ ὅτι μάλιστα αὐτὴ ni plaisir aucun; Quand au contraire elle
καθ’ αὑτὴν γίγνηται ἐῶσα χαίρειν se concentre le plus possible en elle-même
τὸ σῶμα, καὶ καθ’ ὅσον δύναται μὴ et envoie poliment promener le corps;
κοινωνοῦσα αὐτῷ μηδ’ ἁπτομένη Quand, rompant autant qu’elle en est
ὀρέγηται τοῦ ὄντος. capable toute association comme tout
cntact avec lui, elle aspire à ce qui est?
Ἔστι ταῦτα. C’est ça.
Οὐκοῦν καὶ ἐνταῦθα ἡ τοῦ φιλοσόφου Et c’est donc aussi à ces moments-là que
ψυχὴ μάλιστα ἀτιμάζει τὸ σῶμα καὶ l’âme du philosophe accorde le moins
φεύγει ἀπ’ αὐτοῦ, ζητεῖ δὲ αὐτὴ καθ’ d’importance au corps, s’évade de lui et
αὑτὴν γίγνεσθαι; cherche à se concentrer en elle-même?
Φαίνεται. Il semble.
Τί δὲ δὴ τὰ τοιάδε, ὦ Σιμμία; φαμέν τι Bien; Et maintenant, Simmias, ceci en-
εἶναι δίκαιον αὐτὸ ἢ οὐδέν; core: affirmons-nous qu’il existe quelque
chose de juste en soi, ou le nions-nous?
Φαμὲν μέντοι νὴ Δία. Oui nous l’affirmons par Zeus.
Καὶ αὖ καλόν γέ τι καὶ ἀγαθόν; Et quelque chose de beau, de bon...?
Πῶς δ’ οὔ; Comment ne pas l’admettre?
Ἤδη οὖν πώποτέ τι τῶν τοιούτων τοῖς En fait, une chose de ce genre, en as-tu
ὀφθαλμοῖς εἶδες; encore jamais vu, de tes yeux vu?
Οὐδαμῶς, ἦ δ’ ὅς. En aucune façon, dit-il.’
b) Modalités dans l’implication du locuteur
L’acquiescement peut varier également en fonction de l’implication du

locuteur. Il y a alors à la fois acquiescement et des formes variées de repli du locuteur.
- implication strictement personnelle
Un premier type d’implication est exprimé par l’usage du pronom de première

personne. Ce type d’acquiescement comporte une adhésion du locuteur mais le
fait de la restreindre au locuteur introduit une forme de doute. Voici les exemples:
2. Phédon 71d
Λέγε δή μοι καὶ σύ, ἔφη, οὕτω περὶ ‘Alors, à ton tour! fit Socrate. Dis-m’en
ζωῆς καὶ θανάτου. οὐκ ἐναντίον μὲν autant à propos de ‟vie” et de ‟mort”.
φῂς τῷ ζῆν τὸ τεθνάναι εἶναι; D’abord, tu affirmes bien que ‟être
mort” est le contraire de ‟vivre”?
Ἔγωγε. Moi? Bien sûr!’
3. Phédon 62b ‘Cependant, Cébès, elle me semble fort
οὐ μέντοι ἀλλὰ τόδε γέ μοι δοκεῖ, ὦ bien exprimer au moins ceci: que ce sont
Κέβης, εὖ λέγεσθαι, τὸ θεοὺς εἶναι des dieux qui sont nos gardiens ànous,et
ἡμῶν τοὺς ἐπιμελουμένους καὶ ἡμᾶς que nous, les humains, formons une par-
τοὺς ἀνθρώπους ἓν τῶν κτημάτων τοῖς tie des troupeaux que les dieux possèdent.
θεοῖς εἶναι. ἢ σοὶ οὐ δοκεῖ οὕτως; Tu ne crois pas?
Ἔμοιγε, φησὶν ὁ Κέβης. Moi? Si, répondit Cébès.’
4. Phédon 64d-e ‘Et tous les autres soins que l’on donne
Τί δὲ τὰς ἄλλας τὰς περὶ τὸ σῶμα au corps? Crois-tu qu’un homme de ce
θεραπείας; δοκεῖ σοι ἐντίμους ἡγεῖσθαι genre leur accorde quelque importance?
ὁ τοιοῦτος; οἷον ἱματίων διαφερόντων Par exemple, acheter des manteaux et des
κτήσεις καὶ ὑποδημάτων καὶ τοὺς chaussures qui soient distingués, ou des
ἄλλους καλλωπισμοὺς τοὺς περὶ accessoires servant à embellir le corps,
τὸ σῶμα πότερον τιμᾶν δοκεῖ σοι ἢ crois-tu qu’il y accorde quelque impor-
ἀτιμάζειν, καθ’ ὅσον μὴ πολλὴ ἀνάγκη tance? Ou au contraire aucune, pour
μετέχειν αὐτῶν; autant du moins qu’il n’est pas absolu-
ment obligé d’en prendre sa part?
Pour moi, je crois qu’il n’y accorde
Ἀτιμάζειν ἔμοιγε δοκεῖ, ἔφη, ὅ γε ὡς aucune importance, dit-il, en tout cas
ἀληθῶς φιλόσοφος. celui qui, vraiment est philosophe.’
Dans les exemples 3–5, on notera en particulier la présence de la particule γε, qui
renforce sans doute l’assertion et s’explique peut-être dans 3 et 4 par l’absence
de reprise du prédicat de la question. Mais γε a également une valeur restrictive.
- verbes modalisateurs
Dans d’autres cas, le locuteur a recours (souvent en écho) à des verbes modalisateurs
comme δοκεῖν ou φαίνεσθαι qui relativisent l’adhésion. En voici un exemple:
5. Phédon 64e-65a
Ἆρ’ οὖν πρῶτον μὲν ἐν τοῖς τοιούτοις ‘C’est donc d’abord en de telles circons-
δῆλός ἐστιν ὁ φιλόσοφος ἀπολύων tances que l’évidence s’impose: le philo-
ὅτι μάλιστα τὴν ψυχὴν ἀπὸ τῆς τοῦ sophe délie son âme, autant qu’il le peut,
σώματος κοινωνίας διαφερόντως τῶν de toute association avec le corps, d’une
ἄλλων ἀνθρώπων; façon qui le distingue de tous les autres
hommes?
Φαίνεται. Il semble.’
Ici on note le décalage entre l’évidence que cherche à faire accepter Socrate et
l’acquiescement plus mesuré.
- de la modalisation au doute ou à l’objection
La modalisation correspondant à un niveau faible d’acquiescement peut aussi

déboucher sur un doute ou une objection. C’est le cas par exemple dans les deux
passages qui suivent :
6. Phédon 62c-e
Ἴσως τοίνυν ταύτῃ οὐκ ἄλογον μὴ ‘Vu sous cet angle, il n’y a alors peut-être
πρότερον αὑτὸν ἀποκτεινύναι δεῖν, πρὶν rien d’absurde à affirmer qu’il ne faut pas se
ἀνάγκην τινὰ θεὸς ἐπιπέμψῃ, ὥσπερ καὶ donner la mort avant qu’un dieu ne nous
τὴν νῦν ἡμῖν παροῦσαν. ait envoyé quelque signe inéluctable, pareil
à celui qui maintenant, pour nous, est là.
Cela, au moins paraît vraisemblable,
Ἀλλ’ εἰκός, ἔφη ὁ Κέβης, τοῦτό dit Cébès. Mais c’est ce que tu disais à
γε φαίνεται. ὃ μέντοι νυνδὴ ἔλεγες, l’instant - que les philosophes accepte-
τὸ τοὺς φιλοσόφους ῥᾳδίως ἂν raient facilement de mourir -, c’est cela,
ἐθέλειν ἀποθνῄσκειν, ἔοικεν τοῦτο, Socrate, qui a l’air vraiment déconcertant,
ὦ Σώκρατες, ἀτόπῳ, εἴπερ ὃ νυνδὴ si toutefois nous avons eu raison de dire
ἐλέγομεν εὐλόγως ἔχει, τὸ θεόν τε εἶναι ce que nous venons de dire: que le dieu
τὸν ἐπιμελούμενον ἡμῶν καὶ ἡμᾶς est notre gardien et que nous sommes son
ἐκείνου κτήματα εἶναι. troupeau.’
(...) (...)
καίτοι οὕτως, ὦ Σώκρατες, τοὐναντίον ‘Voilà pourquoi, Socrate, c’est juste le
εἶναι εἰκὸς ἢ ὃ νυνδὴ ἐλέγετο· τοὺς contraire de ce que tu disais à l’instant
μὲν γὰρ φρονίμους ἀγανακτεῖν qui est vraisemblable; car c’est aux
ἀποθνῄσκοντας πρέπει, τοὺς δὲ hommes sensés qu’il convient de se révol-
ἄφρονας χαίρειν. ter quand ils meurent, et aux insensés de
s’en réjouir.’
7. Phédon 69e-70a
Ὦ Σώκρατες, τὰ μὲν ἄλλα ἔμοιγε ‘A mon avis, Socrate, dans l’ensemble tu
δοκεῖ καλῶς λέγεσθαι, τὰ δὲ περὶ τῆς dis des choses excellentes. Mais pour
ψυχῆς πολλὴν ἀπιστίαν παρέχει τοῖς ce que tu as énoncé à propos de l’âme,
ἀνθρώποις μή, ἐπειδὰν ἀπαλλαγῇ τοῦ les hommes ont beaucoup de mal à
σώματος, οὐδαμοῦ ἔτι ᾖ, ἀλλ’ ἐκείνῃ τῇ s’en convaincre, pensant qu’il y a lieu
ἡμέρᾳ διαφθείρηταί τε καὶ ἀπολλύηται de craindre qu’une fois séparée du corps
ᾗ ἂν ὁ ἄνθρωπος ἀποθνῄσκῃ, εὐθὺς elle n’existe plus nulle part, qu’elle ne
ἀπαλλαττομένη τοῦ σώματος, καὶ subisse une corruption totale et ne périsse
ἐκβαίνουσα ὥσπερ πνεῦμα ἢ καπνὸς le jour même où l’homme meurt; lieu de
διασκεδασθεῖσα οἴχηται διαπτομένη καὶ craindre qu’à l’instant même où elle est
οὐδὲν ἔτι οὐδαμοῦ ᾖ. séparée du corps et où elle en sort comme
un souffle ou une fumée, dispersée, ele ne
s’en aille en s’envolant et ne soit absolu-
ment rien.’
Dans 6, on peut noter le passage de φαίνεται à εἶναι, le second verbe impliquant

un niveau d’adhésion nettement plus élevé. Et le doute apparaît immédiatement
après φαίνεται, introduit par μέντοι.
Dans 7, le contraste entre les deux propositions reliées par le coordonnant
corrélatif μέν...δέ... montre l’écart entre la qualité reconnue des raisonnements
de Socrate et la conviction qui devrait en résulter.
- une nécessité logique
Dans d’autres passages, le locuteur présente l’acquiescement comme le résultat

d’une nécessité logique. C’est ce qui est illustré par les exemples 9–11 :
8. Phédon 75b
Ἀνάγκη ἐκ τῶν προειρημένων, ὦ ‘Tout ce qui a été dit, Socrate, entraîne
Σώκρατες. nécessairement cette conséquence.
9. Phédon 72a
Ὁμολογεῖται ἄρα ἡμῖν καὶ ταύτῃ τοὺς Voilà donc aussi une manière de procéder
ζῶντας ἐκ τῶν τεθνεώτων γεγονέναι qui nous permet de tomber d’accord sur
οὐδὲν ἧττον ἢ τοὺς τεθνεῶτας ἐκ τῶν ce point: les vivants ne proviennent pas
ζώντων, τούτου δὲ ὄντος ἱκανόν που moins des morts que les morts des vi-
ἐδόκει τεκμήριον εἶναι ὅτι ἀναγκαῖον vants. Cela étant, il nous a semblé tout à
τὰς τῶν τεθνεώτων ψυχὰς εἶναί που, l’heure qu’il y avait peut-être là un indice
ὅθεν δὴ πάλιν γίγνεσθαι. suffisant de la nécessité, pour les âmes des
morts, d’exister quelque part, un quelque
part d’où justement elles viennent de
Δοκεῖ μοι, ἔφη, ὦ Σώκρατες, ἐκ τῶν nouveau à naître.
ὡμολογημένων ἀναγκαῖον οὕτως ἔχειν. Mon opinion, Socrate, dit Cébès, est
que, d’après ce dont nous sommes
convenus, c’est là une nécessité.’
10. Phédon 67e ‘Donc, comme je le disais en commen-

Οὐκοῦν, ὅπερ ἐν ἀρχῇ ἔλεγον, γελοῖον çant, on aurait vraiment là un personnage
ἂν εἴη ἄνδρα παρασκευάζονθ’ ἑαυτὸν ἐν ridicule: comment, voilà un homme qui,
τῷ βίῳ ὅτι ἐγγυτάτω ὄντα τοῦ τεθνάναι sa vie durant, s’entraîne à une manière
οὕτω ζῆν, κἄπειθ’ ἥκοντος αὐτῷ τούτου de vivre aussi proche que possible de la
ἀγανακτεῖν; mort et qui, lorsqu’elle survient, se révolte
contre elle!
Γελοῖον· πῶς δ’ οὔ; Il serait ridicule, forcément (litt. Com-
ment ne (le serait-il) pas ?).’
Dans ces exemples, la nécessité est énoncée par le locuteur (Cébès) lui-même,
mais on notera que, dans 9 et 10, pour Cébès la nécessité est simplement la
conséquence logique des raisonnements précédents, qui ont été l’objet d’un accord
préalable. J’ajoute que la présence de δοκεῖ μοι dans 9 réintroduit la modalisation
subjective. L’adhésion a beau être forte, elle reste conditionnelle. Quant à 10,
l’acquiescement y est doublement exprimé, par une reprise de l’adjectif γελοῖον,
et par la formule interrogative qui vaut constat de nécessité (d’où la traduction
proposée ici par forcément). Mais là aussi, l’acquiescement, il ne faut pas s’y
tromper, est circonscrit à la proposition précédente, comme le prouvent la reprise
et l’évidence exprimée par l’interrogative. On pourrait gloser l’interrrogative par
“ c’est tellement évident que je ne vois pas comment on pourrait dire le contraire”.
- modalité objective
Enfin l’acquiescement à la proposition de l’interlocuteur peut se faire sur un

mode objectif. Cette modalité se présente elle-même sous diverses formes.
Il peut s’agir d’une formule factuelle, où l’adhésion du locuteur n’est pas vraiment
soulignée comme dans :
11. Phédon 68d

Ἔστι ταῦτα. ‘C’est bien cela.’
12. Phédon 71a ‘Donc aussi, quand une chose devient

Οὐκοῦν κἂν ἔλαττον γίγνηται, ἐκ plus petite, c’est après avoir été d’abord
μείζονος ὄντος πρότερον ὕστερον plus grande qu’elle deviendra ensuite plus
ἔλαττον γενήσεται; petite?
Ἔστιν οὕτω, ἔφη. C’est comme ça, dit-il.’
Les formules plus absolues convoquent explicitement l’adhésion du locuteur:
13. Phédon 67d

Οὐκοῦν τοῦτό γε θάνατος ὀνομάζεται, ‘Donc, ce que précisément on nomme
λύσις καὶ χωρισμὸς ψυχῆς ἀπὸ mort, c’est une déliaison et une séparation
σώματος; de l’âme d’avec le corps?
Παντάπασί γε, ἦ δ’ ὅς. Oui, absolument, dit-il.’
14. Phédon 68c

Πάνυ, ἔφη, ἔχει οὕτως ὡς λέγεις. ‘Tu dis les choses tout à fait comme
elles sont! fit-il.
Ἆρ’ οὖν, ἔφη, ὦ Σιμμία, οὐ καὶ Cela étant, Simmias, dit-il, ce que l’on
ἡ ὀνομαζομένη ἀνδρεία τοῖς οὕτω nomme courage, est-ce que cela ne
διακειμένοις μάλιστα προσήκει; convient pas par excellence à ceux qui
possèdent les dispositions dont je viens de
parler?
Πάντως δήπου, ἔφη. Sans aucun doute, affirma-t-il.’
On a même des adhésions superlatives :
15. Phédon 66a

Ὑπερφυῶς, ἔφη ὁ Σιμμίας, ὡς ἀληθῆ ‘C’est extraordinairement vrai, ce que
λέγεις, ὦ Σώκρατες. tu dis, Socrate, répondit Simmias.’
16. Phédon 67b

ἢ οὐ δοκεῖ σοι οὕτως; ‘N’est-ce pas aussi ton opinion?
Παντός γε μᾶλλον, ὦ Σώκρατες. Oui, entièrement (litt. plus que tout),
Socrate.’
Certains acquiescements du mode objectif peuvent se présenter sous une forme

métalinguistique. Ce sera soit d’une façon résomptive, comme dans :
17. Phédon 72a

Ὁμολογεῖται ἄρα ἡμῖν καὶ ταύτῃ τοὺς ‘Voilà donc aussi une manière de procé-
ζῶντας ἐκ τῶν τεθνεώτων γεγονέναι der qui nous permet de tomber d’accord
οὐδὲν ἧττον ἢ τοὺς τεθνεῶτας ἐκ τῶν sur ce point: les vivants ne proviennent
ζώντων, τούτου δὲ ὄντος ἱκανόν που pas moins des morts que les morts des vi-
ἐδόκει τεκμήριον εἶναι ὅτι ἀναγκαῖον vants. Cela étant, il nous a semblé tout à
τὰς τῶν τεθνεώτων ψυχὰς εἶναί που, l’heure qu’il y avait peut-être là un indice
ὅθεν δὴ πάλιν γίγνεσθαι. suffisant de la nécessité, pour les âmes des
morts, d’exister quelque part, un quelque
part d’où justement elles viennent de
nouveau à naître.
Δοκεῖ μοι, ἔφη, ὦ Σώκρατες, ἐκ τῶν Mon opinion, Socrate, dit Cébès, est
ὡμολογημένων ἀναγκαῖον οὕτως ἔχειν. que, d’après ce dont nous sommes
convenus, c’est là une nécessité.’
soit d’une façon narrative, comme dans :
18. Phédon 93a

Συνέφη. ‘Il acquiesca.
Οὐκ ἄρα ἡγεῖσθαί γε προσήκει Et il ne convient pas à une harmonie
ἁρμονίαν τούτων ἐξ ὧν ἂν συντεθῇ, d’avoir préséance sur les éléments qui ont
ἀλλ’ ἕπεσθαι. pu la constituer, elle doit plutôt être leur
suivante?
Συνεδόκει. Il fut d’accord.’
Les formes et les modalités de l’acquiescement sont donc plus variées qu’il ne semble,
et encore n’ai-je pas tout énuméré. S’il se dégage parfois une impression de monotonie
c’est sans doute pour deux raisons. La première est que l’acquiescement par nature
ne modifie pas l’orientation du dialogue puisque l’interlocuteur principal qui mène
le raisonnement, grâce à l’acquiescement, ne se trouve pas poussé à modifier sa ligne
d’argumentation. La seconde raison est que l’attention du lecteur est focalisée sur
le raisonnement et donc sur les propos du locuteur considéré comme principal. Le
dialogue, en cas d’acquiescement, semble alors plutôt formel. Mais est-on bien sûr
de l’inutilité ou de la gratuité de l’acquiescement, d’autant que, comme nous l’avons
vu, toutes les formes d’acquiescement ne sont pas sans une certaine réserve?
3 Valeurs concessives des modes d’acquiescement
Les différents modes d’acquiescement, comme on vient de le voir, ne sont pas

forcément des acquiescements complets. C’est en partie inhérent à la méthode
socratique, qui ne s’appelle pas maïeutique par hasard, et où l’interlocuteur a
un rôle passif. Celui-ci est donc assez naturellement amené à énoncer des
acquiescements désinvestis, ou de connivence.
Par ailleurs, le locuteur peut bien acquiescer, il ne dirige pas pour autant
le raisonnement. Le plus souvent, la portée de l’acquiescement est ainsi limitée
à une étape. Cette position passive de l’auteur de l’acquiescement contribue à
conférer à tout acquiescement, fût-il apparemment complet, un statut concessif.
On trouve ainsi des passages où un accord explicite est suivi d’un doute :
19. Gorg. 497d

—ΣΩ. Ἀλλὰ μὴν τῶν ἀγαθῶν γε SO. ‘Mais, à l’inverse, les biens et les
καὶ κακῶν οὐχ ἅμα παύεται, ὡς σὺ maux, eux, ne cessent pas simultanément
ὡμολόγεις· νῦν δὲ οὐχ ὁμολογεῖς; - tu étais d’accord pour le dire. Mais peut-
être que maintenant tu n’es plus d’accord
—ΚΑΛ. Ἔγωγε· τί οὖν δή; avec cela.
CAL. Si, je suis d’accord. Et après,
qu’est-ce que tu en fais?’
Ce statut incertain de l’acquiescement se trouve bien illustré en particulier par

l’échange suivant dans le Gorgias, où le jeu des questions/réponses est l’objet d’un
rejet hostile de Calliclès:
20. Gorg. 497b-c

οὐχ ἅμα διψῶν τε ἕκαστος ἡμῶν ‘Donc, n’est-ce pas au même moment que
πέπαυται καὶ ἅμα ἡδόμενος διὰ τοῦ chacun de nous cesse à la fois d’avoir soif
πίνειν; et de prendre plaisir à boire?
ΚΑΛ. Οὐκ οἶδα ὅτι λέγεις. CAL. Je ne sais pas ce que tu veux dire.
ΓΟΡ. Μηδαμῶς, ὦ Καλλίκλεις, GOR. Ne fais pas cela, Calliclès! Réponds
ἀλλ’ ἀποκρίνου καὶ ἡμῶν ἕνεκα, ἵνα plutôt. C’est notre intérêt que tu sers,
περανθῶσιν οἱ λόγοι. si nous voulons que cette discussion se
poursuive jusqu’à son terme.
ΚΑΛ. Ἀλλ’ ἀεὶ τοιοῦτός ἐστιν CAL. Mais, Gorgias, Socrate est toujours
Σωκράτης, ὦ Γοργία· σμικρὰ καὶ ὀλίγου pareil: il pose et repose des petites ques-
ἄξια ἀνερωτᾷ καὶ ἐξελέγχει. tions, qui ne valent pas grand-chose,
puis il se met à réfuter.
ΓΟΡ. Ἀλλὰ τί σοὶ διαφέρει; πάντως GOR. Mais qu’est-ce que cela peut te
οὐ σὴ αὕτη ἡ τιμή, ὦ Καλλίκλεις· ἀλλ’ faire? De toute façon, Calliclès, ce n’est
ὑπόσχες Σωκράτει ἐξελέγξαι ὅπως ἂν pas à toi d’estimer ce que valent les
βούληται. questions de Socrate. Allons, laisse-le
réfuter comme il le veut.
ΚΑΛ. Ἐρώτα δὴ σὺ τὰ σμικρά τε CAL. Vas-y, pose tes petites questions,
καὶ στενὰ ταῦτα, ἐπείπερ Γοργίᾳ δοκεῖ tes questions de rien du tout, puisque
οὕτως. Gorgias est de cet avis.’
Autrement dit, même quand l’interlocuteur de Socrate ne rejette pas la méthode

socratique des “petites questions étroites” son acquiescement ne valide qu’une
étape à la fois. Il ne sait pas où Socrate va le mener, ce qui relativise l’acquiescement:
le caractère concessif repose sur le fait que l’acquiescement est induit par Socrate
et non par son interlocuteur.
D’autre part, la méthode socratique explique également la prudence de
beaucoup des acquiescements, qui se présentent comme des concessions: c’est ce
qu’on a vu avec la particule γε, qui n’exprime pas simplement un renforcement
ou une insistance mais aussi une forme de restriction. Par exemple, ἔμοιγε δοκεῖ
équivaut à ‘en tout cas c’est ce qu’il me semble à moi’. On voit bien là que la
concession revient à faire dépendre l’essentiel de la validation de la responsabilité
de l’interlocuteur.
Le passage suivant, où Polos se montre plus conciliant que Calliclès, fait suivre
une marque d’adhésion a priori entière d’une remise en cause du but poursuivi
par Socrate:
21. Gorg. 474c

ΣΩ. Οὔκουν ἀποκρινῇ; SO. ‘Bon. Est-ce que tu me réponds?
ΠΩΛ. Πάνυ μὲν οὖν· καὶ γὰρ ἐπιθυμῶ POL. Oui, absolument. En fait j’ai en-
εἰδέναι ὅτι ποτ’ ἐρεῖς. vie de savoir ce que tu vas bien pouvoir
dire.’
L’acquiescement apparemment total est ici corrigé par ce qui suit: la validation est
donc conditionnelle: une concession ironique à Socrate.
La concession peut également être assumée par le locuteur:
22. Crat.. 430e-431a

ΣΩ. Τί δέ; πάλιν αὐτῷ τούτῳ ‘SO. Mais quoi? Ne peut-on encore aller
προσελθόντα εἰπεῖν ὅτι ‟Τουτί ἐστιν voir le même homme et lui dire ‟ceci est
σὸν ὄνομα”; ἔστι δέ που καὶ τὸ ὄνομα ton nom”? Le nom, n’est-ce pas, est lui
μίμημα ὥσπερ τὸ ζωγράφημα. τοῦτο aussi une imitation, comme la peinture.
δὴ λέγω· ἆρ’ οὐκ ἂν εἴη αὐτῷ εἰπεῖν En réalité, voici ce que je veux dire: ne
ὅτι ‟Τουτί ἐστι σὸν ὄνομα,” καὶ μετὰ serait-il pas possible de lui dire ‟ceci est
τοῦτο εἰς τὴν τῆς ἀκοῆς αὖ αἴσθησιν ton nom”, et après cela de présenter à son
καταστῆσαι, ἂν μὲν τύχῃ, τὸ ἐκείνου sens de l’ouïe, au hasard, son ‟imitation”
μίμημα, εἰπόντα ὅτι ἀνήρ, ἂν δὲ τύχῃ, en lui disant qu’il est ‟homme”, ou bien
τὸ τοῦ θήλεος τοῦ ἀνθρωπίνου γένους, l’imitation de la partie féinine du genre
εἰπόντα ὅτι γυνή; οὐ δοκεῖ σοι τοῦτο humain, en lui disant qu’il est ‟femme”?
οἷόν τ’ εἶναι καὶ γίγνεσθαι ἐνίοτε; Ne crois-tu pas que cela soit possible et
que cela se produise parfois?
ΚΡ. Ἐθέλω σοι, ὦ Σώκρατες, CR. Je veux bien, Socrate, je te l’ac-
συγχωρῆσαι καὶ ἔστω οὕτως. corde. Admettons ce point.
ΣΩ. Καλῶς γε σὺ ποιῶν, ὦ φίλε, εἰ SO. Tu fais bien, mon ami, puisque c’est
ἔστι τοῦτο οὕτως· un fait.’
On notera qu’ici il se produit une forme d’inversion des rôles: le fait que
Cratyle donne librement son accord amène Socrate à s’attribuer à lui-même la
confirmation qu’il demande.
Inversement le locuteur peut placer la concession sous la responsabilité du
questionneur interlocuteur:
23. Gorg. 479c

εἰ δὲ ἡμεῖς ἀληθῆ ὡμολογήκαμεν, ὦ ‘Mais, Polos, si nous sommes d’accord
Πῶλε, ἆρ’αἰσθάνῃ τὰ συμβαίνοντα ἐκ pour reconnaître comme vrai ce que nous
τοῦ λόγου; ἢ βούλει συλλογισώμεθα avons dit, te rends-tu assez bien compte
αὐτά; des conséquences de notre discussion?
Ou préfères-tu que nous allions jusqu’au
bout?
ΠΩΛ. Εἰ σοί γε δοκεῖ. Oui, si tu veux.’
24. Crat. 383a

ΕΡΜ. Βούλει οὖν καὶ Σωκράτει τῷδε ‘Voici Socrate: veux-tu que nous lui fas-
ἀνακοινωσώμεθα τὸν λόγον; sions part du sujet de notre entretien?
ΚΡ. Εἴ σοι δοκεῖ. Si bon te semble.’
Les exemples qui précèdent illustrent différentes formes de concession, mais

ce qui est sûr c’est que quel que soit le niveau d’acquiescement, qu’il soit
apparemment total ou plus limité, il n’en comporte pas moins un statut concessif,
la responsabilité de l’assertion retombant in fine sur le meneur de jeu.
4 Fonction conclusive de l’acquiescement
Dans les échanges “par petites questions”, les acquiescements permettent de faire
avancer le raisonnement pas à pas. Une des fonctions de l’acquiescement est alors
de considérer une des étapes du raisonnement, généralement une proposition,
comme acquise. En ce sens, l’acquiescement a une valeur conclusive.
Dans la citation 1, que nous reprenons en 25, on a un exemple de cette progression,

où on notera que les assertions de Socrate se présentent systématiquement sous
forme de questions, sollicitant constamment son interlocuteur et suscitant donc
son approbation. L’acquiescement est ainsi une composante nécessaire de la
progression de l’argumentation, même si, comme nous l’avons vu, son caractère
formel et répétitif peut donner l’impression d’une certaine vacuité.
25. Phédon 65b-d:

Πότε οὖν, ἦ δ’ ὅς, ἡ ψυχὴ τῆς ἀληθείας ‘A quel moment donc, dit Socrate, l’âme
ἅπτεται; ὅταν μὲν γὰρ μετὰ τοῦ saisit-elle la vérité? Chaque fois en ef-
σώματος ἐπιχειρῇ τι σκοπεῖν, δῆλον ὅτι fet qu’elle se sert du corps pour tenter
τότε ἐξαπατᾶται ὑπ’ αὐτοῦ. d’examiner quelque chose, il est évident
qu’elle est totalement trompée par lui.
Ἀληθῆ λέγεις. Tu dis vrai.
Ἆρ’ οὖν οὐκ ἐν τῷ λογίζεσθαι εἴπερ που Alors? N’est-ce pas dans l’acte de raison-
ἄλλοθι κατάδηλον αὐτῇ γίγνεταί τι τῶν ner, et nulle part ailleurs, qu’en vient à se
ὄντων; manifester à elle ce qu’est réellement la
chose en question?
Ναί. Oui
Λογίζεται δέ γέ που τότε κάλλιστα, Et, je suppose, l’âme raisonne le plus
ὅταν αὐτὴν τούτων μηδὲν παραλυπῇ, parfaitement quand ne viennent la per-
μήτε ἀκοὴ μήτε ὄψις μήτε ἀλγηδὼν turber ni audition, ni vision, ni douleur,
μηδέ τις ἡδονή, ἀλλ’ ὅτι μάλιστα αὐτὴ ni plaisir aucun; Quand au contraire elle
καθ’ αὑτὴν γίγνηται ἐῶσα χαίρειν se concentre le plus possible en elle-même
τὸ σῶμα, καὶ καθ’ ὅσον δύναται μὴ et envoie poliment promener le corps;
κοινωνοῦσα αὐτῷ μηδ’ ἁπτομένη Quand, rompant autant qu’elle en est
ὀρέγηται τοῦ ὄντος. capable toute association comme tout
cntact avec lui, elle aspire à ce qui est?
Ἔστι ταῦτα. C’est ça.
Οὐκοῦν καὶ ἐνταῦθα ἡ τοῦ φιλοσόφου Et c’est donc aussi à ces moments-là que
ψυχὴ μάλιστα ἀτιμάζει τὸ σῶμα καὶ l’âme du philosophe accorde le moins
φεύγει ἀπ’ αὐτοῦ, ζητεῖ δὲ αὐτὴ καθ’ d’importance au corps, s’évade de lui et
αὑτὴν γίγνεσθαι; cherche à se concentrer en elle-même?
Φαίνεται. Il semble.
Τί δὲ δὴ τὰ τοιάδε, ὦ Σιμμία; φαμέν τι Bien; Et maintenant, Simmias, ceci en-
εἶναι δίκαιον αὐτὸ ἢ οὐδέν; core: affirmons-nous qu’il existe quelque
chose de juste en soi, ou le nions-nous?
Φαμὲν μέντοι νὴ Δία. Oui nous l’affirmons par Zeus.
Καὶ αὖ καλόν γέ τι καὶ ἀγαθόν; Et quelque chose de beau, de bon...?
Πῶς δ’ οὔ; Comment ne pas l’admettre?
Ἤδη οὖν πώποτέ τι τῶν τοιούτων τοῖς En fait, une chose de ce genre, en as-tu
ὀφθαλμοῖς εἶδες; encore jamais vu, de tes yeux vu?
Οὐδαμῶς, ἦ δ’ ὅς. En aucune façon, dit-il.’
On peut remarquer ici, d’autre part, le jeu des particules dans les répliques de
Socrate, notamment δέ, οὖν et οὐκοῦν. Or ces particules structurent précisément
la progression du raisonnement, dans la mesure où elles expriment le passage

légitime à un autre point. Ce fonctionnement converge avec la description de
οὐκοῦν par Sicking (1997: 162) : “(οὐκοῦν) serves the purpose of shifting the
focus of attention, either from preliminary material to a point this material owes
its relevance to, or from explanatory material to the main line of argument.”
Il y a donc à la fois continuité et progression du raisonnement à chaque étape.

Et on notera à ce propos les traductions de plusieurs οὐκοῦν qui impliquent
justement qu’une étape a été franchie avec succès, ce qui permet de passer à la
suivante. Dans les traductions on trouve “bon” ou “bien”, termes qui semblent
absents du texte grec mais que le traducteur se trouve souvent contraint d’ajouter.
Autrement dit, le meneur de jeu lui-même est amené à confirmer la conclusion
de l’étape immédiatement précédente par une forme de satisfaction, symétrique
de l’acquiescement de son interlocuteur.
C’est le cas par exemple dans :
26. Phédon 68b

εἰ δὲ τοῦτο οὕτως ἔχει, ὅπερ ἄρτι ‘Dans ces conditions, ne serait-ce pas,
ἔλεγον, οὐ πολλὴ ἂν ἀλογία εἴη εἰ comme je viens de le dire, le comble de
φοβοῖτο τὸν θάνατον ὁ τοιοῦτος; l’illogisme qu’un tel homme eût peur de
la mort?
Πολλὴ μέντοι νὴ Δία, ἦ δ’ ὅς. Le comble, par Zeus! dit-il.

Οὐκοῦν ἱκανόν σοι τεκμήριον, ἔφη, Bien. Tu tiens là un signe de reconnais-
τοῦτο ἀνδρός, ὃν ἂν ἴδῃς ἀγανακτοῦντα sance suffisant: si tu vois un homme
μέλλοντα ἀποθανεῖσθαι, ὅτι οὐκ ἄρ’ἦν se révolter quand il est sur le point de
φιλόσοφος ἀλλά τις φιλοσώματος; ὁ mourir, c’est qu’il n’était pas ami du
αὐτὸς δέ που οὗτος τυγχάνει ὢν καὶ savoir, philosophe, mais un quelconque
φιλοχρήματος καὶ φιλότιμος, ἤτοι τὰ ami du corps; Le même pouvant d’ailleurs
ἕτερα τούτων ἢ ἀμφότερα. être aussi, si cela se trouve, ami de
l’argent, ami des honneurs, soit de l’un
soit des autres, soit des deux à la fois.’
Dans 26, après un acquiescement par répétition de la part de l’interlocuteur (“le

comble, par Zeus ! ”), Socrate souligne grâce à οὐκοῦν qu’une étape importante a
été franchie, dont il tire immédiatement les conséquences en exprimant la même
idée sous une forme symétrique : si se prétendre philosophe et avoir peur de

mourir est contradictoire, alors si quelqu’un a peur de mourir, c’est qu’il n’est pas
philosophe.
Un autre tour alterne avec οὐκοῦν ou οὖν : il s’agit de εἶεν qui est également
une marque de satisfaction. C’est ce qu’on a dans le passage suivant :
27. Phédon 105e

Τὸ δὲ δίκαιον μὴ δεχόμενον καὶ ὃ ἂν ‘Et ce qui ne peut recevoir du juste, ou
μουσικὸν μὴ δέχηται; n’arrive pas à recevoir du cultivé (de quel
Ἄμουσον, ἔφη, τὸ δὲ ἄδικον. nom devons-nous l’appeler)?
”Inculte”, dit-il, et l’autre “injuste”.
Εἶεν· ὃ δ’ ἂν θάνατον μὴ δέχηται τί Soit. Et ce qui ne peut recevoir en soi de
καλοῦμεν; la mort, comment l’appeler?
Ἀθάνατον, ἔφη. ”Immortel”, dit-il.
Οὐκοῦν ψυχὴ οὐ δέχεται θάνατον; Une âme ne peut donc recevoir en elle la
Οὔ. mort?
Ἀθάνατον ἄρα ψυχή. Non
Ἀθάνατον. Alors c’est une chose immortelle qu’une
âme?
Une chose immortelle.
Εἶεν, ἔφη· τοῦτο μὲν δὴ ἀποδεδεῖχθαι Fort bien (litt. Soit), dit-il. Dirons-nous
φῶμεν; ἢ πῶς δοκεῖ; que ce point est démontré? Que t’en
semble?
Καὶ μάλα γε ἱκανῶς, ὦ Σώκρατες. La démonstration est tout à fait suffi-
Τί οὖν, ἦ δ’ ὅς, ὦ Κέβης; εἰ τῷ sante, Socrate.
ἀναρτίῳ ἀναγκαῖον ἦν ἀνωλέθρῳ εἶναι, Bon. Alors, encore ceci, Cébès: si c’était
ἄλλο τι τὰ τρία ἢ ἀνώλεθρα ἂν ἦν; une nécessité, pour ce qui est impair,
Πῶς γὰρ οὔ; d’être indestructible, est-ce que ce qui est
trois pourrait ne pas l’être?
Comment peut-il en être autrement?
Οὐκοῦν... Et si...’
On peut dire que ces formes de confirmation par le locuteur principal de

l’acquiescement de son interlocuteur constituent des acquiescements en miroir.
Et de même que l’acquiescement proprement dit est limité, en l’occurrence
par « les petites questions », de même l’acquiescement en miroir reste prudent
et limité également à la seule étape qui vient d’être franchie. Enfin on peut
remarquer que dans 26 comme dans 27, pour qualifier la conclusion d’étape à
laquelle les interlocuteurs sont parvenus, ce sont les termes ἱκανόν et ἱκανῶς qui
sont utilisés, ce qui souligne le caractère limité de la conclusion. Nous pouvons
donc à nouveau constater le caractère mesuré de l’acquiescement jusque dans son
caractère conclusif.
5 La fonction collaborative de l’acquiescement
Ce caractère mesuré et relatif de l’acquiescement se manifeste par ailleurs dans

le fait que les interlocuteurs du meneur de jeu acceptent de se soumettre à sa
démarche.
Par exemple, dans la citation 27, qui précède immédiatement, les réponses
de Cébès, l’interlocuteur de Socrate, constituent un peu des temps morts, où
Cébès adopte une sorte de repli collaboratif.
A l’inverse, dans Gorgias, Calliclès utilise une stratégie de refus de
collaboration, y compris quand il acquiesce. C’est le cas dans le passage déjà cité
en 21 et répété en 29:
Cf à nouveau
28. Gorg. 501c-d ‘Pour ma part, Calliclès, j’ai bien l’impres-

ἐμοὶ μὲν γάρ, ὦ Καλλίκλεις, δοκοῦσίν sion que ces activités de plaisir existent
τε εἶναι, καὶ ἔγωγέ φημι τὸ τοιοῦτον en effet, et je déclare qu’elles sont une
κολακείαν εἶναι καὶ περὶ σῶμα καὶ περὶ sorte de flatterie, que celle-ci s’applique
ψυχὴν καὶ περὶ ἄλλο ὅτου ἄν τις τὴν au corps, à l’âme ou à tout autre objet
ἡδονὴν θεραπεύῃ, ἀσκέπτως ἔχων τοῦ auquel on s’occupe de donner du plaisir,
ἀμείνονός τε καὶ τοῦ χείρονος· σὺ δὲ sans jamais chercher à savoir ce qui est
δὴ πότερον συγκατατίθεσαι ἡμῖν περὶ meilleur ou plus mauvais pour cet objet.
τούτων τὴν αὐτὴν δόξαν ἢ ἀντίφῃς; Et toi alors, nous donnes-tu ton assen-
timent? As-tu le même avis que nous
sur ce genre d’acitivités? A moins que tu
ne dises le contraire!
ΚΑΛ. Οὐκ ἔγωγε, ἀλλὰ συγχωρῶ, ἵνα Non, je ne dis pas le contraire, je te
σοι καὶ περανθῇ ὁ λόγος καὶ Γοργίᾳ concède même tout ce que tu veux, afin
τῷδε χαρίσωμαι. que notre discussion s’achève, et pour
faire plaisir à Gorgias.’
Ou alors il collabore “pour voir”:
29. Gorg. 474c

ΣΩ. Οὔκουν ἀποκρινῇ; SO. ‘Bon. Est-ce que tu me réponds?
ΠΩΛ. Πάνυ μὲν οὖν· καὶ γὰρ ἐπιθυμῶ POL. Oui, absolument. En fait, j’ai
εἰδέναι ὅτι ποτ’ ἐρεῖς. envie de savoir ce que tu vas bien
pouvoir dire.’
Dans le contexte plus respectueux du Phédon il y a tout d’un coup un silence:
30. Phédon 84c

Σιγὴ οὖν ἐγένετο ταῦτα εἰπόντος τοῦ ‘Un silence se fit, après que Socrate eut
Σωκράτους ἐπὶ πολὺν χρόνον parlé, qui dura longtemps.’
Socrate interroge ses interlocuteurs sur cette rupture de collaboration et finalement

Simmias reprend:
31. Phédon 84d

Καὶ ὁ Σιμμίας ἔφη· Καὶ μήν, ὦ ‘Alors Simmias: Eh bien oui, Socrate, je
Σώκρατες, τἀληθῆ σοι ἐρῶ. vais te dire la vérité.’
Et la vérité c’est qu’ils ne sont pas convaincus, mais cela n’empêche pas la
collaboration au dialogue. On notera dans 32 la présence de μήν, qui contribue
à renouer le dialogue, au moment où il risque d’être rompu et pas seulement
interrompu. Cela correspond à la valeur de μήν décrite par Wakker (1997:
229): “By its strongly affirmative (and corrective) value, μήν is especially at
home in adversative contexts: it corrects or eliminates the previous statement
or its implications.” Ici l’interruption du dialogue menace la poursuite du
raisonnement: en reconnaissant leur absence de conviction Simmias et Cébès
relancent la collaboration.
6 L’acquiescement et les enjeux du dialogue
Les dialogues de Platon que nous avons pris comme corpus sont animés d’une
tension sous-jacente: comment persuader l’autre? Ce serait une erreur de
considérer, de ce point de vue, que la forme dialogique est purement formelle.
S’il y a bien un meneur de jeu, il n’en demeure pas moins soumis à la nécessité
de convaincre son interlocuteur. Une des conséquences de cette situation en ce
qui concerne la question des acquiescements est le décalage entre leur portée très
limitée et ponctuelle et la véritable persuasion, qui est l’enjeu du dialogue.
On a vu par exemple que l’absence d’objection ne suffit pas toujours à
convaincre. Ainsi dans ce passage, où Simmias va jusqu’à admettre être convaincu
et exprime pourtant ses doutes:
32. Phédon 107b ‘C’est que moi non plus (= comme

Ἀλλὰ μήν, ἦ δ’ ὃς ὁ Σιμμίας, οὐδ’ Cébès), dit Simmias, je ne vois pas,
αὐτὸς ἔχω ἔτι ὅπῃ ἀπιστῶ ἔκ γε τῶν à partir de ce qui vient d’être dit, le
λεγομένων· ὑπὸ μέντοι τοῦ μεγέθους moyen de ne pas être convaincu. Pour-
περὶ ὧν οἱ λόγοι εἰσίν, καὶ τὴν tant, la grandeur du problème que nous
ἀνθρωπίνην ἀσθένειαν ἀτιμάζων, traitons et le peu de considération que j’ai
ἀναγκάζομαι ἀπιστίαν ἔτι ἔχειν παρ’ pour la faiblesse humaine font qu’il m’est
ἐμαυτῷ περὶ τῶν εἰρημένων. impossible de ne pas éprouver encore
au fond de moi une certaine réticence à
croire aux affirmations précédentes.’
Hermogène, qui a en général du mal à suivre le raisonnement de Socrate ou à s’y

opposer, n’est pas complètement persuadé non plus:
33. Crat. 391a

ΕΡΜ. Οὐκ ἔχω, ὦ Σώκρατες, ὅπως HERM. ‘Je ne vois pas, Socrate, ce qu’il
χρὴ πρὸς ἃ λέγεις ἐναντιοῦσθαι. ἴσως faut t’objecter. Pourtant, il n’est peut-être
μέντοι οὐ ῥᾴδιόν ἐστιν οὕτως ἐξαίφνης pas si facile de se laisser convaincre aussi-
πεισθῆναι, ἀλλὰ δοκῶ μοι ὧδε ἂν tôt et il me semble que je te croirais plus
μᾶλλον πιθέσθαι σοι, εἴ μοι δείξειας facilement si tu m’indiquais, quelle qu’elle
ἥντινα φῂς εἶναι τὴν φύσει ὀρθότητα soit, ta formule pour la rectitude naturelle
ὀνόματος. du nom.’
Cébès, dans le Phédon, est plus résistant mais le résultat est le même:
34. Phédon 63a

Ἀεί τοι, ἔφη, [ὁ] Κέβης λόγους τινὰς ‘Voilà bien Cébès, dit-il, toujours en
ἀνερευνᾷ, καὶ οὐ πάνυ εὐθέως ἐθέλει quête d’arguments à opposer, et pas pré-
πείθεσθαι ὅτι ἄν τις εἴπῃ. cisément homme à se laisser persuader
tout de suite par ce qu’on lui dit.’
Socrate s’inquiète de la résistance de Cébès:
35. Phédon 77a

καὶ ἔμοιγε δοκεῖ ἱκανῶς ἀποδέδεικται. ‘Aussi, en ce qui me concerne, la dé-
Τί δὲ δὴ Κέβητι; ἔφη ὁ Σωκράτης· δεῖ monstration me semble parfaitement
γὰρ καὶ Κέβητα πείθειν. suffisante.
Ἱκανῶς, ἔφη ὁ Σιμμίας, ὡς ἔγωγε Mais, et Cébès? dit Socrate; car il faut
οἶμαι· καίτοι καρτερώτατος ἀνθρώπων aussi persuader Cébès.
ἐστὶν πρὸς τὸ ἀπιστεῖν τοῖς λόγοις. Elle lui suffit aussi, dit Simmias, du
ἀλλ’οἶμαι οὐκ ἐνδεῶς τοῦτο πεπεῖσθαι moins je le pense; et pourtant, il n’y
αὐτόν, ὅτι πρὶν γενέσθαι ἡμᾶς ἦν en a pas deux comme lui pour faire le
ἡμῶν ἡ ψυχή· εἰ μέντοι καὶ ἐπειδὰν difficile avant d’adhérer à un raisonne-
ἀποθάνωμεν ἔτι ἔσται, οὐδὲ αὐτῷ μοι ment. Cependant, je crois que sur ce
δοκεῖ, ἔφη, ὦ Σώκρατες, ἀποδεδεῖχθαι point sa conviction sera entière: notre
âme existait avant notre naissancce. Mais
qu’elle doive exister encore même après
notre mort, Voilà, Socrate, dit Simmias,
ce qui à moi non plus ne me semble pas
démontré.’
Et voilà Socrate qui constate son échec avec Criton:
36. Phédon 115c-d

Οὐ πείθω, ὦ ἄνδρες, Κρίτωνα, ὡς ‘Non, je n’arrive pas à persuader Criton,
ἐγώ εἰμι οὗτος Σωκράτης, ὁ νυνὶ mes amis, que moi, je suis ce Socrate qui
διαλεγόμενος καὶ διατάττων ἕκαστον dialogue avec vous à cet instant, et qui
τῶν λεγομένων, ἀλλ’ οἴεταί με ἐκεῖνον essaie d’assigner à chacun de ses énoncés
εἶναι ὃν ὄψεται ὀλίγον ὕστερον νεκρόν, la place requise par l’ordre du discours. Il
καὶ ἐρωτᾷ δὴ πῶς με θάπτῃ. s’imagine que moi, je suis celui qu’il verra
dans peu de temps, ce cadavre, et alors il
demande comment m’ensevelir, moi.’
Le plus redoutable est évidemment Calliclès et il met Socrate hors de ses gonds:
37. Gorg. 513c

ΚΑΛ. Οὐκ οἶδ’ ὅντινά μοι τρόπον CAL. ‘Je ne sais pas comment il se fait
δοκεῖς εὖ λέγειν, ὦ Σώκρατες, πέπονθα que tu m’aies l’air d’avoir raison, So-
δὲ τὸ τῶν πολλῶν πάθος· οὐ πάνυ σοι crate! Mais malgré tout, j’éprouve ce que
πείθομαι. presque tout le monde ressent - tu ne
m’as pas tout à fait convaincu.’
38. Gorg. 497a

ΣΩ. Οὐκ ἄρα τὸ χαίρειν ἐστὶν εὖ SO. ‘Donc, prendre du plaisir, ce n’est pas
πράττειν οὐδὲ τὸ ἀνιᾶσθαι κακῶς, ὥστε être heureux, pas plus qu’être malheureux,
ἕτερον γίγνεται τὸ ἡδὺ τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ. ce n’est ressentir de la peine! En consé-
quence, voilà qu’il semble que l’agréable
est différent du bien.
ΚΑΛ. Οὐκ οἶδ’ ἅττα σοφίζῃ, ὦ CAL. Je ne sais pas quel tour de so-
Σώκρατες. phistes tu es en train de faire, Socrate!
ΣΩ. Οἶσθα, ἀλλὰ ἀκκίζῃ, ὦ SO. Tu le sais très bien, mais tu fais l’im-
Καλλίκλεις· καὶ πρόιθί γε ἔτι εἰς τὸ bécile, Calliclès. Bon avançons encore
ἔμπροσθεν un peu. Allons de l’avant!’
Le sommet est atteint dans ce passage où Calliclès accuse Socrate de violence

verbale et pour échapper à ce qu’il considère comme une manipulation lui
demande de faire les demandes et les réponses lui-même:
39. Gorg. 505d

ΚΑΛ. Ὡς βίαιος εἶ, ὦ Σώκρατες. ἐὰν CAL. ‘Quelle violence tu me fais, So-
δὲ ἐμοὶ πείθῃ, ἐάσεις χαίρειν τοῦτον τὸν crate! Si tu veux m’en croire, laisse tom-
λόγον, ἢ καὶ ἄλλῳ τῳ διαλέξῃ. ber cette discussion, ou bien discute
avec quelqu’un d’autre!
ΣΩ. Τίς οὖν ἄλλος ἐθέλει; μὴ γάρ τοι SO. Y a-t-il donc quelqu’un qui veut
ἀτελῆ γε τὸν λόγον καταλίπωμεν. discuter avec moi? Car nous ne laisserons
pas tomber notre discussion sans lui don-
ner une fin!
ΚΑΛ. Αὐτὸς δὲ οὐκ ἂν δύναιο διελθεῖν CAL. Mais toi, ne pourrais-tu pas
τὸν λόγον, ἢ λέγων κατὰ σαυτὸν ἢ continuer à discuter tout seul? Ou bien
ἀποκρινόμενος σαυτῷ; tu réponds à tes propres questions!’
Ce passage est révélateur du caractère conflictuel que peut prendre un dialogue

d’idées. Et, un peu comme à la lutte, il y a un enjeu de domination: Calliclès ne
veut pas se soumettre au jeu de “manipulation” de Socrate qui le met en position
d’infériorité. Le débat ressemble ainsi à un combat. Les protagonistes sont des
adversaires et c’est ce qui explique pourquoi les acquiescements sont très limités
car il s’agit de ne pas se laisser faire. En ce sens, le dialogue se trouve pris dans un
jeu de rôles. Si acquiescer c’est se soumettre, l’interlocuteur qui acquiesce aura
toujours le souhait de se rétracter, comme celui qui mène le jeu a toujours la
crainte de la rétractation.
En ce sens on peut bien dire que l’acquiescement est polyfonctionnel au
sens de Wakker (1997): il est à la fois représentationnel, présentationnel et
interactionnel.
7 Conclusions
- Les différentes propriétés caractéristiques de OK semblent valoir pour les

différents processus d’acquiescement étudiés dans le corpus de Platon retenu.
- Les formules d’acquiescement sont très variées et peuvent aller d’un constat
objectif à des degrés d’accord qui restreignent plus ou moins l’acquiescement.
- L’accord, même quand il est apparemment sans réserve, reste toujours limité et
reposant sur une prudence systématique du locuteur. Un jeu concessif délimite
ainsi plus ou moins les territoires respectifs des deux interlocuteurs.
- Très souvent l’acquiescement repose sur le jeu collaboratif du dialogue d’idées
où une confrontation plus ou moins explicite et plus ou moins violente menace
constamment l’accord entre les interlocuteurs. Si le meneur de jeu se trouve en
capacité d’orienter l’argumentation, l’arme défensive de son interlocuteur est son
niveau de persuasion, ce qui crée des situations d’inversion des rôles et donne à
l’interlocuteur le moyen de reprendre le pouvoir.
- Les différents modes d’acquiescement font clairement jouer les trois niveaux
du représentationnel, du présentationnel et de l’interactionnel, les raisonnements
reposant précisément sur ces trois plans: la vérité, la cohérence de l’argumentation
et les relations entre les interlocuteurs.
- Les composantes de ce fonctionnement des marques de l’acquiescement sont très
proches de ce qu’on peut analyser dans le cas de OK: les Grecs auraient-ils été les
précurseurs de cette particule ignorée de leur langue? A moins qu’ils ne se soient
confrontés à des propriétés très répandues du dialogue et de la conversation.
Références
Brémond, Capucine. 2004. La petite marque bon, l’indice d’un accord en cours
de négociation. Travaux de linguistique 48. 7–19.
Condon Sherri L. 2001. Discourse ok revisited: Default organization in verbal
interaction. Journal of Pragmatics 33. 491–513.
Cossutta, Frédéric & Michel Narcy (eds.). 2001. La forme dialogue chez Platon,
Evolution et réceptions. Grenoble: Jérôme Millon.
Gill, Christopher. 2002. Dialectic and the dialogue form. In Julia Annas &
Christopher Rowe (eds.), New perspectives on Plato, modern and ancient.
Center for Hellenic Studies Trusteees for Harvard University, 145–171.
Cambridge, Harvard University Press.
Kroon, Caroline H.M. 1995. Discourse particles in Latin: a study of nam, enim,
autem, vero and at. Amsterdam: Gieben
Sicking, Christiaan M.J. 1997. Particles in questions in Plato. In Albert Rijksbaron
(ed.), New approaches to Greek particles, 157–174. Amsterdam: Gieben
Thomsen, Christa. 2002. Oui : il y a oui et oui – marqueurs de la syntaxe
conversationnelle. In Hanne Leth Andersen & Henning Nølke (eds.),
Macro-syntaxe et macro-sémantique. Actes du colloque international d’Århus,
17–19 mai 2001, 189–206. Bern: Peter Lang.
Wakker, Gerry. 1997, Emphasis and affirmation. In Albert Rijksbaron (ed.),
New approaches to Greek particles, 209–231. Amsterdam: Gieben.
Traductions de Platon
Cratyle, traduction de Catherine Dalimier (1998), Paris Flammarion

Gorgias, traduction de Monique Canto-Sperber (2003), Paris Flammarion
Phédon, traduction de Monique Dixsaut (1991), Paris Flammarion
Discourse markers and text type: γάρ in Thucydides’

narrative and non-narrative text sequences
Rafael Martínez
1 Introduction1
The particle γάρ is one of the most conflictive particles of ancient Greek. Its
meaning, one of the less apprehensible. As Misener (1904: 7) wrote already over
a century ago, “after these many centuries of research it would seem probable
that some final and generally accepted conclusion had been reached in regard to
the syntax of so simple and common a particle as γάρ. Yet, ...opinions are still
at variance. Concerning the uses of which remain, scarcely two commentators
agree throughout, and many are diametrically opposed.” Scholars have, in fact,
posed very different values for the particle. Every γάρ is explanatory for some
(de Jong 1997; Sicking and van Ophuijsen 1993). For others, it is always causal
(Ruijgh 1971: 719; Crespo, Conti, and Maquieira 2003). While some take it as a
multifunctional particle, both causal and explicative (Denniston 1954; Hummel
1993). To these basic values a third, adverbial and emphatic (‘indeed’) is at times
added (Bäumlein 1861; Denniston 1954; Hummel 1993). It is clear that there is
little consensus on the traditional value that should be attributed to the particle.
In recent approaches drawing from a discourse perspective, contrariwise, there
is some consensus on the position that a γάρ sentence occupies in the structure
of a text. The particle γάρ has been described as introducing a section of text
that is subordinate to a preceding or following item in narrative or argument
(Sicking and Van Ophuijsen 1993). In other terms, it has been classified as a push
particle (Slings 1997; Allan 2013: 25) or as a backgrounding device (Luraghi and
Gelano 2012). Close explanations to this view present the particle as introducing
unframed discourse (de Kreij 2016), marking discourse discontinuity (Bonifazzi
2016) or introducing embedded narratives (de Jong 1997).
This study focuses on this alleged backgrounding or subordinating function
of the particle in order to determine whether it represents a constant value or it
1 This study has been supported financially by the Government of Spain as part of the research
projects FFI 2015-65541-C03 and PGC 2018-095147-8-100. I thank Dr. Rodrigo Verano for his
comments on a previous draft.
260 Martínez, Discourse markers and text type: γάρ in Thucydides
is context-dependent, in other words, sensitive to text structure. The working

hypothesis is that the particle would introduce subsidiary material only when it
performs an explanatory function in narrative sequences, where it does not introduce
primary narrative material, but other kind of (backgrounded) information. But,
at the same time, in an argument or exposition, when it introduces the evidence
for a previously stated opinion, the particle would not introduce subsidiary or
backgrounded material, since presenting evidence to support an opinion seems a
primary move in building up an argument. A second question posed in this paper
refers to whether this difference in function, and especially in centrality, may be
aligned with differences in construction. Parenthetical γάρ constructions seem to
be more fit to act as backgrounding devices, whereas paratactic γάρ periods seem
more adequate for introducing much more central information.
2 Subsidiarity
Subsidiarity within discourse structure can be defined with reference to

communicative function: “In any multi-unit text, certain portions realize the
central goals of the writer, while others realize goals which are supplementary or
ancillary to the central goals.” (Matthiessen and Thompson 1988: 299). In other
terms, central acts may be defined as acts that “count as communicatively more
central” (Kroon 1998: 209). With the following example, Kroon illustrates the
different status of discourse acts in a fairly short communicative move:
I’ve got an extra ticket for the Santa Fe Chamber Orchestra tonight. | So, are
you interested?
The move as a whole is an invitation. Therefore, the second, interrogative move,

which contains the invitation proper, is deemed central. The first informative move
is virtually complete by the time it is uttered. But, by the addition of another move
(introduced by Eng. so) it may, as it happens, “retrospectively turn out to have
subsidiary status with regard to a more central move” (Kroon 1998: 208–9). The
example not only illustrates the difference in functional status, but also how that
status depends on communicative force and may change as discourse unfolds.2
2 In order to pursue the objects of this study, I must trust this view and reject the idea that the status
of sub-acts within a two-member rhetorical relation is fixed and depends on the semantics of the
relation itself. In Rhetorical Structure Theory (Matthiessen and Thompson 1988), for instance, the
term expressing a relation of motivation, explanation, or justification would always be taken as the
There are at least three properties that make it possible to determine whether
a discourse move or act is central or not: use, structure and rupture:
Non-central acts may be used or not. If a non-central act is removed from

the text, important, even crucial information may be missed, but the text’s
communicative force is not affected. (Matthiessen and Thompson 1988)
Central acts derive their justification and function directly from their place in
the rhetorical structure, non-central acts are related to the rest only via their
nuclei (Matthiessen and Thompson 1988: 299).
Non-central acts may represent a rupture of the continuity that allows central
acts to stick together into a coherent structure. (Bonifazi 2016)
3 Subsidiarity and structure
If the role of a given move or act is analyzed with reference to the thematic
structure of the text, the analysis may render different results for text types
differing in structure.
3.1 Narrative structure
Leaving aside other aspects of narrativity, such as voice, stance and focalization, a
narrative text consists of the relation of a series of events in the temporal sequence
in which they are supposed to take place: Event1 - Event2 - Event3... The series
builds up the backbone of the narrative, the so-called foregrounded information
of a structured text whose structure is based upon a figure/ground distinction.
Narratives are also made of subsidiary material, which may be essential to the
understanding of the story or plot, but appears in a secondary layer within the
thematic structure of the narrative. Backgrounded material may be of two kinds.
The first is mainly descriptive material elaborating on the story-world; the second is
mainly expositive material presenting the author’s comments on the story (Bonifazi
2016). The first type is exemplified in (1), which also exemplifies how backgrounded
material is integrated into a narrative structure by means of connectors:
subsidiary pole of the pair.

(1) [1] τῇ δὲ δέπας Μετάνειρα δίδου | μελιηδέος οἴνου | πλήσασ᾽: [2] ἣ δ᾽

ἀνένευσε· [3] οὐ γὰρ θεμιτόν οἱ ἔφασκε | πίνειν οἶνον ἐρυθρόν: [4] ἄνωγε δ᾽
ἄρ᾽ ἄλφι καὶ ὕδωρ | δοῦναι μίξασαν πιέμεν γλήχωνι τερείνῃ. [5] ἣ δὲ κυκεῶ
τεύξασα θεᾷ πόρεν, ὡς ἐκέλευε (h.Cer. 206–10).
Five moves may be isolated in the passage: [1] Foreground: Metaneira filled a cup with
sweet wine and offered it to Demeter. [2] Foreground: she refused it. [3] Background,
motive: she said it was not lawful for her to drink red wine. [4] Foreground: Demeter
bade them mix meal and water with soft mint and give her to drink. [5] Foreground:
Metaneira mixed the draught and gave it to the goddess as she bade.
Narrative moves are systematically linked by δέ. Segment [3] represents
a rupture of narrative continuity with a descriptive move on the character of
Demeter, the story being resumed in [4] by means of δὲ ἄρα. Segment [3] is an
explanation of ἀνένευσε in move [2]. If it were removed, important information
would be missed, but the narrative structure would be barely affected.
The second type of backgrounded material is exemplified in (2), where the
γάρ sentence introduces a comment by the speaker on the story he is telling:
(2) ...· ναυμαχία γὰρ αὕτη Ἕλλησι πρὸς Ἕλληνας νεῶν πλήθει μεγίστη δὴ
τῶν πρὸ αὑτῆς γεγένηται (Th. 1.50.2).
‘...this battle, for Hellenes against Hellenes, proved far greater, for the number
of ships engaged, than any one before it’.
Narrative moves are marked by the use of narrative tenses. Discontinuity here is
shown by the transition to an authorial perfect tense (γεγένηται).
3.2. Argument structure
A frequent construction that characterizes argument as such is formed by two

moves, one move expressing an opinion and a second move either justifying
or challenging that opinion (Van Eemeren and Grootendorst 1984; Hietanen
2007): Opinion - Evidence (+O/-O). In (3) the Corinthians advise the Athenians
not to join the Corcyraeans against them.
(3) [1] ὡς δὲ οὐκ ἂν δικαίως αὐτοὺς δέχοισθε μαθεῖν χρή. [2] εἰ γὰρ εἴρηται
ἐν ταῖς σπονδαῖς ἐξεῖναι παρ’ ὁποτέρους τις βούλεται τῶν ἀγράφων πόλεων
ἐλθεῖν, οὐ τοῖς ἐπὶ βλάβῃ ἑτέρων ἰοῦσιν ἡ ξυνθήκη ἐστίν, ἀλλ’ ὅστις μὴ
ἄλλου ἑαυτὸν ἀποστερῶν ἀσφαλείας δεῖται καὶ ὅστις μὴ τοῖς δεξαμένοις, εἰ
σωφρονοῦσι, [3] πόλεμον ἀντ’ εἰρήνης ποιήσει· ὃ νῦν ὑμεῖς μὴ πειθόμενοι

ἡμῖν πάθοιτε ἄν. [4] οὐ γὰρ τοῖσδε μόνον ἐπίκουροι ἂν γένοισθε, ἀλλὰ καὶ ἡμῖν
ἀντὶ ἐνσπόνδων πολέμιοι· [5] ἀνάγκη γάρ, εἰ ἴτε μετ’ αὐτῶν, καὶ ἀμύνεσθαι
μὴ ἄνευ ὑμῶν τούτους. [6] καίτοι δίκαιοί γ’ ἐστὲ μάλιστα μὲν ἐκποδὼν στῆναι
ἀμφοτέροις, εἰ δὲ μή, τοὐναντίον ἐπὶ τούτους μεθ’ ἡμῶν ἰέναι [7] (Κορινθίοις
μέν γε ἔνσπονδοί ἐστε, Κερκυραίοις δὲ οὐδὲ δι’ ἀνοκωχῆς πώποτ’ ἐγένεσθε),
[8] καὶ τὸν νόμον μὴ καθιστάναι ὥστε τοὺς ἑτέρων ἀφισταμένους δέχεσθαι.
[9] οὐδὲ γὰρ ἡμεῖς Σαμίων ἀποστάντων ψῆφον προσεθέμεθα ἐναντίαν
ὑμῖν, τῶν ἄλλων Πελοποννησίων δίχα ἐψηφισμένων εἰ χρὴ αὐτοῖς ἀμύνειν,
φανερῶς δὲ ἀντείπομεν τοὺς προσήκοντας ξυμμάχους αὐτόν τινα κολάζειν.
[10] εἰ γὰρ τοὺς κακόν τι δρῶντας δεχόμενοι τιμωρήσετε, φανεῖται καὶ ἃ τῶν
ὑμετέρων οὐκ ἐλάσσω ἡμῖν πρόσεισι, καὶ τὸν νόμον ἐφ’ ὑμῖν αὐτοῖς μᾶλλον
ἢ ἐφ’ ἡμῖν θήσετε (Th. 1.40).
The argument runs as follows. [1] Opinion 1: it is not just for you to receive
them. [2] Evidence +O1: though the treaty allows any state to join whichever
side, it is not meant for the injury of other powers. [3] Opinion 2: joining them
will bring you war instead of peace. [4] Evidence +O2: you cannot become their
auxiliary and remain our friend. [5] Evidence +O2: we would have to fight them
together with you. [6] Opinion 1a: you have the right to be neutral, or, else, you
should join us against them. [7] Evidence +O1a: Corinth is at least in treaty with
you; with Corcyra you were never even in truce. [8] Opinion 1b: you would lay
down the principle that defection is to be patronized. [9] Evidence +O1b: on
the defection of the Samians we did not vote against you, but we told them that
every power has a right to punish its own allies. [10] Evidence +O1b: if you keep
assisting all offenders, your offenders will come over to us, and the principle that
you establish will work against you.
The particle γάρ introduces a new piece of evidence in five of the ten moves
of the passage. If moves 2, 4, 5, 9 and 10 were removed, the remaining text would
not be an argument at all. Besides, the γάρ moves relate directly to the structure
of the text, since both opinion and evidence are central to the argumentative
sequence. Finally, they grant the cohesion of the text by marking continuity
rather than rupture.3 In sum, γάρ moves are one of two central moves in an
argumentative structure, rather than a subsidiary move.
3 “In a given case it happens to be the particular particle chosen as a filler for the blank ‘particle’
space from sentence to sentence, indicating that a new sentence has begun” (Cook 1971: 118, on
Plato’s use of γάρ).
4 Corpus study
Evidence supporting the thesis set forth in the previous section may be drawn
from the distribution of construction types in different text sequences. At least
four construction types can be formally distinguished in modern editions. I take
it to mean that, for modern editors, there are at least so many different structural
types of γάρ constructions. I will call them parenthetical, epithetic, paratactic and
appositive.4 Only the first three are relevant for this study.
In the parenthetical construction the γάρ sentence interrupts a larger unit
where it is embedded. They are dependent on their host segment, sometimes
pointing backwards, sometimes pointing forwards, as in (4):5
(4) ὁ δέ (κρίνουσι γὰρ βοῇ καὶ οὐ ψήφῳ) οὐκ ἔφη διαγιγνώσκειν τὴν βοὴν
ὁποτέρα μείζων… (Th. 1.87.2).
‘And he (their mode of decision is by acclamation not by voting) said that he
could not determine which was the loudest acclamation.’
Epithetic constructions are graphically identified by a preceding colon (· γάρ...).

They are deemed dependent on the preceding discourse segment, to which they
are added as an expansion:
(5) ἀναχωρήσαντες δὲ ἀπ’ Εὐβοίας οὐ πολλῷ ὕστερον σπονδὰς ἐποιήσαντο

πρὸς Λακεδαιμονίους καὶ τοὺς ξυμμάχους τριακοντούτεις, ἀποδόντες
Νίσαιαν καὶ Πηγὰς καὶ Τροιζῆνα καὶ Ἀχαΐαν· ταῦτα γὰρ εἶχον Ἀθηναῖοι
Πελοποννησίων (Th. 1.115.1).
‘Not long after their return from Euboea, they made a truce with the
Lacedaemonians and their allies for thirty years, giving up Nisaea Pegae,
Troezen, and Achaia; for those they occupied in Peloponnese.’
Paratactic constructions are graphically separated from the preceding segment

by a period. This is but a way to represent the perception of those units as more
independent from preceding discourse units.
4 In the appositive construction the γάρ sentence is preceded by a comma. It came out to be
irrelevant for this study, since it represents 0,3% of occurrences of the particle, and it has been left
aside.
5 I borrow translations from Crawley 1910, with slight modifications.
(6) ὡς δὲ οὐκ ἂν δικαίως αὐτοὺς δέχοισθε μαθεῖν χρή. εἰ γὰρ εἴρηται ἐν

ταῖς σπονδαῖς ἐξεῖναι παρ’ ὁποτέρους τις βούλεται τῶν ἀγράφων πόλεων
ἐλθεῖν… (Th. 1.40.1).
‘Please learn it is not just for you to receive them. For, though the treaty allows
any state to join whichever side…’
As for text types, the following have been taken into account: narrative, argumentative,
expositive and descriptive. Narrative passages are quite easy to identify. Discourses
have been taken as instances of the argumentative type. Passages with explanations
and evaluations by the author have been counted as expositive (the archaeology, for
instance). Finally, the less documented descriptive type is represented by passages
where characters and, mainly, places are described. The data drawn from the first
four books of Thucydides’ work is displayed in Table 1.
Table 1
Th. I-IV . γάρ · γάρ (γάρ) Total
Argumentative 155 (60%) 86 (33%) 18 (7%) 260
Expositive 53 (62%) 24 (28%) 8 (9%) 85
Descriptive 13 (59%) 8 (36%) 1 (0.5%) 22
Narrative 46 (20%) 109 (47%) 76 (33%) 232
Total 267 227 103 599
The table clearly shows that the data for non-narrative types are very similar.
Accordingly, the data can be grouped in two basic types, narrative vs. non-
narrative. Now, in addition, epithetic and parenthetical could be brought together
into a single group of dependent constructions, opposed to paratactic structures,
which are independent. The results, then, show a neat difference between narrative
and non-narrative types. Numbers are pretty levelled for non-narrative texts where
percentage points are 60% of independent constructions vs. 40% of dependent
constructions. But for narrative texts, the distribution is quite more significant,
with a 20% of independent constructions and an 80% of dependent constructions.
5 Discussion
From a structural perspective, it is easy to assume that dependent constructions

are more likely to express subsidiary information than independent constructions,
which in turn are more apt to express nuclear information. The basic
communicative function of dependent γάρ constructions is to supply information
needed for the host segment to be informatively complete. As for the distribution
of these constructions in text types, the analysis displayed in Section 3 would
predict for independent γάρ constructions to be more frequent than dependent
constructions in non-narrative texts and the inverse proportion in narrative texts.
Since that is precisely the case, the data confirm the hypothesis that the functions
of γάρ constructions are structure sensitive, even though sensitivity here is not
categorical, but based on tendency and frequency.
The rather balanced distribution of dependent and independent constructions
in non-narrative sequences is easy to explain. Independent constructions are
frequent because they are needed to build opinion-evidence pairs, one of the
basic structures in argument and exposition. Besides, there is no feature of these
text types that would prevent dependent constructions from being used in them.
Their frequency is significative, accordingly.
In narrative, however, the particle does have a thematically subordinate
function and accordingly the occurrences of dependent structures is
overwhelmingly greater than the occurrences of independent structures.
Nevertheless, the number of paratactic γάρ constructions in narrative, namely
a 20%, is quite significant, and requires an explanation, since, according to the
hypothesis, those constructions are not expected in that text type.
About half of the occurrences of paratactic γάρ in narrative introduce
either the objective cause of a previous event (7) or the more subjective motive
that moves a character into a line of action (8). These are clearly semantically
parenthetical, but probably too complex structures for editors to be introduced
by a colon or embedded in brackets.
(7) πολλῶν γὰρ νεῶν οὐσῶν ἀμφοτέρων καὶ ἐπὶ πολὺ τῆς θαλάσσης
ἐπεχουσῶν, ἐπειδὴ ξυνέμειξαν ἀλλήλοις, οὐ ῥᾳδίως τὴν διάγνωσιν
ἐποιοῦντο ὁποῖοι ἐκράτουν ἢ ἐκρατοῦντο (Th. 1.50.2).
[Some even of their own friends were slain by them, by mistake, in their
ignorance of the defeat of the right wing.] ‘For, since the number of the ships
on both sides was great, and they covered the sea for a long distance, after they
had once joined each other, it was not easy for them to distinguish between the
conquering and the conquered.’
(8) ἐδόκει γὰρ ὁ πρὸς Πελοποννησίους πόλεμος καὶ ὣς ἔσεσθαι αὐτοῖς, καὶ
τὴν Κέρκυραν ἐβούλοντο μὴ προέσθαι τοῖς Κορινθίοις ναυτικὸν ἔχουσαν
τοσοῦτον (Th. 1.44.2).

[When the Athenians had heard both out, two assemblies were held. In the
second, public feeling had changed, and an alliance with Corcyra was decided
on...] ‘For it seemed now that the war against the Peloponnesians would even
thus get them engaged, and they did not want Corcyra to be sacrificed to
Corinth, being a naval power of such magnitude.’
Other instances of paratactic γάρ in narrative do introduce narrative material, as

a result of an interesting, though fairly common, narrative technique. In (9) γάρ
introduces a narrative period where the conjunctive participles6 (προσελθὼν,
προσθεὶς) and narrative aorist tenses (ἔλαθεν, ἀπήγαγε) clearly refer to
foregrounded events in the related episode:
(9) ἀπεπείρασε δὲ τοῦ αὐτοῦ χειμῶνος καὶ ὁ Βρασίδας τελευτῶντος καὶ

πρὸς ἔαρ ἤδη Ποτειδαίας. προσελθὼν γὰρ νυκτὸς καὶ κλίμακα προσθεὶς
μέχρι μὲν τούτου ἔλαθεν· τοῦ γὰρ κώδωνος παρενεχθέντος οὕτως ἐς τὸ
διάκενον, πρὶν ἐπανελθεῖν τὸν παραδιδόντα αὐτόν, ἡ πρόσθεσις ἐγένετο·
ἔπειτα μέντοι εὐθὺς αἰσθομένων, πρὶν προσβῆναι, ἀπήγαγε πάλιν κατὰ
τάχος τὴν στρατιὰν καὶ οὐκ ἀνέμεινεν ἡμέραν γενέσθαι (Th. 4.135).
‘At the close of the same winter, almost in spring already, Brasidas made an
attempt upon Potidaea. He arrived by night, and planted a ladder against the
wall, without being discovered until then; for once round of the bell had passed,
right in the interval, before the return of the man who brought it back, the
ladder was planted. Immediately afterwards, however, just when the garrison
noticed them, before anyone came up, he quickly moved back his troops and
did not wait until it was day.’
And in (10) γάρ introduces a narrative period with a historical present in its
climax.
(10) …νῦν δὲ κἂν τυχεῖν αὐτοὺς Ἀθηναίους μὴ βουληθέντας ἀγωνίζεσθαι,

ὥστε ἀμαχητὶ ἂν περιγενέσθαι αὐτοῖς ὧν ἕνεκα ἦλθον. ὅπερ καὶ ἐγένετο. οἱ
γὰρ Μεγαρῆς, ὡς οἱ Ἀθηναῖοι … οὕτω δὴ τῷ μὲν Βρασίδᾳ αὐτῷ καὶ τοῖς ἀπὸ
6 On the term, see Moorhouse 1982. As for the function, compare the following explanation
of converbs: “Although converbs in European languages often express adverbial modification, in
many cases the same converb may serve not only as an adverbial modifier, but also as a marker of
conjoining or sequencing events in a so-called clause chain, or there may be converbs specialized for
this function (copulative/coordinative or narrative converbs).” (Tikkanen 2002: 113)
τῶν πόλεων ἄρχουσιν οἱ τῶν φευγόντων φίλοι Μεγαρῆς, ὡς ἐπικρατήσαντι

καὶ τῶν Ἀθηναίων οὐκέτι ἐθελησάντων μάχεσθαι… (Th. 4.73.4).
‘As it was, the Athenians might possibly not be inclined to accept their challenge,
and their object would be attained without fighting. And so it turned out. For
the Megarians, since the Athenians… the Megarians, friends of the exiles then
at last opened the gates to Brasidas and the commanders from the different
states, as if he were the victor and the Athenians had declined the battle…’
Analyses from different perspectives, that is, attending to more local or more
global aspects of discourse structure (Redondo 2004) may render various results
for these constructions. From a local perspective, γάρ seems to introduce an
elaboration on ἀπεπείρασε in (9) and on ὅπερ ἐγένετο in (10), wherefrom it
would be deemed structurally dependent on the preceding segment. But, from a
more global perspective, the γάρ period, introducing a narrative move, which is
central to narrative structure, might retrospectively force the re-interpretation of
the previous, and apparently complete, precedent move as a mere preparatory act,
and thus subsidiary to the one introduced by the particle.
6 Conclusions
Only provisional conclusions with a limited scope can be drawn from a study on
such a limited corpus. Nevertheless, the analysis points to the following postulates
about functional subsidiarity of particles, in general, and of the particle γάρ in
particular.
First, that subsidiarity not always goes along with semantic or rhetorical
relation. It is not an automatic consequence of the relation expressed, but rather
a reflection of the position a given unit occupies in textual structure, according to
communicative intention.
Secondly, and consequently, subsidiarity seems to be context sensitive.
Actually, in two different aspects. On the one hand, they are sensitive to text
sequence and text type. Text types vary in communicative intention and relative
positions in text structure must change accordingly. On the other hand, they
are sensitive to discourse structure in a different sense. Their function may be
defined in different terms according to how much structure is taken as relevant
context for their interpretation and analysis. In a global-context perspective, a
γάρ construction may be central, while on a local-context perspective the same
construction may appear to be subsidiary.
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Im/politeness strategies in Euripides: an approach

to linguistic characterisation through qualitative
data analysis
Sandra Rodríguez Piedrabuena
1 Introduction
This paper explores the extent to which the typology of im/politeness strategies
proposed by Brown and Levinson (1987) and House and Kasper (1981) can be
applied to Classical Greek in Euripidean tragedies. The dual aim here is to pin down
the linguistic realisations of each strategy regarding its distribution per character
type. As a result, we can gain further insights into how these strategies work. To
this end, suppliant scenes have been chosen because they provide interactions
which are easy to compare as regards the character type and the context. This
is so because they follow a fixed interactional pattern and have a recurring cast
of characters (Kopperschmidt 1966), consisting minimally of a suppliant and a
supplicandus (Naiden 2006). This structure involves a ‘bilateral’ supplication, in
which the role of the supplicandus can shift to that of an opponent if his request
is eventually rejected. A third character, who acts as an opponent of the suppliant
(e.g. the Heralds in E.Heracl. and E.Supp.), can be added to this scheme, thus
resulting in a ‘triangular’ supplication (see Figure 1).
Figure 1. Triangular and bilateral supplication (Kopperschmidt 1966: 47–51)

272 Rodríguez Piedrabuena, Im/politeness strategies in Euripides
2 Method
As already noted, the starting point of this analysis is a combined typology of

im/politeness strategies proposed by Brown and Levinson (1987) and House
and Kasper (1981). However, it also leverages the significant contributions of
postmodern approaches to linguistic politeness (Eelen 2001; Watts 2003, Watts
2005) and cognitive approaches to the study of verbal irony (Alba Juez 1998;
Athanasiadou and Colston 2017).
2.1 Corpus
The corpus includes the following suppliant scenes (with the main editions and
commentaries included in brackets): E.Heracl. 55–287 (Pearson 1907; Wilkins
1993; Allan 2001); E.Supp. 110–597 (Murray 1902; Collard 1975; Morwood
2007), E.Or. 380–724 (Biehl 1965; Willink 1986; West 1987), E.Andr. 515–
746 (Hyslop 1900; Lloyd 1994; Stevens 1971), E.Hec. 218–443; Hec. 726–863
(Collard 1991; Gregory 1999; Matthiessen 2010).
The participation level of each character involved in the aforesaid scenes
can be gauged by the number of words and turns, as shown in Table 1. The
participation level according to the coverage percentage is the proportion of
words in relation to the total number of words per scene.
Table 1. Participation level per number of turns and words and per coverage percentage. The sum
of percentages is not equal to 100% in all cases because choral interventions have been excluded.
Characters Lines No. of coded No. of coded Coverage
references (turns) words percentage
Demophon E.Heracl.55–287 15 253 15.55%
Iolaus E.Heracl.55–287 10 432 28.04%
Copreus E.Heracl.55–287 20 526 33.84%
Adrastus E.Supp.110–597 27 403 12.38%

Aethra E.Supp.110–597 5 242 7.24%
Theseus E.Supp.110–597 44 1614 49.53%
Herald E.Supp.110–597 11 473 14.38%
Menelaus E.Or.380–724 41 520 19.97%

Orestes E.Or.380–724 39 1137 46.29%
Tyndareus E.Or.380–724 8 573 24.32%
Characters Lines Coded references Coded words Coverage

(turns) percentage
Andromache E.Andr.515–746 3 136 9.28%
Menelaus E.Andr.515–746 7 488 35.11%
Molossus E.Andr.515–746 3 22 1.59%
Peleus E.Andr.515–746 8 647 44.90%
Hecuba 1 E.Hec.218–443 23 631 40.13%

Odysseus E.Hec.218–443 13 370 23.89%
Polyxene E.Hec.218–443 11 417 26.67%
Agamemnon E.Hec.726–863 20 312 30.50%

Hecuba 2 E.Hec.726–863 19 561 58.96%
2.2 Parameters
The approach to politeness implemented here was defined by Leech (2014: 17–
18, 217) as sociopragmatic. It is a bipolar scale with plus and minus values on
either side the zero-politeness zone (see Figure 2).
Figure 2. Pragmalinguistic and sociopragmatic politeness scales (Leech 2014: 17–18, 217)
According to this approach, politeness strategies are evaluated in terms of

sociodemographic factors such as power (vertical distance), which accounts
for differences in status, distance (horizontal distance), which is the degree of
familiarity in a given situation, and the cost-benefit of the implied propositional
content. This approach seems to be particularly useful for the study of linguistic
characterisation. It should be noted that zero-politeness can vary from language
to language. In English, an automated formula of request of the type Could you

hold on, please? “may seem an entirely normal way to ask a stranger to hold the
telephone line” (Leech 2014: 17), whereas a literal translation, for instance, into
Spanish is likelier to fall outside the zero-politeness zone. Similarly, Cari, dame
el libro ese, anda (‘Honey, give the book, come on’) would be a zero-politeness
way of making a request in Spanish, whereas the corresponding zero-politeness
phrase in English would be something like “Darling, could you lend me that book?”
(Dickey 2016: 201). Leech (2014: 17) defined zero-politeness in terms of “routine
politeness that does not strike one as out of the ordinary”, which is close to the
idea of politic behaviour devised by Watts (2003, 2005). It follows, therefore, that
native speakers’ intuition is key to perceiving the degree of im/politeness. In the
absence of this possibility in Ancient Greek, the focus on the character type in
comparable interactions can be an effective alternative for overcoming this hurdle.
The strategies analysed fall on both sides of the scale. On the one hand, a
selection was made of downgraders, broadly understood as politeness strategies,
and, on the other, upgraders, broadly understood as impoliteness strategies (House
and Kasper 1981). The downgraders are as follows:1
1. Hedges, such as committers, e.g. I think, I guess, I believe, I suppose and
in my opinion; and downtoners (≈ understatements, Leech 2014: 147–148), e.g.
just, simply, possibly, perhaps and rather. Furthermore, there are hedges relating to
the felicity conditions, generally in the form of conditionals (see Heringer 1976),
as in Example (1):
(1) (Strepsiades–Xanthias) ὦ Ξανθία, | κλίμακα λαβὼν ἔξελθε καὶ σμινύην

φέρων, | κἄπειτ’ ἐπαναβὰς ἐπὶ τὸ φροντιστήριον | τὸ τέγος κατάσκαπτ’, εἰ
φιλεῖς τὸν δεσπότην, | ἕως ἂν αὐτοῖς ἐμβάλῃς τὴν οἰκίαν (Ar.Nu. 1485–
1489).
‘Come hither, come hither, Xanthias! Come forth with a ladder and with a
mattock and then mount upon the thinking-shop and dig down the roof, if
you love your master, until you tumble the house upon them.’ (tr. Hickie 1853)
2. Impersonalisation. This strategy is in turn subdivided into purely gnomic

expressions and agent avoiders, which are referred to here as defocalisers. The
concept of agent avoider devised by House and Kasper (1981: 168) is a confusing
1 There are other similar typologies of im/politeness strategies. See, for instance, Fraser 1980;
Edmondson 1977; Holmes 1995; Caffi 1999: 881–909; Caffi 2007: 98–120. For further typologies,
see Watts 2003: 185.
term since it can allude to expressions which do actually have an explicit agent,
normally in the form of an indefinite (e.g. τις, ὅστις). Strictly speaking, what is
avoided is not the expression of the agent but its identification (cf. Haverkate
1984: 79), especially when the referent is the speaker or the hearer. The term
‘defocaliser’ is perhaps a better description in these instances.2 Given the context,
the identity of the agent is generally easy to determine with little or no inference.
Leech (1983: 80) provided the following example, typically uttered by a parent
to a child:
(2) P: Someone’s eaten the icing off the cake.

C: It wasn’t me.
(Leech 1983: 80)
It should be observed that although C’s reaction is apparently irrelevant from a

Gricean perspective, it is motivated by the easy identification of ‘someone’ with
the hearer and of the whole utterance as an accusation. Leech (1983: 81–82)
interpreted this example as a “small step of politeness”, without ruling out that
the utterance “can easily tip over into ironic interpretation”. That is probably why
defocalisers are somewhat less effective. The intention now is to look into how this
strategy works in Greek tragedy.
3. Forewarnings and reluctance (≈ hedged performatives, Leech 1983: 139–
140). These imply metacomments on a face-threatening act (FTA), two examples
of which are given below:
(3) (Orestes–Tyndareus) ὦ γέρον, ἐγώ τοι πρὸς σὲ δειμαίνω λέγειν, | ὅπου σὲ

μέλλω σήν τε λυπήσειν φρένα. | ἐγᾦδ᾽, ἀνόσιός εἰμι μητέρα κτανών, | ὅσιος
δέ γ᾽ ἕτερον ὄνομα, τιμωρῶν πατρί. | ἀπελθέτω δὴ τοῖς λόγοισιν ἐκποδὼν |
τὸ γῆρας ἡμῖν τὸ σόν, ὅ μ᾽ ἐκπλήσσει λόγου, | καὶ καθ᾽ ὁδὸν εἶμι: νῦν δὲ σὴν
ταρβῶ τρίχα (E.Or. 544–550).
‘Old man, I am afraid to speak before you, in a matter where I am sure to grieve
you to the heart. I am unholy because I killed my mother, I know it, yet holy
on another count, because I avenged my father. Only let your years, which
2 Haverkate (1992: 516): “the referential scope of one is marked for non-specificity. It may be used,
therefore, as an appropriate device for suppressing the identity of the participants in the speech
act. The strategy involved, which can be properly called defocalization should be described as a
distancing technique applied by the speaker in order to minimize his/her own role or that of the
hearer in the state of affairs described […]; suppression of the speaker’s identity typically serves to
mitigate assertive force”.
frighten me from speaking, set no barrier in the path of my words, and I will
go forward; but now I fear your grey hairs.’ (Coleridge 1938)
(4) (Adrastus–Theseus): ἀλλ᾽, ὦ καθ᾽ Ἑλλάδ᾽ ἀλκιμώτατον κάρα, | ἄναξ

Ἀθηνῶν, ἐν μὲν αἰσχύναις ἔχω | πίτνων πρὸς οὖδας γόνυ σὸν ἀμπίσχειν
χερί, | πολιὸς ἀνὴρ τύραννος εὐδαίμων πάρος: | ὅμως δ᾽ ἀνάγκη συμφοραῖς
εἴκειν ἐμαῖς (E.Supp. 163–167).
‘O king of Athens, bravest of the sons of Hellas, I am ashamed to throw myself
upon the ground and clasp your knees, I a grey-haired king, blessed in days
gone by; yet I must yield to my misfortunes.’ (Coleridge 1938)
The following subtypes are analysed as upgraders. 1. Overstaters. An overstater

“overrepresents the reality denoted in the proposition” (House and Kasper 1981:
169) in the context of an FTA. In the following example, οὔποτ’ can be identified
as an overstater:
(5) (Tyndareus–Menelaus) Ἑλένην τε, τὴν σὴν ἄλοχον, οὔποτ’ αἰνέσω | οὐδ’
ἂν προσείποιμ’· (E.Or. 520–521).
‘Helen, too, your own wife, I will never commend, nor would I even speak to
her.’ (Coleridge 1938)
2. Intensifiers. Unlike overstaters, which modalise the utterance, intensifiers

perform at the propositional level. An intensifier is an “adverbial modifier used
by X to intensify certain elements of the proposition of his utterance” (House and
Kasper 1981: 169):
(6) (Menelaus–Molossus) σοὶ δ’ οὐδὲν ἔχω φίλτρον, ἐπεί τοι | μέγ’ ἀναλώσας
ψυχῆς μόριον | Τροίαν εἷλον καὶ μητέρα σήν· | ἧς ἀπολαύων | Ἅιδην χθόνιον
καταβήσῃ (E.Andr. 540–543).
‘I have no cause to love you since I expended a great part of my soul in capturing
Troy and with it your mother. It is the benefit you derive from her that you
now go down to the Underworld.’ (Kovacs 1995)
3. +Committers. They can be understood as the counterparts of committers. They

are “sentence modifiers by means of which X indicates his heightened degree of
commitment vis-à-vis the state of affairs referred to in the proposition” (House
and Kasper 1981: 170), as in the following example:
(7) (Copreus–Iolaus) Κη. ἐγὼ δὲ τούσδε, κἂν σὺ μὴ θέληις, | ἄξω νομίζων

οὗπέρ εἰσ’ Εὐρυσθέως (E.Heracl. 67–68).
‘I shall drag these children away, even if you’re unwilling, considering them
Eurystheus’ property, which they are.’ (Allan 2001)
It should be stressed that κἂν σὺ μὴ θέληις (‘even if you’re unwilling’) works

as a sort of anti-hedge relating to the felicity conditions: instead of a hedging
strategy, such as if you’re willing, if you want, Copreus explicitly flouts the felicity
conditions, which are conversely expected to be hedged.
4. Lexical intensifiers: i.e. explicit insults (see 3.2).
5. Aggressive interrogatives. They are non-prototypical interrogatives (Risselada
1993: 39) in which the speaker, rather than requesting information, is doing
something else. The adjacency pair system is often flouted, as the speaker usually
does not even expect an answer. They can be uttered in a reproachful or indignant
tone, as in the following example:
(8) (Tyndareus–Menelaus): Μενέλαε, προσφθέγγῃ νιν, ἀνόσιον κάρα; (E.Or.

481).
‘Menelaus, are you speaking to that godless wretch?’ (Coleridge 1938).
They frequently appear in clusters, thus blocking the a priori expected second
term of the adjacency pair (e.g. E.Hec. 251–253; 258–263).
6. Personalisation. This is the counterpart of the impersonalisation
downgrader. There is personalisation whenever the second person (σύ, σε, σοι) is
stressed in the context of an FTA, instead of being avoided (impersonalisation):
(9) (Orestes–Tindareus): σύ τοι φυτεύσας θυγατέρ’, ὦ γέρον, κακὴν |

ἀπώλεσάς με (E.Or. 585–586).
‘You, yes! you, old man, have been my ruin by begetting a wicked daughter.’
(Coleridge 1938).
It should be recalled that the label ‘personalisation’ is limited to the second-

person reference, whereas, whenever the first person (ἐγώ, με, μοι, etc.) is used
as a hedging device or, conversely, stresses an FTA, the corresponding labels are
‘commiter’ and ‘+committer’, respectively.
It goes without saying that there is no one-to-one relationship between
these strategies and their linguistic realisations. It is only the overall context
that determines whether a certain form should be labelled as an upgrader or
downgrader. For instance, the explicit use of ἐγώ in the context of a dispreferred
second pair part would be an upgrader when stressing disagreement. There is
nothing to prevent the same pronoun from appearing in the context of a praise
speech act or a preferred second, in which case it should no longer be classified as
an upgrader (e.g. E.Supp. 186).
2.3 NVivo
Just as many are the features analysed and the characters involved, so too are
the intersections between the strategies and the characters. In order to overcome
this difficulty, the tests were run using qualitative data analysis (QDA) software.
Once the whole corpus had been coded, read through and analysed, the strategies
were coded in different categories called ‘nodes’, from which the software
provided an accurate tally of words and automatically generated results relating
to the distribution of the proposed features among the characters. In order to
code the texts using the NVivo software, they were retrieved from TLG and the
aforementioned editions and commentaries were checked (See Section 2.1).
3 Data
In this section, the raw distribution of downgraders and upgraders per character
type is presented. Following this, some instances that help to gain further insights
into how these strategies actually work are considered.
3.1 Distribution of downgraders
3.1.1 Hedges
Table 2. Distribution of hedges per character; column percentage per no. of coded words. No. of
words in brackets.
Characters Committers Felicity conditions Downtoners
1. Demophon (Heracl.) 0% 23.53% (16) 0%
2. Iolaus (Heracl.) 31.01% (40) 27.94% (19) 0%
3. Copreus (Heracl.) 0% 0% 0%
1. Theseus (Supp.) 0% 0% 0%
2. Adrastus (Supp.) 0% 0% 20.31% (13)
Aethra (Supp.) 0% 0% 12.5%

3. Herald (Supp.) 4.65% (6) 0% 0%
1. Menelaus (Or.) 0% 13.24% (9) 35.94% (23)
2. Orestes (Or.) 21.71% (28) 0% 0%
3. Tyndareus (Or.) 0% 0% 0%
1. Peleus (Andr.) 0% 0% 0%
2. Andromache (Andr.) 0% 0% 0%
2. Molossus (Andr.) 0% 0% 0%
3. Menelaus (Andr.) 0% 0% 0%
1. Odysseus (Hec.) 30.23% (39) 0% 0%
2. Hecuba 1 (Hec.) 0% 35.29% (24) 0%
1. Agamemnon (Hec.) 12.4% (16) 0% 7.81% (5)
2. Hecuba 2 (Hec.) 0% 0% 23.44% (15)
In light of Table 2, it is possible to offer the following interpretation:

(1) Hedges are mainly uttered by suppliants, identified by the number 2
in the first column (i.e. Iolaus, Adrastus, Orestes, Hecuba 1 and 2). In terms of
Brown and Levinson’s politeness theory, suppliants have a low level of power in
the interaction, that is, they are of a lower status than the addressees.
(2) Characters with a higher status who employ hedges are mainly supplicandi
who reject suppliants, viz. Menelaus in E.Or. and Odysseus (no. 1 in the first
column).
(3) Other characters with a higher status in the interaction who still utter
hedges are Demophon, Agamemnon and the Herald in E.Supp. They seem to
be characterised as more conciliatory characters than both their adversaries and
their counterparts in other plays, viz. Theseus, Peleus, Copreus, Tyndareus and
Menelaus in Andr., who do not use hedges at all. These are especially hostile
characters who give rise to conflict in the plot. It is also noteworthy that three of
these hostile characters are portrayed as either young (Theseus) or old (Peleus and
Tyndareus).
3.1.2 Impersonalisation
The two different strategies of impersonalisation seem to work in the language

of Greek tragedy as described above (see Section 2.2): there is a scale of
impersonalisation in which defocalisers are at the lower end. Let us consider the
following example in which Demophon alludes to Copreus with an indefinite τις
that does not minimise the FTA:
(10) ὅμως δὲ καὶ νῦν μὴ τρέσῃς ὅπως σέ τις | σὺν παισὶ βωμοῦ τοῦδ’
ἀποσπάσει βίᾳ (E.Heracl. 248).
‘Still even now do not be afraid that anyone will tear you | and the children
from this altar by force.’ (Allan 2001)
Thus, Bond (1981: 260 ad E.HF 748) remarks that “τις referring obliquely to a
definite person (LSJ, A3) is primarily menacing”.3 In this vein, Allan (2001: 152)
points out that “τις can also refer threateningly to the person addressed […]. The
word’s vagueness and ambiguity can be exploited for ironic effect: cf. IT 548;
Ant. 751.”
Table 3. Distribution of impersonalisation per character; column percentage per no. of coded
words. No. of words in brackets.
Characters Defocalisers Gnomic expressions
1. Demophon (Heracl.) 6.36% (15) 0.83% (5)
2. Iolaus (Heracl.) 0% 0%
3. Copreus (Heracl.) 4.66% (11) 0%
1. Theseus (Supp.) 23.31% (55) 13.46% (81)
2. Adrastus (Supp.) 0% 8.8% (53)
Aethra (Supp.) 21.61% (51) 2.66% (16)
3. Herald (Supp.) 13.14% (31) 23.26% (140)
1. Menelaus (Or.) 27.12% (64) 12.29% (74)
2. Orestes (Or.) 0% 7.81% (47)
3. Tyndareus (Or.) 0% 1.33% (8)
1. Peleus (Andr.) 0% 5.81% (35)
2. Andromache (Andr.) 0% 0%
2. Molossus (Andr.) 0% 0%
3. Menelaus (Andr.) 0% 9.47% (57)
3 See also S.Ant.751; Ai.1138. Finglass (2007: 514) identifies further parallels in S.El.1410;
Ar.Ran.554, 606, 664; Theocr.5.120, 122; E.fr.253.2.
1. Odysseus (Hec.) 3.81% (9) 4.32% (26)

2. Hecuba 1 (Hec.) 0% 2.33% (14)
1. Agamemnon (Hec.) 0% 0%
2. Hecuba 2 (Hec.) 0% 7.64% (46)
The following conclusions can be drawn from the data shown in Table 3:
(1) There are more instances of gnomic expressions than of defocalisers. Gnomic
expressions do not seem to have much bearing on the linguistic characterisation of
the character types involved in suppliant scenes if we just rely on their distribution.
Gnomai are a constituting element of tragedy and the argument structure,4 and
are uttered by any type of character in the corpus. They are especially common in
E.Supp., whereas there are fewer examples in Heraclidae, regardless of the type of
character. On the contrary, personalisation, their upgrader counterpart, has a more
significant distribution per character type (See 3.2, Table 4a).
(2) The suppliants use gnomic expressions (Adrastus, Orestes and Hecuba 1
and 2), but none of them utter defocalisers, which are limited to seven characters
with a higher status (Demophon, Copreus, Theseus, the Herald in E.Supp.,
Aethra as the mother of Theseus, Menelaus in E.Or. and Odysseus). Thus,
impersonalisation through the use of defocalisers, such as the indefinite pronoun
τις, seems to be less indirect or off record and, consequently, does not fully work
as a negative politeness strategy.
3.1.3 Forewarnings and reluctance

Politeness strategies involving apology or excuse are barely represented in the
corpus, to the point that expressions of the type ‘sorry’ or ‘excuse me’ are never
employed in the selected suppliant scenes. Forwarnings are only uttered by
characters with a lower status (namely Hecuba 2, Aethra and Orestes).5 Since
there are few female characters, the fact that two of them who use forwarnings
are women could be telling as to the way in which female speakers need to justify
their own speech acts through metacomments.
Reluctance is likewise scarcely attested in the corpus. Only Adrastus (E.Supp.
163–167) and Orestes (E.Or. 544–550; 579–580; 671–673) express reluctance
to utter an FTA. It should be noted that these suppliants fail to achieve their aims
4Thus, gnomai are generally placed at the end of the rheseis (Collard 1975: vol. 2, 115; Collard
1975: vol. 2, 195).
5 E.Hec. 824–825, E.Supp. 293–302; E.Or. 544–550, 559–560, 579–581, 669–671.
(Adrastus is eventually accepted only after Aethra’s mediation). All this leads to
the conclusion that reluctance should not probably be considered as an operative
strategy, at least in Euripidean tragedy, despite the fact that it features in the
typologies based on modern languages.
3.2 Distribution of upgraders
As can be seen in Table 4a, the distribution of upgraders points to even more
significant differences as to the character type than the distribution of downgraders.
First and foremost, upgraders are mainly uttered by characters with a higher status
(Demophon, Copreus, Theseus, the Herald in E.Supp., Menelaus in E.Andr.,
Tyndareus, Peleus and Agamemnon), regardless of the participation level of each
character (see Table 1, Section 2.1). Theseus and Peleus—a young and an older
leader, respectively—stand out among the supplicandi in their use of upgraders.
Yet, Copreus employs the largest number of upgraders. All the upgraders are well
represented in his speech especially when considering his participation level as
compared with, for instance, Theseus’.6
On the contrary, accepted suppliants avoid upgraders in their speech (Ioalus,
Andromache and Hecuba 2), whereas rejected suppliants do indeed employ them
(Adrastus, Orestes, Hecuba 1). Menelaus in E.Or. and Odysseus rate relatively
low in their use of upgraders. Both are supplicandi who, as it were, diplomatically
reject their respective suppliants. They are diplomatic in that they exercise their
power without associating it with an on-record expression.
Table 4a. Distribution of overstaters, intensifiers, +committers, aggressive interrogatives (AIs) and
personalisation (Person.) per character; column percentage per no. of coded words. No. of words
in brackets.
+Commit- Person.
Characters Overstaters Intensifiers AIs
ters (σύ)
Demophon 14.23% 1.89%
0% 3.9% (20) 2.6% (17)
(Heracl.) (73) (14)
Iolaus (Heracl.) 0% 0% 0% 0% 0%
21.81% 11.23% 23.89%
Copreus (Heracl.) 8.97% (46) 7.8% (40)
(70) (83) (156)
6 The coverage percentages, namely, the level of Copreus’ and Theseus’ participation regarding the
total number of words in the whole tragedy, not just the suppliant scene, as shown in Table 1, are
7.66 per cent and 21.03 per cent, respectively.
28.07% 15.26% 16.57% 21.79% 11.49%

Theseus (Supp.)
(144) (49) (85) (161) (75)
4.05%
Adrastus (Supp.) 6.63% (34) 1.36% (7) 0.81% (6) 3.98% (26)
(13)
7.02% 2.84%
Aethra (Supp.) 1.75% (9) 0% 0%
(36) (21)
9.88%
Herald (Supp.) 2.14% (11) 0% 0% 5.67% (37)
(73)
2.03%
Menelaus (Or.) 0% 2.18% (7) 0% 0%
(15)
11.7% 17.46%
Orestes (Or.) 2.92% (15) 1.56% (5) 4.6% (34)
(60) (114)
6.23% 9.94% 7.85%
Tyndareus (Or.) 7.21% (37) 2.76% (18)
(20) (51) (58)
31.46% 10.14% 11.64%
Peleus (Andr.) 6.24% (32) 12.4% (81)
(101) (52) (86)
Andromache
0% 0% 0% 0% 0%
(Andr.)
Molossus (Andr.) 0% 0% 0% 0% 0%
15.58% 12.87% 8.93% 13.78%
Menelaus (Andr.) 1.36% (7)
(50) (66) (66) (90)
5.95%
Odysseus (Hec.) 6.82% (35) 0% 1.56% (8) 1.07% (7)
(44)
13.06% 7.85%
Hecuba 1 (Hec.) 6.04% (31) 1.87% (6) 3.06% (20)
(67) (58)
Agamemnon 4.09% 2.71%
7.6% (39) 0% 1.84% (12)
(Hec.) (21) (20)
Hecuba 2 (Hec.) 0% 0% 0% 0% 0%
Finally, the lexical intensifiers (LIs), to wit, insults, are analysed with regard
to three axes (see Comrie 1976): the LIs uttered by the speaker to the hearer,
to something relating to the hearer, or those uttered by the speaker to another
addressee against a bystander (speaker-bystander axis). Thus, a LI in the speaker-
bystander axis consists in insulting a participant in the third person even when
the participant can—and actually does—take part in the interaction. LIs lie at
the very end of the on-record scale and this seems to be particularly the case for
those in the speaker-bystander axis.7 Hence, to speak of an addressee in the third

person instead of addressing him/her directly when (s)he is perfectly capable of
participating in the interaction is already degrading:
This occurs when it is assumed by the interlocutors in a conversation that

some other person is of such an inferior status as to debar him from making
a reasonable contribution. One example is the way in which many parents
talk over their children; another is where interlocutors talk about people with
disabilities as if they were not there (Short 1981: 194).
An example of this degrading way of interacting can be found in the 1990s

BBC Radio 4 programme about disability called, Does he take sugar? As to Greek
tragedy, this is also the case in the following exchange between Heracles and his
son at the end of Trachiniae:
(11) (Heracles–Hyllus): ἁνὴρ ὅδ᾽, ὡς ἔοικεν, οὐ νεμεῖν ἐμοὶ | φθίνοντι μοῖραν:

ἀλλά τοι θεῶν ἀρὰ | μενεῖ σ᾽ ἀπιστήσαντα τοῖς ἐμοῖς λόγοις (S.Tr.1238–
1240).
‘The man will render no due respect, it seems, to my dying prayer. No, be sure
that the curse of the gods will await you for disobeying my commands.’ (Jebb
1883–1896)
Jebb (ad loc.) already remarked that “this is not an ‘aside’; but the speaker’s
amazement precludes a direct reply”.8
As seen in Example (11) and in Table 4b, the same phenomenon applies to
the language of Greek tragedy. It is interesting to observe that LIs in the speaker-
bystander axis are less common, with only four characters using them (Copreus,
Theseus, Tyndareus and Menelaus in E.Andr.). These character are specially
contentious judging by the overall distribution of upgraders and downgraders
(cf. Table 3, Table 4ab). As shown in Table 4b, LIs in the speaker-bystander axis
are perhaps upgraders linguistically characterising the ἐχθροί in the triangular
supplication (Copreus, Tyndareus and Menelaus in E.Andr. are ἐχθροί).
7 Cf. Venegas Lagüéns (1991: 205–206): “a more serious type of direct insult is the criticism by
one character to another person who is also present. The offence is, in this case, double, since the
insulted party has to bear the humiliation of being observed by those present”.
8The expression ὡς ἔοικεν, which is in all likelihood a conventionalised ironic idiom, is discussed
below (see Section 5.2).
Table 4b. Distribution of lexical intensifiers (LIs) per character; column percentage per no. of coded
words. No. of words in brackets.
LI (speaker- LI (speaker- LI (speaker-
Characters
addressee) referent) bystander)
Demophon
1.61% (6) 0% 0%
(Heracl.)
Iolaus (Heracl.) 0% 0% 0%
Copreus (Heracl.) 24.4% (91) 17.65% (15) 60.71% (51)
Theseus (Supp.) 40.75% (152) 0% 8.33% (7)
Adrastus (Supp.) 5.9% (22) 0% 0%
Aethra (Supp.) 0% 0% 0%
Herald (Supp.) 4.29% (16) 31.76% (27) 0%
Menelaus (Or.) 2.41% (9) 0% 0%
Orestes (Or.) 3.75% (14) 17.65% (15) 0%
Tyndareus (Or.) 2.95% (11) 11.76% (10) 23.81% (20)
Peleus (Andr.) 6.97% (26) 20% (17) 0%

Andromache
0% 0% 0%
(Andr.)
Molossus (Andr.) 0% 0% 0%
Menelaus (Andr.) 6.17% (23) 0% 7.14% (6)
Odysseus (Hec.) 0% 0% 0%
Hecuba 1 (Hec.) 0.8% (3) 1.18% (1) 0%

Agamemnon
0% 0% 0%
(Hec.)
Hecuba 2 (Hec.) 0% 0% 0%
Allan (2001: 145) already observed that Copreus “is prone to insults”, quoting a
number of passages (E.Heracl. 117, 147, 166–167, 259)—see also Yoon (2012:
110–111). What follows are examples of LIs in the speaker-bystander axis:
(12) (Copreus–Demophon / Iolaus) ἐκ τῆς ἐμαυτοῦ τούσδε δραπέτας ἔχων

(E.Heracl. 140).9
‘These runaways from my country.’ (Allan 2011)
(13) (Copreus–Demophon / Iolaus) εἰ γέροντος οὕνεκα, | τύμβου,10 τὸ

μηδὲν ὄντος,11 ὡς εἰπεῖν ἔπος, | παίδων <τε> τῶνδ’, ἐς ἄντλον ἐμβήσῃ πόδα
(E.Heracl. 166–168).
‘If you get into difficult waters for the sake of an ancient man, almost a tomb,
a nothing, and these children!’ (Allan 2011)12
Wilkins (1993: 73) remarks that “the expression (τύμβου) is not only colloquial
but offensive, and may serve to characterise the speaker”.13
4 Results
The findings of this research are twofold. From the standpoint of linguistic
characterisation, the main point is that im/politeness strategies are not randomly
distributed among characters: the accepted suppliants do not utter upgraders to
the supplicandi. On the contrary, the rejected suppliants are presented, as it were,
as ineffectual since they address upgraders to the supplicandi even though they are
in a disadvantaged position and in need of requesting. In turn, the supplicandi
9 Cf. Allan (2001: 144): “runaways: with δραπέτας the Herald implies that the Hcld. are no more
than runaway slaves and the property of Eur. (cf. 175–6, 267)”.
10 On the punctuation, see Wilkins 1993: 73.
11Regarding this insult, see Barrett (1964: 280) ad E.Hipp. 638–639 and Denniston (1939: 94)
ad E.El. 370.
12 See also E.Heracl. 171–174 (Copreus–Demophon) and Wilkins (1993: 74) ad loc.
13 For this insult as a colloquialism, see also Stevens (1976: 12): “in ancient writers on Comedy
τυμβογέροντες is cited as one of the mocking terms applied to old men […]; cf. in colloquial Latin
sepulcrum, e.g. Plaut. Pseud. 412”. It should be noted that ὡς εἰπεῖν ἔπος is not a hedge—Copreus is
firmly stating what he means. It is only in the domain of μηδέν, cf. Pearson (1907: 59): “ὡς εἰπεῖν
ἔπος is a phrase of qualification here attached to τὸ μηδὲν. Cf. Hipp. 1162 […]. It should not be
rendered by our ‘so to speak’, which is used quite differently”, cf. LSJ s.v. ἔπος II, 4.
barely address downgraders to the suppliants, unless they reject them. As a result,
there is always a linguistic characterisation by contrast between the participants.
From a purely linguistic standpoint, this distribution sheds light, in turn,
on which of the im/politeness strategies included in the typologies proposed by
Brown and Levinson (1987) and by House and Kasper (1981) can be considered
as such , at least in Euripidean tragedy, and on how they actually work.
5 Discussion: overpoliteness, pragmaticalisation of irony and verbal formula

mismatches
Most of the analysed cases fit easily into the proposed categories, although some
of these categories are underrepresented in the sample. Thus, politeness theory,
as put forward by Brown and Levinson (1987), has made it possible to identify
which strategies are to be regarded as such in Greek tragedy and the degree of
some of them on the on- and off-record scale. However, there are several instances
that could apparently be explained as downgraders but that express the opposite
in highly tense and sarcastic interactions (e.g. E.Heracl. 257–261; Supp. 566–
571). Three idioms stand out in this regard in the corpus: εἰ βούλῃ or βούλῃ +
subj./acI (‘if you want / do you want that…?’), ὡς ἔοικεν (‘as it seems’), and οὐκ
οἶδ’ ἐγώ (‘I am not aware that…’). Most significantly, these expressions perform
in this way more than once in the corpus in similar contexts.14
5.1 εἰ βούλῃ or βούλῃ + subj./acI;
Let us take a look at the following example:15
(14) (Herald–Theseus) Κη. βούλῃ συνάψω μῦθον ἐν βραχεῖ †σέθεν†16;

| Θη. λέγ’, εἴ τι βούλῃ· καὶ γὰρ οὐ σιγηλὸς εἶ. | Κη. οὐκ ἄν ποτ’ ἐκ γῆς
παῖδας Ἀργείων λάβοις. | Θη. κἀμοῦ νυν ἀντάκουσον, εἰ βούλῃ, πάλιν. | Κη.
14 εἰ βούλῃ / βούλῃ + subj./acI: E.Supp. 566–571 (x2), E.Heracl. 63; ὡς ἔοικεν: E.Heracl. 257–
261, E.Supp. 157, E.Andr. 551–552, E.Hec. 229–230, see also Example (11); οὐκ οἶδ’ ἐγώ: E.Supp.
518–521; E.Hec. 396–397. See Rodríguez-Piedrabuena (2020: 73–96) for a much more detailed
discussion on overpoliteness in Euripides.
15This seems to be a favourite example of scholars enquiring into politeness strategies in Ancient
Greek, as this very same stichomythia has also been recently discussed by Emde Boas (2017) and
Huitink (2018).
16 On the word σέθεν, cf. Jackson 1955: 100. Diggle (1994: 18–19) suggests τιθείς instead of σέθεν.
κλύοιμ’ ἄν· οὐ γὰρ ἀλλὰ δεῖ δοῦναι μέρος. | Θη. θάψω νεκροὺς γῆς ἐξελὼν
Ἀσωπίας (E.Supp. 566–571).
‘HERALD: Do you want me to tell my story briefly? THESEUS: Say what
you will; for you are not silent as it is. HERALD: You shall never take the
sons of Argos from our land. THESEUS: Hear, then, my answer too to that,
if you wish. HERALD: I will hear you; not that I wish it, but I must give you
your turn. THESEUS: I will bury the dead, when I have removed them from
Asopus’ land.’ (Coleridge 1938)
On the one hand, the structure βούλῃ + subjunctive could be initially considered
as a pre-expansion of an adjacency pair of the type May I ask you…?, a
conventionalised expression in English which was labelled by Leech (1983: 140)
as an example of “hedged performative”. In turn, εἰ βούλῃ could be initially
understood as a hedge relating to the felicity conditions of the type previously
analysed (see Section 3.1.1). Yet, this example is far from being interpreted in
such terms. As already described by Collard (1975: vol. 2, 257), the stichomythia
is a piece of “cold and ironical politeness”.17
5.2 ὡς ἔοικε
The idiom ὡς ἔοικε ‘as it seems’ could apparently function as a committer, for
instance in order to mitigate blunt statements. However, the contexts in which
this expression recurrently appears in the corpus do not allow for such an
interpretation. The idiom ὡς ἔοικε is attested up to five times and is always uttered
by particularly contentious characters who elsewhere tend to use upgraders. Let
us consider the following example:
(15) (Copreus–Demophon): Κη. σὺ δ’ ἐξόριζε, κᾆτ’ ἐκεῖθεν ἄξομεν. | Δη.

σκαιὸς πέφυκας τοῦ θεοῦ πλείω φρονῶν. | Κη. δεῦρ’, ὡς ἔοικε, τοῖς κακοῖσι
φευκτέον. | Δη. ἅπασι κοινὸν ῥῦμα δαιμόνων ἕδρα. | Κη. ταῦτ’ οὐ δοκήσει
τοῖς Μυκηναίοις ἴσως (E.Heracl. 257–261).
‘COPREUS: Then send them beyond the frontier and we will take them
from there. DEMOPHON: You are a fool to think your ideas above god.
COPREUS: Here, it seems, is where the wicked should [should] seek
17 Likewise, the scholar describes κλύοιμ’ἄν (E.Supp. 570, cf. 465 λέγοιμ’ἄν ἤδη) as “still coldly
polite”. See also Morwood (2007: 188) on εἰ βούλῃ: “the Greek word for ‘want’, ‘wish’, ‘am willing’,
is used for the third time within four lines. But the politeness is surely ironical. These are two angry
men”.
refuge. DEMOPHON: a sanctuary of the gods is a common defence for all.

COPREUS: Perhaps it will not appear so to the Mycenaeans.’ (Allan 2001)
This is exactly the same expression with which Theseus ironically addresses Adrastus
(E.Supp. 157).18 Peleus, again a contentious character, uses this expression ironically
in E.Andr. 551–552.19 Finally, Hecuba is a rejected suppliant who also employs the
idiom ironically when addressing Odysseus (E.Hec.229–230).20 In light of this,
we could refer back to Example (11) in which Heracles ironically employs the
expression to address Hyllus when his son is unwilling to comply with his request.
5.3 οὐκ οἶδ’ ἐγώ
Finally, the expression οὐκ οἶδ’ ἐγώ ‘I am not aware that’ is found as the idioms εἰ
βούλῃ / βούλῃ + subj./acI and ὡς ἔοικεν. There are two instances in the corpus,
both uttered by characters with a higher status and no need for downgraders and
in highly tense contexts when reacting to a bald-on-record FTA:
(16) (Theseus–Herald): οὐκ οἶδ’ ἐγὼ Κρέοντα δεσπόζοντ’ ἐμοῦ | οὐδὲ

σθένοντα μεῖζον, ὥστ’ ἀναγκάσαι | δρᾶν τὰς Ἀθήνας ταῦτ’· ἄνω γὰρ ἂν ῥέοι
| τὰ πράγμαθ’ οὕτως, εἰ ’πιταξόμεσθα δή (E.Supp. 518–521).21
‘I am not aware that Creon is my lord and master, or that his power outweighs
mine, that so he should compel Athens to act in this way; no! for then would
the tide of time have to flow backward, if we are to be ordered, as he thinks.’
(Coleridge 1938).
(17) (Odysseus–Hecuba): Εκ. πολλή γ’ ἀνάγκη θυγατρὶ συνθανεῖν ἐμέ. | Οδ.

πῶς; οὐ γὰρ οἶδα δεσπότας κεκτημένος (E.Hec.396–397).22
‘HECUBA: Die with my daughter I must and will. ODYSSEUS: How so? I
did not know I had a master.’ (Coleridge 1938)
18See also Allan (2001: 153) on line 261 (ταῦτ᾽ οὐ δοκήσει τοῖς Μυκηναίοις ἴσως): “ἴσως […]
here at line end is threatening rather than tentative”.
19 On the punctuation of ὡς ἔοικε in this example, see Stevens (1971: 163).
20 Note that Hecuba employs the idiom to address Agamemnon in E.Hec. 765–766. An ironic
interpretation is also possible. However, and most importantly, this irony is not against Agamemnon
but against herself.
21 Cf. Collard (1975: vol. 2, 248): “518–520 are a sarcastic retort to 467f.”.
22 Cf. Matthiessen (2010: 306): “vielleicht ironisch”.
A corpus language like Ancient Greek can hardly rely exclusively on postmodern
approaches to politeness theory, as they focus on the evaluation of the hearer in
each interaction and abhor the systematic and universalistic study of politeness
(Eelen 2001; Watts 2003, Watts 2005). Still, Watts’ (2005: xliii) concept of
linguistic politeness as a circular continuum (see Figure 3) can better account for
these seemingly puzzling examples.23 Thus, Examples (14–17) can be understood
as cases of overpoliteness, also known as mock politeness (Leech 1983, Leech
2014).24
Figure 3. Politeness circular continuum model (Watts 2005: xliii, Fig.1)
23 In any case, Brown and Levinson (1987: 248) were already aware of the limitations of their
model in this very sense: “whatever politeness techniques have been especially conventionalized in
a society should give rise to conventional exploitations – implicatures derived from implicatures
– which would not exist in other societies without this particular conventional association. For
example, […] indirect speech acts are highly conventionalized in English […]. Therefore, to say
‘Would you please mind not walking on the grass?’ where the context makes it clear that S[peaker]
is not respecting H[earer]’s negative face […], can implicate sarcasm or anger. We expect that
such an implicature would not be available (or would be at least far more devious) in languages
without highly conventionalized indirect speech acts. This factor probably accounts for much
stereotypical cross-cultural misunderstanding; it represents perhaps the major limitation to
universal intelligibilities in the politeness domain”. This is something barely acknowledged by the
eager opponents of the theory, including Watts (2003).
24On the impact of the mismatch created by overpoliteness, see Culpeper (2011: 168): “the use of
conventionalised politeness strongly mismatching a context in which a polite interpretation is not
sustainable could end up exacerbating the impoliteness of the message”.
Although irony is in many cases unpredictable, there are expressions that require
cognitively less effort to be interpreted as ironic than others. Examples in English
include the following (Burgers and Steen 2017: 99–100): wise guy, smart aleck, to
be a bright spark, tell me about it, a likely story, where little context is needed for
the native speaker to perceive it as ironic by default. Similarly, Leech (2014: 234)
compared the following examples:
(18) You’re a fine friend!
(19) A fine friend YOU are.

(Leech 2014: 234)
The author points out that whereas (18) may or may not be ironic depending
on the context, (19) “is specialized to an ironic interpretation—an example of
pragmaticalisation” (see also Culpeper 2011: 167). In these instances, “recipients
can immediately come to the intended meaning without having to pay attention
to the propositional meaning of the irony” (Burgers and Steen 2017: 99).
The same may apply to Ancient Greek: on the one hand, there is irony entirely
dependent on the context and, on the other, there is irony of a more verbal kind,
which can be readily decoded. Thus, it is possible to suggest that εἰ βούλῃ or
βούλῃ + subj./acI;, ὡς ἔοικέ and οὐκ οἶδ’ ἐγὼ are cases of conventionalised irony
which are based on overpoliteness.25 The three aforementioned expressions seem
to be conventionalised in a similar way in which the English expressions ‘I hate to
be rude’, ‘no offence’26 and ‘with respect’ are. As Culpeper (2011: 177) remarked,
“when one hears ‘I hate to be rude’, ‘no offence’ and ‘with respect’, there is a
strong likelihood that something offensive will follow”.27 Ideally, metapragmatic
25 Cf. Culpeper (2011: 168): “a conventionalised politeness formula can provide such a reference
point against which a conventionalised impoliteness formula or context predicting an impolite
interpretation can be assessed. It alludes to a desired politeness context and in doing so provides
a measure of the extreme distance by which the message flowing from the conventionalised
impoliteness formula or context falls short”.
26Again ‘I hate to be rude’ and ‘no offence’ could be apparently understood as downgraders,
namely, as ‘forewarnings’. However, they are conventionalised for expressing verbal mismatches.
27 Who later comments on the effect of these clashes (Culpeper: 2011: 177–178): “one issue that
remains is whether the mixed message devices discussed in this section actually cut deeper than
non-mixed alternatives, such as simply using a conventionalised impoliteness formula. This clearly
is a complex issue that depends on, amongst other things, the salience of the polite message versus
the impolite message, and the context. In the case of the courtroom and Parliament, the context is
comments such as Culpeper’s may shed light on the interpretation, but they are
unfortunately fairly uncommon. In the absence of native-speaker intuition, the
interpretation of the formulae in Sections 5.1–5.3 as being ironic by default is
based on two reasons: (1) they appear more than once in similar sarcastic contexts;
and (2) they are uttered by hostile characters who elsewhere employ upgraders
and do not intend to rely on facework. It is also possible to assess here whether or
not the hearer’s reaction to them leads to an ironic interpretation, as in the case
of Theseus in Example (14).
Leech (2014: 234–235) pointed out that irony “does not have to be
interpreted as a proposition with a truth value”, before commenting on the idiom
Sorry I asked!, claiming that it is a sarcastic apology “where the speaker has been
humiliated for speaking out of turn”. The intonation pattern is not what would
be expected, were the apology to be a sincere one. It is suggested here that the
same applies to Examples (14–17). For instance, in Example (14), the Herald is
not sincerely asking for a turn to speak and in all likelihood this was reflected in
his intonation.
Furthermore, it should be recalled that default irony is not a more indirect
way of communication and does not minimise aggressive interactions, as
Leech (1983: 143–144; 2014: 236) suggested. Some scholars have proved that
pragmaticalised or conventionalised ironic expressions require cognitively less
effort to process (Burgers and Steen 2017: 98–100), as “the listener does not have
to work out any implicatures”.28 Katz (2017: 252) is right to note the impact
of irony. Irony requires inference and implicit meaning but is not an indirect
or off-record strategy just because of that (see also Pexman and Olineck 2002:
214–215). For instance, ironic criticism is not more indirect than the explicit
kind. Irony is not just about flouting the sincerity of an utterance but about being
insincere and somehow making it evident.29
An alternative interpretation for Example (14), other than that of default
irony, would be to understand it in terms of ‘verbal formula mismatches’
(Culpeper 2011: 174–178, 193), also named ‘attitude clashes’ by Leech (2014:
237–238) meaning: “an overt clash between ‘polite’ and ‘impolite’ parts of
the same utterance”. Examples of verbal formula mismatches are thank you for
highly salient and perhaps, especially regarding the latter, primes the expectation of impoliteness”.
On the use of im/politeness and overpoliteness in diplomatic contexts, see Harris (2001: 451–472).
28 Alba Juez (1998: 11). See also Culpeper (2011: 177–178; 180).
29 On the intention of making pretension or insincerity obvious in irony, cf. Leech (1983: 82, 142).
nothing, Could you just fuck off?30 Yet, a preference for conventionalised irony can
be seen in Theseus’ reaction, as he replies with the likewise ironic εἴ τι βούλῃ.
In any case, Leech (2014: 238) did not rule out irony effects through verbal
mismatches:
It could be claimed that attitude clash does not conform to the earlier definition
of conversational irony because ‘polite’ and ‘impolite’ meanings are both overt.
However, it is significant that the ‘polite’ piece of text tends to precede the
‘impolite’ piece, so that if we run through the text in real time, there is an
opportunity for the target of irony to be ‘led up the garden path’ […] before
being forced to retrospectively reinterpret it as ironical […] (Leech 2014: 238).
The verbal clash is obvious in the following examples:
(20) (Copreus–Iolaus) βούλῃ πόνον μοι τῇδε προσθεῖναι χερί; (E.Heracl. 63).
‘Do you want to make more trouble for this hand of mine?’ (Allan 2001)
(21) (Teiresias–Oedipus) εἴπω τι δῆτα κἄλλ᾽, ἵν᾽ ὀργίζῃ πλέον; (S.OT 364).
‘Should I tell you more, that you might get more angry?’ (Jebb 1883–1896)
In both cases, the situation is less diplomatic and of a more domestic kind in which
Copreus and Teiresias are deliberately being hostile to their addressees.31 Although it
may surely work in a different way, there is a similar overpolite upgrader in Spanish
that springs to mind. In Example (22), there also seems to be a verbal clash:
(22) — Tomaré un whisky — le dice al camarero. Y a mí—: Yo, estas

mariconadas de frutas de los jóvenes, las aguas minerales de mierda esas, qué
quiere que le diga …
‘ ‘I’ll have a whisky,’ he said to the bartender. Then in an aside to me, ‘As to
these faggy fruit drinks consumed by the young, those crappy mineral waters,
what can I say …’
(Francisco Casavella, Los juegos feroces. Barcelona: Mondadori, 2002).
30There is no consensus on the impact of the use of verbal mismatches: “there is a lack of empirical
evidence as to whether such mismatches make things worse or better in the expression of negative
messages” (Culpeper 2011: 167–168). See also note 27.
31It has been recently suggested that Teiresias bluntly intends to make Oedipus angrier (Battezzato
2020: 204). For the concept of ‘activity type’ as a means of interpreting these instances, especially
Example (14), see Huitink (2018).
6 Concluding remarks
In this study, we have determined the distribution of a range of politeness

strategies per character type in the context of supplication. This distribution not
only sheds light on the linguistic characterisation of the characters involved but
has also enabled us to glimpse differences in the degree of im/politeness of some
of the strategies included in the typologies proposed by Brown and Levinson
(1987) and House and Kasper (1981). Hence, impersonalisation through the use
of defocalisers (e.g. τις) seems to occupy a lower position in the politeness scale,
whereas lexical intensifiers in the speaker-bystander axis appear to be located at
the end of the impoliteness scale, according to their distribution per character
type.
There are a number of underrepresented strategies in the corpus, namely
forewarnings, reluctance and those relating to apologising. Perhaps these
underrepresented politeness strategies can hardly be considered as such, at least
in Euripidean tragedy, even though they are in other languages.
As a result of this analysis, we have been able to detect overpoliteness
phenomena either in the form of conventionalised irony or, alternatively, as
verbal formula mismatches.
The degree of im/politeness, including overpoliteness, is especially difficult
to perceive in the absence of native speakers and metapragmatic comments. Once
again, the distribution per character type has contributed to shed light on this
issue as well as on the way in which linguistic characterisation is built in tragic
language, which is otherwise relatively uniform when it comes to colloquialisms,
dialectisms and other forms of linguistic variation at the level of morphology or
sentence grammar.
From a broader standpoint, our purpose has been to provide a practical
example of how to combine two apparently conflicting approaches to linguistic
politeness, namely Brown and Levinson’s and Watts’, to offer a better description
of the texts analysed here.32
32 Dickey (2016) incorporates four different frameworks for understanding linguistic politeness
(Brown and Levinson, Watts, Terkouraki and Hall) and concludes that, far from being exclusive, it
is possible to integrate all four for a better interpretation of the data in Latin.
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III Morphology and syntax

300
Die Anwendung des Duals bei Hesiod:

Beobachtungen über seinen graduellen Schwund
anhand der Theogonie und der Erga
Sara Agliardi
1 Vorbemerkung
Dass es einen bemerkenswerten Unterschied in der Anzahl der Dualbelegstellen

zwischen Hesiods Theogonie und Erga gibt, wird durch die Betrachtung des
Befundes sofort ersichtlich: In den Erga finden sich mehr als doppelt so viele
Belege für den Dual wie in der Theogonie. Wenn man außerdem berücksichtigt,
dass die Theogonie einen Umfang von 1022 Versen aufweist, während die
eindeutig hesiodeischen Passagen der Erga nur 694 Verse umfassen, wird der
Unterschied noch deutlicher. Auch wenn man annimmt,1 dass die Anwendung
des Duals in den frühgriechischen Epen Unregelmäßigkeiten unterlag, dürfte
eine solche Diskrepanz nicht gänzlich zufallsbedingt sein. Der Dual war schon
im Indogermanischen als eine grammatisch unvollständige sprachliche Kategorie
entstanden,2 denn schon in diesem Sprachstadium zeigte sich sein Kasussystem
ärmer als das von Singular und Plural.3 Es ist eine ziemlich verbreitete Meinung in
der Forschung, dass der progressive und uneinheitliche Schwund dieses Numerus
im Zusammenhang mit der Entwicklung des Kulturzustandes der Völker steht,
die indogermanische Sprachen gebrauchten, weil die Anwendung des Duals und
generell von Ausdrücken, die sich auf Gruppierungen beziehen, als Signal für
eine ältere, eher bäuerliche Gesellschaft gedeutet wird.4
Auf dieser Basis scheint es notwendig, genauer zu betrachten, warum der Dual
in den Werken Hesiods so unterschiedlich gehandhabt wird. Wenn man nämlich
davon ausgeht, dass die Werke vom selben Autor stammen, ist es unmöglich,
verschiedene Entwicklungsstadien der Sprache als solcher als Grund vorauszusetzen.
1Siehe z.B. Humboldt (1828: 27), der den Wechsel von Dual und Plural eine “schöne [...] Freiheit
der griechischen Sprache” nennt.
2 Vgl.Illek (1888: 97), der anführt, dass der Dual im Griechischen nie grammatikalisch vollständig
erscheint, wenn man ihn etwa mit dem Dual im Sanskrit vergleiche.
3 Für die indogermanischen Formen des Duals siehe Rix (1992 [1976]: 135, 141 und 159).
4 Siehe z.B. Gonda (1953: 11), Meillet (1922: 150) oder Cuny (1906: 5).
302 AGLIARDI, Die Anwendung des Duals bei Hesiod
Das Ziel dieses Beitrags ist es, den ganzen Befund der Theogonie und der
Erga genau und mit klaren Kriterien zu untersuchen: Sowohl Dualbelegstellen
als auch Dualvernachlässigungen werden aufgelistet, geprüft und bewertet. Auf
der Basis dieser Daten wird versucht, das Stadium des Schwundes des Duals zu
deuten, in welchem sich die Theogonie und Erga befinden.
2 Methodische Prämissen zur Zählung der Dualbelegstellen und der

Dualvernachlässigungen
1) In der Zählung der Belegstellen werden ausschließlich Stellen berücksichtigt,

die innerhalb der als sicher hesiodeisch geltenden Partien zu finden sind. Im Fall
der Erga werden also nur die Belege bis V. 695 berücksichtigt,5 da die Echtheit
der nachfolgenden Partien sehr umstritten ist;6 die Theogonie hingegen wird
vollständig berücksichtigt.
2) Wenn die Echtheit einer Stelle, die einen Dualbeleg oder eine
Dualvernachlässigung beinhaltet, umstritten ist, wird die Stelle nicht mitgezählt.7
Es wird grundsätzlich eine vorsichtige Vorgehensweise bevorzugt.8
3) Berücksichtigt werden hier unter dem Begriff von Dualvernachlässigungen
alle Verb- und Nominalformen,9 die dem Sinn und der Grammatik nach im
Dual stehen könnten, aber im Text im Plural oder Singular10 erscheinen. Es
muss sich um zwei Subjekte handeln, die miteinander verbunden sind, in einer
nahen Beziehung zueinander stehen oder zwei (und nicht mehrere) Paare bilden.
Pronominalformen und Numeralia im Dual, die nicht in anderen Numeri
dekliniert werden können, werden nicht mitgezählt.11
5 Die Situation des Befundes bei der umstrittenen Partie in den Erga ist folgende:
Dualvernachlässigungen: ποσσί V. 738; χεῖρας V. 739 und V. 740; ἐσθλαί V. 774; ἤματα V. 772.
Dualbelege: ἔξοχα V. 773.
6 Vgl. zur Unechtheit West (1966: 45–46); Wilamowitz (1962 [1928]: 132).
7 Siehe z.B. Hes. theog. V. 591 und V. 826.
8 Ich beziehe mich für diese Arbeit auf die Editionen von West (1966) und Solmsen (1970).
9Es werden hier als Dualvernachlässigungen auch Formen von Nomen und Verben gezählt, die in
Dual nirgendwo belegt sind. Diese Entscheidung hat mit der Schwerpunktsetzung dieser Arbeit
zu tun: Es geht darum, die Stellen ins Auge zu fassen, wo die sprachliche Möglichkeit für eine
Anwendung des Duals vorhanden ist.
10 Siehe auch Punkt n. 6.
11Da es keine alternative pluralische Ausdrucksweise für diese Wörter gibt, ist es unmöglich, auf
deren Basis Informationen über die Anwendung und den progressiven Schwund des Duals zu
4) Im Fall von kongruenten und aus mehreren Wörtern bestehenden

Nominalgruppen wird jedes Wort innerhalb eines einzelnen Satzteils12 mit seinen
Artikeln, Adjektiven und Partizipien als einzelne Belegstelle betrachtet. Da aber
die Abwechslung von Plural- und Dualformen13 zwischen Subjekt und Prädikat
innerhalb des gleichen Satzes möglich ist,14 werden Subjekt und Prädikat
entsprechend separat berücksichtigt und gezählt.
5) Wenn es um doppelte Körperteile geht, werden diese Stellen in der
Regel als Dualvernachlässigung bewertet, weil es sich hierbei um den Fall von
zwei von Natur aus verbundenen Gegenständen15 handelt. Es werden also die
entsprechenden Stellen mit χείρ, ὀφθαλμός, γόνυ, οὖς, ὦμος, πούς immer als
Dualvernachlässigungen betrachtet,16 sofern sich das Wort auf die Körperteile
von einer oder zwei Personen bezieht. Die Anwendung des Duals bei mehreren
Paaren ist hingegen ungewöhnlich und wird deswegen nicht mitgezählt.17
6) Der Fall von zwei singularischen miteinander verbundenen Subjekten mit
einem Verb im Singular wird als Dualvernachlässigung betrachtet, insofern das
Verb sich nicht ausdrücklich auf das letzte Subjekt bezieht.18
entnehmen. Die feste Dualform ὄσσε wird hingegen mitberücksichtigt, weil diese Vokabel wichtig
ist, um Informationen über die Kategorie der doppelten Körperteile zu gewinnen.
12Die Nominalgruppen werden nur innerhalb von einem Satzteil als einzelne Gruppe betrachtet.
Z.B. Hes. theog. V. 270: Die Nominalgruppe “γραίας... καλλιπαρήους... πολιάς”, wird als
Einheit gezählt, jedoch macht die Nominalgruppe, die mit dieser durch einen Relativsatz
verbunden ist “τὰς... Γραίας” eine weitere Einheit aus. In den VV. 270–1 sind also insgesamt zwei
Dualvernachlässigungen zu zählen.
13 Siehe Kühner et al., Band I, Teil II (1869: 69).
14 Siehe Kühner et al., Band I, Teil II (1869: 69).
15 Vgl. Kühner et al., Teil II, Band I (1869: 69), wo erklärt wird, dass in der homerischen Sprache
seine Anwendung für die “paarweise in der Natur verbundene[n] Gegenstände” der ursprünglichen
Bedeutung des Duals entspricht.
16 In diesem Fall habe ich mich anders als Troxler (1964: 109) entschieden.
17 Siehe Kühner et al., Teil II, Band I (1869: 71): Es ist möglich, einen Dual für zwei Paare zu
finden, sehr selten ist hingegen der Fall von einem Dual für mehrere Paare. Aus diesem Grund
werde ich als Dualvernachlässigung eine Stelle zählen, wo es um zwei Paaren geht, hingegen wird
man keinen Dual erwarten, wenn es sich um mehr Paare handelt (wie zB. Hes. erg. 114: πόδας καὶ
χεῖρας… τέρποντ᾽).
18Auch in diesem Fall habe ich mich anders als Troxler entschieden: Vgl. Troxler, (1964: 112),
wo z.B. die Stelle Hes. erg. 161 (πόλεμός τε κακὸς καὶ φύλοπις αἰνὴ... ὤλεσε) nicht bei den
Dualvernachlässigungen erwähnt ist; auch Viti (2008) zählt in ihrem Artikel über den Dual bei
Homer diese Konstellation nicht unter die Dualvernachlässigungen.
7) Wo nicht ausdrücklich zwei Rinder bezeichnet werden,19 wird

angenommen, dass mehr als zwei Rinder gemeint sind, da man auch mehrere
Paare20 von Rindern besitzen oder benutzen könnte; diese Stellen werden also
nicht als Dualvernachlässigung behandelt.21
3 Übersicht über den Befund
3.1 Die Theogonie
Dem Autor der Theogonie scheint die Anwendung des Duals unbekannt zu sein:22
An fast allen Stellen, wo ein Dual möglich wäre, wählt der Autor einen Plural; nur in
drei von fünfzig Fällen,23 wo ein Plural metrisch nicht passend wäre, wird ein Dual
verwendet, der dann im Satz meistens nicht weiter kohärent durchgeführt wird.24
Die Vokabeln, die im Dual vorzufinden sind, sind in zwei dieser Fälle Formen des
Verbes φράζω, die sich in derselben metrischen Position25 befinden und als Subjekt
Gaia und Uranos haben. Interessant ist an dieser Stelle zu bemerken, dass das Verb
φράζω sonst nicht häufig26 in Dualform erscheint und zudem an vielen weiteren
Stellen27 in dieser metrischen Position im Plural steht. Aus diesem Grund ist zu
vermuten, dass es sich um eine feste Formel handelt, die aus metrischen Gründen
nur mit dem Dual vorkommt, was den Stellen ihre Aussagekraft als Dualbelege
nimmt und vermuten lässt, dass dem Autor diese Form nicht vertraut war.
Auch bei dem Dual in V. 698 handelt es sich um eine formelhafte
Verwendung, deren Primärstelle θ, 64 ist, wo das Verb ἀμέρδω noch in seiner
19 Z.B.: βουσίν Hes. erg., VV. 406, 429, 433.

20 Siehe auch Hes. erg., V. 432, wo zwei Pflüge (mit jeweils zwei Rinder) erwähnt werden.
21 Ausgenommen wird der Fall von zwei Paaren von Rindern, der hier nicht vorkommt; wenn es
eine solche Stelle gäbe, würde man sie freilich, dem Punkt 5 entsprechend, als Dualvernachlässigung
zählen.
22 Vgl. Cuny (1906: 503), der sogar vermutet, dass Hesiod nicht der Autor der Theogonie sei.
23 Für die genauen Belegstellen siehe Paragraph 5.
24 Siehe V. 474 οἱ, κλύον, ἐπίθοντο und V. 698 ἰφθίμων ἐόντων.
25Die Endung -την ist in beiden Fällen die dritte Hebung im Hexameter. Voran gehen jeweils zwei
Kürzen.
26Der Dual von φράζω ist sonst nur an zwei Stellen bei Homer (Υ 20, 115 und ν 373) belegt, aber
nicht an derselben metrischen Position wie in der Theogonie.
27 Wie z.B.: M, 212; ρ,161; ω, 127.
ursprünglichen Bedeutung28 erscheint. In der Theogonie wurde ὀφθαλμός aus

metrischen Gründen durch die erstarrte Dualform ὄσσε ersetzt.29 Durch dieses
Vorgehen kann ὄσσε etwa dieselbe metrische Position einnehmen, die für ὄσσε
auch an weiteren Stellen30 belegt ist. Da ὄσσε im Gegensatz zu den homerischen
Epen sonst kaum31 bei Hesiod zu finden ist, liegt die Vermutung nahe, dass die
Verwendung nicht auf streng linguistischen Gründen beruht. Ergänzend ist auch
zu erwähnen, dass die Augen bei Hesiod sonst immer im Plural und nicht im
Dual stehen.
Dementsprechend fallen alle drei Dualbelegstellen der Theogonie aus dem
Rahmen und bilden jeweils Besonderheiten: Es handelt sich um Formen, die
sonst kaum belegt sind. Sie scheinen aus metrischen Gründen ad hoc gewählt
worden zu sein.
Im Gegensatz zu den Dualbelegstellen sind die Dualvernachlässigungen in
der Theogonie zahlreich.32 Man kann die Belegstellen hinsichtlich ihres Subjektes
in zwei Kategorien33 unterteilen: Auf der einen Seite stehen die Körperteile,
die es paarweise gibt. Deren häufigste Vertreter sind die Hände,34 gefolgt von
den Augen, Füßen und Ohren.35 Knie und Schulter36 hingegen werden jeweils
nur einmal im Plural erwähnt. Auf der anderen Seite stehen die Götter oder
mythischen Wesen,37 die in der Theogonie in großer Anzahl und so gut wie
immer im Plural vorkommen.
Bemerkenswert ist auch, dass nur in zirka einem Achtel38 der Fälle statt dem
Dual eines Verbs ein Singular benutzt wird,39 während in den meisten weiteren
28 Vgl. Janko (1995: 90).

29 Diese modifizierte Wendung ist auch bei N, 340 zu finden, aber an anderen metrischen Stellen.
30 Α, 104; Ν, 435; δ, 662.
31Ὄσσε kommt bei Hesiod nur an weiteren zwei Stellen vor (Hes. theog. 826 und Hes. scut. 390),
während das Wort bei Homer sehr gut belegt ist (57 Belegstellen).
32 47 Belegstellen.
33 Aus dem Rahmen fällt die Stelle in V. 549, wo die Subjekte zwei Fleischstücke sind.
34 7 Belegstellen: VV. 482, 487, 519, 553, 575, 747, 823.
35 Jeweils 2 Stellen. Augen: VV. 698 und 701; Füße: VV. 824 und 842; Ohren: VV. 701 und 771.
36 Jeweils in V. 460 und in V. 824.
37 Insgesamt kommen 14 verschiedene Paare vor; Gaia und Uranos kommen drei Mal vor, und
manche göttlichen Wesen sind in verschiedenen Paaren zu finden (z.B. Nyx sowohl mit Erebos in
V. 123 als auch mit Hemera in den VV. 748–9).
38 Es finden sich 42 Stellen mit dem Plural und 5 Stellen mit dem Singular.
39 Dies ist der einzige Fall, der grammatisch möglich ist.
Fällen ein Plural auftritt. Bezüglich der Metrik wäre in den meisten Fällen40
auch ein Dual im Vers möglich,41 woraus abzuleiten ist, dass die Pluralform
nicht zwingend aus metrischen Gründen gewählt wurde, sondern aus rein
linguistischen.
Auf der Basis dieser Analyse wird deutlich, dass der Autor der Theogonie in
der Tat so gut wie nie den Dual aktiv genutzt hat und ihm dieser Numerus nur
zu Hilfe kam, wenn es keine andere Lösung gab, um einen Vers metrisch passend
aufzubauen.
3.2 Die Erga
In den Erga sind die Dualbelegstellen im Verhältnis zur Anzahl der Verse um fast
das Vierfache zahlreicher als in der Theogonie. Außerdem zeigt auch das Verhältnis
zwischen der Anzahl der Dualbelege und der Dualvernachlässigungen einen
großen Unterschied. Während es in der Theogonie nur bei ca. 1:17 liegt, beträgt
es in den Erga 1:2.
Hinzu kommt, dass in dem ganzen Werk nur an vier Stellen42 die Wahl
zwischen Dual und Plural aus metrischen Gründen getroffen worden zu sein
scheint: Da, wo ein Dual zu finden ist, wäre in der Regel auch ein Plural möglich
und umgekehrt.
Die Subjekte im Dual sind bei fast allen Passagen43 zwei Rinder, die den
Pflug auf dem Acker ziehen; Eine Ausnahme bilden zwei Passagen, wo es um
Aidos und Nemesis geht.44
Obwohl fast alle Dualbelege aus demselben Kontext stammen, sind die
Passagen ausreichend im Text verteilt, sodass nicht zu vermuten ist, dass ein
solcher Befund durch eine Interpolation an einer einzigen Stelle bewirkt wurde.
Es muss jedoch angemerkt werden, dass sich die dichteste Konzentration an
Dualformen in den VV. 436–9 findet, wo ausführlich erklärt wird, wie man zu
pflügen habe und worauf man achten müsse, damit die Arbeit erfolgreich gelinge.
Auch wenn in den Erga die Dualbelegstellen relativ zahlreich sind, ist die
Zahl der negativen Belegstellen immer noch doppelt so hoch: Die meisten
40 30/47.
41 Siehe Paragraph 5.
42 V. 13; V. 199; V. 185; V. 432.
43 Siehe VV. 436–439; 453; 608.
44 Siehe VV. 198–199.
Dualvernachlässigungen, die in pluralischen Verbal- und Nominalformen45

vorkommen, stammen ebenfalls aus dem Bereich des Pflügens, obwohl nebenbei
bemerkt werden muss, dass die Vokabeln des Wortfeldes “Pflügen” in den meisten
Fällen doch alles in allem öfter in Dual- als in Pluralform erscheinen.
Überraschend ist, dass an der für die besondere Verdichtung des Auftretens
von Dualen erwähnten Stelle auch einige Dualvernachlässigungen im Kontext
des Pflügens vorkommen: Das Ergebnis ist eine Passage, in der dieselben Subjekte
in unmittelbarer Nähe mal im Dual mal im Plural erscheinen sowohl mit Verben
als auch Artikeln in beiden Formen. Es entsteht der Eindruck, als verwende der
Autor Dualformen willkürlich und ohne klares Kriterium.
δοιὰ δὲ θέσθαι ἄροτρα,46 πονησάμενος κατὰ οἶκον,

αὐτόγυον καὶ πηκτόν, ἐπεὶ πολὺ λώιον οὕτω·
εἴ χ’ ἕτερον ἄξαις, ἕτερόν κ’ ἐπὶ βουσὶ47 βάλοιο.
δάφνης ἢ πτελέης ἀκιώτατοι ἱστοβοῆες. 435
δρυὸς <δ’> ἔλυμα, πρίνου δὲ γύης. βόε δ’ ἐνναετήρω
ἄρσενε κεκτῆσθαι· τῶν γὰρ σθένος οὐκ ἀλαπαδνόν·
ἥβης μέτρον ἔχοντε· τὼ ἐργάζεσθαι ἀρίστω.
οὐκ ἂν τώ γ’ ἐρίσαντε ἐν αὔλακι κὰμ μὲν ἄροτρον
ἄξειαν, τὸ δὲ ἔργον ἐτώσιον αὖθι λίποιεν. 440
τοῖς δ’ ἅμα τεσσαρακονταετὴς αἰζηὸς ἕποιτο
(...)
Hes. erg. VV. 432–44148
[Besorge dir zwei zu Hause hergestellte Pflüge, der eine aus einem einzigen
Stück und der andere aus zusammengelegten Teilen, denn so ist es besser: Wenn
du einen brichst, kannst du die Rinder an den anderen spannen. Die Steuer
aus Lorbeer oder aus Ulme sind die, die am besten gegen Holzwürmer halten.
Der Stamm muss aus Eiche sein, die Stange aber aus Steineiche. Kaufe dir zwei
männliche neunjährige Rinder, denn ihre Kraft ist unerschöpft und sie sind in
45 Die einzige Stelle, wo ein Singular statt eines Duals zu finden ist, ist V. 163.
46 Einfache Unterstreichung kennzeichnet Dualvernachlässigungen, doppelte hingegen Duale.
47Diese Vokabel wird im Plural nicht als eine Dualvernachlässigung betrachtet, da hier nicht die
Rinder als Paar gemeint sind, sondern Rinder generell.
48
Der Text stammt aus der Ausgabe von West (1966). Hier und im Folgenden handelt es sich um
meine eigenen Übersetzungen.
ihrem Blütenalter: diese sind die besten für die Arbeit. Sie werden jedenfalls
in der Ackerfurche nicht streiten und den Pflug brechen, indem sie die Arbeit
dort unvollständig verlassen. Möge mit ihnen ein starker vierzigjähriger Mann
mitgehen]
(...)
Die weiteren Dualvernachlässigungen in den Erga betreffen menschliche

Körperteile,49 die wie in der Theogonie auch in diesem Werk50 nie in der Dualform
auftreten, was hingegen bei Homer oft der Fall ist.51 Weitere Stellen im Plural
betreffen verschiedene abstrakte und konkrete Gegenstände. Eine interessante
Inkohärenz betrifft die göttlichen Paare: Während Poseidon und Zeus mit einem
Artikel im Plural angeführt werden, sind, wie schon erwähnt, Aidos und Nemesis
an zwei Stellen mit Dualprädikaten versehen.
Ergänzend kann man auch feststellen, dass der Schwund des Duals demselben
Weg wie im Attischen52 zu folgen scheint: Der Verzicht auf ihn beginnt zunächst
beim Verb und greift danach auch auf die Nominalformen über. Denn die
Wortart der Dualbelege ist im Ganzen gesehen in den meisten Fällen nominal,53
während nur drei Duale in der Verbalform auftauchen, wobei zwei davon in der
Theogonie zu finden sind.
4 Folgerungen
4.1 Die Theorie der Sprachverschiedenheit
Dass der Dual bei Hesiod nur in den Erga angewendet wird, während er in der
Theogonie fast komplett fehlt, wird auf der Basis des Befundes schnell deutlich.
Der Grund für eine solche Besonderheit ist wahrscheinlich in dem Inhalt und in
der damit verbundener Gattungssprache zu suchen.
49 Hände: V. 321; Ohren: V. 546; Knie: V. 587 und V. 608.

50 Vgl.
Cuny (1906: 501), der behauptet, dass es eine Tendenz in allen griechischen Dialekten gebe,
die Dualformen für doppelte Körperteile fallen zu lassen.
51 Für die doppelten Körperteile bei Homer vgl. Viti (2008: 596).
52 Siehe Cuny (1906: 85–87) über die attischen Inschriften.
53 11/14 Belegestellen.
In der Tat kann die Anwendung oder Nicht-Anwendung des Duals ein
Signal dafür sein, dass die Sprache der Theogonie sich in gewisser Weise von der
Sprache der Erga unterscheidet.
Die communis opinio in der Forschung54 dazu ist, dass in dieser linguistischen
Besonderheit, zusammen mit einigen umgangssprachlichen Ausdrücken,55 ein
Hinweis darauf zu erkennen sei, dass die Sprache der Erga von der böotischen
Mundart, in welcher der Dual länger erhalten blieb56 und die Hesiod sicherlich
kannte, beeinflusst wurde. Hesiod selbst behauptet nämlich in den Erga,57 dass
er sein Leben größtenteils in Askra in Böotien verbracht habe, dessen Mundart
ihm folglich sicher nicht unbekannt war. Dass im böotischen Raum der Dual
in Ausdrücken mit Bezug zum bäuerlichen Leben erhalten blieb, hängt mit der
lange Zeit landwirtschaftlichen Prägung dieser Region zusammen.58
Die häufige Anwendung von Dualformen in den Erga ausgerechnet in
agrarischen Kontexten kann also durch den Einfluss dieses Dialektes auf die von
Hesiod in diesem Werk angewandte Sprache erklärt werden. Dieser sprachliche
Unterschied, der vor allem auf dem Argument des böotischen Einflusses basiert,
wurde jedenfalls in der Forschung des letzten Jahrhunderts als so bemerkenswert
empfunden, dass Cuny (1906) es sogar als Begründung für seine Hypothese
anführt, dass die Theogonie nicht von Hesiod stamme.59
Eine unterschiedliche Autorenschaft dieser Werke zu postulieren ist aber
meines Erachtens nicht notwendig, da die inhaltliche Verschiedenheit der
Werke durchaus als Begründung des Sprachunterschiedes dienen kann. Dem
sakral-mythologischen Gegenstand der Theogonie entsprechend wählte Hesiod
sozusagen einen höheren Sprachstil, die den Dual nicht enthält. Dagegen scheint
für Thema und Rezipienten der Erga die bäuerliche, böotische Mundart eher
angebracht.
Die Anwendung einer vom Böotischen beeinflussten Sprache kann also
als eine bewusste stilistische Entscheidung gedeutet werden und muss nicht
notwendig eine unterschiedliche Autorschaft der zwei Werke implizieren.
54 Es gibt aber auch Gegenmeinungen: Thumb (1959: 211) z.B. meint, dass die Hesiod
zugeschriebenen Dichtungen keineswegs als Zeugnisse des böotischen Dialekts verwendet werden
dürfen und dass seine Sprache dem böotischen Einfluss nur wenig unterlag.
55 Vgl. z.B. die Äußerungen von Troxler (1964: 113) über Hes. erg., V. 453.
56 Siehe Buck (1928: 87).
57 Siehe Hes. erg., V. 640.
58 Siehe Vottéro (1998: 205).
59 Siehe Cuny (1906: 502). Anderer Meinung ist Illek (1888: 102).
4.2 Die Verteilung der Duale im Text
Ein weiteres ungeklärtes Problem hat mit der Vermischung von Dual- und
Pluralformen im Text zu tun: Auch wenn man annimmt, dass die Theogonie
und die Erga vom selben Autor stammen, bleibt die Frage offen, warum die
Anwendung des Duals, die jedoch eine erkennbar unterschiedliche Tendenz in
den jeweiligen Werken aufweist, nicht kohärent innerhalb des jeweiligen Textes
zu sein scheint.
Man hat auf verschiedene Weisen versucht, Kriterien zu finden, um zu
bestimmen, an welchen Stellen im Text ein Dual konkret zu erwarten sei. Die
beliebteste Erklärung steht in Verbindung mit dem Begriff der “Zweiheit”60
oder der sogenannten “Dualité-Unité”:61 Der Dual wird als ein Numerus
betrachtet, der speziell für die “in der Natur verbundenen Gegenstände”62
verwendet wird, die als eine Einheit wahrgenommen werden können. Obwohl
der Begriff der Zweiheit viel über das Sortiment an Vokabeln erklärt, die in
den Texten im Dual zu finden sind, handelt es sich um kein allgemein gültiges
Kriterium, um immer sicher festzustellen, wo im Text ein Dual zu erwarten ist
und wo nicht.63 Der erste Grund ist, dass oft dieselben Subjekte, die im Dual
vorkommen, auch als Pluralformen zu finden sind; der zweite ist, dass die
Kategorie der Zweiheit/Einheit häufig zu generisch formuliert wird:64 Um mit
Recht behaupten zu dürfen, dass zwei Subjekte eine untrennbare Zweiheit bilden,
wird oft als Argument angeführt, dass sie eben als Paar im Text auftreten, was
zu einem Zirkelschluss führt. Auch der Versuch, einzelne Dualbelegstellen mit
grammatikalischen Regeln zu rechtfertigen,65 erweist sich oft als unzureichend,
da die Dualvernachlässigungen dabei unerklärt bleiben: Wenn man nämlich
60 Siehe Humboldt (1828: 18).

61 Siehe Gonda (1953: 9).
62 Siehe Kühner et al., Teil II, Band II (1869: 68).
63 Vgl. auch Illek (1888: 100): “Aus dieser Zusammenstellung ersehen wir also, dass der Dual nie
ohne Bedeutung der Zweiheit bei Hesiod gebraucht wurde. Andererseits aber ist es zweifellos, dass
diese ungleich häufiger im Plural hinreichend Ausdruck fand.”
64 Eine Kritik an der Formulierung der Theorie der Zweiheit bei Humboldt (1828) ist auch bei
Plank zu finden (1986: 242).
65 Siehe z.B. Cuny (1906: 501), der die Plurale in der Passage der Erga in den VV. 432–441
als Ausnahmen gut begründet, aber die Dualvernachlässigungen (doppelt so viele!) in demselben
Werk unerklärt lässt. Ein anderes Beispiel ist auch Gonda (1953), der theoretisiert, dass in der
Anwendung des Duals die Anwesenheit oder die Abwesenheit von δύο eine Rolle spielen kann. Es
handelt sich um kluge Analysen, die vieles erklären, aber Lücken offenlassen.
einen Dual rechtfertigt, ist es notwendig, auch zu zeigen, warum an anderen

Stellen in ähnlichen Konstellationen doch die Pluralform zu finden ist.
Auch wenn die Verteilung und die Anzahl der Dualbelegstellen in den zwei
Werken sicherlich aussagekräftig ist, scheint für das jeweilige konkrete Vorkommen
der Duale eine gewisse Zufälligkeit eine Rolle zu spielen. Die Tatsache, dass
der Autor sich bewusst für eine vom böotischen Dialekt beeinflusste Sprache
entschieden hat, wo im Durchschnitt Dualformen deutlich häufiger vorkommen,
hindert nämlich nicht daran, dass die Verteilung der einzelne Dualformen im
Text, trotz gewissen wiederkehrenden Konstanten, willkürlich sein kann, wie es
bei Hesiod der Fall zu sein scheint.
Eine mögliche Erklärung der zufälligen Verteilung der Dual- und
Pluralstellen ist mit der Frage verbunden, wie die Spuren der Dialekte in der
jeweils höheren Sprachschicht in der Regel erhalten bleiben. In der Linguistik
wird die Konstellation, bei der eine höhere und neuere sowie eine niedrigere
und ältere Variante derselben Sprache zeitgleich in demselben Gebiet existieren
und für unterschiedliche Kontexte angewendet werden, Diglossie ohne
Zweisprachigkeit genannt; wenn ein solches Phänomen auftritt, tendiert
die niedrigere Variante des Dialektes dazu, zu verschwinden, wobei sie in
gewissen Kontexten exklusiv mündlich weiterverwendet wird, um dann in
einer nachfolgenden Phase nur für eine besondere Färbung im Ausdruck zu
dienen.66 Dies scheint in der Tat bei den Erga der Fall zu sein, wo die Duale,
die üblicherweise in der Indogermanistik67 als Signale einer eher archaischen
Sprache gedeutet werden, im Text vorwiegend im speziell landwirtschaftlichen,
traditionellen Kontext am häufigsten vorkommen. Ein interessanter Hinweis auf
den Archaismus dieses Numerus ist nicht nur in seinen Anwendungskontexten,
sondern auch in seinen grammatikalischen Eigenschaften zu suchen. Die
einfache Deklination des Nomens im Dual, welches die Unterscheidung von
Akkusativ und Nominativ sowie von Dativ und Genitiv verhindert, ist für eine
Sprache wie das Griechische nämlich besonders störend und deutet auf die
Unvollkommenheit der Sprache hin.68
Es muss in diesem Zusammenhang aber auch bemerkt werden, dass eine
vorsichtigere Vorgehensweise notwendig ist, wenn man moderne Kategorien wie
Diglossie ohne Zweisprachigkeit auf antike Texte anwendet. Der Sprachgebrauch
66Siehe z.B. der Prozess des Schwundes von italienischen Dialekten bei Loporcaro (2013: 176–
178).
67 Siehe z.B Cuny (1906) oder Gonda (1953: 9–10).
68 Vgl. Meillet (1922: 150)
Hesiods kann nämlich durch viele Variablen bedingt sein: Durch die Tatsache,
dass es ein literarisches Werk ist, durch die formelhafte epische Sprache69 oder die
metrische Struktur. Dies beachtend liegt die Vermutung nahe, dass die Sprache
Hesiods sich in einer derartigen Entwicklungsstufe befindet, in der solche
dialektale Färbung noch zu erkennen ist und zwar in den Passagen, in denen es
um Themen geht, für welche die besten und geeignetsten Ausdrücke in der alten
bäuerlichen Mundart zu finden sind.
Die zufällige Verteilung der Duale in den Erga kann also von der
Vermischung von höherer und niedriger Sprache verursacht sein, die, wie in dem
Fall der Diglossie ohne Zweisprachigkeit, in der schriftlichen und mündlichen
Sprache keine strenge und kohärente Trennung zwischen den zwei Sprachebenen
aufweist.70 Obwohl also die Wahl einer Sprache, die im Allgemeinen nah an
der böotischen Mundart steht, eine bewusste stilistische Entscheidung zu sein
scheint, wird die Anwendung der Duale in den Erga nicht systematisch im
Einzelnen durchgeführt und bleibt ein gelegentliches und eher spontanes Mittel
der Färbung der Sprache.
Alles in allem aber kann der Wechsel zwischen Plural und Dual in den Erga
nicht als eine bloße “schöne Freiheit”71 der griechischen Sprache verstanden
werden, sondern vielmehr als ein regelmäßiges Signal eines Prozesses von
Sprachmischung einer älteren Mundart mit der gebildeten und moderneren
Schriftsprache. In der Tat wird in der griechischen Sprache der Dual durch den
Plural desto häufiger ersetzt, je jünger die Schriften sind, bis der Dual ungefähr
zur Zeit Alexanders des Großen gänzlich verschwindet.72
69 Für die Formelsprache bei Hesiod siehe Edwards (1971: 40–42).

70 Vgl. Schlieben-Lange (1958: 79): “Jeder Sprecher verfügt über mehrere Varianten seiner
Muttersprache, zwischen denen er umschalten kann (...). Solch ein Umschalten geschieht in
Abhängigkeit der Situation, dem Auditorium, dem Thema usw. Es kann sich abspielen zwischen
regionalen Varianten (häufig beherrscht ein Sprecher einen Dialekt und die regionale Form der
Hochsprache), zwischen sozialen uns zwischen stilistischen Varianten. Dabei sind alle möglichen
Überschneidungen zwischen diesen Arten von Varianten möglich.”
71 Vgl. Humboldt (1828: 27)
72 Vgl. Kühner et al., Teil II, Band I (1869: 285).
5 Tabellen: Dualbelegstellen und Dualvernachlässigungen
5.1 Theogonie
5.1.1 Dualbelege
Stelle Wort in Dualform Plural metrisch Satz
möglich?
V. 475 πεφραδέτην Nein Γαῖάν τε καὶ Οὐρανὸν... οἱ
(πέφραδον) πεφραδέτην, ὅσα...
V. 698 ὄσσε73 Nein74 φλὸξ... ὄσσε δ᾽ ἄμερδε75
V. 892 φρασάτην Nein (φρασάν) Γαίης... Οὐρανοῦ... τὼς γάρ οἱ
φρασάτην, ἵνα...
Insgesamt: 3 Belegstellen76 / 1022 Verse
Immer metrisch zwingend.
5.1.2 Dualvernachlässigungen
Stelle Wort, das im Dual Dual metrisch Satz
stehen könnte möglich?
V. 45 ἔτικτεν Nein θεῶν... οὓς Γαῖα καὶ Οὐρανὸς
(ἐτικτέτην) εὐρὺς ἔτικτεν77
V. 123 ἐγένοντο Ja (ἐγενέσθην) ἐκ Χάεος δ᾽ Ἔρεβός τε μέλαινά
τε Νὺξ ἐγένοντο
V. 124 ἐξεγένοντο Ja (ἐξεγενέσθην) Νυκτὸς δ᾽ αὖτ᾽ Αἰθήρ τε καὶ
Ἡμέρη ἐξεγένοντο
73 Auch wenn es sich um eine feste Dualform handelt, wird dieser Beleg trotzdem berücksichtigt,
siehe Anm. 7.
74 Da ὄσσε nur in der Dualform auftritt, wird diese Stelle als metrisch zwingend betrachtet.
75 Reiner Homerismus nach N 340, vgl. Troxler (1964: 109).
76Der Dual, den M. West (1966) im V. 826 in seiner Edition in den Text einbezieht (ἐν δέ οἱ ὄσσε
θεσπεσίῃς κεφαλῇσιν ὑπ᾽ ὀφρύσι πῦρ ἀμάρυσσεν) ist in der Überlieferung unsicher und in der
Edition von Solmsen (1970) durch ὄσσων ersetzt. Aus diesem Grund habe ich mich entschieden,
diese Stelle, wie Troxler (1964: 119), nicht zu berücksichtigen.
Dieses Wort ist in der Überlieferung auch in der Variante ἔτικτεν und ἔτικτον präsent, siehe
77
West (1966: 112).

V. 267 ἠυκόμους... Ja (ἠυκόμω... ἠυκόμους θ᾽ Ἁρπυίας,78 Ἀελλώ

Ἁρπυίας Ἁρπυία) τ᾽ Ὠκυπέτην τε, αἵ ῥ᾽ ἀνέμων
V. 268 ἕπονται Ja (ἕπεσθον) πνοιῇσι καὶ οἰωνοῖς ἅμ᾽ ἕπονται
V. 278 αἵ Ja (τά) ὠκείῃς πτερύγεσσι μετραχρόνιαι
V. 269 ὠκείῃς πτερύγεσσι Ja (ὠκέοιν γὰρ ἴαλλον
πτερύγοιν)
V. 269 μεταχρόνιαι Ja (μεταχρόνια)
V. 269 ἴαλλον Nein (ἰαλλέτην)
V. 270 γραίας... Ja (γραία... Φόρκυι δ᾽ αὖ Κητὼ γραίας79 τέκε
καλλιπαρήους... καλλιπαρήω... καλλιπαρήους ἐκ γενετῆς πολιάς,
πολιάς πολιά) τὰς δὴ Γραίας καλέουσιν... θεοί...
τ᾽ ἄνθρωποι
V. 271 τὰς... Γραίας Ja (τὰ... Γραία)
V. 277 αἱ... ἀθάνατοι... Ja (τὼ... Σθεννώ τ᾽ Εὐρυάλη τε
ἀγήρῳ ἀθάνατω... Μέδουσα... ἡ μὲν ἔην θνητή, αἱ δ᾽
ἀγήρω) ἀθάνατοι καὶ ἀγήρῳ, αἱ δύο80
V. 278 αἱ (δύο) Ja (τά)
V. 281 ἐξέθορε Nein ἐξέθορε Χρυσάωρ τε μέγας καὶ
(ἐξεθορέτην) Πήγασος ἵππος
V. 325 εἷλε Nein (εἱλέτην) χίμαιραν... μὲν Πήγασος εἷλε καὶ
ἐσθλὸς Βελλεροφόντης
V. 460 γούναθ᾽ Ja (γούναθε) τοὺς μὲν κατέπινε μέγας Κρόνος,
ὥς τις... πρὸς γούναθ᾽81 ἵκοιτο
V. 474 οἱ Ja (τώ) Γαῖάν τε καὶ Οὐρανὸν... οἱ δὲ
V. 474 κλύον Nein (κλυέτην) θυγατρὶ φίλῃ μάλα μὲν κλύον ἠδ᾽
V. 474 ἐπίθοντο Ja (ἐπιθέσθην) ἐπίθοντο
V. 482 χερσί Nein (χειροῖν) Γαῖα... κρύψεν δέ ἑ χερσὶ
λαβοῦσα
V. 487 χείρεσσιν Ja (χειροῖν) Κρόνος... τὸν τόθ᾽ ἑλὼν χείρεσσιν
78An den meisten Stellen sind die Harpyien zwei wie in diesem Fall, aber in einigen späteren
Quellen treten sie zu dritt oder in unbestimmter Zahl auf (vgl. dazu Der Neue Pauly s.V.).
79 Die Graien sind nirgendwo in Dualform zu finden, vielleicht deshalb, weil ihre Zahl in den
verschiedenen Quellen zwischen zwei und drei schwankt (vgl. dazu Der Neue Pauly s.V.). Trotzdem
wäre hier ein Dual zu erwarten, weil es sich ausdrücklich um zwei eng miteinander verbundene
Figuren handelt, die sozusagen eine Entität bilden.
80 Vgl. die Konstruktion in ξ 26.
81Γόνυ ist nur sehr selten im Dual belegt: 11 Stellen insgesamt, allerding nur bei späten Autoren
und im Corpus Hippocraticum (Ep. 17,32).
V. 519 ἀκαμάτῃσι χέρεσσι Nein Ἄτλας δ᾽ οὐρανὸν εὐρὺν ἔχει...

(ἀκαμάτοιν ἀκαμάτῃσι χέρεσσι82
χειροῖν)
V. 549 τῶν Ja (τοῖν) τῷ μὲν γὰρ σάρκας... τοῖς δὲ
αὖτ᾽ ὀστέα λευκά... τῶν δ᾽ ἕλευ
ὁπποτέρην σε ἐνὶ φρεσὶ θυμὸς
ἀνώγει
V. 553 χερσὶ ἀμφοτέρῃσιν Nein (χειροῖν Ζεὺς... χερσὶ δ᾽ ὅ γ᾽ ἀμφοτέρῃσιν
ἀμφοτέροιν) ἀνείλετο λευκὸν ἄλειφαρ
V. 575 χείρεσσι Nein (χειροῖν) κατὰ κρῆθεν δὲ καλύπτρην
δαιδαλέην χείρεσσι κατέσχεθε
V. 582 τρέφει Nein (τρέφετον) ἤπειρος δεινὰ τρέφει ἠδὲ
θάλασσα
V. 698 ἰφθίμων ἐόντων Ja (ἰφθίμοιν ὄσσε δ᾽ ἄμερδε καὶ ἰφθίμων περ
ἐόντοιν) ἐόντων83
V. 701 ὀφθαλμοῖσιν Nein εἴσατο δ᾽ ἄντα ὀφθαλμοῖσιν ἰδεῖν
(ὀφθαλμοῖν) ἠδ᾽ οὔασιν ὄσσαν ἀκοῦσαι
V. 701 οὔασιν Nein (οὐάτοιν)
V. 703 πίλνατο Ja (πιλνάτην) γαῖα καὶ οὐρανὸς εὐρὺς ὕπερθε
πίλνατο
V. 747 ἀκαμάτῃσι χέρεσσιν Nein Ἰαπετοῖο πάις ἔχει οὐρανὸν
(ἀκαμάτοιν εὐρὺν ἑστηὼς κεφαλῇ τε καὶ
χειροῖν) ἀκαμάτῃσι χέρεσσιν
V. 748 ἰοῦσαι Ja (ἰοῦσα) ὅθι Νύξ τε καὶ Ἡμέρη ἆσσον
V. 749 προσέειπον Nein ἰοῦσαι ἀλλήλας προσέειπον
(προσεειπέτην) ἀμειβόμεναι μέγαν οὐδόν
V. 749 ἀμειβόμεναι Ja (ἀμειβόμενα)
V. 758 ἔχουσιν Ja (ἔχετον) ἔνθα δὲ Νυκτὸς παῖδες οἰκί᾽
V. 759 παῖδες... δεινοὶ θεοί Ja (παῖδε... ἔχουσιν Ὕπνος καὶ Θάνατος,
δεινὼ θεώ) δεινοὶ θεοί84
V. 771 οὔασιν Nein (οὐάτοιν δεινὸς δὲ κύων... σαίνει ὁμῶς
ἀμφοτέροισιν ἀμφοτέροιν) οὐρῇ τε καὶ οὔασιν ἀμφοτέροισιν
V. 816 ναιετάουσιν Nein δώματα ναιετάουσιν ... Κόττος τ᾽
(ναιετάετον) ἠδὲ85 Γύγης
82 Siehe Hes. theog., V. 747.

83Da im Fall eines Genitivus Absolutus ein Numeruswechsel nicht möglich ist, wird dies als eine
Einheit gezählt.
84 Vgl. Sellschopp (1934: 42).
85Τ᾽ ἠδέ zwischen zwei Subjekten findet man nur in den zweifelsfrei echten hesiodeischen Partien,
vgl. West (1966: 379).
V. 823 χεῖρες Ja (χεῖρε) οὗ χεῖρες86 † μὲν ἔασιν ἐπ᾽ ἰσχύι

ἔργματ᾽ ἔχουσαι †87
V. 824 πόδες ἀκάματοι Ja (πόδε πόδες88 ἀκάματοι κρατεροῦ θεοῦ
ἀκαμάτω)
V. 824 ὤμων Ja (ὤμοιν) ἐκ δέ οἱ ὤμων ἦν ἑκατὸν κεφαλαὶ
ὄφιος δεινοῖο δράκοντος
V. 842 ποσσὶ ἀθανάτοισι Nein (ποδοῖν ποσσὶ δ᾽ ὕπ᾽ ἀθανάτοισι μέγας
ἀθανάτοιν) πελεμίζετ᾽ Ὄλυμπος
V. 935 οἵ Ja (τώ) Φόβον... Δεῖμον ἔτικτε, δεινούς,

V. 935 κλονέουσι Nein οἵ τ᾽ ἀνδρῶν πυκινὰς κλονέουσι
(κλονέετον) φάλαγγας
V. 935 δεινούς Ja (δεινώ)
V. 942 εἰσιν Ja (ἔστον) Σεμέλη... Διώνυσον... νῦν δ᾽
V. 942 ἀμφότεροι θεοί Ja (ἀμφοτέρω ἀμφότεροι θεοί εἰσιν
θεώ)
Insgesamt: 47 Dualvernachlässigungen / 1022 Verse
in 18/47 Fälle metrisch zwingend.
An 6,0 % der theoretisch möglichen Stellen tritt tatsächlich ein Dual auf.
Der Prozentsatz der Anwendung des Duals im Verhältnis zu der Anzahl der
Verse beträgt: 0,29%.
5.2 Erga
5.2.1 Dualbelege in den Erga

Stelle Wort in Dualform Plural metrisch Satz
möglich?
V. 198 καλυψαμένω Ja καλυψαμένω89 χρόα καλόν,
(καλυψάμενοι) ἀθανάτων μετὰ φῦλον ἴτον...
V. 199 ἴτον Nein (ἴασι) Αἰδὼς καὶ Νέμεσις
Der Plural wird für nur ein Paar gebraucht; der Vers ist nach χεῖρες wahrscheinlich korrupt, vgl.
86
West (1966: 384).

87Nach West (1966) ist die Crux vor dem μέν zu setzen, während sie laut Solmsen (1970) danach
zu setzen ist. Die Stelle wird berücksichtigt trotz der wahrscheinlichen Korruption des Verses, weil
diese erst nach der Dualvernachlässigung vorliegt.
88 Der Plural wird für nur ein Paar gebraucht; vgl. Hes. theog. V. 823.
89In der Überlieferung sind auch die Versionen: καλυψαμένη und καλυψαμένα präsent, vgl. West
(1966: 204).
V. βόε ἐνναετήρω Ja (βοῦς βόε δ᾽ ἐνναετήρω ἄρσενε

436–7 ἄρσενε ἐνναετήρoυς κεκτῆσθαι
ἄρσενας)
V. 438 ἔχοντε Ja (ἔχοντες) τῶν γὰρ σθένος οὐκ ἀλαπαδνόν,
ἥβης μέτρον ἔχοντε
V. 438 τὼ... ἀρίστω Ja (οἱ... ἄριστοι) τὼ ἐργάζεσθαι ἀρίστω
V. 439 τὼ… ἐρίσαντε Ja (οἱ (βόε δ᾽ ἐνναετήρω ἄρσενε) οὐκ
ἐρίσαντες) ἂν τώ γ᾽ ἐρίσαντε90 ἐν αὔλακι
V. 453 βόε Ja (βοῦς) βόε δὸς καὶ ἄμαξαν
V. 608 βόε Ja (βοῦς) αὐτὰρ ἔπειτα δμῶας ἀναψῦξαι
φίλα γούνατα καὶ βόε λῦσαι
Insgesamt: 8 Belegstellen / 694 Verse
In 1/8 Fälle metrisch zwingend.
5.2.2 Dualvernachlässigungen in den Erga

Stelle Wort, das im Dual Dual metrisch Satz
stehen könnte möglich?
V. 11 εἰσί Ja (ἔστον) Οὐκ ἄρα μοῦνον ἔην Ἐρίδων
γένος, ἀλλ᾽ ἐπὶ γαῖαν εἰσὶ δύω
V. 13 ἔχουσιν Nein (ἔχετον) (δύω γένεα) διὰ δ᾽ ἄνδιχα θυμὸν
ἔχουσιν91
V. 37 ἐδασσάμεθ᾽ Ja (ἐδεσσάσθον) (Πέρση καὶ ἐγὼ) ἤδη μὲν γὰρ
κλῆρον ἐδασσάμεθ᾽ 92
V. 163 ὤλεσε Nein πόλεμός τε κακὸς καὶ φύλοπις
(ὠλεσάτην) αἰνὴ... τοὺς... ὤλεσε
V. 185 γηράσκοντας... Ja Αἶψα δὲ γηράσκοντας
τοκῆας (γηράσκοντε... ἀτιμήσουσι τοκῆας
τοκῆε)
V. 186 τούς Ja (τώ) μέμψονται δ᾽ ἄρα τοὺς93 (τοκῆας)
χαλεποῖς βάζοντες ἔπεσσιν
90 Auch die Form Ἐρίσαντες findet sich in einer Nebenüberlieferung, vgl. West (1966: 117).
91 Eine ähnliche Konstruktion, jedoch mit dem Verb im Dual, ist bei N, 704 zu finden.
92Troxler (1964) erachtet auch διακρινώμεθα als eine Dualvernachlässigung (V. 35); ich halte es
hingegen für einen Fall von Plural statt Singular, vgl. Kühner et al., Teil II, Band I (1869: 83, §
371.3).
93 Τούς befindet sich in diesem Vers an einer ungewöhnlichen Position im Satz. Aber die
Lösungsvorschläge, die bis jetzt formuliert wurden, beziehen sich nicht auf den Numerus des
Artikels. Vgl. West (1966: 200).
V. 321 χερσί Ja (χειροῖν) εἰ γάρ τις94 καὶ χερσὶ βίῃ μέγαν

ὄλβον ἕληται
V. 432 ἄροτρα Nein (ἀρότρω) δοιὰ δὲ θέσθαι ἄροτρα95
V. 437 τῶν Ja (τοῖν) βόε δ᾽ ἐνναετήρω ἄρσενε… τῶν
γὰρ σθένος οὐκ ἀλαπαδνόν
V. 440 ἄξειαν Ja (ἀξείτην) βόε δ᾽ ἐνναετήρω ἄρσενε… οὐκ
V. 440 λίποιεν Ja (λιποίτην) ἂν τώ γ᾽ ἐρίσαντε ἐν αὔλακι κὰμ
μὲν ἄροτρον ἄξειαν, τὸ δὲ ἔργον
ἐτώσιον αὖθι λίποιεν
V. 546 οὔατα Ja (οὔατε) κεφαλῆφι δ᾽ ὕπερθεν πῖλον ἔχειν

ἀσκητὸν ἵν᾽ οὔατα μὴ καταδεύῃ
V. 584 πτερύγων Ja (πτερύγοιν) τέττιξ... καταχεύετ᾽ ἀοιδὴν
πυκνὸν ὑπὸ πτερύγων96
V. 587 γούνατα Ja (γούνατε) ἐπεὶ κεφαλὴν καὶ γούνατα
Σείριος ἄζει
V. 608 φίλα γούνατα Ja (φίλω αὐτὰρ ἔπειτα δμῶας ἀναψῦξαι
γούνατε) φίλα γούνατα καὶ βόε λῦσαι
V. 669 τοῖς Ja (τοῖν) Ποσειδάων... Ζεὺς... ἐν τοῖς γὰρ
τέλος ἐστὶν ὁμῶς ἀγαθῶν τε
κακῶν τε
Insgesamt: 16 Belegstellen / 694 Verse
In 3/16 Fälle metrisch zwingend.
An 33,33 % der theoretisch möglichen Stellen tritt tatsächlich ein Dual auf.
Der Prozentsatz der Anwendung des Duals im Verhältnis zu der Anzahl der
Verse beträgt: 1,15%.
94
Es handelt sich um ein einzelnes Paar von Händen (siehe “τις”), an dieser Stelle wäre also ein
Dual möglich gewesen.
95 Die VV. 432–4 sind nach West (1966: 268) wahrscheinlich eine späte Hinzufügung.
96 Da die Flügel der Zikade auf jeden Fall zwei sind und das Wort πτέρυξ auch sonst im Dual belegt
ist, habe ich entschieden, diese Stelle als Dualvernachlässigung zu betrachten. Für Weiteres siehe
West (1966: 305).
5.3 Wortart der Dualbelege und der Wörter, die den Dual ersetzen
5.3.1 Dualformen, Nominalformen

Form Dualformen Plural- oder Singularformen
Theogonie Erga Theogonie Erga
Demonstrativpronomina / / 4 1
Relativpronomina / / 2 2
Verwandtschaften / / 1 1
Menschengruppen / / 4 /
Tiere / 3 / /
Körperteile / / 14 4
Leblose Gegenstände / / 1 2
Adjektive / 3 18 /
Artikel / 2 1 /
Partizipien / 3 3 1
5.3.2 Dualformen, Verbalformen

Form Dualformen Plural- oder Singularformen
Theogonie Erga Theogonie Erga
Indikativ 2 1 16 5
Optativ / / / 1
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322
Exclamative nominatives and nominatives pro

vocatives in Greek and Latin: a possible distinction?
Giulia Bucci
1 Introduction
This paper aims at proposing a possible explanation for the so-called phenomenon
of “nominative pro vocative”, namely the use of the nominative case in contexts
where the vocative case is required.
As is well known, in traditional grammars the absolute uses of the nominative
case are described as extrasyntactical functions: nominatives do not cover the
subject role but rather appear in lists, titles, anacolutha (nominativi pendenti),
quotations and exclamations.1
On the other hand, grammarians examine and describe the possibility of
a nominative replacing the vocative in many vocative-typical contexts and in
different formal typologies,2 such as:
a) an isolated noun in the NP / all the constituents in the NP;

b) a member of the NP, the head or the modifier;
c) one of the NPs in a coordinated sequence;
a) ὁ παῖς, ἀκολούθει δεῦρο ‘here, boy, follow me’ (Ar. Ra. 521);
b) ὦ τλήμων ἄνερ ‘oh miserable man’ (Eur. Andr. 348);
c) Ζεῦ πάτερ […] Ἠέλιός θ’ ὃς πάντ’ ἐφορᾷς ‘Oh father Zeus […] and you Sun’
(Il. 3.276).
Before getting into the central issue, it is important to differentiate these two
scenarios: the latter (nominative pro vocative) presupposes a substitution of form
and function between the two cases, which is not systematic and allows the
1 See Blatt (1952: 65-–66); Brugmann and Thumb (1913: 432); Chantraine (1953: 36); Hoffmann
and Szantyr (1965: 27); Kühner and Gerth (1898: 46); Meillet and Vendryes (1979: 548); Riemann
(1927: 67); Schwyzer (1950: 65–66); Wackernagel (2009 [1928]: 385).
2 See, for example, Blatt (1952: 75); Chantraine (1953: 36); Ernout-Thomas (1964: 11);
Gildersleeve (1980 [1900]: 4); Kühner and Gerth (1898: 46–47); Meillet and Vendryes (1979:
547); Schwyzer (1950: 63–64).
324 BUCCI, Exclamative nominatives and nominatives pro vocatives
opposition to be maintained elsewhere, both from a formal and a functional

point of view. There is not a neutralization,3 intended as a total loss of expression
of the case feature, but only a value exchange in the same case category, since the
case value is conveyed by the nominative.
Instead, the former – the nominative’s absolute uses – consists of typical
functions of the nominative case itself and could be considered as a neutralization
of the case value: no syntactic link is expressed4 and the nominative merely
“names” the referent.
The hypothesis I examine here relies on this essential distinction. In fact, I
would like to display that the origin of such phenomenon – a proper substitution
– is to be found in a specific functional area in which the nominative and the
vocative case overlap: the vague boundary between an address and an exclamation,
where the distinction between neutralization and substitution is quite fine. The
corpus selected for this purpose includes the comedies of Aristophanes, Plautus
and Terence, which stand out for the large amount of addresses and exclamations,
especially insults.
2 Exclamative nominatives vs. exclamative vocatives
One particular absolute use of the nominative case, i.e. the exclamative one,
deserves special attention: in fact, I noticed that grammarians mention an
“exclamative vocative” alongside the “exclamative nominative”, though without
specifying any functional difference.5
In order to fully understand this overlap, it is necessary to state exactly what
is shared by the two cases in this context, as well as to what extent. Thus, first of
all, I have to provide a definition of exclamation.
Using the words of Hill (2014: 5), “the exclamation vents out the speaker’s
feelings with no regard for the presence or the absence of a hearer (if a hearer is present,
she/he is not an interlocutor involved in that particular utterance). Exclamations do
not identify the interlocutor neither do they say anything about the addressee”.
3 The first linguist who introduced the notion of neutralization within the debate on markedness,
albeit only on a phonological level of analysis, was Trubetzkoy (1957 [1939]: 80 and following).
Here, I followed the definition given by Baerman et al. (2005: 28–30).
4 Following Blake’s definition, “Case is a system of marking dependent nouns for the type of
relationship they bear to their heads” (2004: 1).
5Gildersleeve (1980 [1900]: 8); Kühner and Gerth (1898: 48); Meillet and Vendryes (1979: 547);
Schwyzer (1950: 60).
Another definition is given by Michaelis (2001) who takes into account

these various aspects:
- the coding of surprise (that “entails a judgement by the speaker that a given
situation is noncanonical”6);
- the expression of speaker viewpoint;7
- the propositional content (that differentiates exclamations from
interjections).
The same is pointed out by Lazzeroni (2017), who distinguishes the
prototypical exclamative construction from the prototypical vocative construction,
by putting them respectively at two opposite poles of a continuum:
Il costrutto esclamativo si oppone al costrutto vocativo: ambedue

extrarelazionali dal punto di vista sintattico, occupano rispettivamente i punti
estremi di una categoria polarmente orientata: il vocativo prototipico, deittico
di seconda persona, è orientato verso l’ascoltatore, presuppone l’agentività
e la partecipazione del referente all’atto comunicativo, ed è espressione
tipica della funzione conativa; l’esclamativo prototipico è orientato verso il
parlante, è indifferente all’agentività e alla partecipazione del referente all’atto
comunicativo ed è espressione tipica della funzione emotiva (2017: 82).
[The exclamative construction is opposed to the vocative construction: they are
both extrarelational from a syntactic point of view and they occupy respectively
two opposite poles of an oriented category: the prototypical vocative, deictic of
second person, is oriented towards the hearer, presupposes the agentivity and the
participation of the referent to the communicative act and is the typical expression
of the conative function; the prototypical exclamative is oriented towards the
speaker, it is indifferent to the agentivity and the participation of the referent to
the communicative act and is the typical expression of the expressive function].
In addition to the not exhaustive picture drawn by the traditional grammarians,

we should specify that, in exclamation, the vocative shares the expressive function
with the nominative, but, contrary to the nominative, it is hearer-oriented. In other
words, the vocative needs to address a second person in order to either introduce a
communication or prolong it, yet it can also code an eventual expressive function.
The fact that the vocative is capable of conveying the expressive function
together with its default one, is underlined by the following authors.
6 Michaelis (2001: 1039).

7 See also Morel (1995: 63); Sadock and Zwicky (1985: 162).
D’Avis and Meibauer (2013:190), in referring to constructions like Du-idiot, note:
“The speaker […] not only addresses someone, but, in addition, expresses an
attitude towards the addressee […] constructions that easily lend themselves
for insulting someone are certainly a case in point”. From a pragmatic view,
this construction has not the role of identifying an interlocutor by putting
himself in the communicative-situation (call function). Conversely, it has only
a confirmation role, whose purpose is to keep the contact active. For all these
reasons, constructions like Du-idiot are called “pseudo-vocative”.
Lazzeroni (2017) explains it in an even more concise way:
La funzione tipica del vocativo è dunque quella conativa nel senso di Jakobson;
ad essa si aggiungono come accessorie le funzioni fatica ed emotiva: la prima
quando il vocativo ‘richiama l’attenzione di qualcuno che è già costituito come
interlocutore nella situazione comunicativa in corso’ (Mazzoleni, 1995: 377),
l’altra quando il vocativo non controlla la comunicazione né richiede una risposta
dell’interlocutore, ma veicola un contenuto affettivo del parlante (2017: 80).
[The typical function of the vocative is therefore the conative one as in Jakobson’s
terms; besides that, the phatic and the expressive function can be added as
optional: the former, when the vocative ‘draws the attention of somebody
already determined as the interlocutor in the current communicative situation’
(Mazzoleni [1995: 377]), the latter, when the vocative does not control the
communication nor requires an answer from the interlocutor, but it conveys
an affective content from the speaker].
At this point, once it has been established that the vocative can code an expressive
function, a short terminological digression about the vocative’s default use is needed.
For its denomination, I applied the term “phatic function” within my Ph.D. thesis
(Bucci 2019). On the basis of Jakobson’s work (1960), I had interpreted the phatic
function in a wider sense than the one it is usually associated to it. With “phatic” I
aimed at merely indicating the contact with a second person, without considering
the eventual expression of the command speech act, that could also be coded by
the conative function. In this sense, the phatic function could be comparable to
the Bühler’s Appelfunktion (1934), implying the conative function.8
8Similarly, Coseriu (1997 [1981]: 92) considers the phatic function as the minimum form of the
address function.
Nevertheless, I believe now the opposite. Thus I will here use the term
“conative” to mean the vocative’s default use: the most general category, including
the other, is the conative function. The latter, in fact, is addressee-oriented, whilst
the phatic function does not deal with any kind of contact with a second person:
it is specifically designed for verifying the conditions of the physical channel and
psychological connections between the interlocutors.
Quoting Jakobson’s words (1981 [1960]) “there are messages primarily
serving to establish, to prolong, or to discontinue communication, to check
whether the channel works (“Hello, do you hear me?”), to attract the attention of
the interlocutor or to confirm his continued attention (“Are you listening?” […]).
This set for contact, or in Malinowski’s terms phatic function, may be displayed
by a profuse exchange of ritualized formulas, by entire dialogues with the mere
purport of prolonging communication. (1981 [1960]: 24)
The same Jakobson specifies (1981 [1960]: 24) that in his view conative
function corresponds to Bühler Appelfunktion while the phatic function has been
introduced in addition to the Bühler model, together with the poetic and the
metalinguistic ones.
From this picture, we presume to find a vocative form in exclamation when
it is referred to a second person. Conversely, we expect a nominative form in
exclamation when it is referred to a first (Ὦ πόλλ’ἐγὼ μοχθηρός ‘oh unhappy
me!’ Soph. Ph. 254) or a third person (κατέκτανεν ᾦ ἐνὶ οὶκῳ, σχέτλιος ‘he
killed him in his house, how mad! Od. 21, 27-28) – in other words when there is
not a conative function.
Moreover, outside the exclamative contexts, the substitution (a nominative
form to convey a real conative function) is also possible in allocutive contexts:
Table 1
In addition to this picture, there is an interesting problematic case: the

aforementioned grammars contain a few examples of an exclamative nominative
form in a context where the second person is present, such as Δημοβόρος
βασιλεύς, ἐπεὶ οὐτιδανοῖσιν ἀνάσσεις (Il. 1.231) ‘People-devouring king, since
you rule over nobodies’. Here, the impossibility of excluding a conative function
leads to the impossibility of understanding whether this case represents either an
extrasyntactical exclamation (with an expected nominative form) or a nominative
pro vocative instance (with an unexpected nominative form).
It is precisely in this area that likely the formal and functional overlap
between nominative and vocative originated and then gave origin to nominative
pro vocative cases.
3 Data analysis
To investigate the problem, I made a systematic analysis on Aristophanes’,

Plautus’ and Terence’s comedies, collecting all the exclamations and addresses in
the nominative and vocative, excluding ambiguous forms (N=V).
Data have been classified in a table divided into three parts, which represents
a continuum; for each group, I counted the total number of occurrences of
vocative and nominative NPs. I also counted the cases of lack of agreement (in
the NP and coordinated NPs), which occur in the texts in order to verify if it is
possible to observe a phenomenon of syntactic economy, in which the marked
term (the vocative) can be shown only once.9
The first group is called “conative function”: it concerns an address without
any particular expression of emotions or judgements. I have not specified if it is
used to identify the interlocutor for the first time or simply to hold the hearer’s
attention, nor which speech act is realized. In fact, as I have already said, our
focus is the presence of an addressee. In this group the vocative form is expected
(e.g.: Εἴσαγ’ ὦ Θέογνι τὸν χορόν ‘Bring in your chorus, Theognis’, Ar. Ach. 11),
otherwise we have a proper case of nominative pro vocative (substitution).
The “conative-expressive” function – the second group – implies the expression
of an emotion or (a positive or negative) feeling towards the interlocutor, mainly
conveyed by the use of an adjective. It is clear that this is the area of transition. In
9 These examples are given in the final part of the table (lack of agreement) but, for reasons of space,
I will focus here on cases where only one nominative form occur or cases where there is nominative
agreement in the NP (for further details see Bucci 2019).
this case, we are expecting to find the vocative (e.g.: ὦ σχέτλιε, τολμήσεις γὰρ
ἰέναι ‘You, daredevil, you mean you too are going to venture to go there?’ Ar. Ra.
116). Nonetheless, if we find a nominative, it could be either a nominative pro
vocative or a nominative in exclamation.
In the third group, called “expressive function”, the conative function is
apparently excluded – the addressee is not on scene. I have divided this section
in two sub-groups, namely “fictitious 2nd person” and “1st/3rd person” sub-group.
In the former I have included fictitious addresses, mostly imprecations,
basically frozen expressions such as:
(1) Ἡράκλεις τουτὶ τί ἐστι; (Ar. Ach. 284).

‘Heracles, what is all this?’
where it is evident there is not a real interlocutor in a communicative situation.

The latter, on the other hand, involves examples as the following:
(2) Στυγερὸς ἐγώ (Ar. Ach. 1207).

‘Oh miserable me’ or
(3) ὦ μιαρώτατος, ἵν’ ὑποδέδυκεν (Ar. Ra. 187).

‘Oh, the old devil! Look where he’s climbed under?’
Here, I will present the general results of the analysis on the aforementioned
plays,10 followed by some remarkable examples for the first two sections (“conative”
and “conative-expressive function”). Instances from the third group – “expressive
function” – will be provided in the final paragraph alongside with some remarks.
Table 2
10All the tables for each work of every single author are given in the appendix of my thesis (Bucci
2019). In my thesis I also displayed data taken from Homeric Poems.
Table 3
Table 4
3.1 Aristophanes
In the first group of Aristophanes’ table, it is possible to observe 37 instances of

nominative pro vocative vs. 292 vocative NPs.
Compare the prototypical example (4a) with others containing the
nominative form (4b), (4c), (4d):
(4a) Εἴσαγ’ ὦ Θέογνι (V) τὸν χορόν (Ach. 11).

‘Bring in your chorus, Theognis’
(4b) πρόϊθ’ ἐς τὸ πρόσθεν ὀλίγον, ἡ κανεφόρος (N) (Ach. 242).

‘Walk forward a little, basket bearer!’
(4c) ὦ πόλις (N) Ἄργους, κλύεθ’ οἶα λέγει (Eq. 813).

‘City of Argos, hark at what he says!’
(4d) Ὁ Τριβαλλός (N), οἰμώζειν δοκεῖ σοι; (Av. 1628).

‘Ehy, Triballian, do you want a whopping?’
In the second group, I collected 22 NPs containing an “expressive” nominative in

a context where the interlocutor is present vs. 314 vocative NPs.
Compare (5a), vs. (5b), (5c) and (5d):
(5a) ὦ σχέτλιε (V), τολμήσεις γὰρ ἰέναι (Ra. 116)

‘You, daredevil, you mean you too are going to venture to go there?’
(5b) Τί δ’, ὦ τάλας (N), σε τοῦδ’ ἔχει πλέκους χρέος; (Ach. 454).
‘Why needest thou that wicker, thou poor wretch?’
(5c) ἄνθρωπος ἀμαθὴς (N) οὑτοσὶ καὶ βάρβαρος (N). δέδοικά σ’, ὦ
πρεσβῦτα, μὴ πληγῶν δέει (Nu. 492–493).
‘Such an ignorant and barbarian man! Old man, I fear you may need the rod’
(5d) ὦ δειλακρίων (N), πῶς ἧλθες; (Pax 193).

‘Oh poor wretch, what have you come for?’
3.2 Plautus
In the first group of Plautus’ table, I counted 323 vocative NPs vs. 3 instances of
N pro V.
Compare the prototypical example (3a) with the three containing the
nominative form (6b), (6c), (6d):
(6a) I, puere (V), pulta (Asin. 382).

‘Come on guy, knock’
(6b) Hercules (N), ted invoco (Most. 528).

‘Hercules, I’m calling on you’
(6c) N: Cape sis, puer (N) (Merc. 922).

‘Take this, guy, please’
(6d) Hercules (V) […] sane discessisti non bene (Stich. 395).
‘Hercules, […] you didn’t well this time’
In the second section there are 233 vocative NPs vs. 16 nominative NPs.
Compare (7a), representing the majority of the occurrences, vs. (7b), (7c),
(7d):
(7a) O fortunate (V), cedo fortunatam manum (Pseud. 1065).

‘You lucky! Down low your lucky hand!
(7b) mihi odiosus (N), quisquis es (Mil. 427).

‘You, hateful, whoever you are’
(7c) Sed amabo, oculus meus (N), quin lectis nos actutum commendamus?
(Pers. 765).
‘But please, my eye, why don’t we enjoy our meal right now?’
(7d) tu, interim, meus oculus, da mihi savium (Stich. 763–4).

‘Meanwhile, my eye, give me a kiss’
3.3 Terence
Concerning the conative category of Terence’s comedies, 197 vocative NPs vs. 5
cases of N pro V occur. Compare the following instances:
(8a) Aeschine (V), audi (Adelph. 160).

‘Aeschinus, listen here’
(8b) Heus, puer (N), dic sodes, quis heri Crisydem habuit? (Andr. 84).
‘Ehy! Boy! Tell me, please, who had Chrysis yesterday?’
(8c) Immo vero indignum, Chremes (N), iam facinus faxo ex me audies (Andr.
854).
‘No, Chremes, listen to me; I’ll tell you something scandalous’
(8d) Vosme videte iam, Laches (N), et tu Pamphile (Hec. 664).

‘You people must decide now, Laches and Pamphilus’
In the second group we deal with 80 vocative NPs vs. 5 nominative NPs – they
convey an expressive function but we cannot exclude also a conative function.
Compare:
(9a) Age, inepte (V). (Eun. 311).

‘Come on, silly!’
(9b) o vir fortis atque amicus! (N) Verum hoc saepe, Phormio, vereor […]
(Phorm. 324).
‘Such a strong man and a true friend! But I’m often afraid of, Phormio […]’
(9c) Tu mihi cognatus (N), tu parens, tu amicus (N), tu […] (Phorm. 496).
‘You (are) like a relative, a father, a friend for me […]’
(9d) Derides? Fortunatus (N), qui isto animo sies! (Adelph. 852).
‘Are you laughing at me? ‘Lucky you, if you can take it like that’
4 Conclusions
The universal picture of all the result is displayed in the following table:
Table 5
The nominative forms found in the “conative-expressive” section represent the

highest point of contact between an exclamation and a real case of N pro V.
The expressive feature is strong here, even though the conative feature cannot be
excluded at all: these nominatives (6,41%) do not allow to distinguish between a
proper use of the nominative case and a substitution.
In addition to what concerns the expressivity feature, mostly represented
by exclamations in the “expressive” category, this can also be shown, though to
a lesser extent, by the addresses in the “conative” category (see the 5,25 % of
nominative pro vocative cases). In an invocation characterized by a single proper
name we cannot avoid to consider an expressive nuance; this also applies for
descriptive epiteths, which I included in this group: although they do not have
the same level of expressivity as the evaluative ones, they can convey an expressive
value anyway.
In the same way, even the “expressive” section shows cases of overlap (in
this case we deal with the opposite phenomenon, vocative pro nominative)
such as a vast majority of vocatives in fictitious invocations (99,27% vs. 0,73%
of nominatives) and some vocatives in exclamation referred to a third person
(2,75%).
Even though the aim of the instances belonging to this section is not conative
but purely expressive, it is not surprising the clear prevalence of the vocative cases
in fictitious invocations: despite being fictitious, in fact, this kind of invocation
could be perceived as real, and it shares – to a limited extent – the conative
feature. More surprisingly are instead the vocatives in a third person exclamation
(10b), (10c):
(10b)Ὦ τρισμακάρι’Εὐριπίδη (V) ὅθ’ ὁ δοῦλος οὑτῶσὶ σοφῶς ὑποκρίνεται

(Ar. Ach. 400).
‘How happy is Euripides, when his very slave produces such clever
interpretations’ – Euripides is not on the scene
(10c) Id voluit […] astute (V) (Ter. Andria 183).

‘This is what he wanted […] clever!’ – Davos is talking between himself
Compare with (10a), where there is the nominative, as in the majority of cases:
(10a) ὦ μιαρώτατος (N), ἵν’ ὑποδέδυκεν (Ar. Ra. 187).

‘Oh, the old devil! Look where he’s climbed under?’
In conclusion, thanks to some precious examples that do not fulfil the expectations,
I suppose that the formal and functional confusion could have originated in the
“conative-expressive” area. Moreover, since the expressive and conative feature are
shared by the two remaining sections on different levels, the case overlap could
also have affected these two other groups.
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Reduplicated and non-reduplicated imperatives:

κλύθι and κλύτε vs κέκλυθι and κέκλυτε
Lucio Melazzo
Among the most ancient forms of the Greek verb κλύω “hear, perceive, give ear
to, attend to, comply with, obey, be called or spoken of ” there are the athematic
aorist imperative forms κλῦθι and κλῦτε utilized by Homer, Pindar, and the
tragedians,1 and the reduplicated athematic imperative forms κέκλυθι and
κέκλυτε employed by Homer and Apollonius Rhodius.
My paper will focus on the use of the double couple of imperatives, the non-
reduplicated and the reduplicated, in the Homeric poems. Their distribution in
the Iliad and the Odyssey is shown in Table 1.
Table 1
Imperatives Occurrences Percentages
κλῦθι/κλῦτε 18 34,6%
κέκλυθι/κέκλυτε 34 65,4%
Both couples of imperatives might seem interchangeable at first sight. This is not
the case, however. Close analysis of the various passages has in fact allowed me
to appreciate a subtle difference between them. When compared with κλῦθι and
κλῦτε, the reduplicated forms κέκλυθι and κέκλυτε actually convey a particular
nuance of meaning, which can be related to an implication of intensity somehow.
A fair inference is that this notable difference in meaning arises from the presence
vs the absence of reduplication. This presumption made me devote the last part of
my paper to the morphological process of verbal reduplication in general.
I will first consider the 2nd sg. imperative form κλῦθι. This occurs six times
in the Iliad and six times in the Odyssey. Let us read (1):
(1) κλῦθί μευ ἀργυρότοξʼ, ὃς Χρύσην ἀμφιβέβηκας

Κίλλαν τε ζαθέην Τενέδοιό τε ἶφι ἀνάσσεις,
Σμινθεῦ εἴ ποτέ τοι χαρίεντʼ ἐπὶ νηὸν ἔρεψα,
ἢ εἰ δή ποτέ τοι κατὰ πίονα μηρίʼ ἔκηα
1 Both κλῦθι and κλῦτε always occur at the beginning of the hexameter in the Homeric poems
instead of *κλύθι and *κλύτε, and are therefore said to exhibit metrical lengthening.
338 MELAZZO, Reduplicated and non-reduplicated imperatives
ταύρων ἠδ’ αἰγῶν, τὸ δέ μοι κρήηνον ἐέλδωρ· (Il. 1.37–41)

‘Hear me, god of the silver bow, who stands over Chryse
And holy Cilla, and rule mightily over Tenedos,
Sminthian god, if ever I roofed over a temple to your pleasing,
Or if ever I burned to you fat thigh-pieces
Of bulls and goats, fulfill this prayer for me.’
Here Chryses is speaking, the Trojan priest of Apollo at Chryse. During the Trojan
War Agamemnon took Chryses’ daughter Chryseis as a war prize and when
Chryses attempted to ransom her, refused to return her. Chryses prayed to Apollo,
and he, in order to defend the honor of his priest, sent a plague sweeping through
the Greek armies. Chryses uses the imperative κλῦθι to draw the attention of the
deity he is invoking. The same holds good in (2).
(2) κλῦθί μευ αἰγιόχοιο Διὸς τέκος, ἥ τέ μοι αἰεὶ

ἐν πάντεσσι πόνοισι παρίστασαι, οὐδέ σε λήθω
κινύμενος· νῦν αὖτε μάλιστά με φῖλαι Ἀθήνη,
δὸς δὲ πάλιν ἐπὶ νῆας ἐϋκλεῖας ἀφικέσθαι
ῥέξαντας μέγα ἔργον, ὅ κε Τρώεσσι μελήσῃ. (Il. 10.278–282)
‘Hear me, child of Zeus, who bears the aegis, you who do ever
Stand by my side in all manner of toils, nor am I unseen of you
Wherever I move; now again be you my friend, Athene, as never you were
Before, and grant that with goodly renown we come back to the ships,
Having wrought a great work that shall be a sorrow to the Trojans.’
Odysseus is addressing Athene. He and Diomedes have set out to make a raid on
the Trojans’ encampment when the goddess sends forth a heron on their right.
Though they do not see the bird through the darkness of night, yet they hear its
cry. And Odysseus is glad at the omen, and sends up a prayer to Athene.
The other attestations of κλῦθι in the Iliad (1.451–456; 5.115–520; 16.514–
516; 23.770) can be dealt with analogously. On the other hand, in the Odyssey
κλῦθι is utilized in the same way as in the Iliad.
The places of the second of the two major ancient Greek epic poems attributed
to Homer, in which κλῦθι occurs are 2.262–266, 3.55–56, 4.762–766, 5.445–
446, 6.324–326, 9.528–531. Here I will quote only one of these.
(3) κλῦθι, ἄναξ, ὅτις ἐσσί· πολύλλιστον δέ σ’ἱκάνω

φεύγων ἐκ πόντοιο Ποσειδάωνος ἐνιπάς. (Od. 5.445–446)
‘Hear me, O lord, whoever you are. As to one greatly longed-for I come to you,
Seeking to escape from out the sea from the threats of Poseidon.’
After eighteen days at sea, Odysseus spots Scheria, the island of the Phaeacians,
his next destination appointed by the gods. Just then, Poseidon, returning from
a trip to the land of the Ethiopians, spots him and realizes what the other gods
have done in his absence. Poseidon stirs up a storm, which nearly drags Odysseus
under the sea, but the goddess Ino comes to his rescue. She gives him a veil that
keeps him safe after his ship is wrecked. Athene too comes to his rescue as he is
tossed back and forth; now out to the deep sea, now against the jagged rocks of
the coast. Finally, Odysseus sees a river up the coast of the island and speaks to
the god of its waters. The god will answer Odysseus’s prayers and allow him to
swim into its waters.
Instead, the reduplicated form κέκλυθι conveys diverse subtle nuances of
meaning. Let us read (4).
(4) Δεύτερος αὖτ’ ἠρᾶτο βοὴν ἀγαθὸς Διομήδης·

“κέκλυθι νῦν καὶ ἐμεῖο, Διὸς τέκος, Ἀτρυτώνη·” (Il. 10.283–284)
And after him again prayed Diomedes, good at the war-cry:
“Hearken you now also to me, child of Zeus, unwearied one.”
In a night assembly held by the Achaean chiefs, Nestor has proposed that
someone should infiltrate the Trojan lines to see what they are up to. Diomedes
volunteers, but says he has got to take someone good with him as backup.
Agamemnon agrees, and instructs him to make his choice purely on the basis of
merit. Diomedes picks Odysseus. They both start getting ready. When they are
about to head out, Athene sends a heron down as a signal that she is watching
over them. As we read in (2), i.e. the second excerpt quoted above, Odysseus
has already prayed to the goddess for her assistance in their exploit. Now it is
Diomedes’ turn. Odysseus has begun his speech with κλῦθι, Diomedes employs
κέκλυθι. The reason why he chooses the reduplicated form, in my opinion, is
that Diomedes’ prayer is regarded as a continuation of Odysseus’. The goddess is
therefore imagined reiterating the action of hearing one and only prayer uttered
by the two heroes in sequence.
A different credible explanation lies in the use of κέκλυθι in (5).
(5) κέκλυθι νῦν, Εὔμαιε καὶ ἄλλοι πάντες ἑταῖροι,

εὐξάμενός τι ἔπος ἐρέω· οἶνος γὰρ ἀνώγει,
ἠλεός, ὅς τ’ἐφέηκε πολύφρονά περ μάλ’ἀεῖσαι

καί θ’ἁπαλὸν γελάσαι καί τ’ὀρχήσασθαι ἀνῆκε,
καί τι ἔπος προέηκεν, ὅ πέρ τ’ἄρρητον ἄμεινον.
ἀλλ’ ἐπεὶ οὖν τὸ πρῶτον ἀνέκραγον, οὐκ ἐπικεύσω. (Od. 14.462–467)
‘Hear me now, Eumaeus and all the rest of you, companions,
With a wish in my heart I will tell a tale; for the wine bids me,
Befooling wine, which sets one, even though he is right wise, to singing
And laughing softly, and makes him stand up and dance,
Aye, and brings forth a word which were better unspoken.
Still, since I have once spoken out, I will hide nothing.’
Disguised as a beggar, Odysseus has arrived at Eumaios’ home in the forest. The
swineherd has welcomed him into his hut. Odysseus makes up an elaborate story
about being a commoner from Crete, who coincidentally has suffered many of
the same trials that Odysseus did. In his made-up story, he says to have heard that
Odysseus had just left an island when the beggar arrived. Odysseus is going to
head home just as soon as he consults an oracle. Eumaios is not convinced but
it is pretty clear that the beggar’s story has planted a seed of hope. He brings the
beggar more food, making a big deal about treating his guest as Odysseus would
have wished. Beggar Odysseus is touched. After dinner, Odysseus wants to beg
for a cloak so that he can sleep, but tells a witty story instead. This is the kind of
story that carries a subtle message, in this case, ‘Give me a cloak please.’ This is
why he uses κέκλυθι at the beginning of his speech. Eumaios, whom Odysseus is
addressing, has to hear the beggar’s story very attentively without losing a word
or a logical step so as to get the whole point of Odysseus’ speech. Thanks to
the attention payed to what Odysseus has been saying, in fact, Eumaios, who is
one sharp swineherd, gets the message and gives the beggar a fine heavy cloak. My
interpretation is confirmed by what can be read in (6).
(6) τοῖς δ’ Ὀδυσεὺς μετέειπε, συβώτεω πειρητίζων,

εἴ πώς οἱ ἐκδὺς χλαῖναν πόροι ἤ τιν’ἑταίρων
ἄλλον ἐποτρύνειεν, ἐπεί ἑο κήδετο λίην· (Od. 14.459–461)
‘Then Odysseus spoke among them, making trial of the swineherd,
To see whether he would strip off his own cloak and give it to him, or bid some
Other of his comrades to do so, since he cared for him so greatly.’
An analogous explanation can be advanced for κέκλυθι in (7).

(7) κέκλυθι νῦν, Εὔμαιε, καὶ ἄλλοι πάντες ἑταῖροι·

ἠῶθεν προτὶ ἄστυ λιλαίομαι ἀπονέεσθαι
πτωχεύσων, ἵνα μή σε κατατρύχω καὶ ἑταίρους.
ἀλλά μοι εὖ θ’ὑπόθευ καὶ ἅμ’ἡγεμόν’ἐσθλὸν ὄπασσον,
ὅς κέ με κεῖσ’ἀγάγῃ· κατὰ δὲ πτόλιν αὐτὸς ἀνάγκῃ
πλάγξομαι, αἴ κέν τις κοτύλην καὶ πύρνον ὀρέξῃ. (Od. 15.307–312)
‘Hearken now, Eumaeus, and all the other men.
In the morning I am minded to go forth to the city
To beg, that I may not be the ruin of you and of your men.
Now then, give me good counsel, and send with me a trusty guide
To lead me thither; but through the city perforce by myself
I will wander in the hope that one haply will give me a cup and a loaf.’
In the hut of Eumaeus, Odysseus intends to test the limit of his hospitality. This
is explicitly said in the previous three lines.
(8) τοῖς δ’ Ὀδυσεὺς μετέειπε, συβώτεω πειρητίζων,

ἤ μιν ἔτ’ἐνδυκέως φιλέοι μεῖναί τε κελεύοι
αὐτοῦ ἐνὶ σταθμῷ ἦ ὀτρύνειε πόλινδε· (Od. 15.304–306)
‘Odysseus spoke among them, making trial of the swineherd
To see whether he would still entertain him with kindly care and bid him
remain
There at the farmstead, or send him forth to the city.’
Odysseus expresses his willingness to leave in the morning; it is a false gesture that
he hopes will prompt Eumaeus to offer to let him stay longer. The swineherd is
expected to hear Odysseus’ speech word by word mindfully so as to get the real
message lurking in it.
The 2nd pl. imperative κλῦτε is employed in the same way as the 2nd sg.
κλῦθι, for it is used for calling the attention of the persons to whom the following
speech is made.
(9) κλῦτε φίλοι· θεῖός μοι ἐνύπνιον ἦλθεν ὄνειρος

ἀμβροσίην διὰ νύκτα· μάλιστα δὲ Νέστορι δίῳ
εἶδός τε μέγεθός τε φυήν τ’ἄγχιστα ἐῴκει·
στῆ δ’ἄρ’ὑπὲρ κεφαλῆς καί με πρὸς μῦθον ἔειπεν· (Il. 2.56–59)
‘Hearken, my friends. A dream from heaven came to me in my sleep
Through the ambrosial night; actually, to goodly Nestor
It was most nearly like in form and in stature and in build.

It took its stand above my head, and spoke to me, saying…’
To help the Trojans, as promised, Zeus has sent a false dream to Agamemnon in
which a figure in the form of Nestor persuades Agamemnon that he can take
Troy if he launches a full-scale assault on the city’s walls. He has summoned the
assembly of the chieftains of the Achaeans and is now speaking to them.
On the other hand, (10) constitutes the preamble of the speech that Thetis
is about to deliver to the Nereids, once she has heard the terrible, wrenching cry
that Achilles had uttered when he had learned of Patroclus’ death.
(10) κλῦτε κασίγνηται Νηρηΐδες, ὄφρ’ἐῢ πᾶσαι

εἴδετ’ἀκούουσαι ὅσ’ἐμῷ ἔνι κήδεα θυμῷ. (Il. 18.52–53)
‘Listen, sister Nereids, that one and all you
May hear and know all the sorrows that are in my heart.’
In (11), κλῦτε is used for drawing the attention of the women addressed.
(11) κλῦτε, φίλαι· περὶ γάρ μοι Ὀλύμπιος ἄλγε’ἔδωκεν

ἐκ πασέων, ὅσσαι μοι ὁμοῦ τράφον ἠδ’ἐγένοντο. (Od. 4.722–723)
‘Hear me, my dears. Olympian Zeus has tried me with more afflictions
Than any other woman, who grew up and was born with me.’
Medon has announced Telemachus’ sailing to Penelope who has freaked out
justifiably. She did not know about the voyage either and laments wildly – first
for her lost Odysseus, then for her son who is about to die.
Another preamble is found in (12).
(12) κλῦτέ μοι, ἀμφίπολοι λευκώλενοι, ὄφρα τι εἴπω. (Od. 6.239)

‘Hear me, white-armed maidens, that I may say somewhat.’
Nausikaa is here speaking to her maidens once they have helped Odysseus bathe.
A third preamble can be read in (13).
(13) κλῦτε, φίλοι· θεῖός μοι ἐνύπνιον ἦλθεν ὄνειρος. (Od. 14.495)
‘Hear me, friends. A dream from the gods came to me in my sleep.’
This line belongs to the witty story that, as we have seen before, Odysseus,
disguised as a beggar, tells to Eumaeus to get a cloak from him. In the story
Odysseus himself is imagined speaking and proving once more his great cunning.
Finally, κλῦτε is once more used in a preamble in (14).
(14) κλῦτέ μευ· αὐτὰρ ἐγὼ μαντεύσομαι, ὡς ἐνὶ θυμῷ

ἀθάνατοι βάλλουσι καὶ ὡς τελέεσθαι ὀΐω. (Od. 15.172–173)
‘Hear me, and I will prophesy as the immortals put it
Into my heart and as I think it will be brought to pass.’
These are Helen’s words. Thelemachus and Peisistratus, Nestor’s son, are guests in
Menelaus’ palace, when Zeus sends a sign – an eagle flying with a dead farmyard
goose in its talons. Asked by Peisistratus to explain the wonder, Menelaus is
puzzled, but Helen says that she is able to interpret this Zeus’ sign.
On the other hand, the 2nd pl. κέκλυτε exhibits subtle differences in
meaning. To start with, let us read (15).
(15) κέκλυτέ μευ Τρῶες καὶ ἐϋκνήμιδες Ἀχαιοὶ

μῦθον Ἀλεξάνδροιο, τοῦ εἵνεκα νεῖκος ὄρωρεν. (Il. 3.86–87)
‘Hear from me, you Trojans and well-greaved Achaeans,
The proposal of Alexander, for whose sake strife has been set afoot.’
We are in the middle of a battle between Trojans and Achaeans. Chastised

for his cowardice by Hector, Paris finally agrees to a duel with Menelaus,
declaring that the contest will establish peace between Trojans and Achaeans
by deciding once and for all which man shall have Helen as his wife. Hector
rejoices greatly when he hears Paris’ words; and he goes into the midst, and
keeps back the battalions of the Trojans with his spear grasped by the middle;
and they all sit themselves down. The long-haired Achaeans, on the other
hand, seek the while to aim their arrows at him, and to smite him, and to cast
at him with stones, but Agamemnon shouts to the Argives not to shoot any
more, for Hector of the flashing helm makes as though he would say somewhat.
So Hector can speak, and he begins by the reduplicated imperative κέκλυτε.
Every proposal calls for the utmost attention from the listener, as a matter of
fact. He has to listen carefully word by word to what is being said to him so as
to evaluate and, if necessary, accept what is being suggested to him. This is why
Hector says κέκλυτε and not κλῦτε.
The explanation I have given for κέκλυθι in (4) holds good for κέκλυτε in (16).
(16) κέκλυτε νῦν καὶ ἐμεῖο· μάλιστα γὰρ ἄλγος ἱκάνει

θυμὸν ἐμόν, φρονέω δὲ διακρινθήμεναι ἤδη
Ἀργείους καὶ Τρῶας, ἐπεὶ κακὰ πολλὰ πέπασθε
εἵνεκ’ἐμῆς ἔριδος καὶ Ἀλεξάνδρου ἕνεκ’ἀρχῆς· (Il. 3.97–100)
‘Hearken you now also unto me, for above all others sorrow has come
Upon my heart; my mind is that now you should be parted
Argives and Trojans, seeing you have suffered many woes
Because of my quarrel and Alexander’s beginning thereof.’
Menelaus is here speaking. Conceived by Paris and recounted by Hector, the

arbitration agreement is now being expounded by the King of Sparta. His speech
is taken as a prolongation of Hector’s. Argives and Trojans keep hearing one and
only proposal uttered by the two leaders.
Instead, (17) can somewhat be compared with (15).
(17) τοῖσι δὲ Δαρδανίδης Πρίαμος μετὰ μῦθον ἔειπε·

κέκλυτέ μευ Τρῶες καὶ ἐϋκνήμιδες Ἀχαιοί· (Il. 3.303–304)
‘Then in their midst Priam, Dardanus’ son, communicated his intention
Hearken to me, you Trojans and well-greaved Achaeans.’
Like in (15) the content of Priam’s speech is described as a μῦθος. It is therefore

more than a bare communication. The addressees are in fact called to listen
carefully to Priam’s words so as to identify with him and understand the
motivations that drive him to leave.
(18) is interesting, too.
(18) κέκλυτέ μευ Τρῶες καὶ Δάρδανοι ἠδ’ἐπίκουροι·

νίκη μὲν δὴ φαίνετ’ἀρηϊφίλου Μενελάου,
ὑμεῖς δ’Ἀργείην Ἑλένην καὶ κτήμαθ’ ἅμ’αὐτῇ
ἔκδοτε, καὶ τιμὴν ἀποτινέμεν ἥν τιν’ἔοικεν,
ἥ τε καὶ ἐσσομένοισι μετ’ἀνθρώποισι πέληται. (Il. 3.456–460)
‘Hearken to me, you Trojans and Dardanians and allies.
Victory is now of a surety seen to rest with Menelaus, dear to Ares;
Do you therefore give up Argive Helen and the treasure with her,
And pay you in requital such recompense as beseems,
Even such as shall abide in the minds of men that are yet to be.’
Agamemnon is here speaking after Aphrodite has whisked Paris away to his room
in Priam’s palace. Agamemnon is deploying his argument so that the addressees
may attentively listen to it and evaluate its soundness.
Analogous remarks apply equally to Il. 7.67–68, 348–349. In the former
lines of verse Hector is formulating a new compromise proposal: he and one of
the Argives whose heart so ever bids him fight with Hector should engage in hand
to hand combat in order to decide the fate of the war. In the latter wise Antenor
starts to speak in a gathering held in the citadel of Ilios beside Priam’s doors. He
suggests the Trojans should give Argive Helen and the treasure with her unto the
sons of Atreus to take away, for they now fight after proving false to their oaths
of faith, wherefore he has no hope that anything will issue to their profit, if they
do not thus.
Besides, (19) show another nuance of meaning.
(19) κέκλυτέ μευ πάντες τε θεοὶ πᾶσαί τε θέαιναι,

ὄφρ’εἴπω τά με θυμὸς ἐνὶ στήθεσσι κελεύει.
μήτε τις οὖν θήλεια θεὸς τό γε μήτε τις ἄρσην
πειράτω διακέρσαι ἐμὸν ἔπος, ἀλλ’ἅμα πάντες
αἰνεῖτ’, ὄφρα τάχιστα τελευτήσω τάδε ἔργα. (Il. 8.5–9)
‘Hearken unto me, all you gods and goddesses,
That I may speak what the heart in my breast bids me.
Let not any goddess nor yet any god
Essay this thing, to thwart my word, but do you all alike
Assent thereto, that with all speed I may bring these deeds to pass.’
It is Zeus that is speaking. Better to say, he is giving the other gods and goddesses
the order not to bear aid either to Trojans or Danaans. An order needs to be
listened to very attentively so that it may be carried out correctly.
Orders are also issued in Il. 8.497–525, and 17.220–255. In the former of
these lines of verse Hector is speaking his words among the Trojans; the latter
contain another command issued by Hector flashing in the armor that the great-
souled son of Peleus had lent Patroclus.
Finally, in Il. 19.100–105 Zeus is boasting among all the gods of his and
Alcmena’s child, who is about to come into the world. As his subordinates, all
gods and goddesses are expected to listen to him heedfully and take his words
seriously.
Od. 2.25–34, 161–176, and 229–241 can be dealt with together, for they
are public speeches delivered in a meeting that Telemachus has convened. The
first to speak is the lord Aegyptius, whose son had gone in the hollow ships to
Ilios in the company of godlike Odysseus. The second is the old lord Halitherses,
son of Mastor, who is said to surpass all men of his day in knowledge of birds and
in uttering words of fate. The third is Mentor, a comrade of noble Odysseus. To
him, on departing with his ships, Odysseus had given his entire house in charge,
that it should obey his old father and that he should keep all things safe. Each
speech has to be heeded most carefully by the listeners so that every one of them
agrees or disagrees with what he has heard and, if necessary, refutes the argument
that has been advanced. Of course, this is why κέκλυτε is employed.
Like Il. 8.5–9[19], 497–525, and 17.220–255, (20) expresses an order.
(20) κέκλυτε, Φαιήκων ἡγήτορες ἠδὲ μέδοντες,

ὄφρ’εἴπω, τά με θυμὸς ἐνὶ στήθεσσι κελεύει.
νῦν μὲν δαισάμενοι κατακείετε οἴκαδ’ἰόντες,
ἠῶθεν δὲ γέροντας ἐπὶ πλέονας καλέσαντες
ξεῖνον ἐνὶ μεγάροις ξεινίσσομεν ἠδὲ θεοῖσι
ῥέξομεν ἱερὰ καλά, ἔπειτα δὲ καὶ περὶ πομπῆς
μνησόμεθ’, ὥς χ’ὁ ξεῖνος ἄνευθε πόνου καὶ ἀνίης
πομπῇ ὑφ’ἡμετέρῃ ἣν πατρίδα γαῖαν ἵκηται
χαίρων καρπαλίμως, εἰ καὶ μάλα τηλόθεν ἐστί. (Od. 7.186–194)
‘Hearken to me, leaders and counsellors of the Phaeacians,
That I may say what the heart in my breast bids me.
Now that you have finished your feast, go each of you to his house to rest.
But in the morning we will call more of the elders together,
And will entertain the stranger in our halls and offer
Goodly victims to the gods. After that we will take thought also
Of his sending, that without toil or pain the stranger may
Under our sending, come to his native land
Speedily and with rejoicing, though he comes from never so far.’
Odysseus is in the palace of Alcinous, the king of the Phaeacians. There he has
found the leaders and counsellors of the Phaeacians pouring libations. When they
have poured libations, and have drunk to their heart’s content, Alcinous addresses
the assembly, and issues his instructions to his subjects.
The same holds good for Od. 8.26–45, 8.97–103, 8.387–397, 8.536–545.
In all the excerpts it is again Alcinous that gives his orders,
In (21), the noun μύθων in the genitive plural occurs as an object of κέκλυτε.
(21) κέκλυτέ μευ μύθων, κακά περ πάσχοντες ἑταῖροι,

ὄφρ’ ὕμιν εἴπω μαντήϊα Τειρεσίαο
Κίρκης τ’Αἰαίης, ἥ μοι μάλα πόλλ’ἐπέτελλε
νῆσον ἀλεύασθαι τερψιμβρότου Ἠελίοιο·
ἔνθα γὰρ αἰνότατον κακὸν ἔμμεναι ἄμμιν ἔφασκεν.
ἀλλὰ παρὲξ τὴν νῆσον ἐλαύνετε νῆα μέλαιναν. (Od. 12.271–276)
‘Hear my words, comrades, for your entire evil plight,
That I may tell you the oracles of Teiresias and
Of Aeaean Circe, who very straightly charged me
To shun the island of Helios, who gives joy to mortals;
For there, she said, was our most terrible bane.
Nay, row the black ship out past the island.’
In the last line of verse of this excerpt, Odysseus, whose ship is in sight of the
goodly island of Helios Hyperion, gives a specific order to his comrades. In the
preceding lines, however, he gives the reasons for it. His comrades are therefore
expected to listen carefully to his words, measure them, and properly understand
the meaning of what he is saying. Though his order will finally be disobeyed, the
choice of the reduplicated imperative appears clearly justified according to what
has previously been said.
Analogous remarks apply to (22).
(22) κέκλυτέ μευ μύθων, κακά περ πάσχοντες ἑταῖροι·

πάντες μὲν στυγεροὶ θάνατοι δειλοῖσι βροτοῖσι,
λιμῷ δ’οἴκτιστον θανέειν καὶ πότμον ἐπισπεῖν.
ἀλλ’ἄγετ’, Ἠελίοιο βοῶν ἐλάσαντες ἀρίστας
ῥέξομεν ἀθανάτοισι, τοὶ οὐρανὸν εὐρὺν ἔχουσιν.
εἰ δέ κεν εἰς Ἰθάκην ἀφικοίμεθα, πατρίδα γαῖαν,
αἶψά κεν Ἠελίῳ Ὑπερίονι πίονα νηὸν
τεύξομεν, ἐν δέ κε θεῖμεν ἀγάλματα πολλὰ καὶ ἐσθλά.
εἰ δὲ χολωσάμενός τι βοῶν ὀρθοκραιράων
νῆ’ἐθέλῃ ὀλέσαι, ἐπὶ δ’ἕσπωνται θεοὶ ἄλλοι,
βούλομ’ ἅπαξ πρὸς κῦμα χανὼν ἀπὸ θυμὸν ὀλέσσαι
ἢ δηθὰ στρεύγεσθαι ἐὼν ἐν νήσῳ ἐρήμῃ. (Od. 12.340–351)
‘Hear my words, comrades, for your entire evil plight.
All forms of death are hateful to wretched mortals,
But to die of hunger, and so meet one’s doom, is the most pitiful.
Nay, come; let us drive off the best of the cows of Helios
And offer sacrifice to the immortals that hold broad heaven.

And if we ever reach Ithaca, our native land,
We will straightway build a rich temple to Helios Hyperion
And put therein many goodly offerings.
And if haply he is wroth at all because of his straight-horned cows,
And is minded to destroy our ship, and the other gods consent,
Rather I would lose my life once for all with a gulp at the wave,
Than pine slowly away in a desert island.’
Eurylochus is here giving evil instructions to the comrades of Odysseus, who had
got away from them. While he was praying to the gods, they had shed sweet sleep
upon his eyelids.
Except for Od. 17.370–373 where Melanthius, one of the suitors is giving his
testimony, the remaining attestations of κέκλυτε in the Odyssey can be assimilated
to those of the Iliad where the speaker is deploying an argument (Od. 17.468–
476, 18.351–355, 20.292–298, 24.443–449), or making a proposal (Od. 18.43,
21.68–79, 275–284, 24.454–462).
If my interpretation of the Homeric excerpts is on the right track, some
remarks spring to mind. The athematic imperatives κλῦθι and κλῦτε together with
the participle κλύμενoς are suppletive forms of a thematic non-augmented aorist
κλύoν coinciding with the OI injunctive aorist śruvam, both directly deriving
from the same IE root *ḱleṷ/u-. To κλῦθι, where -ῦ- is said to exhibit metrical
lengthening, the OI imperative śrudhi corresponds exactly. The reduplicated
forms κέκλυθι and κέκλυτε are regarded as innovation by Chantraine (1999:
540–541). Willi (2018: 71) acknowledges that nothing conclusively disproves a
classification of these isolated imperatives as relics of an athematic reduplicated
aorist, but he also states that other interpretations are preferable and specifies
that one may think of perfect imperatives or, less likely, of root-aoristic *κλύθι,
*κλύτε with an added particle *ke- “hither” following Schulze’s (1892: 391–
397) proposal. I agree with Willi that Schulze’s idea is hardly positive, but I am
not as sure as he is that the hypothesis that κέκλυθι and κέκλυτε are perfect
imperatives is to be preferred to the presumption that they are reduplicated
aorist forms. To the state of our knowledge, in fact, κέκλυθι and κέκλυτε may
well be taken as either aorist or perfect forms, at the very most. I would rather
emphasize that, interestingly enough, in κέκλυθι and κέκλυτε the reduplication
syllable κε- conveys the intensive meaning that it is expected to tack onto the
non-reduplicated forms *κλύθι and *κλύτε. It is a sort of meaning connected
with Jespersen’s (1924: 210–211) suggestion that a special category is needed
coding the ‘plural of verbal idea’ as a parallel to nominal number. Initially labeled
as ‘verbal plurality’ the notion has been further investigated by Dressler (1968)
and Cusic (1981). Its use has spread with the recent label of ‘pluractionality’ and
with reference to the encoding of information about ‘event plurality’, mainly by
means of morphological devices affecting the verb (e.g. reduplication or suffixes),
or by lexical tools (e.g. adverbs or verbal periphrases). From a semantic point of
view, this cross-linguistic category “should be broadly construed to include the
multiplicity of actions, events, occurrences, occasions, and so on; but in addition,
whatever indicates extension or increase, whether in time or space, of actions or
states of affairs” (cf. Cusic 1981: 64). As can be easily inferred, pluractionality
relates to concepts such as repetition, intensity, distribution, frequency, duration,
habituality, and even stativity. Beside the basic works of Dressler (1968), Tischler
(1976), Moravcsick (1978), Cusic (1981), Schaefer (1994), Xrakovskij (1997),
Yu (2003), Wood (2007), Shluinsky (2009), Cabredo Hofherr & Laca (2012),
Newman (2013), Magni (2017b), Bertinetto & Lenci (2012), Magni (2017a)
can be seen.
When compared with κλῦθι and κλῦτε, κέκλυθι and κέκλυτε clearly qualify
as ‘pluriactional’ forms.
References
Bertinetto, Pier Marco & Alessandro Lenci. 2012. Habituality, pluractionality,

and imperfectivity. In Robert I. Binnick (ed.), The Oxford handbook of tense
and aspect, 852–880. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Cabredo-Hofherr, Patricia & Brenda Laca (eds). 2012. Verbal plurality and
distributivity. Berlin: de Gruyter.
Chantraine, Pierre. 1999. Dictionnaire étymologique de la langue grecque: histoire
des mots. Paris: Librairie Klincksieck.
Cusic, David Dowell. 1981. Verbal plurality and aspect. Doctoral dissertation,
Stanford University.
Dressler, Wolfgang. 1968. Studien zur verbalen Pluralität: Iterativum,
Distributivum, Durativum, Intensivum in der allgemeinen Grammatik, im
Lateinischen und Hethithischen. Wien: Böhlau.
Jespersen, Otto. 2007 [1924]. The philosophy of grammar. London/New York:
Routledge.
Magni, Elisabetta. 2017a. Intensity, reduplication, and pluractionality in Ancient
Greek. Lexis 10. 1–18.
Magni, Elisabetta. 2017b. Pluractionality and perfect in Homeric Greek.
In Felicia Logozzo & Paolo Poccetti (eds.), Ancient Greek linguistics. New
approaches, insights, perspectives, 325–344. Berlin & Boston: de Gruyter.
Moravcsick, Edith. 1978. Reduplicative Constructions. In Joseph Harold
Greenberg (ed.), Universals of human language, vol. 3, 297–334. Stanford:
Stanford University Press.
Newman, Paul. 2013 [1990]. Nominal and verbal plurality in Chadic. Dordrecht:
Foris.
Schaefer, Christiane. 1994. Das Intensivum im Vedischen. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck
& Ruprecht.
Schulze, Wilhelm. 1892. Quaestiones epicae. Gütersloh: Bertelsmann.
Shluinsky, Andrey. 2009. Individual-level meanings in the semantic domain of
pluractionality. In Patience Epps & Alexandre Arkhipov (eds.), New
challenges in typology: Transcending the borders and refining the distinctions,
175–197. Berlin & Boston: de Gruyter.
Tischler, Johann. 1976. Zur Reduplikation im Indogermanischen. Innsbruck:
Institut für Sprachwissenschaft der Universität Innsbruck.
Willi, Andreas. 2018. Origins of the Greek verb. Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press.
Wood, Esther Jane. 2007. The semantic typology of pluractionality. Berkeley:

University of California dissertation.
Xrakovskij, Victor S. 1997. Semantic types of the plurality of situations and
their natural classification. In Victor S. Xrakovskij (ed.), Typology of iterative
constructions, 3–64. Münich: Lincom Europa.
Yu, Alan. 2003. Pluractionality in Chechen. Natural Language Semantics 11.
289–321.
Texts
Allen, Thomas William. 1931. Homeri Ilias. Edidit Thomas William Allen. 2 vols.
Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Allen, Thomas William. 19222. Homeri Odyssea. Edidit Thomas William Allen. 2
vols. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
352
The preverb μετα-: a cognitive and constructionist

analysis1
Antonio R. Revuelta Puigdollers
1 Introduction
Preverbation (the use of prepositions as verbal prefixes) is a very productive

phenomenon in Ancient Greek. For instance, there are 84 compounds of the
verb ἔρχομαι, many of which are frequently used in the language. Although
μετα- is one of the least common preverbs, according to the LSJ dictionary
its compounds account for 0.317% of all lemmata (375 out of 118.102). This
frequency decreases in Modern Greek, where only 0.112% of the ΛΚΝ are verbs
prefixed by μετα- (56 out of 49.626 lemmata).
This data attests the quantitative relevance of preverbation as a mechanism
for word formation in Ancient Greek and also its decrease throughout time. The
question posed in this paper is whether the preverb’s contribution to the general
meaning of the verb can be formalized and transferred to grammar.
The paper is structured as follows: (i) Section 2 gives a description of spatial
verbs prefixed by μετα-; (ii) the projection of the spatial schemes upon non-
spatial verbs is discussed in Section 3; (iii) possession verbs are treated in Section
4. Some of the verbs discussed in this paper can be classified into different groups:
there is not always a clear-cut differentiation. Useful information about μετα- can
be found in Funck (1876) and Dewell (2011: 77–104) provides parallelisms with
the prefix um- in German.
2 Spatial verbs
Spatial verbs prefixed by μετα- follow at least three different schemes, each with
internal subspecifications:
A) Verbs of change. The compound refers to a change of location, change of
state or a substitution.
1 This paper has been written as part of the research projects ‘Preverbiación en griego antiguo y moderno’
(FFI2015-69749-P) and ‘Corpora y preverbiación en griego’ (PGC2018-096171-B-C22) financed by

the Spanish Ministry of Economy and Competitiveness and the Ministry of Science, Innovation and
Universities. The translations are taken from the Loeb Classical Library with minor changes.
354 REVUELTA PUIGDOLLERS, The preverb μετα-
B) Verbs of fetching. The compound refers to a movement to fetch something

or someone (‘to go/send after someone or something’).
C) Verbs of location/movement ‘among’: The compound refers to a
movement/state/action among a plural entity (to go/send/do among a group of
entities).
2.1 Verbs of change
2.1.1 Change of location

Movement verbs prefixed by adlative (εἰσ-, παρα-, προσ-) or ablative (ἐκ-, ἀπο-)
preverbs focus on the final or previous location of the Trajector, respectively, as
the following figures represent.
Figure 1. Adlative preverbs: εἰσορμίζω, ‘to bring into port’
Figure 2. Ablative preverbs: ἐξορμίζω, ‘to bring out of the harbour’
In contrast μετα- compounds explicitly take into account both the previous and
final location, as depicted in figure 3.
Figure 3. Μετα-: μεθορμίζω ‘to remove from one anchorage to another’, ‘to change harbour’
Very frequently the initial location is the result of a previous movement, as

represented in figure 4.
Figure 4. Μετα-: ‘to move from one’s new location’

When the compound verb derives from an intransitive verb (μετα-βαίνω) the
Trajector occupies the first argument position. However, when it derives from
transitive verbs (μετα-φέρω) the Trajector occupies the Object or Subject position
in the active and passive voice, respectively, as represented in the following table:
Table 1. PFs of movement verbs

PREDICATE FRAMES Subject Object Source Direction Agent
Nom Acc ἀπό/ἐκ+ εἰς/ἐπί ὑπό+
Gen/Adv +Acc/Adv Gen
a B changes from C1 into C2 BTRAJ C1 C2
A changes B from C1 into
b1 A BTRAJ C1 C2
C2
B is changed from C1 into
b2 BTRAJ C1 C2 A
C2 by A
A: Agent; B: Trajector; C1: Landmark (Source); C2: Landmark (Direction)
The following passages illustrate each of these Predicate Frames (PF).
(1) ἐκ δὲ τῆς Ἱστιαιώτιδος ὡς ἐξανέστη ὑπὸ Καδμείων, οἴκεε ἐν Πίνδῳ,

Μακεδνὸν καλεόμενον· ἐνθεῦτεν δὲ αὖτις ἐς τὴν Δρυοπίδα μετέβη (Hdt.
1.56.14–17).
‘Driven by the Cadmeans from this Histiaean country it settled about Pindus
in the parts called Macednian; thence again it migrated to Dryopia.’
(2) ὁ δὲ θεὸς ὁ ἐν Δελφοῖς τόν τε τάφον ὕστερον ἔχρησε τοῖς Λακεδαιμονίοις

μετενεγκεῖν οὗπερ ἀπέθανε (Th. 1.134.4.3–4.5).
‘But the god at Delphi afterwards warned the Lacedaemonians by oracle to
transfer him to the place where he died.’
(3) αὐτὸν δέ σε καὶ τοὺς σοὺς συμπλόους τριῶν ἡμερέων προαγορεύω ἐκ

τῆς ἐμῆς γῆς ἐς ἄλλην τινὰ μετορμίζεσθαι (Hdt. 2.115.24–26).
‘But as for you and the companions of your voyage, I warn you to depart from
my country elsewhither within three days.’
The last example is particularly interesting, because it shows the frequent

combinability of the Source and Direction with the quantifiers ἄλλος and ἕτερος
(‘(an)other’). This combinability highlights the fact that μετα- compounds refer
explicitly to the change of the Trajector’s abode from one place (C1) to another
(C2). In the following passages the μετα- compounds refer to a change by the
Trajector from one place to another on the same island and from one ship to
another, i.e. from entities to entities belonging to the same class (hence the
notation C1 and C2).
(4) ἐκ τούτου τοῦ χώρου παντὸς ἐξορύξας τοὺς νεκροὺς μετεφόρεε ἐς ἄλλον
χῶρον τῆς Δήλου (Hdt. 1.64.9–11).
‘He removed all the dead that were buried in ground within sight of the temple
and carried them to another part of Delos.’
(5) καὶ καταπλευσάντων αὐτῶν εὐθέως τῶν μὲν Παράλων τινὰς οἱ

τετρακόσιοι δύο ἢ τρεῖς ἔδησαν, τοὺς δὲ ἄλλους ἀφελόμενοι τὴν ναῦν καὶ
μετεμβιβάσαντες ἐς ἄλλην στρατιῶτιν (Th. 8.74.2.1–2.3).
‘As soon as they came to port the Four Hundred at once threw some two or three
of the crew into prison, and depriving the rest of their ship and transferring
them to another vessel, a troop-ship.’
The change of Location may be understood as a change of possession when the

entities occupying the Source and Direction slots are human. It is a metaphorical
extension (‘B changes from C1 to C2’ > ‘B’s possession passes from C1 to C2’), as
in example 6.
(6) ἐγὼ δ᾿ ἐκ τῶν ἀπόρων εἰς τοὺς εὐπόρους μετήνεγκα τὰς τριηραρχίας (D.
18.108.3–4).
‘I transferred the naval obligations from needy to well-to-do people.’
The PFs and meanings discussed in this section apply at least to the following
verbs: a) intransitive verbs like μεταπίπτω, μεταβαίνω, μετέρχομαι, μεταπηδάω,
μετεκβαίνω, μεταρρέω, μετανίσομαι, μεθάλλομαι, μεταχωρέω; b) transitive
verbs like μεταβάλλω, μεθίστημι, μετατίθημι, μεταφέρω, μεταλλάσσω,
μεταστρέφω, μετάγω, μετακαλέω, μεταβιβάζω, μετανίστημι, μετακινέω,
μεθορμίζω, μετοικίζω, μετατάσσω, μεταρρίπτω, μεταοχετεύω, μετακλίνω,
μετακομίζω.
2.1.2 Change of state: transformation

In some cases, movement verbs do not refer to a change of Location, but to a
change of state or transformation of the ‘Trajector’, as in the following cases.
(i) B (Nom.) changes from C1 (ἐκ + Gen.) into C2 (εἰς + Acc)
(7) ἐκτρέπονται πολλοὶ τοὺς ϕίλους, ἐπὴν ἐξ εὐπορίης εἰς πενίην

μεταπέσωσιν (Democr. 101.1–2).
‘Many avoid their friends, when these stop being wealthy and fall into poverty.’
(8) Οὐκοῦν ὡς μεταβαίνει πρῶτον ἐκ τῆς τιμαρχίας εἰς τὴν ὀλιγαρχίαν,

ῥητέον; (Pl. R. 550d3–4).
‘So are we to discuss how it [sc. the political system] first changes from timarchy
into oligarchy?’
(ii) A (Nom.) changes B (Acc) from C1 (ἐκ+ Gen.) into C2 (εἰς+Acc)
(9) ποτε θεόν φασι δρᾶσαι, Καινέα τὸν Θετταλὸν ἐκ γυναικὸς μεταβαλόντα
εἰς ἀνδρὸς φύσιν (Pl. Lg. 944d5–7).
‘A god, it is said, once changed Kaineus the Thessalian from woman’s shape to
man’s.’
(iii) A (Nom.) changes B (Acc) from C1 (ἀντί + Gen.) into C2 (εἰς+Acc)
(10) σοῦ ποτε λέγοντος ἀκούσας ἐγὼ μέλλοντος τάς τε Ἑλληνίδας πόλεις ἐν
Σικελίᾳ οἰκίζειν καὶ Συρακουσίους ἐπικουφίσαι, τὴν ἀρχὴν ἀντὶ τυραννίδος
εἰς βασιλείαν μεταστήσαντα, ταῦτ᾿ ἄρα σὲ μὲν τότε διεκώλυσα (Pl. Ep.
315d1–d4).
‘I heard you speaking of your intention to occupy the Greek cities in Italy and
to relieve the Syracusans by changing the government to a monarchy instead
of a tyranny, and at that time (as you assert) I stopped you from doing so.’
The following table represents the PFs involved in this meaning:

Table 2. PFs of verbs expressing change of state/transformation

PREDICATE Subject Object Source Direction Agent
FRAMES
Nom Acc ἀπό/ἐκ/ἀντί εἰς/ἐπί +Acc ὑπό+Gen
+Gen
B changes from C1<PROPERTY/ C2<PROPERTY/
a BTRAJ
C1 into C2 STATE> STATE>
A changes B C1<PROPERTY/ C2<PROPERTY/
b1 A BTRAJ
from C1 into C2 STATE> STATE>
B is changed
C1<PROPERTY/ C2<PROPERTY/
b2 from C1 into C2 BTRAJ A
STATE> STATE>
by A
Agent: A; Trajector: B; Landmarks: C1: Source (state1); C2: Direction (state2)
If we compare these PFs with those described in the preceding section (Section
2.1.1) there are two major differences. First, the Source and Direction slots
are occupied by entities referring to properties or states and not to first-order
entities (physical Locations and Possessors). This is clear with abstract nouns
like εὐπορίη (‘prosperity’) or πενία (‘poverty’), but also with concrete nouns
like ἀνήρ (‘man’) and γυνή (‘woman’), since they are bare nominals referring
not to specific first-order entities, but to the class or property they describe (‘the
property of being a man/woman’). The second difference is the Source referring
to the previous state before the change. This argument is not only marked by
prepositional phrases with ablative meaning (ἐκ/ἀπό+Gen.), but also by PPs like
ἀντί+Gen. ‘instead of ’ (see example 10). Verbs behaving in this way include
the following: a) intransitive verbs like μεταβάλλω (intr./tr.), μεταπίπτω,
μεταβαίνω, μεταλλάσσω (intr./tr.); b) transitive verbs like μεταβάλλω (intr./
tr.), μεθίστημι, μετατίθημι, μεταφέρω, μεταλλάσσω (intr./tr.), μεταστρέφω,
μετακινέω, μεταίρω.
2.1.3 Substitution
In a third case, the change is substantiated as substitution: the substituted entity
(B2) occupies the object position in the accusative, whereas the replaced entity
(B1) appears as a third argument mainly with the marks ἀντί + Gen. and less
frequently with the marks ἐκ + Gen., as in the following passages.
(11) ὥσπερ οὖν τὸν ὁμοκέλευθον καὶ ὁμόκοιτιν “ἀκόλουθον” καὶ “ἄκοιτιν”
ἐκαλέσαμεν, μεταβαλόντες ἀντὶ τοῦ “ὁμο-” “ἀ-,” οὕτω καὶ “Ἀπόλλωνα”
ἐκαλέσαμεν ὃς ἦν “Ὁμοπολῶν” (Pl. Cra. 405d5–e1).
‘And so, just as we call the ὁμοκέλευθον (‘he who accompanies’), and ὁμόκοιτιν
(‘bedfellow’), by changing the ὁμο to alpha, ἀκόλουθον and ἄκοιτιν, so also
we called “Apollo” the one who was before “Homopolo”.’
(12) καὶ μετενεγκόντα τοὺς χρόνους καὶ προφάσεις ἀντὶ τῶν ἀληθῶν ψευδεῖς
μεταθέντα τοῖς πεπραγμένοις δοκεῖν τι λέγειν (D. 18.225.4–226.1).
‘He transposes dates, substitutes fictitious reasons for the true reasons of
transactions, and so makes a show of speaking to the point.’
(13) οἱ ἡμέτεροι τῷ ἰῶτα καὶ τῷ δέλτα εὖ μάλα ἐχρῶντο […]. νῦν δὲ ἀντὶ
μὲν τοῦ ἰῶτα ἢ εἶ ἢ ἦτα μεταστρέφουσιν, ἀντὶ δὲ τοῦ δέλτα ζῆτα, ὡς δὴ
μεγαλοπρεπέστερα ὄντα (Pl. Cra. 418b7–c3).
‘Our ancestors made good use of the sounds of the iota and delta […]. But
nowadays people change iota to eta or epsilon, and delta to zeta, thinking they
have a grander sound.’
The following table summarizes the PFs present in this case. These PFs do not
include any directional argument.
Table 3. PFs of verbs expressing substitution

PREDICATE FRAMES Subject Object Replaced entity Agent
Nom Acc ἀντί+Gen (+)/ ὑπό+Gen
ἐκ + Gen (-)
A substitutes B2 for B1 A B2 B1
B2 is substituted for B1 by A B2 B1 Α
B2 = substituted entity; B1 = replaced entity; (+): more frequent; (-): less frequent
All the verbs seem to be transitive in this category: μεταβάλλω, μεθίστημι,

μετατίθημι, μεταλλάσσω, μεταστρέφω.
2.2 To go/send/call after/behind
In contrast to the verbs expressing different kinds of change (Section 2.1),

a second class of movement verbs prefixed by μετα- refer to a path where the
Trajector moves ‘behind’ or ‘after’ the Landmark in one of two different schemes.
Despite the differences in meaning, both schemes present similar PFs, as depicted
in the following table:
Table 4. PFs of verbs expressing movement after/behind

PREDICATE FRAMES Subject Object1 Object2 Source Direc-
tion
Nom Acc1 Acc2 ἐκ/παρά εἰς+Acc
+Gen
B goes behind (= follows) BTRAJEC- (CLANDMARK)
(C) TOR
B goes after (= fetches) C BTRAJEC- CLANDMARK D E
from D to E TOR
A sends (B) after C from A (BTRAJEC- CLANDMARK D E
D to E TOR)
These schemes are documented with the following verbs: μεθάλλομαι, μεθέπω,
μεταδιώκω, μεταθέω, μεταΐσσω, μετακιάθω, μετανίσομαι, μεταπέμπω,
μεταπορεύομαι, μετασεύομαι, μεταστέλλω, μέτειμι, μετέρχομαι, μετοίχομαι.
2.2.1 To go behind: to follow

In the first scheme, the Trajector is moving behind an entity that is also moving.
The general meaning of the verb is ‘to go behind’ or ‘to follow’, as exemplified by
the following passages.
(14) ἢ ἴθ’, ἐγὼ δὲ μέτειμι· κιχήσεσθαι δέ σ’ ὀΐω (Hom. Il. 6.341).

‘Or go thy way, and I will follow; and methinks I shall overtake thee.’
(15) καὶ οἱ δορυφόροι τὰ ὅπλα ἔχοντες παρηκολούθουν σπουδῇ, τοῦ μὲν

ὑφηγουμένου, τῶν δὲ μετιόντων. (X. HG 4.5.8.4–6).
‘And the spearmen of his body-guard, fully armed, accompanied him with all
speed, he leading the way and his tent companions following after him.’
(16) ἑαυτῷ τε ὑπομνήματα θησαυριζόμενος, εἰς τὸ λήθης γῆρας ἐὰν ἵκηται,

καὶ παντὶ τῷ ταὐτὸν ἴχνος μετιόντι (Pl. Phdr. 276d3–4).
‘When he writes, to treasure up reminders for himself, when he comes to the
forgetfulness of old age, and for others who follow the same path.’
This movement can be graphically represented in the following picture.
Figure 5. ‘to follow’
2.2.2 To go/send in search of: to fetch

As figure 6 shows, in a second group of verbs the situation is more complex. The
Trajector is at a certain distance from the Landmark at a previous moment (phase
1) and during the verbal action it approaches the Landmark (phase 2) in order
to take it back to the Trajector’s initial location (phase 3). This kind of complex
movement could be graphically represented as follows.
Figure 6. ‘to fetch’
The compounds expressing this situation follow one of two schemes depending
on the simple verb they derive from.
• To fetch something/someone from somewhere
Verbs deriving from intransitive verbs (e.g. εἶμι) present the (first) Trajector as
subject and the Landmark as an object in the accusative and their meaning is ‘to
fetch’. The role of the Landmark (the square in figure 6) is twofold, since (i) it is
the end location of the Trajector’s first movement, but at the same time (ii) it is
a secondary Trajector of a movement back to the first Trajector’s original starting
point (phase 3). These verbs could be paraphrased as ‘the Trajector goes to the
Landmark and takes the Landmark to his/her previous location’. The Source
argument does not refer to the initial Location the first Trajector leaves (phase1
to phase2), but to the Location from where the Trajector and the Landmark
(secondary Trajector) depart in the second movement (phase2 to phase3), as
shown in the following passages.
(17) ΠΟ. Οἴσεις ἀλετρίβανον τρέχων; […] ΠΟ. Οὔκουν παρ᾿ Ἀθηναίων
μεταθρέξει ταχὺ ‹πάνυ›; (Ar. Pax. 259–261).
‘WAR. Run and fetch me a pestle. […] WAR. Go and fetch me one from
Athens, and hurry, hurry!’
(18) Ἀλκιβιάδης δὲ κατιδὼν ἐκ τῶν τειχῶν τοὺς μὲν Ἀθηναίους ἐν αἰγιαλῷ

ὁρμοῦντας […] τὰ δ᾿ ἐπιτήδεια ἐκ Σηστοῦ μετιόντας (X. HG 2.1.25.1–
2.1.25.3).
‘Alcibiades, who could discern from his castle that the Athenians were moored
on an open shore […] and were fetching their provisions from Sestus.’
(19) ΠΟ. Οὔκουν ἕτερον δῆτ᾿ ἐκ Λακεδαίμονος μέτει ἁνύσας τι; (Ar. Pax.
274–275).
‘Then go and seek one at Sparta and have done with it!’
In the previous examples, the objects fetched are located in Athens, Sestus and
Sparta and the Trajector goes there and takes them from these locations back to
his/her starting point.
• To send (someone) to fetch something/someone from somewhere
When the compound verb derives from a simple transitive verb the situation is
more complex. The only clear case of verbs fitting into this scheme is μεταπέμπω
mainly in middle voice (μεταπέμπομαι). Whereas the simple verb πέμπω refers
to a SoA where the subject makes the object in the accusative (the Trajector)
move from an initial point (mainly co-referential with the subject’s location) to
a different final point, the compound μεταπέμπομαι (in the middle) refers to a
SoA where the subject sends an entity (never explicitly mentioned) to the place
where there is another entity in order to take the latter back to the subject’s
location. Unlike πέμπω, μεταπέμπομαι never explicitly refers to the entity sent
and its accusative refers to the entity fetched and not to the entity sent. As in the
compounds derived from simple intransitive verbs (e.g. μετατρέχω), a source
expression can be found referring to the location where the fetched entity is
located and from which it is transferred (examples 20, 21). When a directional
expression is present, it refers to the place where the subject is located and not to
the place where the fetched entity is located (22–25), as shown below.
(20) ὁ δὲ Ἀναξίβιος […] μεταπέμπεται ἐκ Καλχηδόνος φρουρούς (X. An.

7.1.20.2-4).
‘Anaxibius […] summoned the garrison from Calchedon.’
(21) Καμβύσῃ δὲ ὡς ἔδοξε πέμπειν τοὺς κατασκόπους, αὐτίκα μετεπέμπετο

ἐξ Ἐλεφαντίνης πόλιος τῶν Ἰχθυοφάγων ἀνδρῶν τοὺς ἐπισταμένους τὴν
Αἰθιοπίδα γλῶσσαν (Hdt. 3.19.1–3).
‘When Cambyses determined to send the spies, he sent for those Fish-eaters
from the city of Elephantine who understood the Ethiopian language.’
(22) καί μιν Κροῖσος πυθόμενος τῶν Λυδῶν τῶν ἐς τὰ χρηστήρια φοιτώντων
ἑωυτὸν εὖ ποιέειν μεταπέμπεται ἐς Σάρδις (Hdt. 6.125.6–8).
‘When Croesus heard from the Lydians who visited the oracle of Alcmeon’s
benefits to him, he summoned Alcmeon to Sardis.’
(23) Κῦρος δ᾿ ἐπεὶ εἰσήλασεν εἰς τὴν πόλιν, μετεπέμπετο τὸν Συέννεσιν
πρὸς ἑαυτόν (X. An. 1.2.26.4–5).
‘As for Cyrus, after he had marched into the city he more than once summoned
Syennesis to his presence.’
(24) μεταπεμψάμενος τὸν πατέρα τὸν ἐμὸν εἰς τὸ Παράλιον τῶν τε

προϋπηργμένων εἰς αὑτὸν ἐπῄνει (D. 49.25.4–26.1).
‘He sent for my father to come to the Paralion and thanked him for his former
services to him.’
(25) καὶ δὴ καὶ Διονυσόδωρος μεταπέμπεται τὴν ἀδελφὴν τὴν ἐμὴν εἰς τὸ
δεσμωτήριον. (Lys. 13.40.1–2).
‘In particular, Dionysodorus sent for my sister to see him in the prison.’
The comparison in example 21 between πέμπω and μεταπέμπομαι is quite

telling. Whereas the accusative object in πέμπω refers to the entity sent, in
μεταπέμπομαι it refers to the entity sent for or fetched.
2.2.3 Metaphorical extensions

The two schemes discussed in this section have several metaphorical extensions
in other domains. Derived from the meanings ‘to go after/follow’ and ‘to go in
search of ’ we find the meanings ‘to pursue, prosecute, punish’ and ‘to go after,
attend to’, as exemplified in the following passages.
(26) ὀρθῶς καὶ δικαίως μετέρχομαι τὸν ϕονέα τοῦ πατρός (Antipho In
novercam 10.7–8).
‘My search for my father’s murderer is honest and impartial.’
(27) ὅσαι τὸ πρᾶγμα τοῦτ’ ἐνεστήσαντο καὶ μετῆλθον (Ar. Lys. 268).
‘[The women] who have instigated or abetted this business.’
2.3 To come/be/do something among a group of entities

There is a third use of spatial verbs mainly represented in Homer and his imitators
where the compound refers either to a movement or the location of the subject
among the members of a plural Landmark (for the same use in the preposition
μετά see Luraghi 2003: 244–255). The verbs expressing location are not only
typical location verbs, but also verbs referring to different kinds of activities.
Some verbs that behave in this way are the following: μετέρχομαι, μέτειμι1
(εἰμί), μέτειμι2 (εἶμι), μεταπρέπω, μετοικέω, μεταυδάω, μετεῖπον, μετάφημι.
The Landmark appears in the first case (movement) in the accusative, whereas in
the second one (movement/state/activity verbs) it takes on the form of a NP in
the dative or a PP (different possibilities are available), as represented in table 5.
Table 5. PFs of verbs meaning ‘to come/be/do sth among’

PREDICATE FRAMES Subject Object Location
Nom Acc Dat/PP
B goes among C B C
B moves/is/does X (to D) among C B (D) C
The following examples illustrate both PFs.
(i) B goes among C (accusative)

(28) Τρῳὰς δὲ στίχας οὖλος ῎Αρης ὄτρυνε μετελθών (Hom. Il. 5.461).
‘And baneful Ares entered amid the Trojans’ ranks and urged them on.’
(ii) B moves/is/does X (D) among C (dative)

(29) αἰδέομαι γὰρ / γυμνοῦσθαι κούρῃσιν ἐυπλοκάμοισι μετελθών (Hom.
Od. 6.221–222).
‘For I am ashamed to be naked in the midst of fair-tressed maidens.’
(30) ἐπεὶ οὐδ’ ἐμὲ θυμὸς ἄνωγε / ζώειν οὐδ’ ἄνδρεσσι μετέμμεναι, αἴ κε
μὴ ῞Εκτωρ / πρῶτος ἐμῷ ὑπὸ δουρὶ τυπεὶς ἀπὸ θυμὸν ὀλέσσῃ (Hom. Il.
18.90–92).
‘For neither doth my own heart bid me live on and abide among men, unless
Hector first, smitten by my spear, shall lose his life.’
(31) ὣς ὃ βαρὺ στενάχων ἔπε’ Ἀργείοισι μετηύδα (Hom. Il. 9.16).

‘Even so with deep groaning spake he amid the Argives, saying.’
(iii) B moves/is/does X (D) among C (PP)

(32) συσκευασάμενος γὰρ τὰ ἑαυτοῦ ἐνθένδε εἰς τὴν ὑπερορίαν ἐξῴκησε,
καὶ ἐν Ὠρωπῷ μετοίκιον κατατιθεὶς ἐπὶ προστάτου ᾤκει, βουληθεὶς παρ᾿
ἐκείνοις μετοικεῖν μᾶλλον ἢ μεθ᾿ ἡμῶν πολίτης εἶναι (Lys. 31.9.1–9.4).
‘For he packed up all his belongings and left the city to live beyond the border,
at Oropus, where he paid the aliens tax and resided under the protection of a
patron, since he preferred the life of an alien among those people to citizenship
with us.’
3 Non-spatial verbs
Non-spatial verbs seem to behave in a similar way to spatial verbs, particularly

those described in Section 2.1. The simple verb contributes the mood of action
to the compound, whereas the preverb contributes the constructionist meaning
(Goldberg 1995, Mateu and Acedo-Matellán 2013). Unlike spatial verbs,
non-spatial verbs prefixed by μετα- have arguments (Source, Direction, etc.)
that cannot be combined with their simple verb: the preverb adds unselected
arguments to the new compound.
3.1 Change of state: transformation
Compounds expressing transformation display PFs similar to those of movement

verbs, but include some small changes in their syntax, since the final state can
be marked as a Direction or alternatively as a Predicative in the nominative or

accusative in agreement with the entity undergoing the change (either the subject
or the object), as depicted in table 6.
Table 6. PFs of verbs expressing transformation

PREDICATE Subject Object Source Direct. Predicat
FRAMES
Nom Acc ἀπό/ἐκ+Gen εἰς+Acc Nom/Acc
B changes from C1 B C1<PROPERTY/STATE> C2<PROPERTY/STATE>
into C2
A changes B from A B C1<PROPERTY/STATE> C2<PROPERTY/STATE>
C1 into C2
The following passages exemplify the different possibilities.
• B (Nom.) changes into C2 (predicative Nom.)

(33) τῶν γενομένων ἀνδρῶν ὅσοι δειλοὶ καὶ τὸν βίον ἀδίκως διῆλθον, κατὰ
λόγον τὸν εἰκότα γυναῖκες μετεφύοντο ἐν τῇ δευτέρᾳ γενέσει (Pl. Ti. 90e6–
91a1).
‘According to the probable account, all those creatures generated as men
who proved themselves cowardly and spent their lives in wrong-doing were
transformed, at their second incarnation, into women.’
• A (Nom.) changes B (Acc) into C2 (predicative Acc.)

(34) πάλιν μετασκεύαζε σαυτὴν αὖθις ἥπερ ἦσθα (Ar. Ec. 499).
‘Change yourself [your dress] and become the one you were.’
• A (Nom.) changes B from C1 (ἐκ+Gen.) into C2 (εἰς+Acc)

(35) καὶ τὰ Μηδικὰ δὲ ἅρματα ἐπεπείκει Κῦρος Κυαξάρην εἰς τὸν αὐτὸν
τρόπον τοῦτον μετασκευάσαι ἐκ τῆς Τρωικῆς καὶ Λιβυκῆς διφρείας (X. Cyr.
6.2.8.1–3).
‘And Cyrus had persuaded Cyaxares to transform the Median chariots also
from the Trojan and Libyan type to this same style.’
• A (Nom.) changes B into C2 (εἰς+Acc)

(36) γαλῆ ἐρασθεῖσα νεανίσκου τινὸς εὐπρεποῦς ηὔξατο τῇ Ἀφροδίτῃ, ὅπως
αὐτὴν μεταμορφώσῃ εἰς γυναῖκα (Aesop. Prov. 50.1–2).
‘A ferret that was in love with a certain very beautiful young man begged
Aphrodite to transform it into a woman.’
The verbs displaying this meaning are mainly transitive, as we can see
below: a) transitive verbs like μεταγράφω, μετασχηματίζω, μεταρρυθμίζω,
μετασκευάζω, μεταποιέω, μεταπλάσσω, μεταμορφόω, μετακοσμέω,
μεταφράζω, μετεπιγράφω, μετεγγράφω; b) intransitive verbs like μεταφύομαι.
3.2 To substitute
Although there are similarities with the previous class (Section 3.1), some
verbs refer rather to some kind of substitution of an entity for another. Μετα-
compounds can have many different PFs. In the following sections I will discuss
some of them.
3.2.1 To substitute B2 for B1

Many of the verbs exhibit the PF discussed at Section 2.1.3 where the substituted
entity (B2) appears as the accusative object (in the active voice), whereas the
replaced entity (B1) is marked with ἀντί+Gen., (if it is mentioned at all), as
represented in table 7.
Table 7. PFs of verbs expressing substitution1

PREDICATE FRAMES Subject Object1 Replaced entity
Nom Acc1 ἀντί+Gen.

Α substitutes B2 for B1 A B2 B1
Some of the verbs displaying this behaviour include: μεταβουλεύω,

μεταγιγνώσκω, μεταλαμβάνω, μεταμανθάνω, μεταμπίσχω, μεταμφιέννυμι,
μετανοέω, μεταφράζω, μετενδύω. In the following paragraphs these verbs will
be individually discussed.
The verb μεταλαμβάνω, like its simple form, means that its subject begins
to possess something (B2), but the preverb μετα- adds the presupposition that
there was a previous possession (B1) that was replaced. In the first of the following
examples, this new possession is war and the old is peace (made explicit through
ἀντί+Gen.), whereas in the second example the previous and the final possessions
are different pieces of cloth.
(37) δι᾿ ὅπερ καὶ μὴ ὀκνεῖν δεῖ αὐτοὺς τὸν πόλεμον ἀντ᾿ εἰρήνης
μεταλαμβάνειν (Th. 1.120.3.1–2).
‘For these reasons they should not hesitate to exchange peace for war.’
(38) οἱ μὲν δὴ Μῆδοι καὶ οἱ ἀμφὶ Τιγράνην ἐλοῦντο, καί, ἦν γὰρ

παρεσκευασμένα, [καὶ] ἱμάτια μεταλαβόντες ἐδείπνουν (X. Cyr. 4.5.4.1–3).
‘Then the Medes and Tigranes and his men bathed, changed their clothes (for
they were provided with a change).’
The compound μεταμανθάνω, like the simple form μανθάνω, means that the
subject acquires some knowledge (B2) and the preverb adds the presupposition
that there was a different kind of previous knowledge (B1). The simple verb
μανθάνω lacks this presupposition regarding previous knowledge. In the
following passage, someone learns a language, which is different from — and
replaces — the language previously known.
(39) ἅμα τῇ μεταβολῇ τῇ ἐς Ἕλληνας καὶ τὴν γλῶσσαν μετέμαθε (Hdt.

1.57.9–13).
‘(sc. The Attic nation) must have changed its language too at the time when it
became part of the Hellenes.’
Dressing verbs prefixed by μετα- like μετενδύω, μεταμφιέννυμι and μεταμπίσχω

refer to a change of garments. The previous garments (B1) can be referred to by
ἀντί+Gen., as the metaphorical use of these verbs in example 41 show.
(40) δὴ τῷ βασιλεῖ τὸν ἱερέα ἐπιτρέψαι παρελθεῖν εἰς τὸν νεὼ μετὰ τῆς
συνήθους στολῆς, τοὺς δ’ ἄλλους μετενδῦναι τὴν ἐσθῆτα (Str. 17.1.42.20).
‘That the priest permitted the king alone to pass into the temple in his usual
dress, whereas the others changed theirs.’
(41) ὁ δῆμος φεύγων ἂν καπνὸν δουλείας ἐλευθέρων εἰς πῦρ δούλων

δεσποτείας ἂν ἐμπεπτωκὼς εἴη, ἀντὶ τῆς πολλῆς ἐκείνης καὶ ἀκαίρου
ἐλευθερίας τὴν χαλεπωτάτην τε καὶ πικροτάτην δούλων δουλείαν
μεταμπισχόμενος (Pl. R. 569b8–c3).
‘The people fleeing and freeing themselves from the smoke of enslavement
would have fallen into the fire of despotism and in place of that vast importunate
freedom have reclothed themselves in the most harsh and bitter slavery under
slaves.’
Verbs of opinion and decision prefixed by μετα- like μεταγιγνώσκω, μετανοέω,

μεταβουλεύω express a change of mind: the present opinion or decision (B2)
substitutes a previous one (B1), as in the following examples.
(42) ἐγὼ μὲν οὖν καὶ τότε πρῶτον καὶ νῦν διαμάχομαι μὴ μεταγνῶναι ὑμᾶς
τὰ προδεδογμένα (Th. 3.40.2.1–2.2).
‘Therefore, I still protest, as I have from the first, that you should not reverse
your former decision.’
(43) ἢ τί ψήφισμα γέγραφεν ᾧ πεισθέντες ὑμεῖς οὐ πάλιν μετανοῆσαι

προείλεσθε; (D. 26.17.3–5).
‘Or what decree has he ever drafted that you were not afterwards glad to
disown?’.
(44) Ἀλλ᾿ εἴ τις ἔστι μηχανή, ἴθι καὶ πειρῶ διαχέαι τὰ βεβουλευμένα, ἤν
κως δύνῃ ἀναγνῶσαι Εὐρυβιάδην μεταβουλεύσασθαι ὥστε “αὐτοῦ μένειν”
(Hdt. 8.57.10–58.1).
‘If there is any way at all that you could persuade Eurybiades to change his
decision and remain here, go try to undo this resolution.’
The verb μεταγράφω refers to the action of erasing something previously written
(B1, ἀντί + Gen.) in order to write something new (B2, the object).
(45) ἀπογραψάμενοι δ᾿ ἐν ταῖς ὀμωμοκυίαις πόλεσι καὶ οἱ Θηβαῖοι,

προσελθόντες πάλιν τῇ ὑστεραίᾳ οἱ πρέσβεις αὐτῶν ἐκέλευον μεταγράφειν
ἀντὶ Θηβαίων Βοιωτοὺς ὀμωμοκότας. ὁ δὲ Ἀγησίλαος ἀπεκρίνατο ὅτι
μεταγράψει μὲν οὐδὲν ὧν τὸ πρῶτον ὤμοσάν τε καὶ ἀπεγράψαντο (X. HG
6.3.19.3–8).
‘The Thebans also signed their names among the cities which had sworn, but
on the following day their ambassadors came in again and demanded that the
writing be changed to read that “the Boeotians” instead of “the Thebans” had
sworn. Agesilaus, however, replied that he would change no part of what they
had sworn to and signed in the first place.’
3.2.2 To make A substitute B1 for B2

Verbs like μεταπείθω and μεταδιδάσκω present a different PF. They are like
causative versions of the previous category: the subject does not make a substitution
himself, but makes the object do so, as represented in the following table.

PREDICATE FRAMES Subject Object1 Object2 Replaced entity
Nom Acc1 Acc2 ἀντί+Gen.
C makes A change A’s knowl-
C A B2 B1
edge/opinion from B1 to B2
In the following example the subject tries to persuade someone (the object) not
to fear death (B2) and the preverb μετα- introduces the presupposition that his
fear exists (B1).
(46) ἀλλ᾿ ἴσως ἔνι τις καὶ ἐν ἡμῖν παῖς ὅστις τὰ τοιαῦτα φοβεῖται. τοῦτον
οὖν πειρῶ μεταπείθειν μὴ δεδιέναι τὸν θάνατον ὥσπερ τὰ μορμολύκεια (Pl.
Phd. 77e4–7).
‘Perhaps there is a child within us, who has such fears. Let us try to persuade
him not to fear death as if it were a hobgoblin.’
3.2.3 To change A’s name from B1 to B2

The verb μετονομάζω introduces a new variable. It is the predicative of the object
and not the object itself that refers to the substitute (‘to call someone B2 instead
of B1’), as represented in the following table.

PREDICATE FRAMES Subject Object1 Predicative Replaced entity
Nom Acc Nom Acc ἀντί+Gen
C changes A’s name from B1
C A B2 B1
to B2
A changes his/her name from
A B2 B1
B1 to B2
In the following examples the subject in the passive voice (A, the equivalent to
the accusative in the active) changes its name. The new name is a predicative (B2,
example 46) in the nominative (the equivalent to the accusative in the active
voice), whereas the previous name is introduced by ἀντί+Gen. (B1, example 48).
(47) ἐξεγένετό οἱ παῖς […] τῷ οὔνομα ἐτέθη Βάττος, ὡς Θηραῖοι τε καὶ

Κυρηναῖοι λέγουσι, ὡς μέντοι ἐγὼ δοκέω, ἄλλο τι Βάττος δὲ μετωνομάσθη,
ἐπείτε ἐς Λιβύην ἀπίκετο (Hdt. 4.155.4–7).
‘A son […] was born to him, to whom he gave the name Battus, as the Theraeans
and Cyrenaeans say; but in my opinion the boy was given some other name,
and changed it to Battus on his coming to Libya.’
(48) Ἀντὶ δὲ Λυδῶν μετονομασθῆναι αὐτοὺς ἐπὶ τοῦ βασιλέος τοῦ παιδός,
ὅς σφεας ἀνήγαγε· ἐπὶ τούτου τὴν ἐπωνυμίην ποιευμένους ὀνομασθῆναι
Τυρσηνούς (Hdt. 1.94.32–34).
‘They no longer called themselves Lydians, but Tyrrhenians, after the name of
the king’s son who had led them there.’
3.2.4 B2 is substituted for B1 in A

In verbs like μεταδοκέω (‘to change one’s opinion’) the entity affected by the
substitution (A) is the experiencer in the dative whereas the substituted entity
(B2) can occupy the subject slot in the nominative, as reflected in the table 10.

PREDICATE FRAMES Subject Object Beneficiary/ Replaced
Experiencer entity
Nom Acc Dat. ἄντί+Gen.
B2 is substituted for B1 in B2 A B1
A’s opinion
In the following passage, Xerxes (the dative μοι) changes his opinion and decides
not to send an expedition against the Greeks (the subject) reversing his previous
decision.
(49) Ὡς ὦν μεταδεδογμένον μοι μὴ στρατεύεσθαι ἐπὶ τὴν Ἑλλάδα, ἥσυχοι

ἔστε (Hdt. 7.13.10–11).
‘Since I have changed my mind and don’t intend to march against Hellas, abide
in peace.’
3.2.5 Meaning postulates

Although this article does not exhaust all possibilities, the classification provided
in the previous sections (Sections 3.2.1–3.2.4) shows a larger variety of PFs than
those examined in connection with movement verbs (Section 2.3). The following
table offers a general view of the constructions discussed so far.
Table 11. PFs of verbs expressing substitution: general view

PREDICATE FRAMES Subj Obj1 Obj2 Pred Ben/ Replaced
Exp entity
Nom Acc1 Acc2 Acc Dat ἀντί+Gen
a Α substitutes B2 for B1 A B2 B1
C makes A substitute
b A’s knowledge/opin- C A B2 B1
ion (B2 for B1)
C substitutes A’s name
c C A B2 B1
(B2 for B1)
B2 is substituted for
d B2 A B1
B1 in A’s opinion
These PFs apply to large classes of verbs: (i) class a: μεταβουλεύω, μεταγιγνώσκω,
μεταμανθανω, μεταλαμβάνω, μεταμπίσχω, μεταμφιέννυμι, μετενδύω,
μεταφράζω, μετανοέω; (ii) class b: μεταδιδάσκω, μεταπείθω; (iii) class c:
μετονομάζω; (iv) class d: μεταδοκέω.
However these PFs do not account (i) for the similarities between all μετα-
verbs across the classes discussed in Section 3.2 and (ii) for the differences
between these μετα- verbs and other verbs with the same PFs. For this reason this
description will be complemented with the introduction of another concept: that
of meaning postulates and meaning definitions (Dik 1978). Meaning postulates
can be described as those necessary conditions that account for an item’s meaning.
Once all those meaning postulates are enumerated, a complete meaning definition
is provided. The following table gives a partial meaning definition of some of the
items discussed in this section; each verb is broken down into a presuppositional
and an implicative meaning postulate.
Table 12. Verbs expressing substitution: break down into meaning postulates
Verbs Meaning postulates
Presupposition Implication
(initial state) (final state)
μεταλαμβάνω A has B1 A has B2
μεταμανθάνω A has knowledge B1 A has a knowledge B2
μετενδύω,
μεταμφιέννυμι, A wears a garment B1 A wears a garment B2
μεταμπίσχω
μεταδοκέω A has the opinion/decision B1 A has the opinion/decision B2
μεταγιγνώσκω,
μετανοέω, A thinks/decides B1 A thinks/decides B2
μεταβουλεύω
μεταδιδάσκω A knows B1 A knows B2
μετονομάζω A has a name B1 A has a name B2
μεταπείθω A believes/has the intention to A believes/has the intention
do B1 to do B2
μεταγράφω B1 is written B2 is written
A, B1 and B2 refer to different argument slots according to the verb
Despite the many differences among the verbs discussed in these Sections 3.2.1–
3.2.4 (meanings, syntactic patterns, and so on), it seems that all of them can be
broken down into at least two meaning postulates. Those two meaning postulates
describe the same state, but have two main differences: (i) one is presupposed
and refers to the previous state, whilst the other is implicative and refers to the
subsequent state; (ii) they refer to two different entities or variables belonging to
the same class (B1 and B2). For example, the verbs describing a change in garment
presuppose that an entity A wears the garments B1 in the state previous to the
verbal action, whereas they imply that the same entity A wears the garments B2
at the end of the verbal action. This breakdown is particularly useful, because it
does not only unify the common meaning of the μετα- compounds, but because
it allows us to define the exact contribution of the preverb to the general meaning
of the compound: the presupposed meaning postulate explicitly formulates that
contribution. For instance, a verb like ἐνδύω just means that after the verbal
action (implicative meaning postulate) the subject (A) wears a certain garment
(B2), but gives no information about the previous situation (the subject could wear
a different garment or just be naked, for example), whereas the verb μετενδύω
additionally presupposes that the subject was wearing a garment (B1) and that
that garment (B1) is different from the final one (B2), so a substitution has taken
place. The following table depicts the difference in meaning postulates between
simple and μετα- compound verbs.
Table 13. Difference between μετα- compounds and their simple verbs
Verbs Meaning postulates
Presupposition Implication
(initial state) (final state)
μετενδύω,
A wears a garment A wears a garment
μεταμφιέννυμι,
B1 B2
μεταμπίσχω
ἐνδύω, A wears a garment
?
ἀμφιέννυμι B2
This breakdown into meaning postulates applies and is useful not only for the
verbs described at Section 3.2, but also for those discussed at Section 2.1 (‘change
of location’, ‘transformation’ and substitution) and Section 3.1.
4 Partial possession: To give/have/get/ask for a share
There is a small class of verbs that describe partial possession. They cover a range
of predicate frames completely different from those discussed in the previous
sections. Although this class is made up of few verbs, they are frequent and are
also derived from high-frequency verbs. The verbs belonging to these classes
include the following: (i) class a: to give a share: μεταδίδωμι; (ii) class b: to have/
take a share: μετέχω, μεταλαμβάνω, μεταλαγχάνω, μεταποιοῦμαι; (iii) class c:
to ask for a share: μεταιτέω; (iv) class d: to exist a share: μέτειμι.
Unlike the simple verbs they derive from, these μετα- compounds explicitly
state that the possessor does not control the whole possession of the entity, but
only part of it. These verbs are found with a wide range of predicate frames, as
depicted in the following table.
Table 14. PFs of verbs expressing partial possession

PREDICATE Subject Object Recipient/ Source
FRAMES Beneficiary
Nom Acc1 Gen Dat παρά+Gen Acc2
a1 A gives B A C(<WHOLE>) B
part of C
a2 A gives B A C<PART> B
part of C
b1 B takes/ B C(<WHOLE>) A
has part
of C
(from A)
b2 B takes/ B C<PART> A
has part
of C
(from A)
c1 B asks for B C(<WHOLE>) A
C from A
c2 B asks for B C<PART> A
C from A
d1 B has part C(<WHOLE>) B
of C
d2 B has part C<PART> B
of C
A = agent/former possessor; B = possessor/new possessor; C = possession
Despite the differences existing among the PFs depicted in table 14, all these verbs
and their PFs share a common feature that (i) distinguishes them from the simple
verbs they derive from, (ii) accounts for the meaning ‘partial possession’, and (iii)
could be attributed to the presence of the preverb μετα-. This feature is the fact
that in all cases the possession or possessed entity (C in Table 14) displays certain
characteristics quite consistently, although there are some counterexamples in
both directions:
(i) The possessed entity appears in the genitive, when the nominal expression
refers to the whole entity (see the selection restriction <WHOLE>). This partitive
genitive syntactically conveys the notion of partial possession.
(ii) The possessed entity appears in the nominative (only μέτειμι) or the
accusative (the other verbs), when the nominal expression refers to a certain part
or fragment (e.g. μοῖρα, μέρος, τριτημόριον, or any expression of quantification)
of that entity (see the selection restriction <PART>). In this case, the partial
possession is not expressed syntactically, but lexically.
Despite the difference in case marking, in either case (genitive or nominative/

accusative) the nominal seems to be partially affected by the verbal action (‘to
have/give/take/ask for a share in something’). The following subsections describe
the different classes of PFs.
4.1 To give a share in something
The verb δίδωμι (‘to give’) is a trivalent verb where there is an Agent (A) causing
the action and this agent (who can be the previous possessor) makes the dative
(B) into the new possessor of the accusative (possession C). The compound verb
μεταδίδωμι (‘to give a share in’) partially maintains this PF when the possession
refers to a portion (τὸ τριτημόριον, example 50), but replaces the accusative with
the genitive when the whole possession is mentioned (ἀρχῆς, τιμῆς, χρημάτων,
example 51); exceptionally the accusative is also used when the nominal refers to
the whole entity (see 52).
(50) φάς, ἢν μὴ καὶ τῷ ἀδελφεῷ Βίαντι μεταδῶσι τὸ τριτημόριον τῆς

βασιληίης, οὐ ποιήσειν τὰ βούλονται (Hdt. 9.34.11–12).
‘Saying that he would not do their will except if they gave a third of their
kingship to his brother Bias.’
(51) ἐπεὶ δ᾿ ἔπραξαν ἃ ἐβούλοντο οἱ Λακεδαιμόνιοι, ποίας ἢ ἀρχῆς ἢ τιμῆς ἢ

ποίων χρημάτων μεταδεδώκασιν αὐτοῖς; (X. HG 3.5.12.6–8).
‘But when the Lacedaemonians had accomplished what they desired, what
dominion or honour or what captured treasure did they ever share with them?’
(52) οἱ οὖν πάλαι ἥκοντες καὶ τὸ πῦρ καίοντες οὐ προσίεσαν πρὸς τὸ πῦρ
τοὺς ὀψίζοντας, εἰ μὴ μεταδοῖεν αὐτοῖς πυροὺς ἢ ἄλλο [τι] εἴ τι ἔχοιεν
βρωτόν (X. An. 4.5.5.3–6.1).
‘Consequently the men who had arrived early and were keeping a fire would
not allow the late comers to get near it unless they gave them a share of their
wheat or anything else they had that was edible.’
4.2 To have/take/claim a share in something
Unlike μεταδίδωμι, the verbs μετέχω, μεταλαμβάνω, μεταλαγχάνω and

μεταποιοῦμαι are mainly bivalent verbs where the subject is the (potential)
possessor and the object refers to the possession. Unlike simple verbs, where the
possession is systematically in the accusative, these verbs display the possession in
the accusative when the noun refers to a part (53, 56, 60, 62) and in the genitive
when it refers to the whole entity (examples 54, 57, 61, 63). Exceptionally, there
are some cases where the genitive is used when the possession is partial (see
55, 58), but these exceptions can be explained in many cases (in 58 μέρους is
coordinated to an expression referring to the whole entity, ὅλου τοῦ εἴδους); the
source of the possession can optionally appear as a PP (59).
• μετέχω
(53) δέεσθαι δὲ οἰκέειν ἅμα τούτοισι μοῖράν τε τιμέων μετέχοντες καὶ τῆς
γῆς ἀπολαχόντες (Hdt. 4.145.18–19).
‘And their wish was to live with their fathers’ people, sharing in their rights and
receiving allotted pieces of land.’
(54) δεῖ οὖν ὑμᾶς, ὥσπερ καὶ τιμῶν μεθέξετε, οὕτω καὶ τῶν κινδύνων
μετέχειν (X. HG 2.4.9.5–6).
‘Therefore, even as you will share in honours, so also you must share in the
dangers.’
(55) Μεριστὰ ἄρα, φάναι, ὦ Σώκρατες, ἔστιν αὐτὰ τὰ εἴδη, καὶ τὰ μετέχοντα
αὐτῶν μέρους ἂν μετέχοι, καὶ οὐκέτι ἐν ἑκάστῳ ὅλον, ἀλλὰ μέρος ἑκάστου
ἂν εἴη (Pl. Prm. 131c5–7).
‘“Then”, said he, “the ideas themselves, Socrates, are divisible into parts, and
the objects which partake of them would partake of a part, and in each of them
there would be not the whole, but only a part of each idea”.’
• μεταλαμβάνω
(56) Εὐβουλίδης […] γραψάμενος ἀσεβείας τὴν ἀδελφὴν τὴν Λακεδαιμονίου
τὸ πέμπτον μέρος τῶν ψήφων οὐ μετέλαβεν (D. 57.8.1–8.3).
‘This man Eubulides […] indicted the sister of Lacedaemonius for impiety, but
did not receive a fifth part of the votes.’
(57) ἀλλ᾿ ἠπιστέατο οἱ μεταλαβόντες τούτων τῶν χρημάτων ἐκ τῶν Ἀθηνέων

ἐλθεῖν ἐπὶ τῷ λόγῳ τούτῳ [τὰ χρήματα] (Hdt. 8.5.14–16).
‘Those who had received a part of it supposed that it had been sent for that
purpose by the Athenians.’
(58) Οὐκοῦν ἤτοι ὅλου τοῦ εἴδους ἢ μέρους ἕκαστον τὸ μεταλαμβάνον

μεταλαμβάνει; (Pl. Prm. 131a4–5).
‘“Well then, does each participant object partake of the whole idea, or of a part
of it?”.’
(59) ὃς οὐδ᾿ ὧν πρότερον μετέλαβε παρ᾿ ὑμῶν ἀγαθῶν μέμνηται (Lys.

30.27.5–27.6).
‘He does not even remember the benefits in which you allowed him to share
before.’
• μεταλαγχάνω
(60) μετέλαχες τύχας2 Οἰδιπόδα, γέρον, / μέρος καὶ σὺ καὶ πόλις ἐμὰ τλάμων
(E. Supp. 1078–1079).
‘CHORUS. Woe for you! You, old man, have been made partaker in the
fortune of Oedipus, you and my poor city too.’
(61) […] γένος, ᾧ προσήκει ταύτης τῆς ἐπιστήμης μεταλαγχάνειν ‘[…] (Pl.
R. 428e9–429a3).
‘The class to which it pertains to partake of the knowledge.’
• μεταποιοῦμαι
(62) εἴτε προσίοιεν, διεφθείροντο, καὶ μάλιστα οἱ ἀρετῆς τι μεταποιούμενοι
(Th. 2.51.5.3–4).
‘Or if, on the other hand, they visited the sick, they perished, especially those
who made any pretensions to goodness.’
(63) ΞΕ. […] ἥκιστα βασιλικῆς μεταποιουμένους τέχνης (Pl. Plt. 289d10–
e2).
‘[sc. The bought servants] They make no claim to any share in the kingly art.’
4.3 To ask for a share in something from someone
The verb μεταιτέω follows the same alternation between the accusative (64) and
the genitive (65), but, in contrast to μετέχω, μεταλαμβάνω μεταλαγχάνω and
μεταποιοῦμαι, the verb μεταιτέω adds a third argument referring to the entity
from which the possession is intended to be obtained. The person asked for can
appear as a PP (66) or in the accusative (67), as the following examples show.
(64) αὐτοῦ μένων γάρ, ἅττ᾿ ἂν εἴσω τις φέρῃ, τούτων μεταιτεῖ τὸ μέρος (Ar.
V. 971–972).
‘He never moves from here, but demands his share of all that is brought in.’
2 Doric genitive.
(65) ἐπεὶ δέ σφεας παραλαμβάνειν τοὺς Ἕλληνας, οὕτω δὴ ἐπισταμένους

ὅτι οὐ μεταδώσουσι τῆς ἀρχῆς Λακεδαιμόνιοι μεταιτέειν (Hdt. 7.150.15–
151.1).
‘They, later, when the Greeks were trying to obtain their support, did make the
claim, because they knew that the Lacedaemonians would refuse to grant it.’
(66) καὶ πότερον κρεῖττον ἦν μοι παρὰ Φιλίππου λαβεῖν, τοῦ διδόντος πολὺ
καὶ μηδενὸς τούτων ἔλαττον, καὶ φίλον κἀκεῖνον ἔχειν καὶ τούτους […]
ἢ παρὰ τούτων ἀφ᾿ ὧν εἰλήφασι μεταιτεῖν, κἀκείνῳ τ᾿ ἐχθρὸν εἶναι καὶ
τούτοις; (D. 19. 222.3–9).
‘Which course was more profitable for me, to take money from Philip, who
offered me a great deal,—as much as he gave them,—and so to make friends
both with him and with them, […] or to demand a part on their takings, and
so incur Philip’s enmity and theirs?’
(67) ὃς πρῶτα μέν, ἡνίκ᾿ ἐβούλευον, σοὶ χρήματα πλεῖστ᾿ ἀπέδειξα ἐν τῷ

κοινῷ, τοὺς μὲν στρεβλῶν, τοὺς δ᾿ ἄγχων, τοὺς δὲ μεταιτῶν, οὐ φροντίζων
τῶν ἰδιωτῶν οὐδενός, εἰ σοὶ χαριοίμην; (Ar. Eq. 774–776).
‘And firstly, as long as you have governed with my consent, have I not filled
your treasury, putting pressure on some, torturing others or begging of them,
indifferent to the opinion of private individuals, and solely anxious to please
you?’
4.4 To partially belong to someone
The verb μέτειμι (μετα- + εἰμί) deviates in several ways from the previous verbs and
from its simple verb: (i) like μεταδίδωμι and unlike the other μετα- compounds the
possessor is in the dative; (ii) unlike all the previous μετα- compounds, the possession
can appear either in the nominative instead of the accusative (67), or in the genitive
(68); (iii) the simple verb εἰμί can only display the possession in the nominative in
subject position. The following passages exemplify its different constructions.
(68) ὁκόσον δέ τί μοι μέρος μετῆν, ὁ ὀδὼν μετέχει (Hdt. 6.107.19–6.108.1).

‘My tooth holds whatever share of it was mine.’
(69) Ἀποδεικνύουσι δὲ ἐν Μυλάσοισι Διὸς Καρίου ἱρὸν ἀρχαῖον, τοῦ

Μυσοῖσι μὲν καὶ Λυδοῖσι μέτεστι ὡς κασιγνήτοισι ἐοῦσι τοῖσι Καρσί (Hdt.
1.171.25–27).
‘And they point to an ancient shrine of Carian Zeus at Mylasa, to which

Mysians and Lydians, as brethren of the Carians are admitted.’
5 Summary and conclusions
The conclusions of this paper can be summarized as follows:
(i) The verbs preverbed by μετα- can be classified into distinct groups or
classes. Sometimes the same verb can belong to two or more of them, as we see
with μεταλαμβάνω (‘to take B2 in exchange for B1’ and ‘to take a share in B’) or
μετέρχομαι (‘to change location’, ‘to fetch’, and ‘to go among’).
(ii) These classes are not only ‘semantic’. They can be associated to different
constructions (Goldberg 1995) that can be formalized through predicate frames
(quantitative and qualitative valence, selection restrictions) and can be defined
through Meaning Postulates (Dik 1978, 1997: 97–103).
(iii) Non-spatial verbs imitate in many cases the meanings of spatial verbs, as
we see with μεταφύομαι: the simple verb provides the particular mood of action
(φύομαι ‘to be born/to grow’), whereas the preverb contributes the constructionist
meaning (μετα- ‘to change from C1 to C2’).
(iv) The preverb’s presence is responsible in all cases for the particular
constructionist meanings, as is clear from the contrast between the μετα-
compound (e.g. μεταλαμβάνω ‘to take B2 in exchange of B1’ and ‘to take a share
in B’) and the simple verb (e.g. λαμβάνω ‘to take’).
(v) As a general conclusion, this paper shows that the lexical information
about preverbs scattered across lexical works can be formalized and transferred
from the lexical component of the language to its grammar.
References
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Πανεπιστήμιο Θεσσαλονίκης.
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McKenzie 1996. A Greek-English lexicon. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
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382
Insubordination in Ancient Greek?

The case of ὥστε sentences
Emilia Ruiz Yamuza
1 Introduction
Greek Grammars, including Kühner & Gehrt (1966 [1904]: 514), Schwyzer (1950:
680)1, Smyth (1920: §2275), Moorhouse (1982: 312), and so forth, briefly consider
the fact that ὥστε introduces sentences, which have moods that are prohibited in
subordinate sentences, such as imperative, jussive subjunctive, and wish optative.2
However, these authors have neither provided us with a complete description,
nor with a consistent explanation. Recently,3 Revuelta Puigdollers (2017: 623)
considers that in those cases ὥστε develops from a clear-cut subordinator into a
discourse particle.
Note that I put in parentheses further along words which are not in Greek texts,
but additions by the translators4 which mask the functions of the sentences. I write in
italics the ὥστε sentences and underline the exact word used by them to translate ὥστε.
This paper has been written within the framework of two research projects: FFI 2015-65541-C03
and PGC 2018-095147-8-100 financed by the Spanish Ministry of Economy and Competitiveness.
I want to express my gratitude to Cristina Dodson for making my English more understandable.
1 “ὥστε, “daher” zur Einführung eines Hauptsatzes entstand durch Lösung vom regierenden Satz
(wohl unter Änderung der Pausa und Satzmelodie; vgl. Z.B. ἐπεί o.S. 660,4); so λέγ’, ἐπεὶ…Αἴας·
ὥστε οὐκ ἂν αἴδρις ὑπείποις Soph. Ai. 211f. (ähnl. 1342), ἐμοὶ δὲ τούτων οὐδέν ἐστ’ ἀρνήσιμον.
ὥστ’ εἰ με τόξων ἐγκρατὴς αἰσθήσεται, ὄλωλα Ph. 74ff. (Ind. auch OR 65); bes. oft vor Imper.
(bzw. Konj.) und vor Fragewort, ()”
2 They mark: X. Cyr. 1.2.18, 4.3.20, 8.4.11; Smp. 2.9; HG 6.1.7; An. 2.4.6; Pl. Lg. 834d ὥστε
…ἔστω; R. 362d; Phdr. 238d, 245d, 274 a; Sph. 239d; Th. 6.91.4; S. El.1172; D. 16.13; 29.47;
18.196. Berdolt (1896: 78) counts 212 examples of “Parataktisches ὥστε” out of 495 in Plato.
He distinguishes an intermediate category (1896: 71): “Selbständiger Urteilsatz mit ὥστε und
Infinitiv. bildet gewissermassen ein Mittelglied zwischen dem abhängigen Beschaffenheitssatz und
dem paratakt. Folgesatz mit ὥστε und Modus.”
3 In their 2019 Grammar, van Emde Boas et al. (2019: 532–533) simply state: “Frequently, ὥστε
occurs at the start of a new sentence (as printed in modern editions). In such cases, ὥστε maybe
translated the result was that ..., as a result, or therefore, so.”
4 The translations are mainly taken from the Loeb Classical Library.
384 RUIZ YAMUZA, Insubordination in Ancient Greek?
(1) καὶ ὃν ἄρτι κίνδυνον ἐκεῖθεν προεῖπον, οὐκ ἂν διὰ μακροῦ ὑμῖν ἐπιπέσοι.
ὥστε μὴ περὶ τῆς Σικελίας τις οἰέσθω μόνον βουλεύειν, ἀλλὰ καὶ περὶ τῆς
Πελοποννήσου (Th. 6.91.4).
‘and the danger which, as I was saying, threatens you from that quarter, will
speedily overwhelm you. (And) therefore remember (every one of you) that the
safety, not of Sicily alone, but of Peloponnesus, is at stake.’ (Jowett)
(2) νῦν δὲ ὁμολογούμεθα πρὸς παῖδας καὶ αὐλητρίδας καὶ μετ’ οἴνου
ἐλθόντες. ὥστε πῶς ταῦτ’ ἐστὶ πρόνοια; (Lys. 4.7.5–7.6).
‘In point of fact, we admit that we went to see boys and flute-girls and were in
liquor: so how is that premeditation?’ (Lamb)
(3) καίτοι γε τοῦτον μὲν ἑώρακα ποιοῦντα, ὡς καὶ ὑμεῖς ἴστε, αὐτὸς δ’ ἔσωσα
τὴν ἀσπίδα. ὥστε διὰ τί οὐκ ἂν λάβοιμι δίκην παρ’ αὐτοῦ; (Lys. 11.8.1).
‘Yet I have seen this man acting in the way that you know, while I myself saved
my shield. So on what ground should I fail to get redress from him? (Lamb)
The most conspicuous group is the sentences, as mentioned above, that appear as
mono-clausal structures5 separated from their preceding sentence by a colon in
current editions. One could say that editors reflect the opinion of the grammarians
who simply affirm that, in these cases, ὥστε sentences must be considered main
sentences:
Wenn ὥστε mit dem Imperative oder dem imperativischen Konjunktive des Aorists
nach μή oder mit einem adhortativen Konjunktive oder mit einer direkten Frage
verbunden wird, so ist dies daraus zu erklären, dass der Folgesatz nicht mehr als
abhängig, sondern als selbständiger Satz empfunden wird. (Kühner & Gehrt
1966 [1904]: 514)
With an imperative, a hortatory or prohibitory subjunctive, or an interrogative
verb (sic), a clause with ὥστε is coordinate rather than subordinate, and ὥστε has
the force of καὶ οὕτως (Smyth 1920: §2275)6
5 In the sense that there is not a main preceding sentence, not that the ὥστε sentence must be
mono-clausal: Pl. Phdr. 238 d {ΣΩ.} Σιγῇ τοίνυν μου ἄκουε. τῷ ὄντι γὰρ θεῖος ἔοικεν ὁ τόπος
εἶναι, ὥστε ἐὰν ἄρα πολλάκις νυμφόληπτος προϊόντος τοῦ λόγου γένωμαι, μὴ θαυμάσῃς.
6Crespo et al. (2003: 434) consider that in those examples, ὥστε is a conjunctive adverb; however
Crespo (2011: 151) called it a conjunction.
From a different point of view, one could maintain that the common feature in
the examples is that the apparently subordinate sentence has its own illocutionary
force and independently constitutes a speech act. The apparently subordinate
clause conveys an order, a recommendation or an expression of surprise and
indignation in questions. This feature is particularly well-perceived when the
preceding sentence, supposedly the main sentence, has an illocutionary force
different from the one conveyed by the ὥστε structure. And the ὥστε sentence
conveys a direct speech act, i.e. a formally marked one. When the speech act is
an indirect one, the illocutionary force is less perceptible. In the next example,
the illocutionary force is impressive. The sentence articulates a recommendation,
one of the types of commands distinguished by Risselada (1993: 46–48) and
Denizot7 (2011: 23–24), and the speech act is an indirect one: the sentence is
apparently declarative but it does not convey any type of statement except a
recommendation.
(4) ὑπὲρ ἧς ἐγὼ πολλοὺς κινδύνους κεκινδύνευκα καὶ πολλὰς λῃτουργίας

λελῃτούργηκα, καὶ κακοῦ μὲν αὐτῇ οὐδενὸς αἴτιος γεγένημαι, οὐδὲ τῶν
ἐμῶν προγόνων οὐδείς, ἀγαθῶν δὲ πολλῶν· ὥστε δικαίως ἂν ὑφ’ ὑμῶν
καὶ ὑπὸ τῶν ἄλλων ἐλεηθείην, οὐ μόνον εἴ τι πάθοιμι ὧν Σίμων βούλεται,
ἀλλὰ καὶ ὅτι ἠναγκάσθην ἐκ τοιούτων πραγμάτων εἰς τοιούτους ἀγῶνας
καταστῆναι (Lys. 3.47.5–48.4).
‘For which I have braved many dangers, and performed many public services:
no harm have I ever brought upon that land, nor has any of my ancestors; nay,
many are the benefits that we have brought her. Justly, then, should I receive your
pity, and that of all men else, not merely if I should meet with such a fate as Simon
wishes, but even for having been compelled, as a result of such transactions, to stand
my trial on such a charge.’ (Lamb)
Moreover, there is a third type of mono-clausal ὥστε which is not included in

the examples provided by Kühner & Gehrt, Schwyzer or Revuelta: a mono-
clausal structure with a dyadic pattern found in responses answering a question
or command, as in example number 5.
(5) {Εκ.}- ἔσωσα δῆτά σ’ ἐξέπεμψά τε χθονός; | {Οδ.}- ὥστ’ εἰσορᾶν γε

φέγγος ἡλίου τόδε (E. Hec. 249–250)
7 See Denizot (2011: 112–113) about imperatives in subordinate clauses.

‘(Hecuba) Was it I that saved and sent you forth again? (Odysseus) (You did),
(and) so I still behold the light of day8’(Coleridge)
This paper’s research questions are the following: are there more examples than
those in Kühner & Gehrt et al.?; Which pragmatic and communicative functions
do they convey?; Are all the examples insubordination cases?; Is there a single
path to explain all the structures? To answer all of these inquiries, or at least
to address all of them, I have analysed a corpus constituted by Sophocles’ and
Euripides’ extant work, a selection of 15 of Lysias’ speeches, three of Herodotus’
books and three of Thucydides’ books.
This paper is organised as follows: Section 2 briefly introduces the
phenomenon of insubordination, discussing what conditions a construction
must fulfil to be considered insubordinate. Section 3 presents the description of
the mono-clausal constructions found in the corpus. Section 4 examines their
functions, formal characteristics and which framework is better suited to describe
them. Section 5 includes some conclusions.
2 Insubordination
Evans defines insubordination using the following terms:
It can be defined diachronically as the recruitment of a main clause structure

from subordinate structures, or synchronically as the independent use of
constructions exhibiting prima facie characteristics of subordinate clauses. The
products of insubordination belong to the interesting class of messy structures
which lie at the threshold of process and product, of energeia and ergon, of
parole and langue, making them a particularly suitable object of enquiry for
evolutionary, dynamic approaches to language which focus on the ongoing and
never-complete emergence of structure from use. (Evans & Watanabe 2016: 2)
(6) If you could give me a couple of 39c stamps please (Evans 2007: 380)
(7) If you touch my car! (Evans 2007: 393)
8 Collard (1991) translates:‘Yes, so that I see the light today’.

Example 6 introduces a polite request. In example 7, an insubordinated if-clause

is used as a threat or warning; the use of ‘threatening intonation’ and frequent
presence of such lexical items as ‘dare’ distinguishes it from the ‘if ’ requests.
Formal clues for insubordination are typically considered to be the presence
of (Traugott 2017: 3)
a) A subordinating marker, in this case ὥστε.

b) The presence of moods or tenses allowed in subordinate clauses. In the case
of ὥστε sentences mainly the use of infinitive.
c) Word order specific to subordinate clauses, which does not apply to Ancient
Greek.
d) Independent syntactic use.
According to Evans (2007: 368), insubordination accomplishes three macro-

functions: (i) indirection and interpersonal control, including commands,
permission, threats and warnings; (ii) modal qualifications, including deontic,
epistemic and evidential modality, but also exclamation and interrogation; and (iii)
signalling high levels of presupposed material in the insubordinate proposition.
More recent works propose a higher-level generalisation, arguing that insubordinate
constructions express interpersonal meanings (Van linden and Van de Velde, 2014).
Van linden and Van de Velde (2014: 228) claim that these meanings “almost
invariably go together with exclamative illocutionary force.” They present a broad
definition of exclamative construction which includes the following features: (i)
exclamative intonation, (ii) emotional involvement, (iii) co-occurrence with modal
particles or interjections, and (iv) the hearer is merely a witness to the speaker’s
expression; no hearer uptake is necessarily expected. In contrast, other works have
also focussed on insubordination as a source of exclamative sentence types (Mithun
2016; Cristofaro 2016; Gras and Sansiñena 2017) adopting a narrow definition of
exclamative. For instance, (i) exclamative is expressive rather than informative, (ii)
conveys subjective judgment of the speaker, (iii) describes a scalable property and
(iv) asserts an unexpectedly high degree of that property (Mithun 2016: 373).
Evans (2007:371–375, 430–431) argues that insubordination arises through
the reanalysis of erstwhile subordinate clauses into main clauses following ellipsis
of the original main clause. Specifically, in a first stage (B), a matrix clause that
is recoverable from the context is omitted. In a following stage (C), the felicitous
restoration of syntactic elements becomes restricted or excluded by convention.
This paves the way to the final stage (D), in which the ellipted material may not
be recoverable at all.
Table 1. Insubordination path

Subordination Ellipsis Conventionalisation Reanalysis as main clause
of the ellipsis structure
A B C D
Subordinate Ellipsis Restriction of inter- Conventionalised main clause
construction of main pretation of ellipted use of formally subordinate
clause material clause (Constructionalisation)
At stage B, the clause can be treated as an underlyingly subordinate with the

possibility of restoring a grammatically compatible main clause. There may be
syntactic evidence for the presence of a particular main clause.9 At stage C, the
clause has achieved a greater semantic specificity and only a subset of ellipted
main clauses can be restored. The ellipted main clauses can be very general (“It
would be nice. . .”) (Evans 2007: 373) or on account of the restriction of the
interpretation of ellipted material, very specific (Evans 2007: 372–373). At stage
D, the clause is fully nativised as a main clause, with a meaning of its own, and
restoration of the ellipted material is impossible. Thus, when the subordinate
clause becomes independent, it assumes pragmatic meaning (Evans 2007: 374–
375).
Evans’ (2007) diachronic path to insubordination was the first to be proposed
and has since attracted some criticism. Over the last decade, in fact, different
authors10 have suggested alternative models to explain how the insubordinate
stage is achieved. One of the most notable models of this kind is based on
Mithun’s (2008) work. According to her research, the developmental path of
insubordinate clauses consists of an extension of dependency from the sentence
domain –subordination– to the discourse domain –insubordination– without
the need for a hypothetical ellipsis stage (Mithun, 2008). Following this model,
D’Hertefelt and Verstraete (2014) suggest that a dependency shift would give a
9 For example, a negative polarity item like “ever” or “any” (“That I’ll ever give you any money!”)
can be accounted for by an ellipted negative matrix clause (“You don’t believe”).
10 Heine et al. (2016) likewise argue that the insubordinate clause is historically derived from a full
construction, in the course of which the main clause is ellipted via “co-optation.”: “Co-optation
is an operation whereby a chunk of Sentence Grammar, such as a clause, a phrase, a word or any
other unit is deployed for use as a thetical (Kaltenböck et al. 2011: 874–875). Its functions are
determined by the discursive situation, serving (a) to package together larger segments of discourse;
(b) to overcome constraints imposed by linearization in structuring texts; (c) to place a text in a
wider perspective e.g. proposing an explanation, a comment, or supplementary information; (d) to
describe the inner state of the speaker; and (e) to interact with the hearer” (Heine et al. 2016: 44).
better account for the development of insubordination in Swedish and Danish

complement constructions. Moreover, Van linden and Van de Velde (2014) argue
that Evans’ (2007) hypothesis does not explain why the speakers would produce an
ellipsis. Furthermore, alternate claims state that throughout the insubordination
process, one can find semi-insubordinate stages in addition to those suggested by
Evans (2007) (i.e. ellipsis and conventionalised ellipsis) (Sansiñena et al. 2015).
3 Data
Table number two reflects the examples of no subordinate ὥστε constructions.

Our analysis adopts a constructional approach (Fillmore 1988), which posits that
linguistic knowledge is made up of an organised net of constructions, defined
as pairings of (phonological, morphological and syntactic) form and (semantic,
pragmatic and discursive) meaning.
Table 2. ὥστε sentences

Construction Sophocles Euripides Lysias Thucydides Herodotus
1) Speech Act 1411 612 1413 1314 615
Declarative
(Emphatic illative)
2) Speech Act 316 -- -- -- --
Declarative
(Commissive)
11 Tr. 175, 445, 705, 945; Aj. 213, 730, 1342; OT 65, 857; El. 334, 775, 1390; Ph. 75; OC 573.
12 Alc. 405; Hipp. 635; Hec. 730; HF 854; Ba. 702; IA 357 is a peripheral example. Hipp. 635 is
probably epimythic (Ruiz-Yamuza 2011) E. Hipp. 634-637 ἔχει δ’ ἀνάγκην· ὥστε κηδεύσας καλῶς
| γαμβροῖσι χαίρων σώιζεται πικρὸν λέχος, | ἢ χρηστὰ λέκτρα πενθεροὺς δ’ ἀνωφελεῖς | λαβὼν
πιέζει τἀγαθῶι τὸ δυστυχές. ‘There is a fatal necessity. Either a man makes a good connection by
marriage, and his joy in his in-laws makes him preserve a marriage-relation that gives him pain, or
he gets a good wife and bad in-laws and keeps in check his unhappiness with his blessing’ (Kovacs).
13 2.26.6, 43.1, 60.1, 71.1, 79.1; 3.37.6, 48.1; 7.16.5; 37.3; 12.37.5; 13.28.1, 90.4; 14.34.5; 37.1.
14 1.70.9; 1.74.3; 2.53.2; 2.60.6–7; 2.62.3; 2.87.3; 2.87.7; 2.97.4; 3.12.2; 3.13.4; 3.58.3; 3.82.8;
15 1.8.3, 1.73.12, 1.105.15; 2.43.16, 2.79.6, 2.141.23.
16 OT 132–136; OC 565 (promise), 1340 (promise / intention).
3) Speech Act jus- 517 -- 1018 319

sive | Speech Act
Declarative
(Direct jussive |
indirect jussive)
4) Speech Act -- -- 720 021
Interrogative
(Emphatic surprise
| Strong denial)
5) Dyadic Re- 622 1423 - -
sponses
(Emphatic respons-
es. Denial/ affirma-
tion | Exclamation)
% out of the total 28/109 20/159 31/105 16/90 6/53
(24,7%) (12,6%) (29,5%) (17,7%) (11,3%)
(Note that the form of the mono-clausal sentence appears first, followed by its meaning or its
illocutionary force in italics)
17 Tr. 59–60 (indirect); OT 1528 (gnome plus infinitive. Cf. Moorhouse [1982: 244]); E. 1172
(direct speech act in imperative) ; Ph. 340 (infinitive); OC 1190 (indirect)
18 3.7.9; 4.14.1; 12.33.1, 58.1 (indirect), 91.3 (indirect); 14.40.1 (indirect), 44.4 (indirect); 15.8.6
(indirect), 39.1; 6.7.6 (conveys a threat).
19 The examples are in speeches: 1.80.1 (infinitive), 1.124.1; 3.46.4 (indirect).
20 2.77.2; 3.32.1, 4.7.4; 7. 6.5 (question), 28.7 ; 11.8.1; (question); 13.87.8 (question).
21 There are some examples of interrogative mono-clausal ὥστε outside the selected books: Th.
5.93–4 {ΑΘ.}Ὅτι ὑμῖν μὲν πρὸ τοῦ τὰ δεινότατα παθεῖν ὑπακοῦσαι ἂν γένοιτο, ἡμεῖς δὲ μὴ
διαφθείραντες ὑμᾶς κερδαίνοιμεν ἄν. {ΜΗΛ.} Ὥστε [δὲ] ἡσυχίαν ἄγοντας ἡμᾶς φίλους μὲν
εἶναι ἀντὶ πολεμίων, ξυμμάχους δὲ μηδετέρων, οὐκ ἂν δέξαισθε; or 6.18.1.
22 In Tr. 669 the ὥστε sentence is the ironic response. The main clause can’t be recovered; Aj. 98
(alone in response); OT 360 (extends the response), 1035 (alone), 1131 (extends the response).
23 In simple answers to a question: Cyc. 159, 217; Hec. 246, 248; Heracl. 675; Hel. 108, 1269; El.
273; IA 326; Ph. 1344. In responses to a requirement or an order: El. 665; or to the presentation
of a plan of action: El. 1122. ὥστε introduces also responses to some observation making a positive
comment: Alc. 1085; IT 935.
3.1 Construction 1: emphatic illative
This is the only construction present in all the text types of my corpus: narrative,
argumentative and dialogue. There are mono-clausal structures introduced by
ὥστε in an assertive/declarative speech act. In each of them, ὥστε introduces
the following elements as a conclusion or deduction on behalf of the speaker.
The most common meaning of the mono-clausal structures is illative (Ruiz
Yamuza 2011: 3).24 The function of ὥστε does not differ from its usual one as
subordinator. Its distinctive feature is that it does not act at the sentence level, but
at the discourse level.
(8) σὺ μὲν πέπλευκας οὔτ’ ἔνορκος οὐδενὶ | οὔτ’ ἐξ ἀνάγκης οὔτε τοῦ
πρώτου στόλου, | ἐμοὶ δὲ τούτων οὐδέν ἐστ’ ἀρνήσιμον· | ὥστ’ εἴ με τόξων
ἐγκρατὴς αἰσθήσεται, | ὄλωλα, καὶ σὲ προσδιαφθερῶ ξυνών· (S. Ph. 72–76).
‘You have sailed to Troy under no oath to any man, nor under any constraint.
Neither did you have any part in the earlier expedition. I, however, can deny
none of these things. Accordingly, if he perceives me while he is still master of his
bow, I am dead, and you, as my comrade, will share my doom.’ (Jebb)
(9) ἀλλ’ ἐσβάντες ἐς τὰς ναῦς κινδυνεῦσαι καὶ μὴ ὀργισθῆναι ὅτι ἡμῖν οὐ
προυτιμωρήσατε. ὥστε φαμὲν οὐχ ἧσσον αὐτοὶ ὠφελῆσαι ὑμᾶς ἢ τυχεῖν
τούτου (Th. 1.74.3).
‘to throw ourselves into our ships and meet the danger, without a thought of
resenting your neglect to assist us. We assert, therefore, that we conferred on you
quite as much as we received.’ (Dent)
(10) Καὶ μὲν εἴ γε παρ’ Ἑλλήνων ἔλαβον οὔνομά τεο δαίμονος, τούτων
οὐκ ἥκιστα ἀλλὰ μάλιστα ἔμελλον μνήμην ἕξειν, εἴ περ καὶ τότε ναυτιλίῃσι
24 “Los sentidos nucleares del adverbio son aquéllos en los que la entidad referida en el segmento
en que aparece el adverbio es una proposición. Se trata de lo que en los tratados más antiguos
responde a la denominación de Urteilsatz. El hablante presenta el segmento como una deducción
que puede mantener cierta dependencia temporal con la información precedente, que se identifica
como anterior o previa. La presencia de formas verbales de naturaleza epistémica, con valores de
suposición, es coherente con el sentido del adverbio. Se percibe una presencia importante del
hablante que se presenta como extrayendo una conclusión, una deducción de la información
expresada en el segmento anterior. Se ligan a pasajes argumentativos. Proponemos llamarlos
‘ilativos’. Se documentan desde Homero 13. Se mantienen en el uso común y están presentes en
Jenofonte y en Polibio.”
ἐχρέωντο καὶ ἦσαν Ἑλλήνων τινὲς ναυτίλοι, ὡς ἔλπομαί τε καὶ ἐμὴ γνώμη
αἱρέει· ὥστε τούτων ἂν καὶ μᾶλλον τῶν θεῶν τὰ οὐνόματα ἐξεπιστέατο
Αἰγύπτιοι ἢ τοῦ Ἡρακλέος (Hdt. 2.43).
‘Yet of they got the name of any deity from the Greeks, of these not least but
in particular would preserve a recollection, if indeed they were already making
sea voyages and some Greeks, too, were seafaring men, as I expect and judge;
so that the names of these gods would have been even better known to the Egyptians
than the name of Heracles.’ (Godley)
(11) ὅ τε ἔχων ἀμφότερα, τῇ δὲ πόλει δύσνους, οὐκ ἂν ὁμοίως τι οἰκείως

φράζοι· προσόντος δὲ καὶ τοῦδε, χρήμασι δὲ νικωμένου, τὰ ξύμπαντα
τούτου ἑνὸς ἂν πωλοῖτο. ὥστ’ εἴ μοι καὶ μέσως ἡγούμενοι μᾶλλον ἑτέρων
προσεῖναι αὐτὰ πολεμεῖν ἐπείσθητε, οὐκ ἂν εἰκότως νῦν τοῦ γε ἀδικεῖν αἰτίαν
φεροίμην (Th. 2.60.6–7).
‘If he had both these gifts, but no love for his country, he would be but a cold
advocate for her interests; while were his patriotism not proof against bribery,
everything would go for a price. So that if you thought that I was even moderately
distinguished for these qualities when you took my advice and went to war, there is
certainly no reason now why I should be charged with having done wrong.’ (Dent)
3.2 Construction 2: commissive
The speech act is formally declarative, but its illocutionary force is commissive.
The mono-clausal structure conveys a promise made by the speaker. In the
absence of a performative verb, such as “I promise”, four features must be present
to consider the illocutionary force as commissive: the speaker can fulfil the task;
the speaker is willing to do so; the temporal situation of the action is in the
future; and the speaker shows personal involvement.
(12) Δίδασκε· δεινὴν γάρ τιν’ ἂν πρᾶξιν τύχοις | λέξας ὁποίας ἐξαφισταίμην
ἐγώ, | ὃς οἶδα καὐτὸς ὡς ἐπαιδεύθην ξένος, | ὥσπερ σύ, χὤς τις πλεῖστ’
ἀνὴρ ἐπὶ ξένης | ἤθλησα κινδυνεύματ’ ἐν τὠμῷ κάρᾳ· |ὥστε ξένον γ’ ἂν
οὐδέν’ ὄνθ’, ὥσπερ σὺ νῦν, | ὑπεκτραποίμην μὴ οὐ συνεκσῴζειν· ἐπεὶ | ἔξοιδ’
ἀνὴρ ὢν χὤτι τῆς ἐς αὔριον |οὐδὲν πλέον μοι σοῦ μέτεστιν ἡμέρας (S. OC
560–568).
‘Dire indeed must be the fortune which you tell, for me to stand aloof from
it; since I know that I myself also was reared in exile, just as you, and that in
foreign lands I wrestled with perils to my life, like no other man. Never, then,
would I turn aside from a stranger, such as you are now, or refuse to help in his
deliverance. For I know well that I am a man, and that my portion of tomorrow
is no greater than yours.’ (Jebb)
(13) {ΟΙ.} Ἀλλ’ ἐξ ὑπαρχῆς αὖθις αὔτ’ ἐγὼ φανῶ· | ἐπαξίως γὰρ Φοῖβος,
ἀξίως δὲ σύ, | πρὸς τοῦ θανότος τήνδ’ ἔθεσθ’ ἐπιστροφήν· | ὥστ’ ἐνδίκως
ὄψεσθε κἀμὲ σύμμαχον, | γῇ τῇδε τιμωροῦντα τῷ θεῷ θ’ ἅμα (S. OT 132–
136).
‘I will start afresh, and once more make dark things plain. Worthily has
Phoebus Apollo—and worthily have you—bestowed this care on behalf of the
dead. (And) so, as is fitting, you will find me allied with you in seeking vengeance
for this land, and for the god as well.’(Jebb)
3.3 Construction 3: direct or indirect jussive
The speech act can be direct or indirect. The direct ones are marked by specific
verbal moods: imperative, subjunctive, and infinitive. When the speech act is
indirect, it is formally declarative, but its illocutionary force is directive. In both
cases, the mono-clausal structure conveys an order, a recommendation or advice
given by the speaker. The action is to be done in the future, and the addressee is
capable of doing so. The examples encompass the complete range of orders: from
commands to recommendations, requests and advice. The following example
conveys Antigona’s plea to her father:
(14) Ἔφυσας αὐτόν· ὥστε μηδὲ δρῶντά σε |τὰ τῶν κακίστων δυσσεβέστατ’,
ὦ πάτερ, | θέμις σέ γ’ εἶναι κεῖνον ἀντιδρᾶν κακῶς (S. OC 1189-1191).
‘You sired him, so, even if he wrongs you with the most impious of wrongs, father,
it is not right for you to wrong him in return.’ (Jebb)
The distinctive trait conveyed by ὥστε is the logical character of the order. It is
based on rationality. It is a strong command or recommendation given as a result
of the knowledge of the world expressed in the previous sentences. However, as
it is not originated in the whimsical will of the speaker and some justifications
have been provided, one can assume that ὥστε works as a mitigating device: as a
strategy of negative politeness, lessening the impact of the order by presenting it
as a product of human reason, human or natural laws or shared knowledge.
The imperative conveys a direct order in the classic locus:

(15) {ΧΟ.} Θνητοῦ πέφυκας πατρός, Ἠλέκτρα, φρόνει· | θνητὸς δ’

Ὀρέστης· ὥστε μὴ λίαν στένε· (S. El. 1171–1172).
‘Remember, Electra, you are the child of a mortal father, and Orestes was
mortal. Therefore do not grieve too much.’ (Jebb)
(16) καὶ ὃν ἄρτι κίνδυνον ἐκεῖθεν προεῖπον, οὐκ ἂν διὰ μακροῦ ὑμῖν
ἐπιπέσοι. ὥστε μὴ περὶ τῆς Σικελίας τις οἰέσθω μόνον βουλεύειν, ἀλλὰ καὶ
περὶ τῆς Πελοποννήσου (Th. 6.91.4).
‘and the danger which, as I was saying, threatens you from that quarter, will
speedily overwhelm you. (And) therefore remember (every one of you) that the
safety, not of Sicily alone, but of Peloponnesus, is at stake.’ (Jowett)]
The speech acts give recommendations or advice in an indirect way using: modal
verbs, verbs meaning “to be convenient”, “to be right”, “to be fair”, adjectives
meaning “fair”, “right”, etc. with the verb “to be” and adverbs with similar
meanings.
(17) Οὐ γὰρ ἀργύριον λαβεῖν προθυμοῦνται, ἀλλ’ ἐκ τῆς πατρίδος ἐκβαλεῖν

ἔργον ποιοῦνται. ὥσθ’ ὑμῖν προσήκει μὴ ἀποδέχεσθαι αὐτοῦ διὰ τοῦτο οὐκ
ἀξιοῦντος βασανισθῆναι τὴν ἄνθρωπον, ὅτι αὐτὴν ἐλευθέραν ἐσκήπτετο εἶναι
(Lys. 4.13.10–14.2).
‘For they are not set on gaining money, but make it their business to expel one
from one’s native land. It is your duty, therefore, to reject his claim that the woman
should not be tortured, which he made on the pretended ground of her freedom;’
(Lamb)
On rare occasions a performative verb is present:
(18) νυνὶ μὲν γὰρ οὐδεὶς ὑμᾶς ἀναγκάζει παρὰ τὴν ὑμετέραν γνώμην
ψηφίζεσθαι. ὥστε συμβουλεύω μὴ τούτων ἀποψηφισαμένους ὑμῶν αὐτῶν
καταψηφίσασθαι. μηδ’ οἴεσθε κρύβδην <εἶναι> τὴν ψῆφον· (Lys. 12.91.2–5).
‘since nobody today is compelling you to vote against your judgement. So I
counsel you not to condemn yourselves by acquitting them. Nor should you suppose
that your voting is in secret for you will make your judgement manifest to the
city.’ (Lamb)
3.4 Construction 4:emphatic surprise, strong denial
The ὥστε sentences are built as questions. In fact the examples are more abundant
in Lysias than in the others. That the formal shape of the mono-clausal structure is
a question does not imply, of course, that the illocutionary force is interrogative.
The communicative situation indicates that they are not real questions: they are
not intended to be answered by the addressees. Just the opposite, the sentences,
in their vast majority, do not express ignorance on behalf of the speaker, but his
emphatic surprise or strong denial. ὤστε accentuates the implicit contradiction
between the shared information previously given and the content of its own
clause, and therefore, it helps emphasise the speaker’s stance.
(19) καὶ τὰ μὲν πόρρω ὑπὸ Λακεδαιμονίων ἐτέμνετο, τὰ δ’ ἐγγὺς ὑπὸ

τῶν φίλων διηρπάζετο· ὥστε πῶς ἂν δικαίως ὑπὲρ τῶν <τότε> τῇ πόλει
γεγενημένων συμφορῶν ἐγὼ νυνὶ δίκην διδοίην; (Lys. 7.6.3–6.5).
‘the outlying districts were ravaged by the Lacedaemonians, while the nearer
were plundered by our friends; so how can it be just that I should be punished now
for the disasters that then befell the city?’ (Lamb)
There is no doubt that ὥστε is not a subordinator, neither is it a simple coordinator.

The conjunction links units bigger than sentences. Its role is to help strengthen
the understanding that there is a contradiction between the knowledge of the
world expressed in the preceding sentences and the content of the sentence.
(20) νῦν δὲ ὁμολογούμεθα πρὸς παῖδας καὶ αὐλητρίδας καὶ μετ’ οἴνου
ἐλθόντες. ὥστε πῶς ταῦτ’ ἐστὶ πρόνοια; (Lys. 4.7.5–7.6).
‘In point of fact, we admit that we went to see boys and flute-girls and were in
liquor: so how is that premeditation?’ (Lamb)
3.5 Construction 5: emphatic responses, exclamations.
Construction number five appears in dyadic structures. I define dyadic structures

as a minimal pair of exchange between interlocutors. The typical form of the
sequence is question (Speaker) / answer (Addressee), but there are others: request
(Speaker) / response (Addressee), or offering (Speaker) / response (Addressee),
comment (Speaker) / response (Addressee), etc. One should distinguish between
the mono-clausal sentence as a response to the previous question or command:
(21) {ΑΘ.} Καλῶς ἔλεξας· ἀλλ’ ἐκεῖνό μοι φράσον, | ἔβαψας ἔγχος εὖ πρὸς
Ἀργείων στρατῷ; |{ΑΙ.} Κόμπος πάρεστι κοὐκ ἀπαρνοῦμαι τὸ μή. |{ΑΘ.}
Ἦ καὶ πρὸς Ἀτρείδαισιν ᾔχμασας χέρας; | {ΑΙ.} Ὥστ’ οὔποτ’ Αἴαντ’, οἶδ’,
ἀτιμάσουσ’ ἔτι. | {ΑΘ.} Τεθνᾶσιν ἅνδρες, ὡς τὸ σὸν ξυνῆκ’ ἐγώ (S. Aj. 94–
99).
‘(Athena) A fine pledge. But tell me this, have you dyed your sword well in the
Greek army? (Ajax) I can make that boast. I do not deny it. (Athena) And have
you launched your armed hand against the Atreidae? (Ajax) (Yes), so that never
again will they dishonor Ajax. (Athena) The men are dead, as I interpret your
words.’ (Jebb)
Or the mono-clausal sentence as an elaboration of the answer. There is a yes/

no question, which has been answered using these terms Yes / No or equivalents
(μάλιστα, οὕτως etc.), and the mono-clausal sentence is an amplification or
an explanation of the answer. This situation is far less frequent and practically
reduced to Sophocles.
(22) {ΔΗ.} Γυναῖκες, ὡς δέδοικα μὴ περαιτέρω | πεπραγμέν’ ᾖ μοι πάνθ’

ὅσ’ ἀρτίως ἔδρων. | {ΧΟ.} Τί δ’ ἔστι, Δῃάνειρα, τέκνον Οἰνέως; |{ΔΗ.}
Οὐκ οἶδ’· ἀθυμῶ δ’ εἰ φανήσομαι τάχα | κακὸν μέγ’ ἐκπράξασ’ ἀπ’ ἐλπίδος
καλῆς. | {ΧΟ.} Οὐ δή τι τῶν σῶν Ἡρακλεῖ δωρημάτων; |{ΔΗ.} Μάλιστά
γ’· ὥστε μήποτ’ ἂν προθυμίαν | ἄδηλον ἔργου τῳ παραινέσαι λαβεῖν. (S. Tr.
663–670).
‘(Deianeira.) I am not certain, yet I deeply fear my hopes of good have brought
about great harm. (Chorus-leader.) Does it concern your gift to Heracles?
(Deianeira) It does. Oh, never recommend that any be hasty when his action is
uncertain!’ (Torrance)
The occurrences of the command / responses and comments / responses patterns

are scarce. The next example shows the affirmative, emphatic response of the
addressee to the order given to him by Electra.
(23) {Ηλ.} ἔπειτ’ ἀπαντῶν μητρὶ τἀπ’ ἐμοῦ φράσον. | {Πρ.} ὥστ’ αὐτά γ’ ἐκ
σοῦ στόματος εἰρῆσθαι δοκεῖν. (E. El. 667–668).
‘(Electra) Then, going to meet my mother, give her my message. (Old man) So
that the very words will seem to have been said by you.’ (Coleridge)
The next instance exemplifies the comment / response pattern.25 Oedipus’

comment on his fate probably had an emotional phrasing, close to an exclamation,
in the broad sense. The messenger’s response to Oedipus’ comment should share
the same intensity. Consequently, I propose to change the punctuation marks of
Jebb’s translation to an exclamation mark (!)
(24) {ΟΙ.} Οἴμοι, τί τοῦτ’ ἀρχαῖον ἐννέπεις κακόν; |{ΑΓ.} Λύω σ’ ἔχοντα
διατόρους ποδοῖν ἀκμάς. |{ΟΙ.}Δεινόν γ› ὄνειδος σπαργάνων ἀνειλόμην
|{ΑΓ.} Ὥστ’ ὠνομάσθης ἐκ τύχης ταύτης ὃς εἶ (S. OT 1033–1036).
‘(Oe.) Ah me, why do you speak of that old trouble? (Mes.) I freed you when
you had your ankles pinned together. (Oe.) (It was) a dread brand of shame
that I took from my cradle! (Mes.) (So much) so that from that fortune you were
called by that name which you still bear!’ (Jebb)
In a couple examples, the pairing of question / answer is not perfect because the
question is not a real one. So τίς ἀντερεῖ; is not a question and its pattern is better
described as comment / comment.
(25) {Αδ.} ἀπώλεσέν με κἄτι μᾶλλον ἢ λέγω. |{Ηρ.} γυναικὸς ἐσθλῆς

ἤμπλακες· τίς ἀντερεῖ; |{Αδ.} ὥστ’ ἄνδρα τόνδε μηκέθ’ ἥδεσθαι βίωι (E. Alc.
1082–1084).
‘(Ad.) Her death has destroyed me, even more than I can say. (Her.) You have
lost a noble wife. Who will deny it? (Ad.) (And) so I shall have no more joy in
life.’ (Kovacs)
Or because there are two questions, as in the example: Οὐχὶ ξυνῆκας πρόσθεν;
ἢ ‘κπειρᾷ λέγειν; and the answer refers to the first question, not to the second.
(26) {ΟΙ.} Ποῖον λόγον; λέγ’ αὖθις, ὡς μᾶλλον μάθω. | {ΤΕ.} Οὐχὶ ξυνῆκας
πρόσθεν; ἢ ‘κπειρᾷ λέγειν; |{ΟΙ.} Οὐχ ὥστε γ’ εἰπεῖν γνωστόν· ἀλλ’ αὖθις
φράσον (S. OT 359–361).
‘(Oe.) What did you say? Speak again, so I may learn it better. (Te.) Did you not
understand before, or are you talking to test me? (Oe.) I cannot say I understood
fully. Tell me again.’ (Jebb)
One can say that the sentences have some of the features of exclamations. Some
25 E. El. 1120–22.
of them are expressive rather than informative, describe a scalable attribute and
assert an unexpectedly high degree of said attribute. All of them convey subjective
judgment of the speaker (Mithun 2016).
4 Short review of the hypothesis
So far, one could obtain partial conclusions: the number of occurrences of ὥστε
mono-clausal structures is higher than expected and exhibit an interesting variety
of constructions, at least five. The corpus does not exhibit a balanced number of
occurrences or functions, and the higher proportion of uses appears in interactive
text types.
Are these constructions insubordinate cases? Structure number 1 does not
exhibit all the clues which allow us to identify it as an instance of insubordination.
Although the subordinator ὥστε is present, the moods in the mono-clausal are
not subordinating ones, and its meaning is similar to that of the basic structure.
Nevertheless, there is a crucial difference: the units related by the former
subordinator are higher than the sentence, they are discourse segments. ὥστε
does not exactly act as a conjunct adverb, as it is not an adverb, but as a discourse
marker with a connective function.
Types 2–3 have interesting particularities: the moods are even less
subordinating ones than in structure number one. Structure number 2 does not
exhibit all the clues which allow us to identify it as an instance of insubordination.
Moreover, the meanings are very different from those conveyed by the basic
structures. The presence of the speaker and his interaction with the addressee is
clear: the speaker conveys a command to an addressee. The specific role of ὥστε
is to mark that there are reasons which support the order or recommendation,
providing, therefore, a connection with the preceding text and an order given in
less aggressive terms. ὥστε therefore functions on both levels: interactional level
and representational level.
Type 4 also clearly differentiates in function from the basic structure. The
role of the mono-clause is to indicate that the strong denial or surprise has its
origin in the preceding sentences and it is a motivated one. The meaning of the
structures and the role of ὥστε derive from the meaning of the basic structure,
but act on a different level of communication: they express the speaker’s attitude.
Type number 5 presents differentiating features. It tends to maintain the
infinitive, a subordinate verbal mood. The structures convey subjective judgment
of the speaker, describe a scalable property and assert an unexpectedly high degree
of that property. They are close to exclamatives. Besides, in the other types, it is
quite impossible or impractical to recover a main clause: the main clause should
be the entire paragraph or general knowledge shared by speakers and hearers and
not previously mentioned. However, in this pattern, the situation is absolutely
different. There is a pair, and the second element is a reaction to the first. One can
say that they are insubordination examples in the first stages.
(27) {Ιο.} πόσον τι δ’ ἔστ’ ἄπωθεν Ἀργεῖον δόρυ;| {Θε.} ὥστ’ ἐξορᾶσθαι
τὸν στρατηγὸν ἐμφανῶς.| {Ιο.} τί δρῶντα; μῶν τάσσοντα πολεμίων στίχας;
(E. Heracl. 674–676).
‘(Iolaus) How far off is the Argive force? (Servant) Close enough to see their
general clearly. (Iolaus) What is he doing? Marshalling the enemy ranks?’
(Kovacs)
One can presume that the response is an abbreviated version of a complete one:
ἔστι ἄποθεν ὤστε ἐξορᾶσθαι τὸν στρατηγὸν ἐμφανῶς.26 Conversely, in other
examples, the ellipted clause cannot be easily recovered:
(28) {Εκ.} ἥψω δὲ γονάτων τῶν ἐμῶν ταπεινὸς ὤν; | {Οδ.} ὥστ’ ἐνθανεῖν γε
σοῖς πέπλοισι χεῖρ’ ἐμήν.| (E. Hec. 245–247).
‘(Hec.) Did you embrace my knees in all humility? (Od.) (Yes), so that my hand
grew dead (and cold) upon your robe’ (Coleridge)
(29) {Ορ.} αἵδ’ οὖν φίλαι σοι τούσδ’ ἀκούουσιν λόγους; |{Ηλ.} ὥστε στέγειν
γε τἀμὰ καὶ σ’ ἔπη καλῶς (E. El. 272–3).
‘(Or.) Are these women who hear our talk friends of yours? (El.) They will keep
both your words and mine well hidden’ (Coleridge)
In the next example, the question does not precede the reactive move. Furthermore,
there is another question / answer pair between the question and the answer.
Nevertheless, the complete answer should be οὐκ οἶδα οὕτω ἀκριβῶς ὥστε γ’
εἰπεῖν ἐν τάχει μνήμης ὕπο.
(30) {ΟΙ.} Τὸν ἄνδρα τόνδ’ οὖν οἶσθα τῇδέ που μαθών; |{ΘΕ.} Τί χρῆμα
δρῶντα; ποῖον ἄνδρα καὶ λέγεις;| {ΟΙ.} Τόνδ’ ὃς πάρεστιν· ἢ ξυναλλάξας
26E. He. 1268–1269 {Θε.} πόσον δ’ ἀπείργειν μῆκος ἐκ γαίας δόρυ; | -{Με.} ὥστ’ ἐξορᾶσθαι
ῥόθια χερσόθεν μόλις is a similar example.
τί πως; |{ΘΕ.} Οὐχ ὥστε γ’ εἰπεῖν ἐν τάχει μνήμης ὕπο. | {ΑΓ.} Κοὐδέν γε
θαῦμα, δέσποτ’· ἀλλ’ ἐγὼ σαφῶς ἀγνῶτ’ ἀναμνήσω νιν (S. OT 1130–1133).
‘(Ser.) Doing what? What man do you mean? (Oe.) This man here. Have you
ever met him before? (Ser.) Not so that I could speak at once from memory. (Mes.)
And no wonder, master. But I will bring clear recollection to his ignorance.’
Occasionally, the answer deviates from the question, and it is not possible to
imagine elision as the mechanism at work:
(31) {ΔΗ.} Ἀλλ’ οἶσθα μὲν δὴ καὶ τὰ τῆς ξένης ὁρῶν | προσδέγματ’, αὐτὴν
ὡς ἐδεξάμην φίλως. | {ΛΙ.} Ὥστ’ ἐκπλαγῆναι τοὐμὸν ἡδονῇ κέαρ (S. Tr.
627–629).
‘(Dei.) ‘You know the greeting that I gave the stranger -you saw that I have
welcomed her in friendship? (Li.) (Yes); and my heart was deeply struck with
pleasure.’
5 Conclusions
1) The number of occurrences of independent ὥστε sentences is higher than

reflected in the Greek Grammars.
2) There are different structures and functions: mono-clausal ὥστε sentences
and ὥστε sentences in dyadic structures.
3) Mono-clausal ὥστε sentences appear in speech acts of different types.
They can convey strong orders presented as a product of human reason, and
express strong denial or surprise in interrogations. ὥστε functions as a discourse
marker.
5) ὥστε sentences in dyadic structures can answer questions, comments or
orders with communicative ellipsis or, in the most interesting and rare cases,
express surprise, intense feeling about the question and provide supplementary
information. Dyadic structures are the first step to the path from subordination
to fixed insubordinate structures, similar to the structures found in other modern
languages.
6) Dyadic structures can substantiate ellipsis, but it does not seem to be the
only possible hypothesis. Communicative dynamics and interaction between the
speaker / hearer seem to play an important role in their structural development.
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Lexical and syntactic constrictions for the

derivation of verbal nouns in -τις / -σις
Jesús de la Villa
1 Introduction1
Despite their importance in the Greek derivational system, verbal nouns in -τις
/ -σις have received very little attention in recent studies on the morphology
and semantics of ancient Greek. Both traditional handbooks (eg Kühner-Blass:
18923: 270, Schwyzer 1953: 504–506, Debrunner 1917: 186–188) and more
specific studies (eg Benveniste 1948 75–86, and much more recently, Civilleri
2010) focus mainly on describing the morphological variants of the suffix. All
repeat, without exception, that the terms in -τις / -σις basically express action and
that, sporadically, they can also be used to express instrument and other notions.
On the other hand, the important monograph by Holt (1941) is
fundamentally interested in the semantic issues associated with the aspectual
content of the verbal bases from which these nouns are derived.
All of the above means that, rather surprisingly, the most detailed description
of the semantic characteristics of these nouns, remains that of Chantraine and
dates back to 1933.
We can summarize Chantraine’s description in the following points (1933:
375–289):
1) The suffix, inherited from Indo-European, was mainly used to form abstract
nouns derived from verbal roots. But in Greek, from the oldest attestations,
there were also formations with the sense of Agent, such as μάντις, ‘diviner’ or
Instrument, as οἰνήρυσις ‘vessel for drawing wine’, κνῆστις ‘grater’.
2) The Greek language used the suffix with a series of different meanings to express:
a) “puissance cachée mais active” [hidden active force]: φάτις ‘voice, rumour’,
1 The research presented in this paper has been carried out as part of project “Interacción del
léxico y la sintaxis en griego antiguo y latín” (FFI2017-83310-C3-1-P), with the financial support
or the Spanish National Program for Research. I am very grateful to those colleagues who made
suggestions when I presented it at the 2nd ICAGL, held in Helsinki in 2018. I would also like to
thank Dr. Olivia Cockburn for the revision of the English text.
404 de la VILLA, Derivation of verbal nouns in -τις / -σις
γένεσις ‘origin’, φύσις ‘nature’ πρῆξις ‘effective action’ (somehow in the line of
Porzig 1924, who spoke of ‘magical power’);
b) (the most important) a complete system to express Action: βάσις ‘stepping’,
σκέδασις ‘dispersion’, ἀνάπνευσις ‘recovering of breath’;
c) terms of concrete meaning: ἄσις ‘mud’, ξύνεσις ‘union’
d) result: ἄροσις ‘arable land’.
3) In the Archaic and the Classical Greek periods, previous tendencies expanded
the use of the suffix -τις / -σις to action nouns, typically opposed to -μα as the
expression of the result of the verbal action.
It also extended its possibilities of formation to almost all verbal bases.
Chantraine (1933: 281) says, literally: “Dès l’époque classique on a le sentiment
que sur n’importe quel radical verbal il est possible de constituer un dérivé de ce
type” [From Classical times onwards, there is a sense that it is possible to build
this kind of derived formation from any sort of verbal root].2
But, relatively soon, says Chantraine, there is evidence of some confusion
with nouns of result in -μα, as in the pair ποίησις-ποίημα, which express virtually
the same thing.
Besides its main use as a derivational suffix to express action nouns, we also
see its use with specific meanings. The origin of these formations with a particular
meaning, however, is described in a rather incoherent way: in page 288, it is said
that the possibility to form terms with particular meaning is original: “Le suffixe
-ti- d’autre parte, s’est toujours prêté à former des noms d’objets ou d’instruments.
Cet emploi ancien ne s’est jamais perdu: ὑπόβασις, θέσις, ἐπίχυσις” [Nevertheless,
the suffix -ti- has always been available to form nouns referring to objects and
instruments. This old use has never disappear]. But strangely enough, in the
same page 288, some few lines below, Chantraine apparently attributes specific
meanings to a secondary evolution: “Le sens original du suffixe s’est perdu et il
a pu servir à former des noms concrets” [The original meaning of the suffix has
been lost and it could be used to form terms with specific referents].
4) Finally, in later times, even its main meaning is effaced: “Le suffixe -σις tend
à devenir un instrument banal et fournir des dérivés que rien ne caractérise plus”
[The suffix -σις tends to become a general instrument and form derived nouns
without any particular characterization] (Chantraine 1933: 288).
2 The same idea is repeated without further commentary by Civilleri (2010: 113) and, more
recently, in van Emde Boas et al. (2018: 267).
Among all these aspects, two main questions remain unclear:

1) Are there really no semantic restrictions for its use in the formation of new
words? In other terms, can this suffix really be used with any kind of verbal root?
2) Did the suffix have several original meanings which were all preserved
throughout its history in the Greek language or was there a sole original meaning
with later evolutions in other directions, such as Instrument and Result?
In the following two sections I will try to answer these two questions. For my
research, I will limit myself to the data of the Homeric poems and of Herodotus,
part of which have already been presented in Villa (2014).
2 Semantic restrictions to the formation of verbal nouns in -τις/-σις
In Villa (2014), I discussed different possibilities for identifying lexical restrictions

to formations with -τις / -σις. In particular, I compared the well-known verbal
classification of Vendler (1957) and that of Dik (1997). My conclusion was that
the latter is more useful for describing these restrictions. I have also tested the
validity of this system for other corpora, such as the Hippocratic treatises (Villa
2013), and the restrictions of the use of the suffix -μα (Villa 2016).
The classification of Dik (1997) is based on two main features: dynamism
and control, as they are presented in (1).
(1) Semantic features relevant for the classification of the types of events (Dik 1997):
Dynamism: A dynamic State of Affairs involves some kind of change
Control: A State of Affairs is [+control] if its first argument has the power to
determine whether or not the State of Affairs will take place.
Depending on the distribution of these features, the events, as they are called by
Vendler, or the State of Affairs, in Dik’s terminology, can be classified into four
main groups, as presented in (2).
(2) Types of events according to Dik 1989:

States: - dynamic, - control (to be, to lay)
Positions: - dynamic, + control (to stay, to have)
Processes: + dynamic, - control (to fall, to die)
Actions: + dynamic, + control (to run, to eat)
If we now apply this classification to all of the formations in -τις / -σις identified
in the two great Homeric poems, we obtain the result shown in Table I.3
Table I: Classification of the Homeric verbal nouns in -τις/-σις according to the type of event of
their verbal basis4
State Position Action Process

ἀνάβλησις (βάλλω)
ἀνάπνευσις (πνέω)
ἄνυσις (ἀνύω)
ἄροσις ἀρόω
ἄσις (ἄω)
ἀμφί-/ἐκ-/πρό-βασις (βαίνω)
βόσις (βόσκω)
βρῶσις (βιβρώσκω)
γένεσις (γίγνομαι)
δμῆσις (δάμνημι)
δόσις (δίδωμι)
ἔκλησις (ἐκλανθάνω)
ἔπαλξις (ἐπαλέξω)
ἐπίκλησις (καλέω)
ἐπί-σχεσις (ἔχω)
κνῆστις (κναίω)
κτῆσις (κτάομαι)
μνῆστις (μιμνήσκω)
λύσις (λύω)
μάστις (μαίομαι)
νέμεσις (νέμω)
ξύνεσις (ξυνίημι)
ὄνησις (ὀνίνημι)
3 The data for Herodotus, quite similar to that of Homer, can be found in Villa (2014).
4 Three terms with obscure etymology or formation are not included: βούβρωστις ‘famine, misery’,
whose second element must be related to the root of βιβρώσκω (cf. Chantraine 1968 s.u. βου-),
but whose first element is uncertain. Κύστις ‘bladder’, linked by Chantraine (1968 s.u.) to some
Sanskrit forms, but with no other examples of the verbal root in Greek. Μάντις ‘diviner’: associated
to the same root as μαἰνομαι, but with a strange derivation (cf. Chantraine 1968 s.u.). Nevertheless,
it must be stressed that at the very least, the two first forms would be also derived from roots that
describe an Action in Dik’s terms.
ὄψις (ὄπ-)
παλίωξις (ἰώκω)
πάρ-/πρό-φασις (φημί)
πόσις (πίνω)
πρῆξις (πρήσσω)
πρότμησις (τέμνω)
ῥῆσις (ῥη-)
σκέδασις (σκεδάννυμι)
τίσις (τίνω)
ὑπάλυξις (ὑπαλύσκω)
ὑπόσχεσις (ἔχω)
φύξις (φεύγω)
φύσις (φύω)
χύσις (χεύω)
As we can see, there is a clear restriction for the formation of verbal nouns in -τις
/ -σις: they can never be formed on verbal bases that indicate State. This is why
there are no formations from verbs like εἰμί, κεῖμαι, ἀπέχω etc.
Secondly, there is a clear preference for verbal bases that describe events
characterized as Actions. This is quite in agreement with the main meaning of the
suffix, which is always described as expressing Action. However, it seems that this
preference should only be described in prototypical terms and does not represent
a strict requirement. In fact, although in very few cases, perhaps the suffix could
also be used for verbal bases that indicate Position, that is, a controlled event,
but without change. This could be the case of ἐπίσχεσις ‘delay’, which can be
understood as a controlled lack of activity, but also as an active attempt to stop
anything; in this second case, it would be also an Action. This is the reason why
this word is situated in Table I in between the Positions and Actions columns.
On the other hand, and also as a peripherical possibility, it seems that the
suffix could also be used for bases that express change, but that are not controlled,
that is, Processes, as with γένεσις or φύσις. However, given the semantic content
of the roots γεν- and φυ- we should not rule out that, in the minds of Greek
speakers, these events implied some control in the sense that whatever generates
something or gives something its nature, even if it is a force superior to man, it
does so in a more or less conscious way.
Additionally, the proximity of the notion of Action to some kind of Process is
clear from the presence of terms whose nature spans both Action and Process, like
ἔκλησις, related to ἐκλανθάνω and significantly translated in the LSJ dictionary
as ‘forgetting’ or ‘forgiving’, that is, either as a non-controlled or a controlled

event. Similar is the case of μνῆστις, related to μιμνήσκω, and translated in LSJ
as ‘remembrance’ or ‘recollection’, again a non-controlled or a controlled event,
respectively. Finally, ἀνάπνευσις means ‹recovering of breath› or ‹respite from›,
which can also be considered either non-controlled or controlled.
In conclusion, I think we are now in a position to answer the first of our two
questions: the suffix -τις / -σις, far from being able to derive nouns sur n’importe
quel radical, in Chantraine’s words, is subject to clear restrictions and preferences
that determine the conditions of its use as a derivative suffix.
Let us now move on to our second question: that of the suffix’s meaning.
3 Meaning of the suffix
3.1 Different types of derived reference
As has already been summarized, there are several recognized meanings for nouns
derived in -τις / -σις. Apart from the clearly majoritarian meaning of Action,
there are terms that also express Instrument, such as those in (4), and Result, like
those in (5). I offer data from Homer and Herodotus.
(4) Terms with the meaning of instrument:

κνῆστις ‘grater’, μάστις ‘whip’
Hdt. ἄλυσις ‘chain’
(5) Terms with the meaning of result:

ἄροσις ‘arable land’, ἄσις ‘mud’, πρότμησις ‘navel’
Hdt. λάξις ‘allotment of land’
However, it is also very interesting to note that there are terms that can be
considered to have double or intermediate values spanning between Action and
Instrument, like those in (6), and between Action and Result, like those in (7).
(6) Terms with a meaning between action and instrument:

βόσις ‘feeding’ ‘food’, βρῶσις ‘id.’, πόσις ‘drinking’ ‘beverage’
Hdt. δόσις ‘giving’ ‘gift’, ζεῦξις ‘yoking’ ‘way of joking’, σίτησις ‘eating’ ‘food’
(7) Terms with a meaning between action and result:

κτῆσις ‘acquisition’ ‘property’, ξύνησις ‘union’, ῥῆσις
‘saying’ ‘speech’, σκέδασις ‘scattering’ ‘dispersion’ , φύσις ‘nature’ ‘growth’
Hdt. στάσις ‘placing’ ‘building’, τάξις ‘arranging’ ‘disposition’
It is even possible to find terms that can be classified, according to context, either
as an Action, as an Instrument or with the meaning of Result, as in (8):
(8) Terms with a meaning that, besides action, can be interpreted either as
instrument or result:
ἔπαλξις ‘defence’ ‘means of defence’, ἐπίκλησις ‘invocation’ ‘surname’, ὄψις
‘vision’ ‘view’, πάρφασις ‘consolation’, πρόφασις ‘pretext’, τίσις ‘payment,
punishment’, ὑπόσχεσις ‘promise’, χύσις ‘pouring’ ‘liquid poured’
Hdt. αἴτησις ‘request’ ‘demand’, οἴκησις ‘inhabiting’ ‘settlement’ ‘house’
The fact that these mixed or double uses exist demonstrates, first of all, that there
is no strict separation between the suffix’s various possible meanings. We cannot,
therefore, state that the suffix indicates either Action or Instrument or Result, but
that all these meanings seem to be part of a semantic continuum covered by the
suffix in some way.
Secondly, we should note that there are no terms that are Instrument and /
or Result, but not Action (or at least we have not identified any). In other words,
there are mixed terms between Action and Instrument and between Action and
Result or a combination of the three, but no terms exist whose meaning spans
between Instrument and Result alone. This clearly points to the fact that the
central meaning is that of Action, which is by far the most frequent meaning of
derivatives with -τις / -σις.
However, despite these partial conclusions, the basic question remains
unsolved: are these the suffix’s original meanings or are they the result of a
secondary evolution of a metonymic nature? I believe that the answer lies in the
characteristics of the verbal bases themselves.
3.2 Lexico-syntactic characteristics of the verbal bases
In order to study the characteristics of the events described by the verbal bases
from which the terms in -τις / -σις are derived, I have taken into account two
criteria. Both criteria are related to the presence or absence of an entity that
is different from the action itself but related to it, such as the Instrument and
the possible Result (or the object affected or created by it). The first of these
two criteria is whether the verbal bases are transitive or intransitive, and the
second, should the verbal base be transitive, if they are related to Affected objects
(preexisting the action of the verb itself ) or Effected objects (created as result of
the verbal action).
The results obtained are as follows:
i) When the verbal base is intransitive, that is, the verb is not associated with any
Object, the result of the derivation with -τις / -σις in our corpus is only Action,
as in (9).
(9) Intransitive
> Action
ἀνάπνευσις ‘recovering of breath’, γένεσις ‘origin’ ‘birth’,
ὑπάλυξις ‘escape’
ii) When the verb related to the noun is transitive and is associated with an
Effected object5, we have examples in which the noun can express Action or
Result, as in the examples shown in (10).
(10) Transitive with Effected Object

> Action
ἄνυσις ‘accomplishment’, πρῆξις ‘action’
> Result
ἄροσις ‘arable land’, ἄσις ‘mud’, πρότμησις ‘navel’, ῥῆσις
‘speech’, σκέδασις ‘dispersion’, φύσις ‘nature’
iii) Finally, when the verb related to the noun is transitive and is associated with
an Affected object, that is, an entity that preexists the Action itself, the derived
noun, as seen in (11), can refer either to the Action itself, to the Result in very few
occasions, and, to the Instrument. It is also interesting to note that this instrument
can refer to a first-order entity independent of the Action, such as κνῆστις ‘grater’
or μάστις ‘whip’, or to an internal Instrument, that is, to an entity closely related
to the Action and created by the action itself, such as πρόφασις ‘pretext’, τίσις
‘punishment’, ὑπόσχησις ‘promise’.
5The importance in semantic and syntactic terms of establishing a difference between Effected and
Affected objects was demonstrated by Riaño (2006: 135-146). .
(11) Transitive with Affected Object

> Action
ἀνάβλησις ‘delay’, δμῆσις ‘taming’, ἔκλησις ‘forgetting,
forgiving’, λύσις ‘releasing’, ὄνησις ‘profit’, φύξις ‘flight’
> Result
κτῆσις ‘possesion’, ξύνεσις ‘union’, χύσις ‘pouring’
‘poured liquid’
> affected Instrument (1st order entity)
κνῆστις ‘grater’, μάστις ‘whip’, βόσις ‘food’, πόσις ‘beverage’
> effected Instrument (2nd order entity) = internal Instrument
ἐπίκλησις ‘surname’, πρόφασις ‘pretext’, τίσις ‘punishment’,
ὑπόσχησις ‘promise’
From the distribution presented in (9) to (11), we can conclude, firstly, that all
verbal bases, regardless of their semantic characteristics, can give rise to terms that
mean Action. In this way, the centrality of this meaning for the suffix -τις / -σις
is demonstrated once again.
Secondly, we can conclude that the meanings of Instrument and Result are
associated with verbal bases with certain lexical and semantic conditions. However, it
is interesting to note that, at the same time, it is not possible to predict when a base
will render this kind of semantic evolution. In other words, there does not seem to
be a compulsory rule that triggers the evolution of Action nouns into Instrument or
Result. It is only a possibility. This points to non-systematic, but sporadic, although
rather frequent, metonymic processes of semantic extension, which have been
described for many other languages and that receive, respectively, the label of ‘Action
for Instrument’ and ‘Action for Result’ metonymies (see, eg, Kövecses & Radden 1998:
54–55). A similar example in English of Action for Result metonymy is ‘building’,
which refers to the action of to build and to its result. In Spanish an example of
Action for Instrument is conexión, which refers to the action of connecting and also
to the element used to connect two entities, this is, the instrument. In Latin quaestio
is the act of to ask, but also what one asks (instrument) and the question formulated
(result).6 Many other examples from other languages could also be presented.
Of course, in some cases, we have ambiguous formations. For example, is
ῥῆσις ‘speech’, apart from the action of ‘to speak’, the instrument or the result of
6 A complete revision of Latin verbal nouns of action and their different derived meanings has been
done recently by Garzón (2018). Despite the different theoretical basis of her work in relation to
this paper, the results are comparable in many aspects.
the action? It is most likely something in between. The same happens with ὄψις,
that is the action of seeing, sight as a human sense, and the thing that is seen.
There are other cases. All this confirms the existence of a cognitive space shared
by the notions of Action, Instrument and Result.
Finally, in some cases, this extended metonymic use can even lead to the loss
of its original meaning as an Action, as in the case of μάστις ‘whip’, for Instrument,
or of πρότμησις ‘navel’, for Result. This is also a well-known phenomenon in
other languages (e.g. Riemer 2003).
The nature and chronology of such diverse metonymic processes is still to be
established and is beyond the aims and limits of this paper.
It must also be stressed that the results that we offer here are provisional
and only valid for Homer and Herodotus. An investigation on a larger corpus
will probably offer more evidence on the lexical constraints to the metonymic
reinterpretations undergone by this kind of formation. Nevertheless, our results
offer for the first time some explanation for the apparent polysemy of the suffix
-τις / -σις.
In conclusion, we are already in a position to answer our second question:
Given the systematic character of the derivation of the meaning of Action and, on
the other hand, the sporadic, although conditioned, character of the meanings of
Instrument and Result, it seems that the proper meaning of the suffix -τις / -σις
is that of Action and that the other meanings are secondary derivations through
metonymic processes.
4 General conclusions
i) The statement by Chantraine and others on the lack of restrictions for the
formation of verbal nouns with -τις/-σις is not true: there are clear semantic
restrictions and preferences for the verbal bases from which these nouns can be
created.
ii) The ambiguity of Chantraine’s formulations on the meaning of the suffix can be
now clarified: -τις/-σις seems to have a single basic meaning, as a suffix to express
Action. However, it seems that, depending on the lexical-syntactic characteristics
of the verbal bases, other interpretations are possible. The latter, however, seem to
be the result of secondary metonymic processes.
References
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Librairie d’Amerique et d’Orient.
Chantraine, Pierre. 1933. La formation des noms en grec ancien. París: Klincksieck.
Chantraine, Pierre. 1968. Dictionnaire Étymologique de la Langue Grecque.
Paris: Klincksieck.
Civilleri, Germana Olga. 2010. Nomi verbali nel continuum nome/verbo : il caso
del greco antico. Roma: Università Roma Trè MA thesis.
Debrunner, Albert. 1917. Griechische Wortbildungslehre. Heidelberg: Carl Winter.
Dik, Simon C. 1997. The theory of functional grammar. Berlin-New York:
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van Emde Boas, Evert, Albert Rijksbaron, Luuk Huitink & Mathieu de Bakker.
2018. The Cambridge grammar of Classical Greek. Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press.
Garzón, Eveling. 2018. Nombres de acción y otros derivados deverbativos en latín.
Madrid: Universidad Autónoma de Madrid MA thesis.
Holt, Jens. 1940. Les noms d’action en -σις. Aarhus: Universitetsforlaget.
Kövecses, Zoltan & Günter Radden. 1998. Metonymy: developing a cognitive
linguistic view. Cognitive Linguistics 9(1). 37–77.
Kühner, Raphael & Friedrich Blass. 1890/1892. Ausführliche Grammatik
der griechischen Sprache. I Elementar- und Formenlehre. Hannover: Hahnsche
Buchhandlung.
Porzig, Walter. 1924. Bedeutungsgeschichtliche Studien. Indogermanische
Riaño, Daniel. 2006. El complemento directo en griego antiguo. Un estudio sobre
los argumentos verbales de objeto en la prosa del griego antiguo. Madrid: Consejo
Superior de Investigaciones Científicas.
Riemer, Nick. 2003. When is metonymy no longer a metonymy?. In René Dirven
& Ralph Pöhrings (eds.), Metaphor and metonymy in comparison and contrast,
379–406. Berlin & New York: Mouton de Gruyter.
Schwyzer, Eduard. 1953. Griechischer Grammatik I. Munich: Beck.
Vendler, Zeno. 1957. Verbs and times, The Philosophical Review 66. 143–160.
de la Villa, Jesús. 2013. Los derivados griegos en -σις/-τις en Homero e Hipocrates.
Restricciones semanticas. in Luis Miguel Pino, Germán Santana (eds.),
Καλὸς καὶ ἀγαθὸς ἀνὴρ διδασκάλου παράδειγμα. Homenaje al Prof. J.A.
López Férez. 861–868. Madrid: Ediciones Clasicas.
de la Villa, Jesús. 2014. Bases verbales y nombres de acción en -σις/-τις en

Heródoto. In Ángel Martínez Fernández et al. (eds.), Ágalma. Ofrenda desde
la Filología Clásica a Manuel García Teijeiro. 143–152. Valladolid: Univ. de
Valladolid.
de la Villa, Jesús. 2016. Verbal nouns in –ma: their formation and semantic
reinterpretation. In Elena Redondo Moyano & María José García Soler (eds.),
Nuevas interpretaciones del Mundo Antiguo. Homenaje al Prof. J.L.Melena.
111–120. Vitoria: Universidad del País Vasco.
IV Modality, semantics, and pragmatics

416
Modality and Injunctive in Homeric Greek:

The role of epistemic particles and adverbs
in counterfactual constructions
Annamaria Bartolotta & Daniel Kölligan
Structurally, unaugmented aorists and imperfects belong to the oldest layer of

verbal forms attested in Greek, which continue the so-called Indo-European
‘injunctive’. The latter was inflectionally underspecified as regards verbal categories
such as tense or mood (Hoffmann 1967; Kiparsky 1968). Thus, the question
arises as to how the attitude of the speaker toward the content of his utterance
was expressed. The aim of this paper is to investigate the role of epistemic particles
and adverbs co-occurring with injunctives in the Iliad and the Odyssey, focusing
in particular on past counterfactual constructions. Crosslinguistic studies have
shown that such modal constructions reflect the universal semantic distinction
between realis and irrealis (Wierzbicka 1997: 38). In Greek, on the one hand,
the main clause or apodosis was always lexically marked by the irrealis particle
κεν, expressing a potential event in the past, which in fact never happened (see
Hettrich 1998). On the other hand, the if-clause or protasis referred to an actual
event in the past for which the outcome is already known (realis). The data show
how particles and adverbs occurring in the protasis assumed an epistemic value,
expressing the speaker’s commitment to the truth-value or factual status of his
proposition. The analysis of all the occurrences of such complex constructions
shows a non-random distribution of those epistemic particles and adverbs, whose
frequency significantly decreases when the verb of the protasis is an indicative
rather than an injunctive. Thus, it might be argued that they played an important
role in expressing epistemic modality before the emerging indicative mood
rendered them less functional at a later stage. Another piece of evidence in favour
of this hypothesis comes from the epistemic verb μέλλω, that develops into a
periphrastic marker for future tense, especially as a future in the past (cf. Allan
2017). The Homeric poems show most instances of the unaugmented 3SG
occurring with an epistemic particle, while there is variation with the augmented
form.
418 BARTOLOTTA & KÖLLIGAN, Modality and Injunctive in Homeric Greek
1 Introduction1
The literature on epistemic modality has mostly focused on grammatical

expressions, such as affixes, clitics, and auxiliaries, although all languages have
lexical epistemic modal expressions at their disposal (Boye 2016: 122), such as
verbs, adverbs, adjectives, but also particles. In addition, epistemic modality can
be conveyed through mood selection (Podlesskaya 2001: 1005; Ruiz Yamuza
2014: 456; Hoff 2019). The indicative mood implies a high confidence in or
certainty about the proposition asserted (Boye 2016: 126 and references therein;
Silk 2018: 160; cf. Bybee et al. 1994: 226, 321; De Haan 2006: 33). As Fillmore
(1990: 142) puts it, the indicative expresses “the positive epistemic stance of the
speaker” (see also Willmott 2007: 39). If one takes a diachronic perspective, it is
worth investigating how the attitude of the speaker toward the content of his/her
utterance was originally expressed with relation to the earlier Greek inflectional
verb system. As is well-known, Homeric augmentless aorists and imperfects
were residual forms that continued PIE injunctives. These were inflectionally
underspecified as regards verbal categories such as tense, mood or modality
(Hoffmann 1967; Kiparsky 1968), and consequently one might suppose that
the speaker’s commitment to the truth of his proposition could be expressed
by lexical means. Specifically, one might expect that modal epistemic particles
and adverbs were more frequent with injunctives than indicatives, as the latter
were already inflected according to the mood expressing assertion, which in turn
involves epistemic modality (Bybee 1985: 16). Let us consider the following
formulaic passages taken from the Iliad forming a ‘minimal pair’:
(1) ἔνθά κέ τοι Μενέλαε φάνη βιότοιο τελευτή (Il. 7.104).

‘then, Menelaus, the end of life would have appeared to you’
(2) ἔνθ' ἄρα τοι Πάτροκλε φάνη βιότοιο τελευτή (Il. 16.787).
‘then, Patroclus, the end of life appeared to you’.
Both (1) and (2) show exactly the same constituents, including the same
injunctive φάνη from φαίνω ‘to appear’, but what makes the difference is the
1 This paper is the result of the collaboration of the two authors. For academic purposes, Annamaria
Bartolotta is responsible for writing Sections 1, 2, and 3, while Daniel Kölligan for writing Sections
4 and 5. We would like to thank the audience at the Helsinki International Conference on Greek
Linguistics and the members of the international research group GAG (Group Aspect en Grec) for
their useful comments on an earlier version of this study.
modal particle. In (1) the conditional (irrealis) particle κέ marks the apodosis of
a past counterfactual construction: the analysis of the discourse context shows
indeed that Menelaus does not die (3).
(3) ἔνθά κέ τοι Μενέλαε φάνη βιότοιο τελευτὴ

Ἕκτορος ἐν παλάμῃσιν, ἐπεὶ πολὺ φέρτερος ἦεν,
εἰ μὴ ἀναΐξαντες ἕλον βασιλῆες Ἀχαιῶν (Il. 7.104–106).
‘Then, Menelaus, the end of life would have appeared to you
at the hands of Hector, as he was mightier far,
if the kings of the Achaeans had not sprung up and grasped you.’
Instead, in (2) the epistemic particle ἄρα marks an assertion expressing an

objective fact that really happened (realis), and that the speaker considers as
established, given, and uncontroversial: Patroclus died during the battle (4).
(4) ἔνθ' ἄρα τοι Πάτροκλε φάνη βιότοιο τελευτή […]

Ἕκτωρ Πριαμίδης σχεδὸν ἔγχεϊ θυμὸν ἀπηύρα (Il. 16.787; 828)
‘Then, Patroclus, the end of life appeared to you […]
Hector, Priam’s son, took his life away, smiting him from close with his spear’
This minimal pair allows us to observe the important role of modal particles co-
occurring with injunctives, as they seem to be the only means that specify the
modal value of the sentence. In (4) the indicative ἀπηύρα describes a real, factual
event, i.e. Hector killed Patroclus, conveying per se the speaker’s commitment
to the truth-value or factual status of the proposition (cf. De Haan 2006: 33),
whereas it seems that the ‘neutral’ injunctive φάνη in the preceding verse prefers
a lexical strategy, here the particle ἄρα, to mark such factuality.2
The aim of this paper is to investigate the path of development that has
characterized the expression of epistemic modality in the passage from the zero-
mood stage of the injunctive (cf. Duhoux 2000: 92) to the inflectional-mood stage
of the indicative, which has been defined as an ‘epistemic mood’ (Bybee 1985:
16; 1994: 321).3 In particular, Homeric Greek shows a non-random distribution
2 This does not mean that injunctives without epistemic particles may not describe factual events,
as e.g. in Il. 11.734 ἀλλά σφι προπάροιθε φάνη μέγα ἔργον Ἄρηος ‘but before that a mighty deed
of war appeared to them’. The following discussion will show, however, that there is a preference for
unaugmented forms as opposed to past indicatives to co-occur with epistemic particles.
3 For a different opinion on this definition, see Boye (2012: 34).
of epistemic particles and adverbs co-occurring with injunctives and indicatives

in past counterfactual constructions. In what follows the role of such epistemic
particles in the Iliad, Odyssey and the Homeric Hymns will be investigated based
on the textual analysis of discourse contexts and with reference to the theoretical
framework of Functional Discourse Grammar (cf. Allan 2017b; Hengeveld 2004).
The major corpus resources used in this study include the Thesaurus Linguae
Graecae (TLG 2000) as digital corpus of Homeric Greek texts.4 The paper is
organized as follows. After introducing the role of epistemic modality in past
counterfactuals from a typological perspective, Section 2 describes the structure
of Homeric past counterfactuals, dwelling upon the distinction between the so-
called if-clause or protasis and then-clause or apodosis. The latter is the main
clause, lexically marked by the irrealis particle κεν followed by an injunctive or a
past indicative, whereas the protasis is usually introduced by εἰ μὴ followed by an
injunctive or a past indicative. Section 3 focuses on the protasis and, specifically,
on how the speaker expresses his attitude toward the truth of the proposition. The
analysis of all the epistemic particles and adverbs occurring in the protasis will
show that their frequency significantly decreases when the verb is an indicative
rather than an injunctive. Thus, it might be argued that particles and adverbs
played an important role in expressing epistemic modality before the emerging
indicative mood rendered them less functional or more redundant at a later stage.
The particles found in the protasis of past counterfactuals are ἄρα (3.1), δή (3.2),
που (3.3), γε (3.4), τοι (3.5), and the epistemic adverb μάλα (3.6). In Section
4 this hypothesis is supported by the analysis of a specific case-study of the verb
μέλλω whose epistemic meaning (‘be likely’) is restricted to unaugmented forms,
while in the past indicatives it describes an event as predestined, intended by
the subject or as about to happen soon after the reference time. The concluding
Section 5 provides some final remarks and gives directions for further research.
2 The dual meaning of counterfactuals
According to Chung and Timberlake (1985: 242) and Elliott (2000: 71),
counterfactuals belong to the domain of possibility, and therefore they should
be analyzed within the framework of epistemic modality (see Hengeveld 2004:
4 Reference works for Homeric Greek include Schwyzer (1959), Chantraine (2013; 2015), and
LSJ (1996). Critical editions of the Homeric poems used are Mazon (1957–1961), Monro-Allen
(1978), van Thiel (1991; 1996), West (1998; 2000; 2017).The reference translation is Murray-
Wyatt (1999a; 1999b).
1195), which characterizes the event with respect to the actual world and its
possible alternatives. As Traugott et al. put it (1986: 3), “conditional (if-then)
constructions directly reflect the characteristically human ability to reason about
alternative situations, […] to imagine possible correlations between situations,
and to understand how the world would change if certain correlations were
different”. Counterfactual constructions are indeed considered as a semantic
primitive reflecting the universal distinction between realis and irrealis, as there is
no language that does not have some lexical or grammatical means for marking
counterfactuals (Wierzbicka 1997: 38). Interestingly enough, cognitive theories
of counterfactual language processing assume that counterfactuals convey a dual
meaning, i.e. they express a supposition while implying the factual state of affairs
(Kulakova and Nieuwland 2016: 49). In a typological perspective, although
it is the apodosis that typically attracts irrealis marking, in the ‘imaginative
conditionals’ “there can be a combination of irrealis marking and realis marking,
conditioned by the perceived status of the event reported in each separate clause”
(Elliott 2000: 72–73) that is part of the whole construction. Focusing on Homeric
Greek, it is worth observing that the inverted and typologically unexpected
order of apodosis (modal particle κε + preterite) and protasis (subordinating
conjunction εἰ + negation μή + preterite) that characterizes the structure of past
counterfactuals has been explained as a reflex of an older paratactic structure
(Hettrich 1998; Haiman 1983 for a typological perspective). More specifically,
the conditional main clause expressed a potential event (irrealis), but was followed
by a coordinated main clause to exclude the realization of the potential event and
report what really happened (realis). The latter clause was initially introduced by
the adversative, non-subordinating conjunction ἀλλά, as shown in (5):
(5) οὐδὲ γὰρ οὐδέ κεν αὐτὸς ὑπέκφυγε κῆρα μέλαιναν,

ἀλλ’ Ἥφαιστος ἔρυτο, σάωσε δὲ νυκτὶ καλύψας (Il. 5.22–23).
‘Nay, nor would he himself (Idaeus) have escaped black fate,
but Hephaestus guarded him, saved him, enfolding him in darkness.’
Although (5) does not show the canonical if-then structure, in which the protasis
precedes the apodosis, it nonetheless represents a past counterfactual construction
(= Idaeus would not have escaped his fate, if Hephaestus had not guarded him).
Only at a later stage was the adversative conjunction ἀλλά, which in our corpus
is found 22 times, replaced by the subordinating conjunction εἰ (63×), usually
followed by the negation μή (Hettrich 1998: 267). In this study we have analyzed
all the past counterfactuals in the Homeric poems (and hymns), paying particular
attention to the epistemic or attitudinal particles and adverbs co-occurring

within the protasis, which represents the realis part of the construction (De Haan
2012: 124). These particles/adverbs can express different degrees of the speaker’s
commitment to the truth or factual status of the proposition. The corpus consists
of 116 past counterfactuals, whose protases show the following verb distribution
(table 1).
Table 1. The distribution of aorist/imperfect injunctives and indicatives in the protasis.

aorist imperfect total
injunctive 51 9 60
indicative 46 10 56
It is worth noting that while the absence of the augment in all the instances of
injunctive in our corpus is metrically secure, the augment of the indicative forms
is not always guaranteed, i.e. some indicatives could actually be interpreted as
injunctives (Krisch 1986: 26). Overall, table 1 shows a quite balanced distribution
of injunctives and indicatives, with a strong predominance of aorists over
imperfects.5 The aorist/imperfect distinction is aspectual rather than temporal
(Horrocks 1996, Gerö 2001, see Basset 2004) and turns out not to be relevant
for the purpose of this analysis. The sample also includes those forms of the
verb ὀφείλω (13×) that are not simple desideratives, but part of a counterfactual
construction, such as in (6).
(6) […] ὡς ὄφελεν θανέειν ἐν χερσὶν ἐμῇσι·

τώ κε κορεσσάμεθα κλαίοντέ τε μυρομένω τε
μήτηρ θ’, ἥ μιν ἔτικτε δυσάμμορος, ἠδ’ ἐγὼ αὐτός (Il. 22.426–428).
‘[…] I wish he had died in my arms;
we would have satiated ourselves crying and shedding tears
both mother, who miserable begot him, and myself.’
5 There are only two optatives in the protases of the whole corpus, and they will not be considered
in our analysis. Since the injunctive will be replaced by the indicative, optatives are indeed not
representative in order to evaluate the role of epistemic particles in the injunctive/indicative
opposition. More details on the role of the optative in Homeric counterfactuals and within the
Greek verbal system can be found in Hettrich (1998), Horrocks (1996), and Rix (1986).
The impersonal form ὄφελεν in (6) used by Priam, the king of Troy, refers to a
counterfactual wish referring to the past,6 which would have had a consequence
that in fact did not take place, as the preceding verses let us know (Achilles has
just killed Priam’s son Hector outside the walls of Troy). It thus functions as
a protasis, which is followed by the apodosis in a counterfactual construction
(= if Hector had died at home in his parents’ arms - but both Priam and the
Trojans know that he did not -, Priam and his wife Hecuba would have satiated
themselves with tears).
As regards the distribution of counterfactuals between narrative and speech,
the indicative turns out to be more frequent in the speech dialogues compared to
the injunctive, as shown in table 2.
Table 2. The distribution of narrative/speech injunctives and indicatives in the protasis.

narrative speech
injunctive 38 22
indicative 26 30
This is not surprising, since the augmented forms of the indicative tend to
replace the unaugmented forms in the history of Greek, and this replacement
is observable more clearly in the actual language used in dialogues (cf. Lazzeroni
2017 and references therein). As is predicted in a typological perspective (Elliott
2000), our sample shows that the main clause is always marked by the modal
irrealis particle κε(ν). This is followed by a preterite injunctive or indicative and
refers to a potential event in the past that never happened. On the other hand,
the subordinate clause turns out to be lexically marked by an epistemic particle or
adverb, though not systematically. In fact, the realis tends to be cross-linguistically
unmarked (Elliott 2000: 57; Palmer 2001 [1986]: 7; Hengeveld 2004: 1196). In
a Functional Discourse Grammar perspective, we will see how these co-occurring
particles can take their scope at both representational (semantic) and interpersonal
(pragmatic) levels. Different levels of epistemic modality may indeed co-exist in
the same utterance (cf. Ramat & Ricca 1998: 267).
6 On the progressive grammaticalization of ὀφείλω in ancient Greek see Allan (1993).

3 Epistemic particles and adverbs in the protasis of Homeric past

counterfactuals
In this section the role of epistemic particles and adverbs co-occurring with
injunctives vs indicatives is investigated by means of textual analysis of discourse
contexts, within the framework of Functional Discourse Grammar. The particles
and adverbs found in our sample are ἄρα (14×), γε (8×), δή (4×), που (1×), τοι
(1×), and μάλα (2×). We will analyse a set of examples chosen for each particle
and adverb modifying the protasis of past counterfactuals.
3.1 The particle ἄρα
The modal or attitudinal particle ἄρα is the most frequently attested in the corpus
(14×), which also includes six formulae, thus proving that this construction
pertains to the earliest stage of the language (Krisch 1986: 28; Edwards 1997:
267 and references therein). It is widely held that ἄρα specifies the attitude of
the speaker with regard to the proposition he puts forward for consideration
(Wakker 1994: 350), also expressing a lively feeling of interest (Denniston 1954:
33). It thus takes scope over the proposition at the so-called representational level
(subjective epistemic modality). However, it also indicates shared knowledge of
facts that are already known (Grimm 1962: 9) and is used by the speaker to draw
attention (cf. LSJ s.v. ἄρα), thus reinforcing the assertive force of the speech act.
In other words, its scope ranges from the representational (propositional) to the
interpersonal (pragmatic) level, and specifically to the layer of illocution, which
is related to the conversational use of the sentence (Hengeveld 2004: 1192).7 It
might be said that already in Homer this particle shows the tendency of semantic–
functional scope increase that has been ascribed to ancient Greek particles within
the framework of Functional Discourse Grammar (Allan 2017: 103). Consider,
for instance, the following examples (7)–(9).
7 According to Bakker (1993; 1997) ἄρα would be an evidential particle, marking the interpretation
of visual evidence related to a previous experience in the past that is re-experienced in the here and
now of the speaker. In this way, ἄρα would mark the participatory involvement of the speaker/
poet and of the audience. However, both the existence of the category of evidentiality in Homeric
Greek and the boundary between evidentiality and epistemicity are debated topics, which will not
be pursued in this paper. For further details see Joseph (2003a; 2003b) and Van Rooy (2016) on
Attic Greek.
(7) καί κεν πάλαι ἐνθάδ’ Ὀδυσσεὺς

ἤην· ἀλλ’ ἄρα οἱ τό γε κέρδιον εἴσατο θυμῷ,
χρήματ' ἀγυρτάζειν πολλὴν ἐπὶ γαῖαν ἰόντι (Od. 19.282–284).
‘And Odysseus would have been here for a long time;
but certainly it seemed to his mind more profitable
to collect goods while going over the wide earth.’
The passage in (7) is taken from the story that Odysseus tells Penelope about his
adventures after the war of Troy, without revealing his own identity. Disguised
as an old beggar, he tells Penelope why Odysseus has not returned yet. The use
of ἄρα in this narration shows Odysseus’ high confidence in the truth of his
assertion, since of course only he knows his own mind. He tries to convince
Penelope that Odysseus is late for a noble cause, i.e. gathering wealth for his
family. In this sense, the epistemic particle is meant to reinforce the assertion
in order to persuade Penelope of his loyalty, functioning at both semantic and
pragmatic levels. The interaction with the addressee is also evident in (8).
(8) τῶ κέν τοι τύμβον μὲν ἐποίησαν Παναχαιοί,

ἠδέ κε καὶ σῷ παιδὶ μέγα κλέος ἤρα' ὀπίσσω·
νῦν δ’ ἄρα σ’ οἰκτίστῳ θανάτῳ εἵμαρτο ἁλῶναι (Od. 24.32–34).
‘All the Achaeans would have made you a tomb,
and also you would have raised great glory for your son afterwards;
but now it was decreed that you were seized by the most pitiable death.’
Example (8) is taken from the dialogue between Achilles and Agamemnon as
ghosts in the realm of the dead. Achilles thought that Agamemnon was dearer to
Zeus than all other heroes (v. 25). However, everyone on earth can see now that he
died a miserable death at the hands of Aegisthus and his wife Clytemnestra. If he
had died during the battle of Troy, all the Achaeans would instead have honored
him and his son. The epistemic particle ἄρα in this dialogue refers to a factual
event that is well-known to both speaker (Achilles) and addressee (Agamemnon).
In this sense, ἄρα expresses not only the speaker’s high commitment to the truth
of his proposition at the representational level, but also a high involvement of the
addressee at the interpersonal or pragmatic level.
Example (9) contains the formula that typically appears in the protasis of
Homeric past counterfactuals:
(9) καί νύ κεν εἴρυσσέν τε καὶ ἄσπετον ἤρατο κῦδος,

εἰ μὴ ἄρ’ ὀξὺ νόησε Διὸς θυγάτηρ Ἀφροδίτη (Il. 3.373–374).
‘And now he (Menelaus) would have dragged (Alexander) away and taken
unspeakable glory, if Aphrodite daughter of Zeus had not quickly noticed him.’
Here the poet explains how Alexander escaped death at the hands of Menelaus
thanks to the goddess Aphrodite, who broke the thongs with which Menelaus
was dragging the Trojan hero (v. 375). The epistemic particle ἄρα indicates the
total commitment by the poet to the truth of the proposition, which describes
a factual event that really happened. At the same time, it refers to the common
ground shared by the poet and his audience: they both know that the goddess
protected the Trojan hero.
3.2 The particle δή
The modal or attitudinal particle δή ‘certainly, surely’ (LSJ), which is found four
times in our corpus, expresses subjective epistemic modality denoting “that a
thing really and truly is so” (Denniston 1954: 202).8 Additionally, it can be used
to emphasize or reinforce the force of the speech act (illocutionary modification),
drawing special attention to the proposition presented (Wakker 1994: 351). In
the perspective of Functional Discourse Grammar it can thus function at both
representational and interpersonal levels. As seen for ἄρα, δή takes its scope over
the whole proposition (Denniston 1954: 204),9 as illustrated in the following
examples (10)–(11).
(10) οὐ γάρ κέν με τάχ' ἄλλος ἀνὴρ παρέπεισεν Ἀχαιῶν.

ἀλλὰ σὺ γὰρ δὴ πολλὰ πάθες καὶ πολλὰ μόγησας (Il. 23.606–607).
‘In fact another man of the Achaeans would have not soon persuaded me.
But you certainly have suffered greatly and toiled greatly […for my sake].’
Here Menelaus is addressing Antilochus, who has always shown great loyalty
toward Menelaus, contributing much to his cause at Troy. Therefore, both
8 It is well known that the semantic shift in the subjectification process “goes from the world being
talked about to the views on that world uttered by the speaker in her/his act of speaking” (Ramat &
Ricca 1998: 243 and references therein; on subjectification see Traugott 1989).
9 Bakker (1997: 75) considers δή as a marker of evidentiality, which marks “the narration as
deriving from a common experience that binds the narrator and listeners as if they were witnessing
a given scene”.
Menelaus and Antilochus know what Antilochus has really suffered during the
war. For this reason, the modal particle δή indicates not only that Menelaus
believes in the truth of his assertion (subjective epistemic modality), but also that
he shares such a truth with his addressee (i.e. common ground), at a pragmatic
or interpersonal level.
(11) ὡς δὴ ἐγώ γ’ ὄφελον θανέειν καὶ πότμον ἐπισπεῖν

ἤματι τῷ ὅτε μοι πλεῖστοι χαλκήρεα δοῦρα
Τρῶες ἐπέρριψαν περὶ Πηλεΐωνι θανόντι.
τῶ κ’ ἔλαχον κτερέων, καί μευ κλέος ἦγον Ἀχαιοί· (Od. 5.308–311)
‘I wish I had died and faced my destiny
on that day when most of the Trojans threw bronze spears at me
around the dead son of Peleus. Then I would have obtained
funeral honours, and the Achaeans would have celebrated my fame.’
The protasis of the past counterfactual construction in (11) shows the injunctive
ὄφελον: if Odysseus had died in Troy during the war, his glory would have been
everlasting among the Achaeans. He is now scared of the terrible storm that
Poseidon, the Earth-shaker, has stirred up. He is afraid to face death at the hands
of the god. Thus, he addresses himself being aware of the fact that if only he
had died in Troy, he would have received honours and fame. Here, the particle
δή expresses the high commitment of the speaker (Odysseus) to the truth of his
proposition. It is worth noting that both (10) and (11) are examples of direct
speech: as has been pointed out recently, “the most natural reading is that δή
marks the intensity behind the utterance, and does not function to intensify one
of the constituents in the act. Therefore, δή has scope over at least its entire act,
and its force modifies the act of uttering” (Bonifazi et al. 2016: 3.3.1).10
3.3 The particle που
The modal or attitudinal particle που derives from the indefinite spatial adverb
meaning ‘somewhere’ from which “is developed the sense ‘I suppose’, ‘I think’,
the particle conveying a feeling of uncertainty of the speaker” (Denniston 1954:
490). It is attested only once in the protasis of past counterfactuals (12):
10Note that this function of ὀφείλω is not restricted to injunctive forms, cf. e.g. (without
epistemic particle) Il. 3.428 ἤλυθες ἐκ πολέμου· ὡς ὤφελες αὐτόθ᾿ ὀλέσθαι “You have come
back from the war; I wish you had died there.”
(12) καί κε θάμ’ ἐνθάδ’ ἐόντες ἐμισγόμεθ’· οὐδέ κεν ἡμέας

ἄλλο διέκρινεν φιλέοντέ τε τερπομένω τε, […]
ἀλλὰ τὰ μέν που μέλλεν ἀγάσσασθαι θεὸς αὐτός (Od. 4.178–181).
‘And, living here, we would often have met together, nor would
anything else have separated us, loving and joying in one another, […]
but of this, I suppose, the god himself must have been jealous.’
Menelaus is telling Telemachus how he would have rewarded Odysseus for his
services during the Trojan war, if only the god had not been jealous of this.
Indeed, since Odysseus was prevented from returning home and benefiting from
Menelaus’ gifts, it can only be supposed that a god is jealous of the strong friendship
existing between the two heroes. As already discussed in Section 2 with reference
to example (5), the protasis is introduced by the adversative conjunction ἀλλά.
The speaker does not know the real reason why Odysseus cannot return home.
Thus, the particle που is meant to express the low commitment of the speaker to
the truth of his proposition (subjective epistemic modality): Menelaus can only
hypothesize that a god is responsible for that. Note also the use of unaugmented
μέλλω ‘be likely’ discussed in detail in Section 4: both particle and verb mark the
proposition as the speaker’s conjecture about the state of affairs.
3.4 The particle γε
The particle γε is usually defined as an emphatic or focus particle (Sicking 1986:

125; Wakker 1994: 308), but also as “a particle of conversation” (Denniston 1954:
116). As has been pointed out recently, “γε’s function is to reflect the speaker’s
personal involvement by emphasizing a certain element of the discourse. This is
true even if γε’s scope is limited to a noun phrase; […] the emphasis per se brings
the author’s presence to the foreground” (Bonifazi et al. 2016: 5.3.2). Although
this particle takes initially its scope over a single phrase, it nonetheless may have
an impact on the whole proposition (on scope increase of Greek particles see
Allan 2017b). Let us consider the following examples (13)–(14).
(13) εἰ δέ τευ ἐξ ἄλλου γε θεῶν γένευ ὧδ’ ἀΐδηλος

καί κεν δὴ πάλαι ἦσθα ἐνέρτερος Οὐρανιώνων (Il. 5.897–898).
‘But if you were born from any other god, you so destructive,
then long since had you been lower than the sons of heaven.’
In (13), Zeus is very angry with his son Ares, who is always looking for a fight.
Although its scope starts off over the PP ἐξ ἄλλου γε θεῶν ‘from another
among the gods’, the particle γε here emphasizes the degree of truth of the
whole proposition (protasis) as perceived by the speaker. In fact, both speaker
(Zeus) and addressee (Ares), but also the poet and his audience, surely know
that Ares is Zeus’ son, and not the son of another god (a similar example is Od.
23, 21–22).
(14) εἰ γάρ μιν ζωόν γε κίχεις Ἰθάκης ἐνὶ δήμῳ,

τῶ κέν σ' εὖ δώροισιν ἀμειψάμενος ἀπέπεμψε
καὶ ξενίῃ ἀγαθῇ (Od. 24.284–286).
‘For if you had reached him alive in the land of Ithaca,
he would have sent you away happily repaying with gifts
and good hospitality.’
The passage in (14) is taken from Laertes’ answer to the question posed to him
by his son Odysseus, who has just arrived in Ithaca but has not yet revealed his
identity. Twenty years ago Odysseus had left Ithaca, and now Laertes can hardly
believe that his son is still alive. As seen in the case of example (13), here the use of
the particle γε, which initially takes its scope over the AP ζωόν ‘alive’, is meant to
bring the speaker’s presence to the foreground, by emphasizing his commitment
to the truth of the utterance. In fact, it is evident to all the inhabitants of Ithaca
that Odysseus has not been living on the island for many years.
3.5 The particle τοι
From its etymological meaning as (ethical) dative of the second person pronoun
(Denniston 1954: 537), the particle τοι has developed the epistemic meaning of
reinforcing the speech act “by signaling to the addressee to pay special attention
to the speech act (‘note that’, ‘mind you’)”, thus showing a scope increase from
the representational to the interpersonal level (Allan 2017b: 109). The passage in
(15) below shows how already in Homer the particle tends to such a development,
while still retaining its original dative meaning.
(15) […] ὡς ὄφελόν τοι

νείατον ἐς κενεῶνα βαλὼν ἐκ θυμὸν ἑλέσθαι.
οὕτω κεν καὶ Τρῶες ἀνέπνευσαν κακότητος (Il. 11.380–382).
‘[…] I wish I had taken your life away

after hitting you in the lower abdomen.
So the Trojans would have recovered from their miseries’
Alexander is addressing Diomedes, after having hurt him with his arrow. In this
example, which exhibits the only occurrence of τοι in the protasis of Homeric
past counterfactuals, the dative τοι can be considered as referring to a participant
(recipient) of the state of affairs described by the verb ἐξαιρέω ‘take away (your
life)’, at the representational level. However, the context of this dialogue clearly
shows a defiant attitude by the Trojan hero toward Diomedes, who has got just a
scratch on his right foot at the hands of Alexander. The speaker wants to reinforce
the impact of the speech act by using τοι (= ‘note that / mind you that I almost
killed you’), which increases its scope involving the illocution at the layer of the
proposition (interpersonal level).
3.6 The adverb μάλα
The degree adverb μάλα ‘very’ appears to have developed already in Homer the
epistemic function of expressing the total commitment of the speaker about the
truth of his proposition, meaning ‘certainly’. According to LSJ (s.v. μάλα), it
can be used in the Homeric poems to reinforce the strength of an assertion. This
is hardly surprising, as it has been shown how the same adverb may perform
different functions at different layers (Ramat & Ricca 1998: 193). This adverb,
which can modify adjectives, adverbs, verbs, sentences, is attested only twice in
our sample, and is used to mark the speaker’s assertion expressing the highest
grade of likelihood of a state of affairs (cf. Nuyts 2001: 55). Let us examine both
the occurrences in (16) and (17).
(16) ἀλλὰ μάλα Τρῶες δειδήμονες· ἦ τέ κεν ἤδη

λάϊνον ἕσσο χιτῶνα κακῶν ἕνεχ’ ὅσσα ἔοργας (Il. 3.56–57)
‘But certainly the Trojans (are) fearful: surely by this time you would have
worn a coat of stone because of all the evil you have done.’
The passage in (16) is taken from the speech Hector is addressing to Alexander,
who is proving to be a coward in battle. The Trojan hero closes his speech with
a counterfactual construction: if the Trojans had not been fearful, you would
be dead by now = the Trojans are fearful, otherwise you would be dead. Here
protasis and apodosis are presented as alternatives, given the logical equivalence
between counterfactuals and disjunctions (Krisch 1986: 14–15). On the one

hand, the protasis is introduced by the adversative conjunction ἀλλά and appears
as a nominal sentence in which the injunctive of the verb ‘to be’, as expected,
is zero (Praust 2003: 140). On the other hand, the particle ἦ combined with
τε opens the apodosis, as is frequently attested in Homer (Denniston 1954:
281). Now, although the adverb μάλα in the protasis could be interpreted as an
intensifier adverb at the lower adjectival phrase layer (modifying the adjective
δειδήμονες), we hypothesize that here it develops an epistemic meaning at the
higher propositional layer. This hypothesis is supported by syntactic evidence.
In fact, in the Homeric poems, when it is a degree or intensifier adverb, μάλα
tends to immediately precede the adjective it modifies, while here there would
be a discontinuous adjectival phrase μάλα […] δειδήμονες. 11 The reason for
such a shift is plausibly to be ascribed to the different scope the adverb takes over
the sentence. Hector not only shows a high confidence about the truth of his
proposition, but also wants to strengthen the illocutive force of his assertion at
the pragmatic or interpersonal level (illocutionary modification), in front of both
Alexander and his soldiers.
(17) […], οὐδὲ κέ τίς μιν

κλαῦσεν Ἀχαιϊάδων· μάλα γὰρ μέγα μήσατο ἔργον (Od. 3.260–261).
‘[…], nor would any of the Achaean women
have mourned him; surely indeed he planned a serious deed’
11 The degree adverb μάλα usually precedes the adjective it modifies, cf. μάλα πολύς, πολλή,
πολύ (50×) (in Il. 19.265; 20.247 and in Od. 1, 278, 292; 2.197, 223; 11.280 μάλα immediately
follows πολλὰ in emphatic position), μάλα πᾶς, πᾶσα, πᾶν (19×) (in Il. 15.546 and Od. 5.216;
9.238, 338; 11.134; 16.286; 17.547; 19.5, 558; 23.281 μάλα immediately follows πᾶς in emphatic
position), μάλα μέγας, μεγάλη, μέγα (9×), μάλα καλός, ή, όν (8×) (in Il. 19.11 and Od. 15.369
μάλα immediately follows καλὰ in emphatic position), μάλα καρτερός, ά, όν (7×), μάλα πίων,
πῖον (4×), μάλα μυρίος, α, ον (4×), μάλα νήπιος, α, ον (3×), μάλα λυγρός, ά, όν (3×), μάλ’
ἀσκηθής, ές (3×), μάλα μακρός, ά, όν (2×), μάλα παῦρος, ον (2×), μάλ’ ἀριφραδής, ές (2×), μάλα
μέρμερος, ον (1×), μάλα ἡδύς, ἡδεῖα, ἡδύ (1×), μάλα δνοφερός, ά, όν (1×), μάλα πυκνός, ή, όν
(1), μάλ’ ἐσθλός, ή, όν (1×), μάλ’ εὔκηλος, ον (1×), μάλ’ ἴφθῑμος, ον (1×), μάλ’ ἀργαλέος α, ον
(1×), μάλ’ ἐλαφρός, ά, όν (1×), μάλ’ ὀξύς, εῖα, ύ (1×), μάλ’ ἀφνειός, όν (1×), μάλ’ αἰνοπαθής, ές
(1×), μάλ’ ἀρτίφρων, ον (1×). If one of the abovementioned adjectives is not immediately adjacent
to the adverb μάλα, the latter takes its scope over the whole sentence, as can be seen in Il. 9.108
(μάλα γάρ τοι ἔγωγε πόλλ’ ἀπεμυθεόμην·), Od. 1.301 (καὶ σύ, φίλος, μάλα γάρ σ’ ὁρόω καλόν
τε μέγαν τε), and 11.621 (μάλα γὰρ πολὺ χείρονι φωτὶ δεδμήμην).
In (17) Nestor answers the question posed to him by Telemachus about

Agamemnon’s fate. He refers to Aegisthus, who, after having seduced Agamemnon’s
wife, murdered the king of Mycenae upon his return from Troy. As every Achaean,
Nestor definitely believes that Aegisthus is guilty of an awful murder. Here,
although one might consider μάλα as a degree adverb modifying the adjective
μέγα (lit. ‘a very big deed’), it seems that the adverb increases its scope from the
adjectival phrase to the whole proposition. Besides the fact that also in this verse
the metrical necessity does not seem to play a crucial role in the adverb’s shift
to the beginning of the sentence, there is syntactic evidence for this hypothesis.
Specifically, as observed for (16), μάλα does not immediately precede the adjective
it modifies, as is usual in Homer, but is located before the connecting particle
γάρ, which introduces the whole proposition. Furthermore, the same event, i.e.
the murder committed by Aegisthus, is described with the very same words (μέγα
ἔργον) a few verses later (3.275) and again in 11.272. In both cases, however, the
adjective μέγα is not modified by the degree adverb μάλα. Additionally, in this
specific expression (μέγα ἔργον), which is quite frequent in the Homeric poems
(21×), the adjective μέγα is never modified by μάλα.12 Given these considerations,
it is likely that Nestor uses μάλα at the beginning of the sentence as an epistemic
adverb expressing his total commitment to the truth of his assertion. And indeed,
the gradient character of adverbs as linguistic categories that “are not isolated
compartments with no links or overlaps” at the various layers of the linguistic
organization has been widely recognized (Ramat & Ricca 1998: 189).
3.7 The distribution of epistemics with injunctive vs indicative
After having described the role each single particle and adverb plays in the protasis of
Homeric past counterfactuals, we now focus on the main point of the paper, namely
the distribution of such epistemics with injunctives and indicatives, with the aim
of finding the relationship, if any, between particles and verbs in the expression of
epistemic modality. As seen in table 1, there are 116 instances of past counterfactuals
Iliad, Odyssey and Homeric Hymns. The protasis, which refers to the factual state
of affairs (realis), contains aorists (or imperfects) of both injunctive (60×) and
indicative (56×). However, against this quite balanced distribution of injunctives and
indicatives, the distribution of epistemic particles/adverbs is the following (note that
12 The phrase μέγα ἔργον is also found in Il. 19.150, with a comparable syntactic and metrical
structure and a sentence adverb in initial position: cp. ἔτι γὰρ μέγα ἔργον ἄρεκτον and μάλα γὰρ
μέγα μήσατο ἔργον.
the epistemic particles/adverbs co-occurring with injunctives are more frequently

found in the Iliad than in the more recent Odyssey, with a ratio of 63% vs 37%):
Table 3. The distribution of epistemics in the protasis of past counterfactuals.13

epistemics no epistemics
injunctive 19 32% 41 68%
indicative 6 11% 50 89%
As is expected in a typological perspective, these results suggest that, while the

irrealis (apodosis) is always marked with the modal particle κε(ν), the realis
(protasis) is more often left unmarked (68%). However, if the realis is (lexically)
marked, it turns out that the frequency of epistemics significantly decreases
when the verb of the protasis is an indicative rather than an injunctive. Table 3
shows that injunctives co-occur with epistemics more than three times as often
as indicatives. In terms of percentage, notwithstanding the overall low frequency
of occurrences, a ratio is found of respectively 76% vs 24%. This suggests that
the use of epistemics could initially have been the only (lexical) means to mark
the speaker’s commitment to the truth of a proposition, while the indicative
tensed forms rendered them redundant or less functional, since the verb is already
inflected according to modality.
4 A focus on the epistemic verb μέλλω
As pointed out in the introduction (cf. Section 1), the attitude of the speaker toward
the propositional content of the utterance may also be expressed by a verb. In what
follows, it will be argued that μέλλω ‘be likely’ shows an interaction with epistemic
particles comparable to the one discussed above for injunctives and indicatives.
The verb occurs 88× in Il. and Od. (μελλ- prs. 22×, impf. 8×; ἐμελλ- impf.
58x). It is probably derived from μέλω, as proposed inter alios by Gray (1947:
287), Ruijgh (1985: 332f.) and recently Allan (2017: 60f.).14 This verb construes
13 It is worth observing that the number of epistemics is somehow underestimated in this counting,
as we have decided to consider as single occurrences those five cases in which the protasis actually
shows two particles at the same time (e.g. δή and γε co-occurring in Od. 5.308).
14 Differently, less likely, Szemerényi (1951), who connects μέλλω with βλώσκω, ἔμολον ‘go’,
supposing an original going-to-future (cf. in the same sense recently Stüber 2019), but this meaning
is likely to be secondary. Cf. also the criticism in Basset (1979: 16–23).
with a nominative stimulus and a dative experiencer, translatable roughly as

‘something is of concern to somebody, something is on somebody’s mind’, as can
be seen in (18):
(18) ὦ πόποι ἦ δὴ παισὶν ἐοικότες ἀγοράασθε

νηπιάχοις οἷς οὔ τι μέλει πολεμήϊα ἔργα (Il. 2.337–338).
‘Well, now! You are holding assembly
like silly boys that care not for deeds of war.’
Μέλλω may be a present in *-i̯e/o- (*mel-i̯e/o- > μελλε/ο-), in which the suffix
serves to delete the experiencer argument.15 The remaining nominative stimulus
thereby becomes a matter of “general concern”, since no experiencer for this
concern is specified. This meaning may have developed into ‘[nom] threatens (to
be/do), is likely’, cf. the similar use of κινδυνεύω ‘take a risk’ (19) and semantically
bleached ‘be likely’ (20) via the general implication ‘danger’ > ‘likelihood’:
(19) ἀντιπέμπει πρὸς ταῦτα ἡ Φαιδύμη φαμένη κινδυνεύσειν μεγάλως, ἢν

ποιέῃ ταῦτα (Hdt. 3.69).
‘Phaedyme answered by messenger that she would run very great risk by so doing
(for if it should turn out that he had no ears, and she were caught feeling for
them, he would surely make an end of her; nevertheless she would do it)’
(20) Κινδυνεύεις ἀληθῆ, ἔφην ἐγώ, λέγειν (Pl. Smp. 205d).

‘You are probably right, I said’16
This seems to fit the synchronic description of μέλλω by Ruijgh (1985: 327)
and Allan (2017: 59) who stress that with μέλλω the speaker’s judgment is not
subjective, but presented as an objective one as the evidence imposes itself on
any potential observer. It may thus be paraphrased as in the LfgrE s.v. (Wakker):
“alles deutet(e) darauf hin, daß …”, and in Allan (2017: 59): “objectively
observable indications lead to the inference that the proposition referred to by
15 Cf. the description of *-i̯e/o- as anticausative suffix / passivizer by Schrijver (1999), e.g. Vedic
kṣiṇā́ ti ‘y destroys x’ : kṣī́yate ‘x perishes’.
16 Cf. also NE to threaten, e.g. Dickens Dombey & Son (1848) iv. 25 It threatens to be wet to-night (cf.
OED s.v. [www.oed.com, accessed 26.7.2019]), Germ. drohen ‘to threaten; be likely’ insDas Boot
droht zu sinken “The boat is likely to sink”, etc.
the complement infinitive is the case”.17 This epistemic meaning can be seen in
instances like the following:
(21) ἀλλ’ ὅτε δὴ τάχ’ ὁ μοχλὸς ἐλάϊνος ἐν πυρὶ μέλλεν

ἅψεσθαι, χλωρός περ ἐών, διεφαίνετο δ’ αἰνῶς
καὶ τότ᾿ ἐγὼν ἆσσον φέρον ἐκ πυρός (Od. 9.378)
‘But when presently that stake of olivewood was about to catch fire,
green though it was, and began to glow terribly,
then it was I who brought it near from the fire’18
The focalizer of the event is Odysseus, hence the judgement ‘the stake is likely to
/ will catch fire soon’ may be attributed to him.19
4.1. From injunctive to indicative: semantic developments starting from the epistemic
meaning
From the epistemic use further meanings have developed already in Homeric
times: a) “predestination” (cf. Allan 2017: 62), by the omission of the feature of
directly perceivable evidence. The state of affairs (SoA) is inferred by the speaker,
mostly in hindsight, from present evidence, from the result of an event to its non-
perceivable cause; b) intention (cf. Allan 2017: 65), which may have developed
via an implicature of the epistemic use ‘x is likely to’ in bridging contexts in
which x is a human agent, which invites the inference that x also intends to V.
An instance of such a context could be the following passage (cf. Allan 2017: 65):
(22) Σκαιάς, τῇ ἄρ’ ἔμελλε διεξίμεναι πεδίον δέ,

ἔνθ’ ἄλοχος πολύδωρος ἐναντίη ἦλθε θέουσα
Ἀνδρομάχη (Il. 6.393–395).
‘When he had passed through the great city and come to the gates, the Scaean
17 Cf. also Basset (1979: 75): “probabilité présente ou passée”.

18 Cf. Allan (2017: 60): “But when the olive-wood stake was expected to catch fire.”
19There are two more instances of the unaugmented imperfect μελλε/ο- with epistemic meaning:
Od. 4.181 ἀλλὰ τὰ μέν που μέλλεν ἀγάσσασθαι θεὸς αὐτός “But of this, I suppose, the god
himself must have been jealous”(cf. 3.3, ex. 12), Od. 1.232 μέλλεν μέν ποτε οἶκος ὅδ’ ἀφνειὸς
καὶ ἀμύμων / ἔμμεναι, ὄφρ’ ἔτι κεῖνος ἀνὴρ ἐπιδήμιος ἦεν “Our house once bade fair to be [/
must have been] rich and irreproachable, so long as that man was still among his people.” These
few attestations do not allow firm conclusions as to the interaction of injunctive vs. indicative and
particles.
gates, by which he was about to go out to the plain, there came running to
meet him his wife, wooed with many gifts, Andromache’
Andromache sees Hector returning to battle, being about to pass through the
gate. Hence μέλλω may be understood both as ʻHector was likely to pass through
the gate.ʼ and, as the subject is human, the observer may ascribe intentionality:
ʻHector intended to go through the gate.ʼ
In other contexts, the epistemic meaning is probably excluded, i.e. μέλλω
describes the intention of the subject or predestination only, as shown in (23):
(23) ἐκ γὰρ δὴ τοῦ μέλλε παλίωξιν παρὰ νηῶν (van Thiel, West: ἔμελλε)
θησέμεναι Τρώων, Δαναοῖσι δὲ κῦδος ὀρέξειν (Il. 15.601–602).
‘For from that time on he [sc. Zeus] was to make a driving-back of the Trojans
from the ships, and to grant glory to the Danaans’ (namely, as soon as he would
see a Greek ship burning).
The next verse τὰ φρονέων νήεσσιν ἔπι γλαφυρῇσιν ἔγειρεν Ἕκτορα Πριαμίδην
‘With this intent he was rousing against the hollow ships Hector son of Priam.’
indicates that the projected SoA is seen as intended by the subject.
Such a reading is excluded with non-animate subjects, as in the following
case, in which μέλλεν expresses a report in hindsight about a predestined course
of events:
(24) ἦλθον γὰρ καὶ κεῖσε, πολὺς δέ μοι ἕσπετο λαός,

τὴν ὁδὸν ᾗ δὴ μέλλεν ἐμοὶ κακὰ κήδε’ ἔσεσθαι (Od. 6.164–165).
‘For there, too, I went, and many men followed with me,
on that journey on which evil woes were to be my portion’
This implies that μέλλω does not have epistemic meaning here, i.e. the speaker
does not portray the ensuing events as foreseeable at reference time. The
predestination reading is not restricted to inanimate subjects, however, hence
it has become part of the lexical entry of μέλλω already in Homeric times, as
illustrated in (25)–(26):
(25) [...] μίνυνθα δὲ καὶ τοῦ Ἀχαιοὶ

μέλλον ἀπέσσεσθαι· μάλα γάρ σφεας ὦκ᾿ ἐλέλιξεν
Αἴας, ὃς περὶ μὲν εἶδος, περὶ δ᾿ ἔργα τέτυκτο
τῶν ἄλλων Δαναῶν (Il. 17.277–280).
‘Yet for only a short time were the Achaeans

to hold back, for swiftly did Aias rally them
who in beauty and in deeds of war was above all the other Danaans’
(26) [...] γήθησε δέ μοι φίλον ἦτορ

δυσμόρῳ· ἦ γὰρ ἔμελλον ἔτι ξυνέσεσθαι ὀιζυῖ (von der Mühll: μέλλον)
πολλῇ, τήν μοι ἐπῶρσε Ποσειδάων ἐνοσίχθων (Od. 7.269–271).
‘And my heart was glad,
ill-fated that I was; for truly I was still to have fellowship with great woe,
which Poseidon, the earth-shaker, sent upon me’
In the examples discussed so far, three out of a total of eight augmentless

imperfects have epistemic meaning (cf. fn 19). The ratio drops markedly with
the augmented forms: there seems to be only one possible case of augmented
epistemic ἔμελλε, but even this is formally ambiguous, as one might also read σε
μέλλε instead of σ’ ἔμελλε:
(27) ἦλθες ἔπειτα σὺ κεῖσε· κελευσέμεναι δέ σ’ ἔμελλε

δαίμων ὃς Τρώεσσιν ἐβούλετο κῦδος ὀρέξαι (Od. 4.274–275).
‘Then you came there. A divinity, who planned to grant
glory to the Trojans, must have urged you on’
The augmented form thus usually has either one of the meanings described
above (a, b), or, as a further development (c), it may function as an immediate
future-in-the-past.20 This seems to imply that while in the augmentless forms the
presumably earlier meaning is still preserved in a few cases, the augmented forms
show innovative meanings (cf. the discussion about the gradual replacement
of injunctives by indicatives in Section 3). In turn, since ἐμελλε/ο- no longer
conveys epistemic stance by itself, this function is taken over by particles, e.g. in
the frequent combination of ἐμελλε/ο- with ἄρα, as in (28):
(28) ὡς ἑνός, ὅς τέ μοι ὕπνον ἀπεχθαίρει καὶ ἐδωδὴν,

μνωομένῳ, ἐπεὶ οὔ τις Ἀχαιῶν τόσσ’ ἐμόγησεν,
20 A similar sequence of development is assumed in Basset (1979: 98): “Les trois valeurs homériques
de probabilité présente ou passée, d’imminence et de destinée sont donc issues d’une même et
unique valeur de probabilité.”
ὅσσ’ Ὀδυσεὺς ἐμόγησε καὶ ἤρατο. τῷ δ’ ἄρ’ ἔμελλεν

αὐτῷ κήδε’ ἔσεσθαι […] (Od. 4.105–108).
‘(Yet for them all I mourn not so much, despite my grief ) as for one only, who
makes me loathe both sleep and food, when I think of him; for no one of the
Achaeans toiled so much as Odysseus toiled and endured. But for himself, as it
seems (ἄρα), his portion was to be only woe, […]’
ἔμελλεν + future infinitive here conveys the meaning of predestination (cf. the
similar phrasing in ex. 24), while ἄρα marks the speaker’s (Menelaos’) assessment
of the past events.
Bridging contexts for the future-in-the-past meaning may be those in which
the intentionality of the subject is only partly responsible for the ensuing state
of affairs, e.g. ‘to reach, arrive at’, which can be understood as not completely
controlled by the subject, as can be observed in (29):
(29) ἀλλ’ ὅτε δὴ τάχ’ ἔμελλεν ὑπὸ πτόλιν αἰπύ τε

τεῖχος ἵξεσθαι, τότε δή [...] (Il. 11.181–182).
‘But when he was just about to come beneath the city and the steep wall, then...’
The numbers for the combination of epistemic particles with injunctives and
with past indicatives are quite similar, as shown in table 4:
Table 4. Injunctive and past indicative of μέλλω combined with epistemic particles.
μέλλε/ο- (12.5%) ἔμελλε/ο- (87.5%)
+ particle 6= 75%21 39 = 67%22
– particle23 2 = 25% 19 = 33%
This might seem to speak against the distribution discussed in Section 3, viz. a
higher number of epistemic particles with injunctives (cf. table 3 above). The
Il. 15.601 δὴ ... μέλλε, Od. 4.181 που μέλλεν, Od. 6.165 δὴ μέλλεν, Od. 9.378 δὴ ... μέλλεν,
21
Od. 17.412 δὴ ... μέλλεν, Od. 7.270 ἦ γὰρ μέλλον.

22 1× ῥά (Il. 2.36), 4× γάρ (Il. 2.39, 11.700, 15.612, 16.46), 1× περ (Od. 2.156), 23× ἄρα (Il.
5.205, 5.686, 6.393, 6.515, 10.336, 11.817, 12.3, 12.34, 12.113, 17.497, 18.98, 22.356, Od.
4.107, 6.110, 7.18, 9.230, 9.475, 10.26, 10.275, 11.553, 13.293, 24.28, 24.470), 8× δή (Il. 6.52,
10.365, 11.181, 23.773, Od. 4.514, 8.510, 13.384, 20.393), 2× ἦ τοι (Od. 21.98, 22.9). In some
instance more than one particle occurs.
23 Excluding μέν, δέ, γε.
reason for this is probably that the epistemic reading of μελλε/ο- in the past
tense is recessive in Homeric times, probably restricted to the unaugmented
forms, while the augmented forms have developed the meanings of intention,
predestination and of an immediate future-in-the-past, i.e. the epistemic function
originally expressed by the lexical meaning of the verb is gradually taken over by
epistemic particles added to the past indicative.
The development of μέλλω might then be understood as a repetition of the
history of the augment discussed above: modally unmarked injunctives preferably
take epistemic particles to mark the speaker’s attitude toward the SoA, while
indicative forms convey the speaker’s view of the SoA as real qua augment. With
the latter’s gradual spread and the complete loss of injunctives (except for the epic
language where it is maintained as a typical feature of this genre), the augment
becomes a past indicative marker that no longer conveys epistemic meanings
(note that in Classical Greek the imperfect, i.e. an augmented form, occurs in the
protasis of counterfactual conditionals, i.e. it marks a non-realis). For these, as
formerly in the case of the injunctives, epistemic particles are used (i). Similarly,
with the gradual loss of its epistemic meanings, μέλλω is used increasingly with
particles (ii). The few instances of injunctives of μέλλω with epistemic meaning
are thus likely to be archaisms, cf. table 5:
Table 5. Injunctives replaced by indicatives + epistemic particles.

(i) injunctive + epistemic particle augment + injunctive = indicative
→ indicative + epistemic particle
(ii) μέλλο/ε- [epistemic] augment + μέλλο/ε- = indicative

→ ἐμελλο/ε- + epistemic particle
5 Concluding remarks
The analysis of past counterfactual constructions may provide new insights into
our comprehension of the expression of epistemic modality in the verbal system
of Homeric Greek. In fact, the dual meaning of past counterfactuals, which
express a supposition in the apodosis while implying the factual state of affairs in
the protasis, show a combination of irrealis and realis marking respectively. Our
investigation has focused on the realis marking that, in a typological perspective,
has been shown to be compatible with the protasis of past counterfactuals. Data
from Homeric Greek are consistent with cross-linguistic studies showing that in
past counterfactual constructions it is the apodosis that prototypically attracts
the modal marking (of irrealis), whereas the protasis is more often left unmarked.
However, the data have also shown that, if the protasis is modally marked,
particles and adverbs assume an epistemic function, expressing the speaker’s
commitment to the truth-value of his/her proposition. The interesting datum
is that the frequency of such epistemic lexical items decreases when the verb in
the protasis is an indicative. Vice versa, their frequency increases when the verb
is an injunctive. Thus, the question as to how the attitude of the speaker toward
the content of his/her utterance was expressed with the modally underspecified
injunctives can be answered by resorting to the lexicon. The epistemic particles
and adverbs co-occurring with injunctives in the protasis became less frequent
during the passage from the zero-mood stage of the injunctive to the inflectional-
mood stage of the indicative. The latter has indeed been defined as an ‘epistemic
mood’, which expresses a high confidence of the speaker about the truth of the
proposition he puts forward for consideration. Put in other words, the replacement
of injunctives by indicatives made epistemic particles and adverbs less functional
or redundant in the sentence, since the use of the indicative mood in the protasis
already implied the speaker’s attitude toward the proposition. With the gradual
loss of injunctives in post-Homeric (non-epic) Greek and hence the loss of this
original opposition, epistemic particles started to co-occur also with indicative
forms. In a similar fashion, the development of μέλλω ‘to be likely’ seems to
imply that with the rise of the secondary meanings of predestination, intention,
and immediate future(-in-the-past), particles became the regular expression of
epistemic meaning which, beside the present, is preserved only in a few injunctive
forms of μέλλω in Homeric Greek.
Additionally, our analysis has taken into account the perspective of
Functional Discourse Grammar, showing how these particles and adverbs show
a semantic development in terms of scope increase, from the lower single phrase
layer to the higher proposition and pragmatic layers of the speech act. This study
has been intended as a first step toward the comprehension of the mechanisms
that are at the basis of the emergence of modality in ancient Greek. Needless
to say, further research is needed on the role of epistemic particles and adverbs
co-occurring with injunctives in different syntactic constructions attested in the
Homeric poems.
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446
A semantic-pragmatic analysis of the augment

in epic Greek, applied to some longer passages
Filip De Decker
1 The metrically secure forms1
My starting point is the hexameter, here printed in the notation of Janse 2003
and 2014:
— –̆–̆– // — –̆–̆– // — –̆–̆– // — –̆–̆– // — –̆–̆– // — –̆–

1a 1b 1c 2a 2b 2c 3a 3b 3c 4a 4b 4c 5a 5b 5c 6a 6b
An (un)augmented form is metrically secure, if the opposite form requires:2

i the elision of a dative singular ending in -ι;
ii elision of the -ι in τι;
iii the elision of the -ι in περι-/περί;
iv the elision of a dative plural ending in -σι of the consonant stems (but not in
-εσσι, which can be elided, although it is not that common);
v the elision of an -υ, which is never elided;
vi the creation a short monosyllabic verb form (regardless whether at the end of
the verse, before a caesura or anywhere else in the verse);
vii the violation of Hermann‘s Bridge: this metrical law, which is probably the
strictest of all bridges, states that there cannot be a word end between 4b and 4c;
1 This article is part of an ongoing investigation into the meaning, origin and use of the augment in
Early Greek prose and poetry. The article was made possible by a fellowship BOF.PDO.2016.0006.19
of the research council of the Universiteit Gent (BOF, Bijzonder Onderzoeksfonds), by a travel
grant V426317N for a research stay in Oxford (provided for by the FWO Vlaanderen, Fonds
voor Wetenschappelijk Onderzoek Vlaanderen, Science Foundation Flanders) and by a postdoctoral
fellowship 12V1518N, granted by the FWO Vlaanderen.
I would like to thank many colleagues, friends and the audience of the International Congress
on Ancient Greek Linguistics for their input, feedback and discussion. A special “thank you”
is addressed to Martti Leiwo and his colleagues for the organisation of the conference and the
publication of the proceedings.
2 For the references see De Decker (2016b:260–268, 2017:59–73, 2019a:47–52, ftc:§3); a
description of the laws can also be found in Vergados (2013:59–61) and Oswald (2014). I cannot
discuss the individual metrical phenomena in detail here.
448 DE DECKER, A semantic-pragmatic analysis of the augment in epic Greek
viii the violation of Varro‘s Bridge: Varro stated that every Greek verse had to
have a caesura in the third foot, and consequently, this rules out the existence
of the so-called bipartite hexameters, i.e. hexameters that have a word end at
3c without a caesura at 3a of 3b;
ix a collision of an elision and a caesura (especially at 3a and 3b);
x the violation of Gerhard‘s Bridge: this metrical law states that if the 5th foot
is a spondee, there should not be word end at 5c;
xi the violation of Giseke‘s(-Meyer‘s) Law; this law states that a word starting in
the first foot of the hexameter should not end at the end of the second foot
(i.e. at 2c), be it in spondaic or dactylic form;
xii the violation of Gerhard-Hilberg‘s Law; this law is closely related to the
previous one and states that if the second foot of the hexameter is a spondee,
word end at 2c is only allowed if the second half foot is long by nature;
xiii the violation of „Nikanor‘s Bridge“ (also known as Meyer‘s first Law); this
law states that a word that starts in the first foot should not end at 2b; the
first one to argue against a word end at 2b was the metrician Nikanor (2nd
century AD) - the first one to explicitly state the metrical prohibition was
Meyer and it is therefore known as Meyer‘s first Law;
xiv the violation of (Meyer-)Tiedke‘s law: this metrical bridge states that there
should not be a word end at 4a and 5a in the same verse. Tiedke stated that
clitics and prepositions are allowed exceptions (because they count as belonging
to the preceding or following words), so that word end after ὁ (ὃ) δέ does
not count as a violation;
xv the violation of Gerhard-Wernicke‘s Law: this bridge is closely related to the
ones by Giseke and Gerhard-Hilberg and states that if the fourth foot is a
spondee and has word end at 4c, the second half foot should only be naturally
long.
2 Metri causa: is the metre the dominating factor?
Space constraints prevent me from discussing the previous scholarship on the

augment in detail,3 but before proceeding to the analysis, I would like to briefly
state that I do not believe that the metre was the sole or the prime deciding
criterion for the augment. If the distribution was genuinely metrical, we would
3 For an overview see Bottin (1969:69–82), De Decker (2015b:241–290 with a list of 20 rules
governing the augment use, 2016a:34–37, 2018:10–17), Willi (2018:358–381).
expect a random distribution across all categories, but this is clearly not the case:
almost no iterative form in -σκ- has an augment, while the gnomic aorist is much
more often augmented. Moreover, even if the choice were purely metrical, this
would still not explain certain usages, as sometimes augmented and unaugmented
variants of the same paradigm exist or even metrically equivalent formulae were
available.4 I give one example: the augmented speech introduction ἠμείβετ(ο)
and the unaugmented ἀπαμείβετ(ο) have the same metrical form,5 but the
predominance of the augmented ἠμείβετο rules out that we are dealing with a
random distribution.
3 The semantics and pragmatics of the augment use
The semantics and pragmatics of the augment have been amply studied. Early on,
Koch (1868) already noted that the augment was used more in speeches than in
narrative, unless the speeches contained narrative elements as well (e.g. Nestor’s
speech in Iliad 1).6 Platt (1891) and Drewitt (1912a, 1912b, 1913) showed that
the augment was used with verbal forms that were still valid today, had present
reference and could be translated with the English present perfect (such as gnomes
and similia), and that it was avoided in genuine past contexts. In his analysis of
the augment in Archaic Greek, Bottin (1969:110–128) confirmed the preference
to use unaugmented forms in narrative parts and used the term lo stile narrativo
to describe this and later Basset (1989) distinguished between discours and récit.
For Vedic Sanskrit, Hoffmann described the use of the unaugmented forms as
erwähnend or belonging to the fernere nicht historische Vergangenheit.7 Recently,
Bakker elaborated on these observations and argued that the augment marked
completion of the verbal action and nearness to the speaker (a deictic suffix that
marked the completion of the action near the speaker - Bakker (2001:15, 2005:147).
Along similar lines, Mumm described the function of the augment as adding
emphasis (as Hackstein (2010:405) puts it the augment serves as a foregrounding
4 See Edwards (1969, 1970), Riggsby (1992) and Machacek (1994) for metrically equivalent speech
introductions and Visser (1987) for verbs of killing. The metrically equivalent formulae pose some
problems for the theory that the entire epic diction was governed by the metre alone (as Parryism
in its hardest form would have it), but I cannot address the issue here.
5 For more examples see De Decker (2016a:38–39, 2016b:282, 2017:125, 2019a:74, ftc: §6.1)
6 Koch (1868:24–32), for Nestor’ speech see also De Decker (2017:96, 136–138)
7 Hoffmann (1967:160–213), see also Euler (1995), Mumm (1995).
device attaching salience to the proposition).8 The explanations mentioned above

can be combined and summarised as follows: by using unaugmented forms
(the injunctives) the speakers and/or narrators describe and mention what has
happened,9 whereas by using augmented forms (the indicatives) they do not only
relate it, but also state it as a fact and reaffirm its value.10 This “summary” can
also explain why much more augmented forms are found in passages describing
actions in a recent past are described or when a past action still has relevance for
the present.11 This would be the reason why the augment is more often used
with past tense forms that are accompanied by νῦν.12 On the other hand actions
situated in a remote and/or mythical past or in a timeless context (not necessarily
in the past) are mostly narrated with unaugmented verb forms.13 An action in the
recent past is more likely to be much closer to the world of the speaker and hearer.
Mythical stories, on the other hand, have much less augments, because they refer
to events that by their very nature are far removed from the world of hearer and
8 Bakker (1999:59, 2001:14–23, 2005:123–124); Mumm (2004, especially §8 Was neu festgehalten
oder extra affirmiert werden soll, wird augmentiert ausgedrückt, was alt und bekannt ist oder nur
hilfsweise und begleitend eingeführt wird oder der Hauptaffirmation zusammen mit fortführendem δὲ
ohne Unterbrechung folgt oder im Dialog als unkontrovers eingestuft wird und für die Affirmation
insofern im Hintergrund steht, unaugmentiert. and §10: Diese (sc. die Augmentfunktion, the function
of the augment FDD) gehört ihrer kategoriellen Systematik nach in den Bereich der subjektiven
Modalität, d.h. der vom Sprecher bezeichneten Quellen für die Gültigkeit seiner Aussage. Das Augment
wird gesetzt, wenn der Sprecher (Erzähler oder Redner) die Gültigkeit oder Wichtigkeit seiner Aussage
nicht nur präsupponiert, sondern forciert oder für sie einsteht. Da dahinter grundsätzlich ein besonderes
Äußerungsinteresse steht, folgt automatisch ein besonderer Bezug auf die Gegenwart (der redenden Figur
oder der Erzählzeit) - underlining is mine).
9 Hoffmann (1967:104–106, 266–267 Zeitstufenlosigkeit und Nicht-Bericht (Erwähnung) sind
demnach der Funktion des Injunktivs eigentümlich).
10 Mumm (2004:§8 and §10). The use of a less remote past tense to add emphasis to a statement is
not a specificity of Indo-European languages and can be found in Amero-Indian languages as well,
see Martin (2010).
11 Platt (1891) used the term “perfect aorist” to describe these forms; on page 225 he described
them as just those instances of the aorist which rather refer to present time (the underlined form was
italicised in the original) . See also Drewitt (1912a:44 using the terms present-aorist, present-reference
aorist and aorist-for-perfect, 1912b, 1913). See in later times Bakker (1999, 2002, 2005), Mumm
(2004).
12Platt (1891), Drewitt (1912a:44, 1913:351), Bottin (1969:87–89, 135–136), Bakker (1999:53,
60–62), García-Ramón (2012:F1b), De Decker (2015b:268–269, 2016a:54, 2017:135).
13 For Homer, see Platt (1891), Drewitt (1912a, 1912b), Bottin (1969:124–125) and De Decker
(2017:126–127, 136); see West (1989) for Hesiod and the Homeric Hymns, and De Decker
(2016a:102–107) for Hesiod.
speaker, unless they reveal something that is still valid today (e.g. the explanation
of the problems for mankind in Hesiod). That speeches (with reference to the
recent past) have more augments than narrative passages and speeches that refer
to events in a more distant past,14 is also a logical consequence of the “rules”
formulated above: as speeches are more likely to contain elements from a recent
past and to refer to events closer to the world of the speaker(s) and hearer(s), the
preference for the augment cannot surprise. It is important to note that speeches
are subject to the same rules: not all verb forms in speeches are augmented and
this can be explained by the foreground - background explanation as well, as not
all verbs mentioned in a speech have the same salient status. This will become clear
in our analysis below. This explains the use of the augment in the so-called typical
scenes,15 such a warrior gearing for battle, an assembly being summoned, the
preparation of a sacrifice and subsequent meal, or a guest being welcomed: these
events are an integral part of the story and are not only used to “fill the lines”, but
also to create a connection with the audience, draw it into the story and mark
what is important.16 Finally, the absence of the augment in the iterative forms in
-σκ-, which can appear in the imperfect or aorist of verbs that did not have this
suffix in other tenses, can also be explained.17 These verb forms describe either a
repeated and/or habitual action, or a single action repeated by many persons on a
single occasion.18 They mostly appear in narrative parts and usually do not refer
to single and unexpected events (contexts in which the augment was used more
often).19 These verbs are often combined by an optative of the repeated action
14Koch (1868), Platt (1891:223), Monro (1891:62), Drewitt (1912a), Chantraine (1948:484),
Bottin (1969:110–128), Basset (1989), West (1989), Bakker (1999:63–64, 2001:11–18,
2005:114–153), Mumm (2004:§6),Bertrand (2006a, 2006b), De Decker (2016a:289–291,
2017:96, 136–138).
15For analyses of typical scenes see Arend (1933), Fenik (1968), Visser (1987), Reece (1993),
Bozzone (2016), Minchin (2016).
16 For this analysis see Minchin (2016).
17 This had been noted very early on, see already Buttmann (1830:382). Poehlmann (1858:10)
pointed out that this has been observed already by the Etymologicum Magnum. It has been accepted
ever since, but the origin of this suffix is still debated and the literature on the topic is immense; the
issue cannot be addressed here.
For a list of Hesiodic forms, see Rzach (1876:461–462) and the Homeric forms can be found in
Bottin (1969:116–125) and Risch (1974:276–278).
18 This specification was first made by Pagniello (2007). This is also visible in speech introductions
of the so-called tis-Reden, see De Decker (2015a:64–65).
19 Bottin (1969:116–125), Pagniello (2002:84–108; 2007); Bakker (2001:8, 14, 2005:126–127);
in the past (Pagniello 2007), or with αἰεί (De Decker 2015b:270). Sometimes,
the subject is an indefinite character. All these elements lead to the absence of the
augment in these forms.
The gnomic aorist is used to state something that has happened before
but is still valid today.20 It describes an event that occurred in the past and that
could happen again at any time, or a truth of which the knowledge is based on
the occurrence of events in the past.21 An example would be “the gods punish
the arrogant”. In the past people have already seen that insolence did not go
unpunished and everybody knows that such transgressions could be penalised
even at the moment of speaking. Because of their immediate connection to
the world of the speaker and hearer, because of their close connection of the
present and since in most cases these forms are used by the speaker or narrator
to make a point, therefore there is the need for emphasis and these forms are
largely described by augmented forms. When one explains the how and why
of an everyday usage, a name or tradition, reference is made of events in the
past, but at the same time this past action is still valid for the present day. The
augment use in such “aetiological” descriptions is therefore not surprising. One
could consider this to be a sort of gnomic aorist (it is not necessary to create the
aetiological aorist as yet another category, besides the “gnomic”, “experiential”,
“omnitemporal”, “Hymnic”, “timeless” and even “mythical” etc. aorist - all in
use today).22 Closely related to the use of the augment in the gnomic aorist, is its
use in the similia, the Homeric comparisons in which Homer compared a battle
scene or another event to a scene from everyday life (mostly in the agricultural
sphere).23 As they compare an event in the past with a scene which is prototypical
and belongs to the everyday life, and they are “close” to the audience, in evoking a
domestic rather than heroic, reality (Bakker 1999:64, 2005:114), they are very near
the speaker and hearer their link with the present and the audience is evident and
the use of the augment therefore does not surprise. It has often been considered
De Decker (2015a:64–65; 2015b:275–276; 2016a:101–102).

20 An overview of the scholarship on (the origin of ) the gnomic aorist cannot be performed here;
the literature on this topic is large, but for in-depth discussions with more literature on the topic,
see Platt (1891), Bakker (2001, 2002), Pagniello (2002:74–84), De Decker (2016a:87–99) and
Wakker (2017).
21 An overview of the scholarship on (the origin of ) the gnomic aorist cannot be performed here.
22 See Faulkner (2005) and De Decker (ftc: §11) for in-depth discussions and further bibliographical
references.
23Platt (1891), Drewitt (1912a, 1912b, 1913), Chantraine (1948:484), Shipp (1972:120), Bakker
(1999:64, 2002:75–77, 2005:114, 121 and 131–134).
problematic that these instances which did not refer to the past took the augment
in the largest numbers,24 but if one reinterprets the augment as having “present”
or “near-deictic” relevance, this problem disappears.25
Speech introductions are generally augmented,26 when they are constructed
with an addressee and remain more often unaugmented when there is no person
addressed: a speech introduction with an addressee makes the speaker interact
more with his audience or within the story, whereas a character speaking to
himself or just speaking engages less in conversation or interaction.27 Speech
introductions put an interaction to the foreground and are therefore used mostly
with an augment. In his analysis of the augment in the aorist forms in the
speeches of the Iliad, Bakker (1999:64, 2001:13–16, 2005:126) argued that the
augment was less common in negative sentences, unless the negation was linked
to the speaker’s deixis (Bakker 2001:13–16, 2005:128–130). The reason for this
was that the negation removed the link with the present and the presence to the
speaker: as a negation refers to something that did not occur, it is per definitionem
further removed from the world of speaker and hearer. The same can be said
about subordinate clauses: as they describe the background par excellence, it would
be expected that they have fewer augmented forms than the main clauses. This
can be explained by the fact that a subordinate clause is (almost by definition) the
background and not the main line, and that the link to the present is therefore even more
absent than in narrative in general (De Decker 2017:146–147). The figures (cf.
the appendices) seem confirm this, but make clear that the categories “negation”
and “subordination” do not automatically cause the augment to disappear: the
24 An example of this is Brugmann. He initially (1890:185, 1892:1276–1277) suspected that

the gnomic aorist was first unaugmented, but later received its augment because the distinction
injunctive - indicative had ceased to be operative in Greek. In his Griechische Grammatik (1900) he
did not address the issue, but later (1904:574–575, 1916:11) he only noted that the gnomic aorist
was augmented, but did not explain it (in 1916:11 he even stated that there was no solution for
the augment presence).
25 Platt (1891) was the first to link the augment use in the gnomes and similia with the present-
relevance.
26 Drewitt (1912a:44); Bakker (1999:64, 2001:9–10,14, 2005:122–123); De Decker (2015a;
2015b:241–290; 2016a:84–86, 2017:142–143). Mumm apud De Decker (2015a:60) used the
term Verlebendigung to describe the effect on the audience.
27 For this analysis see De Decker (2015a), although that study was based on all the transmitted
forms and not on the metrically secure forms alone. The figures of the metrically secure forms in
the Iliad (without the disputed book 10) confirm nevertheless the data of that study as can be seen
in the appendix.
figures indicate that the presence and absence of the augment in negative and
subordinate clauses are related to the distinction speech versus narrative (and thus
also to closeness and remoteness). Sometimes the most important element can be
mentioned in a subordinate clause or a negative element can be the most salient
element of the statement. This will become clear when we analyse some passages.
The summary also explains the difference in augmentation between the
Theogony and the Works and Days: the former refers to a mythical past and
therefore has fewer augmented forms, while the latter provide advice for every-
day life, are situated against the background of the conflict between Hesiod
and his brother Perses, and have much more speeches and explanations for uses
and traditions of the agricultural life. The Works and Days therefore provide
a much closer link to the present and the audience, and are clearly emphatic
(De Decker 2016a :75–76, 111–112). The same applies to the difference in
augmentation between the Iliad and Odyssey: it is not necessary to ascribe
the higher number of augmented verb forms to the (alleged) younger date
of the latter, but it can be explained by the fact that it often describes and
narrates events from the perspective of the main protagonists (Telemakhos,
Odysseus, Penelope), that there are much more speeches and that it has much
less narrative than the Iliad.
The explanation provided here can also be used to account for the
morphological data. It has been noted before that the dual and the pluperfect
forms use the augment relatively rarely (cf. the figures of the appendix).28 As
these appear mostly in narrative passages, where the absence of the augment is
already much less common anyway, it comes as no surprise that they are much
more often unaugmented. Moreover, the pluperfect describes a state in the past as
a result of a past action, so that in many cases we are dealing with a background
description or at least with a description of an action in an even more remote past
than the main action (Bottin 1969:124–129). It has been argued that the aorist
28 The preference of using unaugmented pluperfect forms had been noticed already by Aristarkhos,
see La Roche (1866:423). See also Buttmann (1830:318,1854:127–128), Koch (1868:20–21),
La Roche (1882:32–39), Platt (1891:231), Monro (1891:61), Chantraine (1948:481–482, with
reference to both Aristarkhos and La Roche), Bottin (1969:124–129, with a list of forms), De
Decker (2015b:245–246).
For the dual see Grashof (1852:29), La Roche (1882:19), Platt (1891:213–214), Schwyzer
(1939:651), Bottin (1969:94, with reference to Schwyzer), Blumenthal (1974:75), Mumm
(2004:148), De Decker (2015a:54, 2015b:247). Already von Thiersch (1826:338) alluded to the
unaugmented nature of compounded dual forms.
has more augmented forms than the imperfect,29 but as the appendices show,
this difference is small I see therefore no reason to ascribe the augment use to
the tense. I believe that the augment use in imperfect and aorist forms confirms
to the rules mentioned above.30 The data do not show any distinction between
the different aorist types either,31 which is not so unexpected per se, as all the
aorist types already existed in late PIE (or at least in the Graeco-Aryan dialect
family, where the augment as part of the verbal morphology in all likelihood
originated). The decision to (not) use the augment in the different aorist forms is
thus motivated by semantic and pragmatic factors.
The same applies for the syntactic elements. In early epic Greek the augment
is very often (but not always) “missing”, when the verb form is followed by a
“2nd position clitic32”.33 This was first noted by Drewitt and expanded to all
“Wackernagel-clitics” by Beck and is therefore best called “Drewitt-Beck’s clitic
rule”. I interpret this as a syntactic phenomenon, because it is closely related to
Wackernagel’s Law (Wackernagel 1892), which states that clitics appear in the
2nd position in the sentence.34 As we can consider the augmented verb form to
29 Platt (1891:229–230), Drewitt (1912a:42) and Blumenthal (1974:72–77), followed by Lazzeroni
(1977:22–23). Bakker (1999, especially page 63, 2001:7 - in his words: because this tense poses
additional problems) explicitly left out the imperfect from the discussion and applied his findings
to the aorist only.
30 An analysis of (the differences between) the use of the imperfect and aorist in Homer and a
comparison with that in Attic Greek cannot be performed here. Very early it had already been noted
that the Homeric and Attic uses differed quite significantly (see e.g. von Thiersch (1826:516–518),
Buttmann (1854:391). Kühner & Gerth (1904:143–144) also noted that the use of the imperfect
in Homer differed from that in later Greek and referred to Delbrück (1879:105–106, 1897:302–
306) who argued that his were remnants from a period when the imperfect was still the only
narrative tense. Recently, Hollenbaugh (2018) followed Delbrück and argued that the imperfect
in Homer could be used for all the different past meanings whereas the aorist only referred to the
recent past. This issue can only be solved by an in-depth study.
31 The difference between the different types of aorists had been suggested by Blumenthal (1975:72–
77), followed by Lazzeroni (1977:22–23).

32By this I mean an enclitic or a word that cannot be put at the beginning of a sentence. These are
sometimes called “Wackernagel-clitics”.
33 Drewitt (1912b:104, 1913:350), Beck (1919). Beck specifically linked this phenomenon and
the placement of the “Wackernagel clitics”. See also Bottin (1969:99–102), Bakker (1999:53–54),
Bertrand (2006a), de Lamberterie (2007:53), García-Ramón (2012:B.2.3), De Decker (2015a:56,
2015b:249–250,312, 2016a:56–58, 2017:128–129, 2019a:78–79), Hajnal (2016:446–447),
Rodeghiero (2017:634).
34 For this explanation, see De Decker (2016a:56–58, 2016b:285–286). See also already Beck (1919).
be a compound, an augmented verb form followed by a clitic would mean that

the accented augment would come first, then the verb form and only then the
clitic. Even if one interprets the verb in the oldest Greek (and Indo-European) to
be unaccented, the form would still be problematic, because in a clitic chain the
verb form always comes last.35 Most instances of the clitic rule can be found in
narrative, so that the absence of the augment is not surprising either. In addition,
many of them involve the particle δέ, which is the most common connecting
particle in epic Greek (Monro (1891:304–307, Bakker 1993), so that sequences
of verb followed by δέ expand the ongoing description and usually are not
employed to add new information (the same applies to the particle τε which
is also connective). The same applies, mutatis mutandis, to Kiparsky’s reduction
rule. Kiparsky argued that in PIE in a sequence of marked forms only the first
one was marked and the others appeared in the neutral form:36 in a sequence of
past tense forms only the first one was put in the indicative (with augment in
Indo-Iranian and Greek) and the forms following it in the injunctive, as this form
was both tenseless and moodless. At face value this rule seems to be invalid, given
the substantial number of exceptions, but if we adapt Kiparsky’s absolute rule to
state that a marked form could not be used too often in events belonging to the
same action or semantic field,37 the rule would be valid: if actions belong to the
same action (and do not form a prototypical action or a typische Scene in Arend’s
sense), it is not necessary to use the augment for all instances (e.g. different verbs
describing the discovery of an enemy fighter or a speech introduction). As such,
also this syntactic rule has a semantic and pragmatic motivation.
Now that we have summarised and explained the different factors governing
the augment use, we can proceed to the analysis of the passages.
35 This had been noticed already by Monro (1891:335–338), before Wackernagel posited his famous
Law. For the clitic chain see Wackernagel (1892:336), Delbruck (1900:51–53, with reference to
Monro), Brugmann (1904:682–683), Krisch (1990:73–74), Ruijgh (1990), Wills (1993).
36 Kiparsky (1968, 2005). See also Hajnal (2016:447–448), Szemerényi (1996:265–266), Pagniello
(2002:8–17), García-Ramón (2012:§B.2), Luraghi (2014) and De Decker (2015a:57–59,

2015b:250–254, 2016a:53 and 58–71, 2016b:286–288, 2017:83–84, 103, 129–134, 2018:31–33,
2019a:79–83), Rodeghiero (2017:634); for a detailed discussion, see De Decker (2016a:58–71).
37 This was described by Meillet (1913:115–116) for Armenian and expanded to the other languages
with an augment by de Lamberterie (2007:39,45).

4 The analysis of some longer passages38
4.1 Akhilleus refuses the Greek Embassy.
(323) ὡς δ’ ὄρνις ἀπτῆσι νεοσσοῖσι προφέρῃσι

(324) μάστακ’ ἐπεί κε λάβῃσι, κακῶς δέ τε οἱ πέλει αὐτῇ,
(325) ὣς καὶ ἐγὼ πολλὰς μὲν ἀΰπνους νύκτας ἴαυον,
(326) ἤματα δ’ αἱματόεντα διέπρησσον πολεμίζων
(327) ἀνδράσι μαρνάμενος ὀάρων ἕνεκα σφετεράων.
(328) δώδεκα δὴ σὺν νηυσὶ πόλεις ἀλάπαξ’ ἀνθρώπων,
(329) πεζὸς δ’ ἕνδεκά φημι κατὰ Τροίην ἐρίβωλον:
(330) τάων ἐκ πασέων κειμήλια πολλὰ καὶ ἐσθλὰ
(331) ἐξελόμην, καὶ πάντα φέρων Ἀγαμέμνονι δόσκον
(332) Ἀτρεΐδῃ: ὃ δ’ ὄπισθε μένων παρὰ νηυσὶ θοῇσι
(333) δεξάμενος διὰ παῦρα δασάσκετο, πολλὰ δ’ ἔχεσκεν.
(334) ἄλλα δ’ ἀριστήεσσι δίδου γέρα καὶ βασιλεῦσι:
(335) τοῖσι μὲν ἔμπεδα κεῖται, ἐμεῦ δ’ ἀπὸ μούνου Ἀχαιῶν
(336) εἵλετ’, ἔχει δ’ ἄλοχον θυμαρέα: τῇ παριαύων
(337) τερπέσθω. τί δὲ δεῖ πολεμιζέμεναι Τρώεσσιν
(338) Ἀργείους; τί δὲ λαὸν ἀνήγαγεν ἐνθάδ’ ἀγείρας
(339) Ἀτρεΐδης; ἦ οὐχ Ἑλένης ἕνεκ’ ἠϋκόμοιο;
(340) ἦ μοῦνοι φιλέουσ’ ἀλόχους μερόπων ἀνθρώπων
(341) Ἀτρεΐδαι; ἐπεὶ ὅς τις ἀνὴρ ἀγαθὸς καὶ ἐχέφρων
(342) τὴν αὐτοῦ φιλέει καὶ κήδεται, ὡς καὶ ἐγὼ τὴν
(343) ἐκ θυμοῦ φίλεον δουρικτητήν περ ἐοῦσαν.
(344) νῦν δ’ ἐπεὶ ἐκ χειρῶν γέρας εἵλετο καί μ’ ἀπάτησε
(345) μή μευ πειράτω εὖ εἰδότος: οὐδέ με πείσει. (Il. 9.323–345).39
‘As a bird brings back to her wingless little ones small pieces of food whenever
she can find them and is suffering herself (from hunger), so I spent many
sleepless nights and went through the bloody days by waging wars with men
fighting over their wives. With my ships I destroyed twelve cities of men and
I say that I conquered eleven cities in the generous region around Troy while
fighting on land. Out of all these cities I took much and rich bounty, and
38In Bakker (2001), De Decker (2016a, 2016b, 2017, 2019a, 2019b, ftc.) and Rodeghiero (2017)
similar analyses of other passages have been performed.
39The metrically secure augmented forms are underlined, the unaugmented ones put in bold face
and the insecure forms are italicised.
gave everything to Agamemnon, son of Atreus, as a gift. He stayed back at

the swift ships, received everything, divided little and kept much (to himself ).
Other gifts he offered to the leaders and the kings. Those (gifts) still lie firmly
with them, but only from me he took it away. He has the girl that pleased my
heart. Let he enjoy her lying beside her. Why then do the Akhaians have to
fight against the Trojans? Why then has the son of Atreus gathered the army
and brought it here? If not for the sake of Helen with the beautiful hair? Do
among the articulate men only the sons of Atreus love their wives? Because any
virtuous and decent man loves his own (wife) and cares for her, so I loved her
with all my heart, even if she was only conquered by my sword. Now since he
has robbed my gift out of my hands and has wronged me, let him not try me
who am well aware (of his attempts). He will not persuade me.’
In this passage Akhilleus answers the Greek Embassy, sent to convince him to
resume fighting, clearly that he will not do so. In his speech he explains how he
used to be the bravest warrior but never received the honour he merited. Then
he relates how Agamemnon took away only his gift and not someone else’s. He
then (rhetorically) asks why he brought all of them to Troy and continues by
stating that he was cheated by Agamemnon. Akhilleus emphasises how he was
dishonoured and how they all share the same fate. The forms ἀπὸ εἵλετ’ and
εἵλετο are augmented, because describe the actions in the immediate past that
grieve Akhilleus the most, namely that Agamemnon stole his gift; ἀνήγαγεν has
an augment, because its describes the single action that unites all the men present
at the scene, namely that Agamemnon brought all of them to Troy to fight. The
verbs that refer to what Akhilleus himself did in the past, how he attacked and
sacked cities at night, how he gave all his gifts to Agamemnon and how he (Ag)
then divided it without honouring him (Ak) are related with unaugmented and
sometimes iterative verb forms. In Akhilleus’ mind they belong to the remote
past: he is no longer fighting and will not do so anytime soon. This passage shows
that the mere appearance in a speech is not enough to add an augment to the verb
form, but that the distinction foreground/emphasis - background/description is
the deciding factor.
4.2 Demodokos sings about Troy and Odysseus cannot stop crying
(83) ταῦτ’ ἄρ’ ἀοιδὸς ἄειδε περικλυτός: αὐτὰρ Ὀδυσσεὺς

(84) πορφύρεον μέγα φᾶρος ἑλὼν χερσὶ στιβαρῇσι
(85) κὰκ κεφαλῆς εἴρυσσε, κάλυψε δὲ καλὰ πρόσωπα:
(86) αἴδετο γὰρ Φαίηκας ὑπ’ ὀφρύσι δάκρυα λείβων.

(87) ἤτοι ὅτε λήξειεν ἀείδων θεῖος ἀοιδός,
(88) δάκρυ ὀμορξάμενος κεφαλῆς ἄπο φᾶρος ἕλεσκε
(89) καὶ δέπας ἀμφικύπελλον ἑλὼν σπείσασκε θεοῖσιν:
(90) αὐτὰρ ὅτ’ ἂψ ἄρχοιτο καὶ ὀτρύνειαν ἀείδειν
(91) Φαιήκων οἱ ἄριστοι, ἐπεὶ τέρποντ’ ἐπέεσσιν,
(92) ἂψ Ὀδυσεὺς κατὰ κρᾶτα καλυψάμενος γοάασκεν.
(93) ἔνθ’ ἄλλους μὲν πάντας ἐλάνθανε δάκρυα λείβων,
(94) Ἀλκίνοος δέ μιν οἶος ἐπεφράσατ’ ἠδ’ ἐνόησεν
(95) ἥμενος ἄγχ’ αὐτοῦ, βαρὺ δὲ στενάχοντος ἄκουσεν.
(96) αἶψα δὲ Φαιήκεσσι φιληρέτμοισι μετηύδα (Od. 8.83–96).
‘All these stories the very famous singer was singing. But Odysseus took his
large purple cloak with his strong hands and put it over his head and hid his
beautiful face (with it). He was embarrassed to shed tears before the eyes of
the Phaiakians. Whenever the divine singer stopped singing, Odysseus wiped
the tears away, took the cloak from his head, took a cup with two goblets and
made a libation to the gods. But when he started singing again and the most
noble Phaiakians incited him to do so, Odysseus hid his head again and cried.
He hid his crying for all the others, but only Alkinoos noticed it and observed
it, sitting next to him, and he heard him crying heavily. He immediately spoke
out to the Phaiakians, who take pleasure in rowing:’
When Odysseus arrived at the court of the Phaiakians, he received a warm

welcome and as evening entertainment the singer Demodokos was brought inside
to sing. In this passage Homer describes how Demodokos was singing about the
Trojan war. When Odysseus heard these stories, he could no longer hold back his
tears and cried throughout the entire song, while covering his face and trying to
hide his tears. None of the spectators noticed this, except Alkinoos. The use of
the augment in this passage is clearly emphatic, as they describe how he covered
his head (εἴρυσσε) and was able to hide his tears (ἐλάνθανε), so that no-one
would see them. The unaugmented verb forms describe the background of what
is going on (ἄειδε, the singing of Demodokos), refer to an action that has already
occurred (κάλυψε refers to the same action as εἴρυσσε) or relate repeated actions,
such as the joy the Phaiakians take in the songs (τέρποντ’) and Odysseus’ covering
his head (ἕλεσκε), his offering (σπείσασκε) and groaning (γοάασκεν). The only
surprising instance is the unaugmented ἄκουσεν, because we would expect the
augment in this form, as Alkinoos is the only one who notices Odysseus’ tears
(one could argue that the unaugmented ἄκουσεν has been announced already
by the forms ἐπεφράσατ’ and ἐνόησεν, but the augment in those forms in not
metrically secure, although there are strong indications that they might have been
augmented40).
4.3 Odysseus and Agamemnon meet in the Underworld
(397) Ἀτρεΐδη κύδιστε, ἄναξ ἀνδρῶν Ἀγάμεμνον,

(398) τίς νύ σε κὴρ ἐδάμασσε τανηλεγέος θανάτοιο;
(399) ἦε σέ γ’ ἐν νήεσσι Ποσειδάων ἐδάμασσεν
(400) ὄρσας ἀργαλέων ἀνέμων ἀμέγαρτον ἀϋτμήν;
(401) ἦέ σ’ ἀνάρσιοι ἄνδρες ἐδηλήσαντ’ ἐπὶ χέρσου
(402) βοῦς περιταμνόμενον ἠδ’ οἰῶν πώεα καλά,
(403) ἠὲ περὶ πτόλιος μαχεούμενον ἠδὲ γυναικῶν;
(404) ὣς ἐφάμην, ὁ δέ μ’ αὐτίκ’ ἀμειβόμενος προσέειπε:
(405) διογενὲς Λαερτιάδη, πολυμήχαν’ Ὀδυσσεῦ,
(406) οὔτ’ ἐμέ γ’ ἐν νήεσσι Ποσειδάων ἐδάμασσεν
(407) ὄρσας ἀργαλέων ἀνέμων ἀμέγαρτον ἀϋτμήν,
(408) οὔτε μ’ ἀνάρσιοι ἄνδρες ἐδηλήσαντ’ ἐπὶ χέρσου,
(409) ἀλλά μοι Αἴγισθος τεύξας θάνατόν τε μόρον τε
(410) ἔκτα σὺν οὐλομένῃ ἀλόχῳ, οἶκόνδε καλέσσας,
(411) δειπνίσσας, ὥς τίς τε κατέκτανε βοῦν ἐπὶ φάτνῃ. (Od. 11.397–411).
‘ “Very famous son of Atreus, ruler of men Agamemnon, which doom of death
that brings long sorrow has tamed you? Has Poseidon tamed you in the ships
by sending the unwanted breath of sorrow bringing winds? Or did hostile men
destroy you on the mainland when you were cutting cattle for yourself and
beautiful flocks of sheep or while you were fighting for a city and its women?”
So I spoke and he immediately answered me and addressed me: “Godborn
son of Laertes Odysseus of many wiles. Poseidon has not tamed me on my
ships, sending an unwanted breath of sorrow bringing winds nor have hostile
men destroyed me on the mainland, but Aigisthos has prepared a death and
destruction for me and has killed me with help of my destructive wife, calling
me into the house and inviting me for dinner. (He killed me) as one slaughters
an ox on a crib.” ’
When he noticed Agamemnon in the Hades, Odysseus asked him how he had
died. He wondered if he had been killed by enemy opponents or by Poseidon at
40 I refer to De Decker (2016b, 2017, 2019a) for an analysis of the metrically insecure forms.
the sea. The verbs in Odysseus’ questions clearly refer to the salient elements of
their encounter: “how did you die and who killed you”. Agamemnon answered
Odysseus and described that not Poseidon nor enemy opponents had slain him,
but that his former servant Aigisthos slew him as one would slaughter an ox on
a crib. The verb forms are augmented, because Odysseus asks if Agamemnon
incurred an heroic death, while Agamemnon wants to contrast the expected end
of a great warrior with the cowardly murder perpetrated by Aigisthos (ἔκτα is
therefore also augmented) and compares it to the slaughter of an animal (the
form κατέκτανε is in all likelihood also augmented, because it appears in an
Homeric simile, cf. supra, but the form is not metrically secure). This passage
shows that the presence of negation does not rule out the augment use per se, as
the negated verbs ἐδάμασσεν and ἐδηλήσαντ’ are clearly foregrounded. It can
also serve as illustration for the fact that the reduction rule was not an overreaching
exceptionless mechanical rule: the three elements ἐδάμασσεν, ἐδηλήσαντ’ and
ἔκτα refer to three different elements of the story.
4.4 Apollon enters the cave where Hermes is hiding.
Lastly, I also include a passage where we have many exceptions to the rules that we
described earlier. As is the case with most grammatical rules, there are exceptions
and this is valid for the augment as well.
(227) ὣς εἰπὼν ἤϊξεν ἄναξ Διὸς υἱὸς Ἀπόλλων,

(228) Κυλλήνης δ’ ἀφίκανεν ὄρος καταειμένον ὕλῃ
(229) πέτρης εἰς κευθμῶνα βαθύσκιον, ἔνθα τε νύμφη
(230) ἀμβροσίη ἐλόχευσε Διὸς παῖδα Κρονίωνος.
(231) ὀδμὴ δ’ ἱμερόεσσα δι’ οὔρεος ἠγαθέοιο
(232) κίδνατο, πολλὰ δὲ μῆλα ταναύποδα βόσκετο ποίην.
(233) ἔνθα τότε σπεύδων κατεβήσατο λάϊνον οὐδὸν
(234) ἄντρον ἐς ἠερόεν ἑκατηβόλος αὐτὸς Ἀπόλλων.
(235) τὸν δ’ ὡς οὖν ἐνόησε Διὸς καὶ Μαιάδος υἱὸς
(236) χωόμενον περὶ βουσὶν ἑκηβόλον Ἀπόλλωνα,
(237) σπάργαν’ ἔσω κατέδυνε θυήεντ’: ἠΰτε πολλὴν
(238) πρέμνων ἀνθρακιὴν ὕλης σποδὸς ἀμφικαλύπτει,
(239) ὣς Ἑρμῆς ἑκάεργον ἰδὼν ἀνεείλε’ ἓ αὐτόν.
(240) ἐν δ’ ὀλίγῳ συνέλασσε κάρη χεῖράς τε πόδας τε
(241) φή ῥα νεόλλουτος προκαλεύμενος ἥδυμον ὕπνον,
(242) ἐγρήσσων ἐτεόν γε: χέλυν δ’ ὑπὸ μασχάλῃ εἶχε.
(243) γνῶ δ’ οὐδ’ ἠγνοίησε Διὸς καὶ Λητοῦς υἱὸς

(244) νύμφην τ’ οὐρείην περικαλλέα καὶ φίλον υἱόν,
(245) παῖδ’ ὀλίγον δολίῃς εἰλυμένον ἐντροπίῃσι.
(246) παπτήνας δ’ ἀνὰ πάντα μυχὸν μεγάλοιο δόμοιο
(247) τρεῖς ἀδύτους ἀνέῳγε λαβὼν κληῗδα φαεινὴν
(248) νέκταρος ἐμπλείους ἠδ’ ἀμβροσίης ἐρατεινῆς:
(249) πολλὸς δὲ χρυσός τε καὶ ἄργυρος ἔνδον ἔκειτο,
(250) πολλὰ δὲ φοινικόεντα καὶ ἄργυφα εἵματα νύμφης,
(251) οἷα θεῶν μακάρων ἱεροὶ δόμοι ἐντὸς ἔχουσιν.
(252) ἔνθ’ ἐπεὶ ἐξερέεινε μυχοὺς μεγάλοιο δόμοιο
(253) Λητοΐδης μύθοισι προσηύδα κύδιμον Ἑρμῆν (HH 4.227–253
(the Homeric Hymn to Hermes))
‘So Ruler Apollon, son of Zeus, spoke and he jumped up and went to the
mountain of Kyllene covered with forests into a deep dark hole of stone,
where the immortal maiden had given birth to the son of Zeus. A lovely smell
pervaded through beautiful mountain and many long shanked sheep grazed
the grass there. There at that moment the Far Shooter Apollon himself quickly
stepped over the stone threshold into the murky cave. When the son of Zeus
and Maia noticed that Apollon who shouts from afar was enraged about his
cattle, he covered him in the well-smelling bed cloths: as when the ashes of
the woodstumps cover the burning charcoal of the wood, so Hermes whirled
himself (in his blankets) when he saw the Farshooter. He pulled together his
head, hands and feet, like a freshly bathed baby enjoying sweet sleep but in
reality still awake, but he still held the tortoise under his armpit. the son of
Zeus and Leto knew and did not fail to recognise the very beautiful mountain
maiden and her beloved son, a small child covered in deceitful trickery. He
sharply looked through the all the corners of the big house, took the shining
key and opened the three shrines full of nektar and lovely ambrosia. Much gold
and silver was lying inside, many purple-coloured and silver white garments of
a maiden, as the holy houses of the immortal gods also have inside them. There
when he was searching through the corners of the big house, the son of Leto
addressed famous Hermes’
The Homeric Hymn to Hermes: describes how the god Hermes almost immediately
after his birth stole the cattle of Apollon and incurred his wrath as a consequence.
Only after Zeus intervened, the two reconciled. In this passage Apollon has just
started looking for his cattle. After hearing what the old man had told him,
Apollon continued his search and during that trip, he noticed tracks of cattle
going backwards. He then started speaking to himself and expressed his surprise
about what he saw. The fragment quoted above describes what Apollon does
after his initial surprise and how Hermes reacts, when he notices Apollon (and
his fury). He follows the tracks and arrives in the cave where Maia and Hermes
are staying. There he finds many of his own possessions and also Hermes himself.
Hermes notices that Apollon is enraged and pretends to be asleep, unaware of
what has happened. Apollon’s actions are the main point of attention in this
passage. The verbs βόσκετο and κίδνατο describe the background of the cave and
do not belong to the same storyline; the verb ἐλόχευσε is augmented although
it refers to the birth of Hermes, which is not the focus of this passage either
and the use of the augment in this form is therefore surprising. On the other
hand, one would expect ἀφίκανεν to be augmented because it indicates that
Apollon has arrived and yet, it is not. ἐνόησε is augmented because it refers to
the moment that Hermes realises that Apollon is enraged about his stolen cattle.
συνέλασσε describes how Hermes tries to escape Apollon by pretending to be
sleeping; against expectation, this verb is not augmented. The verb εἶχε points
out that Hermes still had in his possession the tortoise-turned-instrument. As
this tortoise and its music will return later in the story, the verb is augmented.
γνῶ refers to Apollon’s reaction to all this. The verb appears in sentence-initial
position and is followed by a clitic, but it clearly contrasts with what has been
said before, so we would expect the verb to have an augment. The verb ἔκειτο is
augmented, because Apollon is surprised to see so much riches: this is not what
one would expect when entering the cave of a nymph and her child. ἐξερέεινε is
unaugmented, because it appears in a temporal subordinate clause, and because
it summarises the lines 243–251 and does not communicate anything new (it
had been announced already by the sentence γνῶ δ’ οὐδ’ ἠγνοίησε, as the act of
recognising and finding out presupposes that some investigating had been done
beforehand).
5 Conclusion
In this contribution I tried to analyse the augment from a semantic and pragmatic
viewpoint. As the transmission is problematic and I have limited space, I decided
to focus here on the metrically secure forms only. First I showed that the augment
use cannot be metrically conditioned. Then I described the criteria that I used in
determining the metrically secure forms. Starting from the earlier work by Koch,
Platt, Drewitt, Bottin, Basset, Bakker and Mumm for Greek and Hoffmann for
Vedic Sanskrit, I summarised the augment use as follows: by using unaugmented

forms (the injunctives) the speakers and/or narrators describe and mention what
has happened, whereas by using augmented forms (the indicatives) they do not
only relate it, but also state it as a fact and reaffirm its value. This explanation
can account for almost all observations made for the augment use, including the
morphological and syntactic factors. The contexts where the augment is used
(speeches, events in a recent past, past actions with present value, gnomes, similia,
speech introductions with addressee) are all much more likely to be enforced
by the narrator/speaker (either because s/he wants to make a point or wants to
interact with hearer or audience), whereas those contexts in which it remains
absent (narration, actions in a mythical past, background descriptions, repeated
actions, speech introductions without addressee) are less often emphasised by
the speaker/narrator (often because there is less interaction between speaker
and hearer and/or between narrator and audience). It is important to note that
there are no elements that automatically make the augment (dis)appear: even
in negation, subordinate clause and in speeches, the augment use is determined
by the semantic and pragmatic elements. The morphological and syntactic data
can be explained by this as well: dual forms and pluperfect forms have much less
augments than other forms, but as they are used much more often in narrative
descriptions, this is not surprising. Moreover, pluperfects describe a state in the
past as a result of a past action, so that they are more likely to occur in background
descriptions. Most instances of the clitic rule can be found in narrative and many
of them involve the particle δέ, the most common connecting particle in epic
Greek. Sequences of a verb followed by δέ thus expand the ongoing description
and usually are not employed to add new information. The same applies to
Kiparsky’s reduction rule: it is mostly observed in narrative and mostly then when
the different verb forms are part of a single decription and do not appear in a
typical scene or highlighted story. I then put the theory to the test by applying
it to four longer passages. In three of the four passages, the observations could
account for the augment use, but in the fourth passage from HH 4 this was not
the case: the analysis of the passage and the data from the appendices make clear
that there are exceptions as well.
6 Appendices
6.1 Overall data41

Iliad42 Augmented Unaugmented % augments
Aorist 1419 2405 37
Imperfect 747 1462 34
Pluperfect 45 148 23
Overall 2211 4015 36
Odyssey Augmented Unaugmented % augments

Aorist 1198 1595 43
Imperfect 749 1211 38
Pluperfect 33 112 23
Overall 1980 2918 40
Theogony Augmented Unaugmented % augments

Aorist 79 148 35
Imperfect 37 65 36
Pluperfect43 2 7
Overall 118 220 35
Works and Days Augmented Unaugmented % augments

Aorist 33 23 59
Imperfect 17 10 63
Pluperfect 2 0
Overall 52 33 61
Homeric Hymn to Augmented Unaugmented % augments

Demeter (HH 2)
Aorist 42 71 37
41I only used HH 2, 3, 4 and 5, because they are long enough to be relevant. Often I could only
use the Iliad and Odyssey, because the other texts did not have (enough) data.
42 The authenticity of Book 10 is debated, so I decided to leave it out.
43 When the data are italicised, they are too small to be relevant.
Imperfect 23 48 32
Pluperfect 3 4
Overall 68 123 36

Apollon (HH 3)
Aorist 40 71 36
Imperfect 26 34 43
Pluperfect 2 2
Overall 68 107 37

Hermes (HH 4)
Aorist 65 50 57
Imperfect 40 37 52
Pluperfect 1 0
Overall 106 87 55

Aphrodite (HH 5)
Aorist 26 32 45
Imperfect 14 26 35
Pluperfect 0 1
Overall 40 59 40
6.2 Speech versus narrative

Iliad Augmented Unaugmented % augments
Overall 2211 4015 36
Speeches 621 655 49
Narrative 1344 3201 29
Odyssey Augmented Unaugmented % augments.

Overall 1981 2939 40
Speeches 718 709 50
Apologoi44 326 476 41

Menelaos’s speech45 23 37 38
6.3 Gnomic aorist

Augmented Unaugmented % augments
Iliad 16 4
Odyssey 9 3
Theogony 8 3
Works and Days 15 5
“Overall” Homer and Hesiod 48 15 76
6.4 Similia
Augmented Unaugmented % augments
Iliad 83 11 88
Odyssey 14 3
Theogony 0 1
Works and Days 0 0
“Overall” Homer and Hesiod 97 15 87
6.5 Speech introductions

Speech introductions, with addressee 214 71 75
Speech introductions, without addressee 34 65 34
Speech introductions 248 134 65
Odyssey Augmented Unaugmented % augments.

Speech introductions, with addressee 190 54 78
Speech introductions, without addressee 35 82 30
Soliloquy 1 2
44In Books 9–12 of the Odyssey Odysseus tried to explain to the Phaiakians why his men had died
and how he was not to blame for their deaths. As he tried to defend himself, these books are called
the Apologoi.
45 This refers to Menelaos’ explanation in Book 4.351–592 of the Odyssey in which he tried to
defend himself and explain why he had neither intervened when Agamemnon was murdered nor
avenged the murder. It is sometimes called the Apologoi of Menelaos.
Theogony
Speech introductions, with addressee 2 1
Speech introductions, without addressee 0 1
Works and Days

HH 2
HH 3
HH 4
HH 5
6.6 Negation
Negation in speeches 65 56 54
Negation in narrative 87 184 32

Negation in narrative 24 45 35
Negation in speeches 82 64 56
Negation in Apologoi 23 30 43
Negation in Menelaos’s speech 3 3
Theogony 5 6
Works and Days 11 1

HH 2 8 14
HH 3 7 6
HH 4 7 12
HH 5 2 3
6.7 Subordination
Subordination in speeches 192 200 49
Subordination in narrative 220 355 38

Subordination narrative 119 249 32
Subordination speeches 207 205 50
Subordination in Apologoi 52 80 39
Subordination Menelaos’ speech 3 7
Theogony 18 40 31
Works and Days 5 4
HH 2 16 11
HH 3 13 16
HH 4 9 11
HH 5 4 8
6.8 Pluperfect
Speeches 13 22 37
Narrative 30 124 20
Speech introductions 2 2
Overall 45 148 23

Narrative 14 58 19
Speeches 13 30 30
Apologoi 5 20
Menelaos’s speech 0 2
Speech introduction 1 1
Overall 33 112 23
6.9 Dual
Speeches 2 3
Narrative 8 54 13
Overall 10 58 14

Narrative 1 23
Speeches 0 1
Apologoi 0 6
Menelaos’s speech 0 0
Overall 1 30 3
6.10 Drewitt(-Beck)’s clitic rule

Work Verb - clitic, Verb - clitic, with % verb - clitic,
without augment augment without augment
Iliad 676 107 86
Speech 53 12 82
Narrative 595 90 87
Odyssey overall 443 114 80

Speech 60 21 74
Narrative 301 64 82
Apologoi 56 25 69
Menelaos’s speech 6 2 75
Theogony 33 8 80
Works and Days 6 0 100
HH 2 22 4 85
HH 3 27 2 93
HH 4 12 4
HH 5 9 3
6.11 Kiparsky’s reduction rule

Iliad Observed Violated % observations
Overall 2955 1302 69
Speech 441 328 57
Odyssey
Overall 2070 1152 64
Speech 491 434 53
Apologoi 442 259 63
Menelaos’s speech 30 15 67
Theogony 190 110 63

Works and Days 26 37 41
HH 2 99 52 66
HH 3 81 43 65
HH 4 66 69 49
HH 5 46 25 65
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478
Oblique optative and inferential evidentiality

in Homer
Antonio Lillo
1 Status quaestionis
The oblique optative is a modal use that eludes a simple explanation, since the
only clear rule is that it is the formal sign that the clause depends on a past tense
main verb (Goodwin 1889: 5; Rijksbaron 2006: 52–53), although this rule has
some exceptions. This has also been defined as a “chameleon” mode, since it is
devoid of the modality expressed by other uses of the optative, so it would be an
entirely demodalized use (Duhoux 2000: 231). Willmott (2007: 163) considers
the optative as an “intrinsically timeless” mode, allowing it to be used in a variety
of contexts. Chantraine (1963: 223) points out that this optative expresses “plus
ou moins vaguement un procès qui peut se réaliser ou que l’on souhaite” [more
or less vaguely process that can be fulfilled or wished]; accordingly we would be
dealing with a syncretic use of the two realizations of the state of affairs presented
by the optative, as desirable and possible. It is considered, then, as a consecutio
modorum that occurs in subordinated sentences dependent on a main one in
historic tense, in which the verb in subjunctive or indicative, depending on the
type of sentence, would be replaced by an optative. Moreover, the use of oblique
optative in the classical era is more widespread than in Homer: it is used, though
not mechanically so, in Homeric texts, in final, temporal, conditional, relative,
indirect interrogative sentences or object clauses after verbs of fear, but never in
declarative sentences, as in classical times, introduced by ὅτι and ὡς governed
by verbs of saying. It is reasonable to think, therefore, that the state of Classical
Greek is a consequence of the grammaticalization of the procedure, with the
consequent relaxation of the original modal meaning of the optative, which now
has a grammatical function in certain contexts and that consequently the Homeric
texts be those that would present the oldest stage of this consecutio modorum.
Cooper (1998: 698) points out that the oblique optative “simply shows
in formal and distinct fashion that the thought or words reported are not the
reporter’s own” and that “this procedure… reduces the level of presence and
stylistic brilliance and gives clear formal indication that the language or thought
is O.O. (oratio obliqua) and not the language or thought of the reporter” (1998:
480 LILLO, Oblique optative and inferential evidentiality in Homer
707). On the other hand Duhoux (2000: 231 and 237) believes that this modal
use is chameleonic, an indifferent carrier of the two modalities expressed by the
formations to which this mode replaces: the expectation (subjunctive, indicative
future / future-perfect) and the factual (non-future times of the non-unrealizable
indicative). We see, therefore, that the consideration of use of the oblique optative
is no more than a procedure that reduces the degree of “vividness” in the expression
of verbal action, in the same way that Goodwin (1889: 261) indicated years ago.
Kühner & Gerth (1904: 361) believe that after historic in the main clause the
optative appears “wenn die Behauptung ausdrücklich als Gedanke des Subjekts
im Hauptsätze bezeichnet werden soll” [if the assertion is to be expressly referred
to as the thought of the subject in the main clause] and Rijksbaron (2006: 53)
similarly thinks that in this context the optative presents the action “from the
perspective of the narrator.”
This “perspective of the narrator” provides the frame for the study of the
oblique optative within the perspective of modality. Méndez Dosuna (1999:
344) connects the oblique optative with evidential modality and associates
it with the idea of possibility, although from a process of semantic erosion of
the idea of possibility the hypothesis of evidentiality is incompatible with most
attestations of the oblique optative (1999: 347). Consequently the oblique
optative is explained as an evidential of reporting, an inevitable phase in the
chain of grammaticalization leading up to an indirect speech mark (evidential of
quotation) based on the idea of possibility (1999: 350).
2 Analysis of Homeric examples
The problem that arises when starting from the consideration that the oblique
optative originally had a reportive evidential meaning is that it would apply to
the completive sentences introduced by ὡς and ὅτι, but not so easily to the rest
of subordinate constructions in which this modal form appears. Precisely these
completive clauses with ὡς and ὅτι, from the Homeric data, as we have pointed out
before, are the last stage in the extension of this procedure: in Homer the oblique
optative does not appear yet in these completives. It seems that the reportive
evidential meaning of the completive sentences introduced by ὡς and ὅτι is taken
implicitly as a starting point to explain this syntactic innovation, but it is not easy
to build the bridges that would explain its appearance as consecutio modorum in
all the other subordinate clauses.The reportive evidential meaning would also be
found in the indicative form coordinated with that of optative in, for example,
(1) οὗτοι ἔλεγον ὅτι Κῦρος μὲν τέθνηκεν, Ἀριαῖος δὲ πεφευγὼς ἐν τῷ

σταθμῷ εἴη μετὰ τῶν ἄλλων βαρβάρων. (X. An. 2.1.3)
‘They reported that Cyrus was dead, and that Ariaeus had fled and was now in
the station, along with the rest of the barbarians’1
This change of modal use is explained by Goodwin (1889: 261) as a different

degree of “vividness”, greater in the indicative and less so in the optative form,
although with no difference in meaning. But what is clear is that the information
provided by both constructions has the same degree of certainty. We are,
therefore, faced with a use of the optative that, following the terminology of
Stassen (1985: 76–83) and Cristofaro (2003: 54–60; 2005: 506–519) could be
considered as a deranked verb form, a form which cannot be used in independent
declarative clauses, as opposed to the balanced verb forms, which can occur in an
independent declarative clause. Consequently, we must start from previous stages
of the language to understand how to reach this last stage of the extension of this
syntactic procedure to the utterance complement clauses, i.e. complement clauses
introduced by utterance predicates such as ‘say’ or ‘tell’, using the terminology of
Noonan (2007: 121) and Cristofaro (2005: 518). But in those older stages, in
Homer, we will find that the use of the optative is significant, since the functioning
of the moods in subordinate clauses is closer to that of the main clauses.
2.1 Purpose clauses
Let’s consider the case of final sentences.
(2) ὃδ’ ἐρινεὸν ὀξέϊ χαλκῷ

τάμνε νέους ὄρπηκας, ἵν’ ἅρματος ἄντυγες εἶεν· (Il. 21.38)
‘he was cutting with the sharp bronze the young shoots of a wild fig-tree, to be
the rims of a chariot.’
(3) τὸν δ᾽ αὖ Τηλέμαχος πεπνυμένος ἀντίον ηὔδα,

θαρσήσας· αὐτὴ γὰρ ἐνὶ φρεσὶ θάρσος Ἀθήνη
θῆχ’, ἵνα μιν περὶ πατρὸς ἀποιχομένοιο ἔροιτο,
ἠδ’ ἵνα μιν κλέος ἐσθλὸν ἐν ἀνθρώποισιν ἔχῃσιν· (Od. 3.77-78)
1In tis paper I usually follow the English Loeb translation, although I do also introduce occasional
changes.
‘Then wise Telemachus took courage, and made answer, for Athena herself put
courage in his heart, that he might ask about his father that was gone, and that
good report might be his among men.’
We are faced with two “textbook” oblique optatives in final sentences dependent
on verbs in historic tense, τάμνε and θῆκε. Would these optative forms, therefore,
be interchangeable with the subjunctive, the “canonical” mode in final sentences?
Not in our opinion. Nor is it possible to propose only an epistemic meaning
for this use of the optative. Palmer (1986: 73; 2001: 8–9) had pointed to the
fragile boundary between certain epistemic and evidential uses and Auwera and
Plungian (1998: 85–86) observe that inferential evidentials are often translated
into English with epistemic must, so that inferential evidentiality is thus regarded
as an overlap category between modality as epistemic necessity and evidentiality.
In (2) the final sentence with the optative form εἶεν can have two meanings:
-epistemic, indicating possibility, “there could be a railing for the car.”
-inferential evidential, “from the cut of branches of the wild fig-tree it is
inferred that there will be a railing for the car.”
And the same happens in (3) with the optative ἔροιτο, with the two possible
meanings:
-epistemic, indicating possibility, “so that I could ask.”
-inferential evidential, “from the fact of instilling courage in the breast of
Telemachus by Athena, it is inferred that he asked for his father.”
The context would seem to tilt the disambiguation in favor of the inferential
evidential modality, since the idea of possibility would be excluded both in (2)
and in (3): it is not that the actions indicated in (2) and (3) could occur, but
that both are the logical culmination of the action indicated by the verb in the
main sentence. Therefore, the final sentence with optative refers to an action that
would take place precisely because the action of the main sentence also takes
place and at the very moment of fulfillment of that which is indicated in the main
sentence. But, unlike the construction with optative in (3), the final sentence with
subjunctive, ἵνα... ἔχῃσιν, refers to an action that will take place after the fact that
Athena instilled audacity and Telemachus asked the question. Furthermore, these
optative forms in such contexts could not be considered deranked verbal forms,
since these same sentences could function independently if we dispensed with the
subordinate marker. That is, we could regard the constructions as independent
sentences, as in (4) and (5),
(4) *τότε χ’ἅρματος ἄντυγες εἶεν

(5) *τότε μιν περὶ πατρὸς ἀποιχομένοιο ἔροιτο
with the double meaning, at least, epistemic and inferential evidential, as in text
(6)
(6) ὣς ἐρέουσιν· ἐμοὶ δὲ τότ’ἂν πολὺ κέρδιον εἴη

ἄντην ἢ Ἀχιλῆα κατακτείναντα νέεσθαι,
ἠέ κεν αὐτῷ ὀλέσθαι ἐϋκλειῶς πρὸ πόληος. (Il. 22.108)
‘So will they say; but for me it were better far to meet Achilles man to man
and slay him, and so get me home, or myself perish gloriously before the city.’
Here again we can detect two meanings for the optative forms: an epistemic
meaning, “for me it could be much more profitable”, and another inferential
evidential, “after they spoke like that, the logical thing is that this is for me more
profitable.” The disambiguation between both meanings would be given by
the context, and in this case it would be an optative with inferential evidential
meaning, because the contextual reference is that the fact of facing Achilles and
returning after having killed him is without doubt the most profitable action, a
conclusion that is inferred from the study of the analysis of the situation.
From here we can better explain the final clause with optative dependent on
a main verb in future tense, an optative whose relation to the oblique optative is
explicitly denied (Palmer 1962: 161).
(7) ὢ πόποι, οἷον ἔειπε κύων ὀλοφώϊα εἰδώς,

τόν ποτ᾽ ἐγὼν ἐπὶ νηὸς ἐϋσσέλμοιο μελαίνης
ἄξω τῆλ᾽ Ἰθάκης, ἵνα μοι βίοτον πολὺν ἄλφοι. (Od. 17.250)
‘Lo now, how the cur talks, his mind full of mischief. Him will I some day
take on a black, benched ship far from Ithaca, that he may bring me in much
wealth.’
This text (7) has received various explanations: a) it is a very rare use and has
to be considered as a mere irregularity of construction, as Goodwin (1889:
115) proposes; b) the optative “als Modus der Vorstellung rückt das Erwartete
gewissermassen in weitere Ferne” [as a mode of representation moves the expected
to a certain extent into the distance], as Kühner & Gerth (1904: 252–253)
believes; Schwyzer & Debrunner (1950: 323) regard this optative as “Kupitiv”,
not “Potential”, an opinión shared by Chantraine (1963: 271); d) Willmott
(2007: 164–165) relates the construction to conditional sentences and explains it
as a consequence of the fact that,“when the speaker wants to stress that the event
is only a possible and conditional consequence of the main clause, he may use the
‘unreal’ optative.”
In our opinion, the explanation of ἄλφοι would be based on the inferential
evidential meaning of the optative. The form ἄλφοι with epistemic meaning
would indicate the possibility of seeking a ransom, while as inferential evidence
it would indicate the logical consequence of providing a good ransom for taking
Odysseus away from Ithaca to sell him as a slave. It is evident that the situation
that arises leaves no doubt as to the ransom provided, not the possibility of its
ransom.
2.2 Relative clauses
A “textbook” oblique optative in a relative sentence is to be found in
(8) ἀλλ’ ὅτε δὴ δεκάτη ἐφάνη ῥοδοδάκτυλος Ἠὼς

καὶ τότε μιν ἐρέεινε καὶ ᾔτεε σῆμα ἰδέσθαι
ὅττί ῥά οἱ γαμβροῖο πάρα Προίτοιο φέροιτο. (Il. 6.177)
‘Howbeit when the tenth rosy-fingered Dawn appeared, then at length he
questioned him and asked to see whatever token he carried from his daughter’s
husband, Proetus.’
It is a typical text to explain the equivalence of the oblique optative and the
indicative (Goodwin 1889: 281; Duhoux 2000: 237). Proetus gives Bellerophon a
tablet written to be shown to his father-in-law, the King of Lycia with instructions
to kill him. It is a situation of φιλοξενία, in which the guest is warmly welcomed
before the reason for the visit is discussed. Therefore, it is inferred that the host
is a carrier of a σῆμα, without the actual verification being indicated in the text,
which justifies the optative. It would, therefore, be a construction similar to (9),
where it is inferred that two men could not lift the stone, but Diomedes can:
(9) ὃ δὲ χερμάδιον λάβε χειρὶ

Τυδεΐδης μέγα ἔργον ὃ οὐ δύο γ’ ἄνδρε φέροιεν,
οἷοι νῦν βροτοί εἰσ’· (Il. 5.303)
‘But the son of Tydeus grasped in his hand a stone–a mighty deed–one that not
two men could bear, such as mortals now are.”
In a different way, the constructions of relative with indicative that depend on

historic tense indicate this actual verification of the action, as in the case of (10).
(10) φῆ γὰρ ὅ γ’ αἱρήσειν Πριάμου πόλιν ἤματι κείνῳ

νήπιος, οὐδὲ τὰ ᾔδη ἅ ῥα Ζεὺς μήδετο ἔργα· (Il. 2.38)
‘For in sooth he deemed that he should take the city of Priam that very day, fool
that he was! seeing he knew not what deeds Zeus was purposing.’
In (10) there is evidence of the plot of Zeus, which Agamemnon ignored.
2.3 Indirect interrogative sentences with ὅ(π)πως
Let us now turn to the analysis of indirect interrogative sentences with ὅπως:
(11) τὸν δ’ ἐπὶ θινὶ

Ζηνὶ κελαινεφέϊ Κρονίδῃ, ὃς πᾶσιν ἀνάσσει,
ῥέξας μηρί’ ἔκαιον· ὁ δ’ οὐκ ἐμπάζετο ἱρῶν,
ἀλλ’ ὅ γε μερμήριζεν, ὅπως ἀπολοίατο πᾶσαι
νῆες ἐΰσσελμοι καὶ ἐμοὶ ἐρίηρες ἑταῖροι. (Od. 9.554)
‘and on the shore I sacrificed him to Zeus, son of Cronos, god of the dark
clouds, who is lord of all, and burned the thigh-pieces. Howbeit he heeded not
my sacrifice, but was planning how all my well-benched ships might / would
perish and my trusty comrades.’
or
“… how to be destroyed my well-benched ships…”
(12) ὣς φάτο, μερμήριξε δ’ ἀρηΐφιλος Μενέλαος,

ὅππως οἱ κατὰ μοῖραν ὑποκρίναιτο νοήσας. (Od. 15.169)
‘so he spoke, and Menelaus, dear to Ares, pondered how he might / would with
understanding interpret the sign aright.’
or
‘… how to interpret with understanding the sign aright.’
In text (11) Odysseus narrates what happened to him after fleeing from
Polyphemus and how Zeus does not accept his sacrifices, but how he destroys his
ships, which he expresses with the construction ὅπως ἀπολοίατο πᾶσαι / νῆες.
The status of ἀπολοίατο could be that of epistemic modality with the meaning of
possibility, but from an analysis of the situation it is clear that the idea expressed
is not that the ships could be lost, but that the ships were going to be lost and
that Zeus was meditating how to bring it about. It would be possible to speak,
therefore, of an evidential meaning, with the non-commitment of the speaker
towards the information, but inferred from the analysis of the situation. That
commitment to the information would be expressed through the future, as we
will see in (14).
And the same can be said of (12), where Menelaus meditates on an
interpretation appropriate to Telemachus and Pisistratus, Nestor’s son, regarding
a prodigy that they had just contemplated. The optative ἀποκρίναιτο does not
have an epistemic meaning of possibility either, since what the text tells us is
not the possibility of an answer (epistemic meaning), but that he was going to
respond, though the question was how to do so properly. It would again be an
optative with evidential meaning, as in (11). It would be a situation comparable
to (13), but here with a form ὑποκρίναιτο in the main clause.
(13) ὧδέ χ’ ὑποκρίναιτο θεοπρόπος, ὃς σάφα θυμῷ

εἰδείη τεράων καί οἱ πειθοίατο λαοί. (Il. 12.228)
‘On this wise would a soothsayer interpret, one that in his mind had clear
knowledge of omens, and to whom the folk gave ear.’
Polydamas goes to Hector to tell him that they must not attack the Achaeans, who
are holed up behind the wall that protects their ships, and this due to an augury.
In this text, the optative form with a modal particle χ’ ὑποκρίναιτο appears with
a double meaning, that of possibility (epistemic meaning), “a fortune-teller could
interpret what he has seen in this way”, or as a result of an inference, “what is
usual for any fortune-teller is to interpret what he has seen in this way” (inferential
evidential meaning).
But a future may also appear instead of an optative form, as in (14):
(14) ὡς δ᾽ ὅτε γαστέρ’ ἀνὴρ πολέος πυρὸς αἰθομένοιο,

ἐμπλείην κνίσης τε καὶ αἵματος, ἔνθα καὶ ἔνθα
αἰόλλῃ, μάλα δ’ ὦκα λιλαίεται ὀπτηθῆναι,
ὣς ἄρ’ ὅ γ’ ἔνθα καὶ ἔνθα ἑλίσσετο μερμηρίζων,
ὅππως δὴ μνηστῆρσιν ἀναιδέσι χεῖρας ἐφήσει,
μοῦνος ἐὼν πολέσι. (Od. 20.29)
‘And as when a man before a great blazing fire turns swiftly this way and that
a paunch full of fat and blood, and is very eager to have it roasted quickly, so
Odysseus tossed from side to side, pondering how he might put forth his hands
upon the shameless wooers, one man as he was against so many.’
A future would appear here as a by-form of the optative to indicate a strong

inference: it is taken for granted that Odysseus will lay hands on the suitors and
meditate the way to do so. This explains the appearance of the particle δή after
the indirect question marker ὅππως (Denniston 1954: 211).2
This variation of procedures, optative versus future, to express the inference
that we could call “weak”, with optative, against the “strong” inference, with
future, appears in Homer with some frequency. This is the case of the doublet κεν
θρασικάρδιος εἴη / ἔσται.
(15) αὐγὴ χαλκείη κορύθων ἄπο λαμπομενάων

θωρήκων τε νεοσμήκτων σακέων τε φαεινῶν
ἐρχομένων ἄμυδις· μάλα κεν θρασυκάρδιος εἴη
ὃς τότε γηθήσειεν ἰδὼν πόνον οὐδ᾽ ἀκάχοιτο. (Il. 13.343)
‘And the battle, that brings death to mortals, bristled with long spears which
they held for the rending of flesh, and eyes were blinded by the blaze of bronze
from gleaming helmets, and corselets newly burnished, and shining shields,
as men came on confusedly. Sturdy in sooth would he have been of heart that
took joy at sight of such toil of war, and grieved not.’
(16) τίφθ’ οὕτως ἠθεῖε κορύσσεαι; ἦ τιν’ ἑταίρων

ὀτρυνέεις Τρώεσσιν ἐπίσκοπον; ἀλλὰ μάλ’ αἰνῶς
δείδω μὴ οὔ τίς τοι ὑπόσχηται τόδε ἔργον
ἄνδρας δυσμενέας σκοπιαζέμεν οἶος ἐπελθὼν
νύκτα δι’ ἀμβροσίην· μάλα τις θρασυκάρδιος ἔσται. (Il. 10.41)
‘Wherefore, my brother, art thou thus arming? Wilt thou be rousing someman
of thy comrades to spy upon the Trojans? Nay, sorely am I afraid lest none
should undertake for thee this task, to go forth alone and spy upon the foemen,
through the immortal night; righthardy of heart must that man be.’
Text (15) is a narrative passage with the description of a battle, where κεν
θρασικάρδιος εἴη refers to an anonymous combatant who contemplates or
participates therein, with the general inference that “given the situation, what
2 Cf. also the same formula with future, but first person in Od. 20.39, and in aorist indicative, after
the death of the suitors, in Od. 23.37.
is expected is that he is very intrepid.” With a difference of degree we find the

phrase in (16), where Menelaus addresses Agamemnon as to the preparations for
the battle and asks about the possibility of a comrade with a specific role, to act
as a spy, from which the fact of being intrepid is categorically inferred by using
the future form ἔσται.
2.4 Indirect interrogative sentences with ὡς
Let us now examine the constructions with ὡς of indirect interrogative sentences.

Its original meaning of instrumental is evident, by which ὡς is translated as
“how”, although in the usual manuals the border between declarative and indirect
interrogative sentences is sometimes diffuse: when they introduce optatives and
depend on historic tense, these constructions are considered indirect interrogative,
while they are considered declarative when the verb they introduce is in indicative
mode (Palmer 1962: 157–158; Chantraine 1963: 291–293).
(17) μερμήριξε δ᾽ ἔπειτα κατὰ φρένα καὶ κατὰ θυμὸν

κύσσαι καὶ περιφῦναι ἑὸν πατέρ’ ἠδὲ ἕκαστα
εἰπεῖν, ὡς ἔλθοι καὶ ἵκοιτ’ ἐς πατρίδα γαῖαν,
ἦ πρῶτ’ ἐξερέοιτο ἕκαστά τε πειρήσαιτο. (Od. 24.237)
‘Then he debated in mind and heart whether to kiss and embrace his father,
and tell him all, how he had returned and come to his native land, or whether
he should first question him, and prove him in each thing.’
The optatives ἔλθοι and ἵκοιτο have no epistemic meaning, since the fact is
that Odysseus had returned home; by expressing an inference, they do have an
evidential one, however, since the truth is that Odysseus had indeed returned
home: from what Odysseus said his father would deduce that his son had actually
returned. We are not, therefore, dealing here with a use prior to the consolidation
of the oblique optative dependent on verba dicendi et declarandi, however close it
may already be, but rather with a use of optative in indirect interrogative clauses,
with an inferential evidential value.
The verb πειράω allows a double sentence construction dependent on it,
with infinitive and with ὡς, when the main sentence is in historical time. This is
the case of texts (18) and (19):
(18) τοῖσι δὲ πόλλ᾽ ἐπέτελλε Γερήνιος ἱππότα Νέστωρ

δενδίλλων ἐς ἕκαστον, Ὀδυσσῆϊ δὲ μάλιστα,
πειρᾶν ὡς πεπίθοιεν ἀμύμονα Πηλεΐωνα. (Il. 9.181)

‘And the horseman, Nestor of Gerenia, laid straight command upon them with
many a glance at each, and chiefly upon Odysseus, that they should make essay
to persuade the peerless son of Peleus.’
(19) αὐτίκ’ ἐπειρᾶτο Κρονίδης ἐρεθιζέμεν ῞Ηρην

κερτομίοις ἐπέεσσι, (Il. 4.6)
‘And forthwith the son of Cronos made essay to provoke Hera with mocking
words,’
In (19) it is clear that Zeus is trying to provoke Hera, something which does not
happen in (18), where the embassy of Nestor and Odysseus tries to convince
Achilles to return to war, a conviction that is based on an inference, since they
are carriers of numerous gifts from Agamemnon, but with no commitment to
the achievement of the objective. Finally they do not achieve the goal this time.
Consequently, it is reasonable to think that the commutation of ὡς πεπίθοιεν
with infinitive form, regardless of the metric problems, would not be syntactically
appropriate.
But, unlike (18) and (19), the construction with ὡς with verb in indicative
is found in, for example,
(20) αὐτόματος δέ οἱ ἦλθε βοὴν ἀγαθὸς Μενέλαος·

ᾔδεε γὰρ κατὰ θυμὸν ἀδελφεὸν ὡς ἐπονεῖτο. (Il. 2.409)
‘And unbidden came to him Menelaus, good at the war-cry, for he knew in his
heart wherewith his brother was busied.’
Here the situation of constraint in which Agamemnon finds himself is a true fact,
which justifies ἐπονεῖτο. But the action referred to by the subordinate sentence
with ὡς can also refer to a future situation in relation to that of the main sentence,
in which case the mode of the verbal form of the subordinate is the subjunctive,
as in (21):
(21) Ἄλλοι μέν ῥα θεοί τε καὶ ἀνέρες ἱπποκορυσταὶ

εὗδον παννύχιοι, Δία δ᾽ οὐκ ἔχε νήδυμος ὕπνος,
ἀλλ’ ὅ γε μερμήριζε κατὰ φρένα ὡς Ἀχιλῆα
τιμήσῃ, ὀλέσῃ δὲ πολέας ἐπὶ νηυσὶν Ἀχαιῶν. (Il. 2.4)
‘Now all the other gods and men, lords of chariots, slumbered the whole night
through, but Zeus was not holden of sweet sleep, for he was pondering in his
heart how he might do honour to Achilles and lay many low beside the ships
of the Achaeans.’
It is the same reference to a future situation in relation to that of the main sentence
on which it depends that we find in (22):
(22) οὐδέ ποτε Ζεὺς

τρέψεν ἀπὸ κρατερῆς ὑσμίνης ὄσσε φαεινώ,
ἀλλὰ κατ᾽ αὐτοὺς αἰὲν ὅρα καὶ φράζετο θυμῷ,
πολλὰ μάλ᾽ ἀμφὶ φόνῳ Πατρόκλου μερμηρίζων,
ἢ ἤδη καὶ κεῖνον ἐνὶ κρατερῇ ὑσμίνῃ
αὐτοῦ ἐπ’ ἀντιθέῳ Σαρπηδόνι φαίδιμος Ἕκτωρ
χαλκῷ δῃώσῃ, ἀπό τ’ ὤμων τεύχε’ ἕληται,
ἦ ἔτι καὶ πλεόνεσσιν ὀφέλλειεν πόνον αἰπύν. (Il. 16.644-651)
‘Nor did Zeus anywise turn his bright eyes from the fierce conflict, but ever
looked down upon them, and debated in heart, pondering much about the
slaying of Patroclus, whether in the fierce conflict even there over godlike
Sarpedon, glorious Hector should slay him likewise with the sword, and should
strip the armour from his shoulders, or whether for yet more men he should
make the utter toil of war to wax.’
The subjunctive δῃώσῃ and ἕληται of (22) refer to actions that would take place
in situations to occur after the one set forth in the main sentence upon which
these indirect interrogations depend. In a different way, the optative in the present
form ὀφέλλειεν would refer to an action located within the same situation in
which the main sentence on which this indirect interrogation depends, the result
of the analysis in which the warlike dispute is found, but with no commitment to
the achievement of the objective.3
2.5 Indirect interrogative sentences with interrogative pronouns
Finally let us analyze text (23).
(23) οἱ δ’ ἐλεαίροντες δίδοσαν καὶ ἐθάμβεον αὐτὸν
3 Chantraine (1963: 294 and 295–296) points out that in this text the optative refers to the least
likely action.
ἀλλήλους τ’εἴροντο, τίς εἴη καὶ πόθεν ἔλθοι. (Od. 17.368)4

‘And they pitied him and gave, and marvelled at him, asking one another
who he was and whence he came.’
The suitors sympathized with Odysseus disguised as a beggar without acknowledging

him, so that this ignorance of the person and his origin, that non-commitment to
information about the person and his origin is expressed with optative. We would
not be faced with a proto-oblique optative, but with a use of the optative with
inferential evidential value, since there is no prior objective information about the
person, but each of the suitors would make their own deduction.
The situation is different with indirect interrogative sentences when a previous
information about a character or situation occurs. Such is the case in (24).
(24) μνηστῆρες δ’ ὁμάδησαν ἀνὰ μέγαρ’˙ αὐτὰρ Ἀθήνη

ἄγχι παρισταμένη Λαερτιάδην Ὀδυσῆα
ὤτρυν’, ὡς ἂν πύρνα κατὰ μνηστῆρας ἀγείροι
γνοίη θ’οἵ τινές εἰσιν ἐναίσιμοι οἵ τ’ἀθέμιστοι· (Od. 17.363)
‘The wooers broke into uproar throughout the halls; but Athena drew close to
the side of Odysseus, son of Laertes, and roused him to go among the wooers
and gather bits of bread, and learn which of them were righteous and which
lawless.’
In (24) Odysseus knows the suitors, so it is appropriate to distinguish between

those that are ἐναίσιμοι and ἀθέμιστοι, for which an interrogative pronoun
οἵ τινες appears with the verbal form in indicative mode, εἰσιν. And someting
similar happens in (25).
(25) εἴρετο δ’ αὐτίκ᾽ ἔπειτα βοὴν ἀγαθὸς Μενέλαος,

ὅττευ χρηΐζων ἱκόμην Λακεδαίμονα δῖαν· (Od. 17.121)
‘And straightway Menelaus, good at the war-cry, asked me in quest of what I
had come to goodly Lacedaemon.’
Telemachus tells his mother about his trip to Sparta, where Menelaus asked him
the reason he had gone to his palace, for which he use an indicative ἱκόμην
introduced by an interrogative form ὅττευ.
4This same construction, now as εἰρώτα δὴ ἔπειτα, τίς εἴη καὶ πόθεν ἔλθοι, is repeated in Od.
15.423.
3 Conclusion
From the above we can deduce that it does not seem appropriate to speak of a
consecutio modorum in Homer in regard to the use of the optative in subordinate
clauses dependent on main sentences with verbs in historic tense, since the optative
in these constructions has an evidential meaning of inference, not an epistemic
meaning or a mere substitute for another modal form. Precisely because this use
of the optative is significant, not a mere by-form of another modal form, it can be
understood that optative forms also appear in future dependent constructions, as
is the case in (7). In fact constructions with oblique optative could also function as
main sentences without the need to alter the modal use. Starting, therefore, from
the double value of the potential optative from the perspective of the modality,
epistemic value or of inferential evidentiality, from the texts analyzed here it
follows that the so-called oblique optative would have its origin in the inferential
evidential modality of the optative, not in the epistemic one. Consequently, the
oblique optative would not indicate the least likely action, as has usually been
proposed, but an inference from the analysis of the situation without the speaker’s
commitment to the information. Given this optative value from the standpoint
of modality, one would need to appreciate, already in later stages of evolution
of the language, a certain grammaticalization of the procedure, which to some
extent would allow us to consider these forms of optative as by-forms of other
modals, as is the case with text (1).
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University Press
A usage-based approach to prosody and second

argument realization1
Alberto Pardal Padín
1 Introduction
The study of the prosody of Ancient Greek has always been hindered by the lack
of native speakers. However, it is possible to find reliable sources of secondary
data in the metrical analysis of texts (e.g. Devine & Stephens 1978; Mojena
1992; Goldstein 2015: 65–67; Pardal Padín 2015). This kind of analysis, albeit
incomplete and partial, can shed light on the distribution of the linguistic material
into different prosodic units. An already observed tendency in this regard would
be that of objects to appear alongside (and commonly contiguous to) their head
(Pardal Padín 2015) as a result of iconicity and high frequency of use.
More specifically, in this paper the focus will be on how the different case
marking strategies for the second argument (namely, nominative, accusative,
genitive, dative or prepositional phrase) behave in terms of position and distance
from their head. This is carried out through both a qualitative and quantitative
analysis of 2246 dialogic verses randomly selected2 from some complete works of
the three tragedians and Aristophanes.3
The hypothesis is that, on the one hand, highly frequent sequences such as
the one formed by the verb and its second argument undergo a chunking process
1 This paper is part of the project “Interacción del léxico y la sintaxis en griego antiguo y latín”
(FFI2017-83310-C3-1-P) funded by the Spanish Ministry of Economy and Competitiveness. I
thank Tulsi Parikh for her careful correction of my English. All the remaining errors and mistakes
are my own.
2These verses constitute a subset of the 5000 verses analyzed for my PhD dissertation (Pardal Padín
2017). These verses were randomly picked by the True Random Number Generator tool on the
website www.random.org.
3 Specifically, Agamemnon, Libation bearers, Eumenides, Persians and Seven against Thebes for
Aeschylus; Antigone, Ajax, Electra, Oedipus at Colonus and Oedipus Rex for Sophocles; Euripides’
Alcestis, Medea, Heracleidae, Hippolytus and Andromache; and, finally, Lysistrata, Knights, Acharnians,
Birds and Wasps by Aristophanes. The editions followed are West (1990) for Aeschylus, Lloyd-Jones
and Wilson (1990) for Sophocles, Diggle (1981, 1984, 1994) for Euripides and Wilson (2007a,
2007b) for Aristophanes. Translations are my own.
496 PARDAL PADÍN, A usage-based approach to prosody
through repetition. On the other hand, the different possibilities for second argument
marking differ depending on their frequency and the ease with which they can be
correctly processed and identified. Thus, typically adverbal cases like accusative and
dative are easier to detach from their head, while the genitive — which is typically
adnominal — is more frequently kept together with the verb governing it.
In the following Section 2, I will explain briefly the results found in the
qualitative metrical analysis on the aforementioned works. Section 3 is devoted
to the quantitative analysis performed via a Variable Rules Analysis software. The
discussion and proposed explanation can be found in Section 4. I will sum up the
main conclusions in Section 5.
2 Caesurae, intonational units and syntactic constituents
In order to study the alignment of grammar and prosody, it is necessary to

establish some basic criteria to determine how to identify the intonational units
(henceforth IU). The main source of data for Ancient Greek Prosody can be
found in metrical texts. Thus, in example (1), the penthemimeres caesura caesura
(marked by a vertical line) divides the verse into two units, each of them containing
a verb (ἔθαπτον and εἰσορῶ) and its second argument (ἣν and δάμαρτ᾽ ἐμήν).
(1) ἀλλ᾽ ἣν ἔθαπτον | εἰσορῶ δάμαρτ᾽ ἐμήν; (E. Alc. 1130).

‘But am I seeing my wife, whom I buried?’
Although not every verse displays such a perfect alignment of syntactic and
metric units, there is a widespread tendency to keep cognitively and syntactically
related items together, the iconicity of distance (Haiman 1983, 2008; Givón
2002: 133–134). The main tendency is for the verb to go with its second
argument; however, this is not the only possibility, as shown in the following
examples, where a verb appears along with its first argument (2), third argument
(3) or some sort of satellite (4).4
(2) Κύπρις γὰρ ἤθελ᾽ | ὥστε γίγνεσθαι τάδε (E. Hipp. 1327).
‘For Cypris wanted this to happen this way.
4 It is also common to find an IU where the verb appears alongside more than one constituent:
Τοιαῦτ’ ἐρεῖ τις, | κἀμὲ μὲν δαίμων ἐλᾷ (S. Ai. 504) ‘Someone will say that and fate will strike me’.
These examples have been counted both for the 1st and 2nd argument. The opposite situation, verbs
that appear alone in their IU, is also common.
’(3) Ἀλλ’ ἵνα φράσω σοι | πάντα τἄνω πράγματα (Ar. Au. 1507).
‘But, in order to tell you everything about up there…’
(4) πέμπει δ’ ἔπειτα | τάσδε κηδείους χοάς (A. Ch. 538).

‘She sends then these funeral libations.’
The analysis of the 20 works shows the preference of every author to keep verbs
and their second arguments together. This tendency works both ways. If we
attend first to the elements accompanying the verb, we can see in Figure 1 that
the second argument is the most common constituent to appear in the same IU
as the verb. However, this tendency follows a simple linear correspondence: there
are much more explicit second arguments in the predications analyzed than any
other possible constituent. Furthermore, the more frequent a constituent, the
more common it is to find the verb alongside it.
Figure 1: co-aparition of verb and arguments
It is far more interesting to look at the data the other way around, i.e. attending
to whether or not each argument appears alongside the verb with which it is
constructed. In this respect, first arguments appear almost equally commonly with
its verb (522 examples) and separate from it (592 examples). Third arguments
show a similar distribution: 183 of them appear within the same IU as the verb,
170 appear in a different IU. Second arguments, however, present a clear tendency
to appear in the same IU as their head: 1257 examples against 363 that do not
appear alongside the verb. This tendency can be easily observed in Figure 2.
Figure 2: arguments with and without verb
In fact, most of the examples where the second argument and the verb do not
belong to the same IU fall into one of the following categories: a) the second
argument is long enough to fill half a verse (or a full verse), as in example (5);5 b)
the NP is the second argument of a subordinate verb that forms an IU with the
main verb, as in (6); or c) the second argument is fronted because it functions as
a Focus or Topic6, as in example (7).
(5) αὗται μὲν ὄζουσ᾽ | ἀμβροσίας καὶ νέκταρος (Ar. Ach. 196).
‘These ones smell like ambrosia and nectar.’
(6) τούτῳ θεοῦ μάντευμα | κοινῶσαι θέλω (E. Med. 685).

‘I want to share the prophesy of the god with him.’
(7) καὶ ταῦτα μὲν δὴ | πᾶσ᾽ ἐπίσταται πόλις (E. Alc. 156).
‘And the whole city knows this, clearly.’
5 The length of the grammatical units has been proposed as a factor determining the alignment of
grammar and prosody (Croft 1995: 856–860).
6It is now a common assumption that Ancient Greek word order is ruled by pragmatic factors.
The first position of the sentence is usually occupied by some salient element (Dik 1995; Bertrand
2010; Celano 2014).
Nevertheless, it is possible to identify some differences in the way the morphological

cases work. As shown in Table 1, second arguments in the genitive case almost
always belong in the same IU as their verbs. Second arguments in the dative and
nominative cases follow, with more than 80% of cases forming an IU with the
governing verb. Finally, NPs in the accusative and PPs are the possibilities that are
most commonly found in a different IU from their governing verb.
Table 1
Case Same IU Different IU Total %
Accusative 951 (76%) 301 (24%) 1252 77,3%
Nominative 117 (82,4%) 25 (17,66%) 142 8,8%
Genitive 91 (91,9%) 8 (8,1%) 99 6,1%
Dative 61 (81,3%) 14 (18,7%) 75 4,6%
Prep. Phrase 37 (71,2%) 15 (28,8%) 52 3,1%
Total 1257 (77,6%) 363 (22,4%) 1620
This data, however, needs further explanation. There could be different variables
conditioning the distribution of verbs and second argument along the verse.
Three of them will be considered for this paper: frequency of use, case marking
and author.
3 Quantitative analysis: Variable Rules Analysis
The data found in the metrical analysis can and should be put to test through
a statistical study. In order to do so, the data has been run through a Variable
Rules Analysis (or VarbRul) software (GoldVarb; Sankoff et al. 2005). This
software weighs how much each variable impacts on the application of a given
phenomenon.7 It allows us to rank the different variables involved and rule out
those that are irrelevant to the process under study.
Here, the phenomenon studied is whether or not the second argument
appears within the same IU as its head verb. On the other hand, the variables
considered have been author, case and frequency of use. The first factor has been
included as a control for possible stylistic differences in the distribution of the
7 VarbRulanalysis was originally applied to sociolinguistics (Cedergren & Sankoff 1974; Sankoff &
Labov 1979). However, it has proved to be a useful tool for historical linguistics too (Alba 2008).
linguistic material throughout the verse. The second factor constitutes the main
goal of this study: measuring how the different morphosyntactic case markings
behave regarding their position along the head of the sentence. Finally, the
governing verbs have been divided into four groups according to their frequency
of use.8 The following examples show different possible combinations of these
three parameters.
(8) δίκη γάρ ἐστι φωτὸς ἀρχηγοῦ τίειν (A. A. 259).

‘it is justice to value a governing man’s wife…’; nominative, highest frequency.
(9) στείχει προνωπὴς ἐκπεσοῦσα δεμνίων (E. Alc. 186).

‘she marches downcast after falling from her bed’; genitive, high frequency.
(10) τούτοις ἐπαυχεῖν καὶ δεδρακυῖαν γελᾶν (S. Ant. 483).

‘exult with them and laugh about her deeds’; dative and accusative, lowest
[ἐπαυχέω] and low [γελάω] frequency.
(11) Πάρφαινε μὰν τὸν ὅρκον, ὡς ὀμιόμεθα (Ar. Lys. 183).

‘Tell us the oath, so we can swear it’; accusative, lowest frequency.
I present in Table 2 the data for each variable and possibility found in the corpus
analysis.
8 The four groups have been created from the data found in Logeion (logeion.uchicago.edu) for
the different verbs found: the first group comprises verbs that are among the 500 most frequent
works in Ancient Greek (e.g. εἶναι, ἔχειν); the second group, those verbs ranked between the 501st
and 1500th word (e.g. φιλεῖν, προσβάλλειν); the third group is for those ranked from 1500th word
onward (e.g. ἀγείρειν, ἐξαυδᾶν), and the final group is for those verbs so infrequent (less than 50
occurrences in the whole Greek corpus) that are not even ranked in the Logeion database (e.g.
καθαιμάσσειν, ἀμυνάθειν). I label them highest, high, low and lowest for clarity’s sake.
Table 2
Same group Different group Total %
Author
Aeschylus 202 (75,7%) 65 (24,3%) 267 16,5 %
Aristophanes 325 (81,2%) 75 (18,8%) 400 24,7 %
Euripides 354 (76,8%) 107 (23,2%) 461 28,5 %
Sophocles 376 (76,4%) 116 (23,6%) 492 30,4 %
Total 1257 (77,6%) 363 (22,4%) 1620
Case
Accusative 951 (76%) 301 (24%) 1252 77,3 %
Dative 61 (81,3%) 14 (18,7%) 75 4,6 %
Genitive 91 (91,9%) 8 (8,1%) 99 6,1 %
Nominative 117 (82,4%) 25 (17,6%) 142 8,8 %
Prep. Phrase 37 (71,2%) 15 (28.8%) 52 3,1 %
Total 1257 (77,6%) 363 (22,4%) 1620
Frequency
1 665 (77,6%) 192 (22,4%) 857 52,9 %
2 215 (76,5%) 66 (23,5%) 281 17,3 %
3 212 (79,4%) 55 (20,6%) 267 16,5 %
4 165 (76,7%) 50 (23,3%) 215 13,3 %
Total 1257 (77,6%) 363 (22,4%) 1620
The software runs a multivariate analysis that discards the variables that do
not influence the application of the phenomenon and rank the remaining
factors accordingly. Within each variable, each possibility is also given a
weight depending on whether it favors the application of the phenomenon
or not. In the analysis carried out of the data found in the previous section,
the VarbRul analysis rules out author and frequency as possible explanations
and only keeps case as a determining factor. The results of the analysis can be
found in Table 3.
Table 3
Case Total +Vb Weight
Accusative 1252 951 (76%) 0,470
Dative 75 61 (81,3%) 0,555
Genitive 99 91 (91,9%) 0,761
Nominative 142 117(82,4%) 0,568
Prep. Phrase 52 37 (71,2%) 0,409
Range 35,2
4 Discussion and proposed explanation
The results of the analysis show two clear tendencies. First, it is possible to claim
that second arguments are, as I previously argued, kept together under the same
prosodic contour as their governing verb. Secondly, this tendency is stronger for
second arguments in the genitive, followed by second arguments in the dative
and nominative; on the other hand, second arguments with the most prototypical
case marking, i.e. the accusative, are easier to detach from their syntactic head.9
Regarding the first of these tendencies, the alignment of grammatical units
(the verb and its second argument) and IUs, it has been pointed out that IUs
are related to the way we, as speakers, process and retrieve the information
previously stored (Croft 1995: 875). The storage process is necessarily linked to
the experience of the speaker: more frequent strings are chunked together and
easier to analyze, store and access (Bybee 2010: 33–37). Given time and enough
repetition of similar chunks, abstract schemas can arise, as seen in Table 4.
Table 4: levels of abstraction of a NP in English (apud Bybee 2002: 123)

1. Very specific: my mother, my computer, the car, a problem, an idea
2. Partially general: [ my + noun ], [ poss pro + mother ]
3. More general: [ possessive + noun ]
4. Fully general: [ determiner + noun ]
This same process can be proposed for the group formed by verb and second
argument. There is an iconic propensity (iconicity of distance; Haiman 1983,
2008; Givón 2002: 133–134) to keep together, both linearly and temporally,
elements that are cognitively close. Thus, a participant affected to some extent
by the verbal action, i.e. a second argument, is prone to appear next to the verb
expressing that same action. The frequent repetition of these sequences of a
verb plus a second argument is then chunked, stored and retrieved as a single
unit, giving rise first to specific constructions for each combination of verb plus
case and, ultimately, to a wider and more schematic complement construction
9 Prepositional phrases show an even lower result than the accusative. However, they are not easily
comparable: firstly, PPs are heavier and it is easier for them to fill half a verse; secondly, they are
semantically transparent and very easily understood in discourse.
comprised of a verb and a second argument.10 The process, if we represent it in a

similar fashion to that found in Table 4 for NPs in English, can be seen in Table 5.
Table 5: levels of abstraction of a complement construction in Ancient Greek

1. Very specific: παῖδας ἄγειν, πολιτῶν ἄρχειν, σοι πρέπειν
2. Partially general: [ παῖδας + verb ], [ gen + ἄρχειν ]
3. More general: [ verb + acc], [ verb + gen ]
4. Fully general: [ verb + object ]
These chunked sequences are not only stored as complex units, but also recovered
as a whole. Thus, when processing a new utterance, it is highly probable for these
cognitive units to appear within the same IU.
The second tendency drawn from the analysis seems to be related to frequency
and productivity to some extent, but it is mainly a result of cognitive processes of
interpretation and analysis of the sequences found in discourse. Thus, it is easier
to parse and interpret correctly a second argument in the accusative because it
has the default case marking for that syntactic-semantic function. This is a result,
ultimately, of frequency of use: speakers have encountered a huge amount of
utterances where a second argument was marked in the accusative, so they need
almost no cognitive effort to recognize the construction.
Regarding the dative, despite not being the habitual marking for second
arguments, it shows a high internal coherence, since the dative second arguments
found in discourse usually function semantically as expected for a dative:
Instruments (12), Experiencers (13) and Beneficiaries (14) are all common
functions for this case in other constructions.
(12) οὔτ’ ἂν ξένοισι τοῖσι σοῖς χρησαίμεθ’ ἂν (E. Med. 616).

‘I would never make use of your friends.’
(13) Ὀλίγον αὐτῶν μοι μέλει (Ar. Lys. 895).

‘Little I care about that.’
10 Evidently, not every case marking works the same way. They are present different degrees of
syntactic productivity (Barðdal 2008): while the accusative construction is widespread and the
default one, the genitive, nominative and dative constructions are restricted to some specific lexical
contexts.
(14) τέθνηκεν, ὥστε τοῖς θανοῦσιν ὠφελεῖν (S. Ant. 560).

‘it’s dead, so as to serve the death.’
Nominatives show a similar behaviour: they are highly coherent because they
almost only appear in copulative constructions with extremely highly frequent
verbs such as εἶναι (4th most common lemma in Ancient Greek), γίγνεσθαι (26th
most common), φαίνειν (121st) or φύειν (394th). All the occurrences of a second
argument in the nominative are part of a highly entrenched construction (the
copulative construction) and, therefore, they are easily parsed and understood.
Second arguments in the genitive, however, show a very different
situation. Firstly, the genitive functions mainly as a case marking for adnominal
complements. Secondly, when it is a second argument, the semantic functions it
has are not as coherent among them as in previous cases: it can be, for example, a
Source (15), a Partitive (16) or an Ablative (17). These functions, despite possibly
being semantically related, do not represent the prototypical use of the genitive
case without a preposition.
(15) Οἴμοι κακοδαίμων, καταγελᾷς ἤδη σύ μου (Ar. Ach. 1081).

‘Oh, devil, you are mocking me.’
(16) παῖδας, πατρώιων μὴ μεθέξοντας δόμων (E. Hipp. 306).

‘your children, who don’t partake in their father’s home.’
(17) οὔτοι μόνη σὺ σῶν ἀπεζύγης τέκνων (E. Med. 1017).

‘You are not the only one pulled apart from her children.’
Thus, there is a clear hierarchy among the four possible cases for the second
argument (18).
(18) Accusative > Dative / Nominative > Genitive
Elements higher in the hierarchy are more easily parsed in discourse and, therefore,
can be detached from the governing head. Elements lower in this hierarchy need
to stay closer to the verb in order to be correctly interpreted. There appears to
be a tendency to iconically reinforce contexts that can be more ambiguous.
This hierarchy, interestingly enough, has some parallels with the Accessibility
Hierarchy proposed for relative clauses (Keenan & Comrie 1977) and, also, to
the restrictions shown by Ancient Greek relative clauses for case attraction: it is
most common for relatives functioning as objects in the accusative, less common
for nominatives and datives, impossible for genitives (Grimm 2007; Napoli 2014;
Jiménez López forthcoming).
Both phenomena can be related to the cognitive effort needed to correctly
parse the utterance. Highly frequent constituents such as subjects and objects
are easily inferable from contexts; among the objects, prototypical objects in
accusative are straightforward and easily parsed even if they are not contiguous
to their head.
Despite the general pragmatic rules governing the word order in Ancient
Greek, there seems to be some preferences ruled by morphosyntactic conditions.
Therefore, examples like those in (5-7) are more easily found when the second
argument is marked in the accusative case and, as a result, unambiguous.
5 Conclusions
The metrical analysis of verse texts can provide with some insights into the prosody
of Ancient Greek. Thanks to the combination of syntactic, metrical and statistic
methods, it is possible to identify some interesting tendencies in the distribution
of grammatical content along IUs.
Firstly, the construction formed by a verb and its second argument shows a
strong tendency to be kept together in the same IU. This is a result of both iconicity
and frequency: due to the iconicity of distance, elements that are cognitively
close are kept linearly and temporally close; the frequent co-occurrence of these
elements gives rise to a chunk allowing the whole sequence to be analyzed and
stored as a whole complex unit. When processing new information in discourse,
these chunks are retrieved as a singular element and, therefore, form a single IU.
Secondly, this tendency is different depending on the case marking. As
shown above (18), there is a hierarchy that favors more easily understandable and
unambiguous elements to be detached from the governing verb when necessary,
while the cases that need a greater cognitive effort to be correctly parsed are
kept close to the verb and within the same IU more frequently. This situation
mirrors the constraints for case attraction in relative clauses and the hierarchy of
accessibility.
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508
The augment in Homeric narration

from a temporal perspective
Sira Rodeghiero
1 Introduction
The augment is commonly traced back to a temporal adverb having the function
of characterising as past those injunctives with a preterital meaning. As is the case
for the particle *-i of the present indicative, the augment is therefore supposed
to be a particle which, at a remote stage of the Indo-European verbal system,
marked the emergence of the morphological expression of tense and mood.1
This interpretation is, nevertheless, questioned. Although the augment has
certainly evolved into a past tense morpheme in Classical Greek, some scholars
dispute that this was its function since the origin. Criticisms of this theory have
been reinforced particularly in the last twenty years.2 The change of perspective may
be ascribed to the reconsideration of some formal and functional tendencies of the
Homeric augmentation.3 In particular, the systematic use of the augment in gnomic
passages and similes (i.e. in atemporal contexts) and its higher frequency in discourse
than in narrative apparently conflict with the view of the augment as a past tense
marker, supporting different semantic interpretations (Bakker 1999)4 and alternative
reconstructions (Willi 2018; Joseph 2003)5. The impressions of different nuances
conveyed by the use of augmented and unaugmented forms suggested by the Homeric
scholarship also appear difficult to be explained from a temporal perspective.
1 See Thurnaysen (1885).

2 Scepticism surrounding the traditional reconstruction has been expressed even before. See, for
instance, Platt (1891).
3 See Willi (2018: 359–372) for an overview on the formal and functional tendencies determining
the Homeric augmentation.
4 Bakker (1999) suggests that the augment was originally a deictic particle marking the event as
‘close’ to the present of the epic performance (“immediacy”).
5 Willi’s (2018) reconstruction proposes the augment as an original perfectivity marker. Joseph
(2003) identifies the augment as an evidential marker. The use of the augment in gnomic passages
and similes is mentioned by both scholars as an argument in support of their theses (Willi 2018:
377; Joseph 2003: 102).
510 RODEGHIERO, The augment in Homeric narration
However, according to other recent studies, most problematic tendencies, as

those mentioned above, are not per se sufficient to exclude that the augment was
originally connected to the expression of the past. Alternative explanations may
be invoked, for instance, to account for the use of the augment in direct speeches
and similes, such as those proposed by Lazzeroni (2017)6 and Allan (2016)7.
Whether we agree or not with the specific explanations, I believe that,
before discarding the traditional theory, one should consider the function of the
augment more cautiously, exploring the possibility that even those tendencies
apparently conflicting with the traditional reconstruction might be read from a
temporal perspective.
Based on these considerations, I will investigate here the use of the augment
in Homer with specific attention to narrative passages in order to explore whether
different nuances supposedly conveyed by augmented and unaugmented forms
might be interpreted in agreement with the original function of the augment as
a temporal adverb.
The paper is structured in four sections. Firstly, it presents a brief overview
of Homeric scholarship with regard to the semantics and distribution of the
augment in Homer (Section 2). Secondly, it suggests a hypothesis for identifying
a temporal function of the augment which may account for the difference
between augmented and unaugmented forms (Section 3). Thirdly, in Section 4,
the hypothesis is applied to the analysis of the narrative passages included in a
corpus of five books of the Iliad, which is chosen as representative of a variety of
narrative contexts. Finally, as an issue open to future research, a syntactic analysis
is proposed to support the hypothesis of this paper.
6 According to Lazzeroni (2017), the preponderance of augmented forms in direct speeches might
be due to their lateness and to their lower degree of formality, reflecting the diachronic pattern
of diffusion of innovations, which spread from less to more formal contexts. Instead, the use of
the augment in gnomic passages and similes might be the effect of a neutralisation of temporal
oppositions.
7 According to Allan (2016), the use of the augment in gnomic passages and similes might respond
to Dahl’s Minimal Marking Tendency (“that generics are expressed by the present tense in most
languages can be explained by the fact that in most languages the present tense is morphologically
the least marked tense. If we apply Dahl’s Minimal Marking Tendency to (Homeric) Greek, it turns
out that the present indicative is not unequivocally the least marked form. With many verbs, the
aorist indicative is in fact the least marked form”.[Allan 2016: 89]).
2 Homeric scholarship on semantics and distribution of the augment
The literature concerning the Homeric augmentation has increasingly focused

on the semantics of the augment and on its distribution within the narrative
environment. Various attempts in this direction have pointed out that augmented
and unaugmented verbs convey different nuances in the Homeric poems. In
particular, it has been suggested that the use of the augment lends more intensity
to the description of the events.
Platt (1891: 227), for instance, proposes that the augment is an “emphatic
particle”. Basset (1989) explains the selection of unaugmented and augmented
verbs in Homer in terms of Benveniste’s (1966) distinction between récit (objective
presentation of past events) vs. discours (subjective presentation in which events
of the past are linked with the speaker’s present) and suggests that the augment
contributes to the mise-en-scene of the story and to the visualisation of events
(Basset 1989: 15–16).
Elaborating upon Basset’s view, Bakker (1999) argues that the augment is
one of the linguistic signs that the epic poet may choose to “manipulate the
distance”8 between his speech and the narrated events. Given their oral nature,
the Homeric poems should be considered as “narrative in performance”, in which
events recalled from a remote past live again before the eyes of the audience. The
success of the story depends, therefore, on the narrator’s ability to enact the event
pretending that it is “perceived in the very moment of its verbalisation”9. From
this perspective, it is crucial that there be the opposition between “distant” and
“close” and, in these terms, one should read also the selection of augmented and
unaugmented verbs. Bakker’s argument is based on the study of all the metrically
guaranteed aorists of the Iliad. The statistics show that the lack of the augment is
more frequent in negative sentences and in background narrative passages, while
augmented verbs are preferred where the events activate a closer perception by
the listeners. This happens particularly in direct speeches and similes, but the
same is observed also in the proper narration. Thus, words such as “closeness”,
“vividness”, “immediacy”, “vision”, “perception”, “perceptual salience” are usually
employed by Bakker to describe events denoted by augmented verbs as compared
to those described by unaugmented forms, which instead “cannot be seen or
8 Bakker (1999: 51).

9 Bakker (1999: 51).
shown”10, but are “only remembered as knowledge or established fact”11. As an

example to illustrate his theory, the following extract proposed by Bakker (1999:
60) shows how the emotional peak of the passage is distinguished by the use
of two augmented verbs (in bold) to stress the vividness of the scene as though
Achilles’ grief is presented before the eyes of the audience.
(1) μετὰ δέ σφι ποδώκης εἵπετ᾽ Ἀχιλλεὺς

δάκρυα θερμὰ χέων, ἐπεὶ εἴσιδε πιστὸν ἑταῖρον
κείμενον ἐν φέρτρῳ δεδαϊγμένον ὀξέϊ χαλκῷ,
τόν ῥ᾽ ἤτοι μὲν ἔπεμπε σὺν ἵπποισιν καὶ ὄχεσφιν
ἐς πόλεμον, οὐδ᾽ αὖτις ἐδέξατο νοστήσαντα (Il. 18.235–238).
‘In their midst
Achilles the fast runner followed, pouring down hot tears
when he saw his beloved comrade lying in the bier, mangled
by the sharp bronze. He had sent Patroklos forth with his horses
and chariot into the war, but he did not receive him returning.’ (Tr. Powell)
Beyond the specific semantic interpretations, that the augment is sensitive to

narrative factors is supported also by the distribution of the verbs within the
narrative. In fact, in Homer, the verbs without the augment are employed in
a wider range of contexts (summaries, genealogies, embedded stories etc.)
and particularly within narrative sequences, whereas the augmented forms are
favoured in the introduction of new narrative sequences, changes of scene and
introductions of new characters, where the events stand out acquiring more
relevance (Rodeghiero 2017a). The fighting summarised as the background of the
events narrated in the opening of a new book in (2) and the intervention of Athena
in (3) represent some of the typical contexts where respectively unaugmented and
augmented verbs show their different behaviour.
(2) ὣς οἳ μὲν μάρναντο δέμας πυρὸς αἰθομένοιο (Il. 18.1).

‘And so they fought like blazing fire.’ (Tr. Powell)
(3) Τοὺς δ’ ὡς οὖν ἐνόησε θεὰ γλαυκῶπις Ἀθήνη

Ἀργείους ὀλέκοντας ἐνὶ κρατερῇ ὑσμίνῃ,
βῆ ῥα κατ› Οὐλύμποιο καρήνων ἀΐξασα
10 Bakker (1999: 57).

11 Bakker (1999: 57).
Ἴλιον εἰς ἱερήν· (Il.7.17–20).

‘When flashing-eyed Athena saw Trojans
killing Argives in the savage conflict, she descended from
the peaks of Olympos in a rush to sacred Ilion.’ (Tr. Powell)
In conclusion, a common trend in Homeric scholarship suggests that the selection

of augmented and unaugmented verbs responds to different communicative
purposes. The augment, in particular, is thought to be related to a pragmatic
function in that it seems to give special relevance (‘emphasis’ or ‘vividness’) to
events. The distribution of augmented and unaugmented verbs further support
the idea that the use of the augment is sensitive to narrative factors.
In an attempt to reconcile the synchronic analysis of the Homeric augment
with the traditional reconstruction, the next paragraph presents a hypothesis in
order to reformulate the vague concepts of ‘emphasis’, ‘vividness’ and ‘relevance’
and to explore whether the distribution of the augment and the different nuances
conveyed by augmented and unaugmented verbs in the Homeric narration may
be reconsidered also assuming that the augment was in origin a temporal adverb.
3 Proposed temporal hypothesis
The idea that the augment might contribute to the expression of the past appears
paradoxical to Platt who writes: “If λάμβανον was past, (and what else could
it be) how could the augment make it any more past?” (Platt 1891: 216). The
question, however, is worthy to be considered.
3.1 The augment as reference time
Reichenbach (1947) proposes that the tenses implicitly refer to three different
temporal parameters, namely the time of the utterance or speech time (S), the
time of the situation or event time (E) and the so-called reference time (R). This
last parameter is introduced by Reichenbach in order to account for the semantic
difference between the simple past and the present perfect. The distinction
between (a) and (b) in (4) may only be captured assuming a reference time which
is situated before speech time in (a) and which overlaps with the time of the
utterance in (b).
(4) a. I saw John

b. I have seen John
The notion of reference time is debated. Here, I assume Dahl’s definition as the
“time which is spoken about”12.
Usually, the reference time is left implicit, being mostly determined by the
context. However, in some cases it may be specified by temporal adverbs. Hence,
in (5) the reference time is implicit and simply indicates a time in the past,
whereas in (6) it explicitly defines a specific past time, yesterday morning.
(5) Brutus killed Caesar (Dahl 2010: 47)
(6) I saw him yesterday morning (Dahl 2010: 47)
Reichenbach’s model may be considered also to attempt a temporal reading of the

Homeric use of the augment. In particular, the question is how to account for a
minimal pair like that in (7) with reference to the above mentioned parameters.
(7) a. Νέστωρ δ’ ἐν χείρεσσι λάβ’ ἡνία σιγαλόεντα (Il. 8.116).

‘Nestor took the shining reins in his hands.’
b. αὐτὰρ ὅ γ’ ἥρως
ὧν ἵππων ἐπιβὰς ἔλαβ’ ἡνία σιγαλόεντα (Il.5.328).
‘Then the warrior mounted his own car and took the shining reins.’
In the sentences above, the couple λάβ’(ε) – ἔλαβ’(ε) occurs in almost identical
contexts and undoubtedly both the forms denote past events. Since the two
forms appear to have the same meaning, what could then be, if any, the specific
temporal function of the augment? As a possible hypothesis, I suggest identifying
the augment with the explicit expression of the reference time (R).13
In fact, whereas in Proto-Indo-European the injunctive covered a wide
range of functions (general present, preterit, modal functions), in Homer, old
12 Dahl (2010: 48). Note that Dahl’s approach, although inspired by Reichenbach’s framework,
introduces some slight modifications, as the assumption of a fourth parameter, the so-called “(local)
evaluation time”.
13 The identification of the augment with R has been independently proposed also by Hajnal
(2016).
injunctive forms express only preterital meanings. This means that the relation
between S, E and R is already fully encoded by unaugmented forms. It follows
that in Homer, at a linguistic stage, in which old unaugmented past tenses coexist
with the new augmented ones, the augment is somehow redundant. Therefore,
in this perspective, it is plausible that the augment specifies the reference time
which remains implicit in the unaugmented verb. This hypothesis would also
be consistent with the etymology of the augment as a temporal adverb, since, as
stated above, R is usually made explicit by adverbs. Hence, the idea underlying
this proposal is that in Homeric language the augment still preserves traces of its
earlier function to be thus compatible with a pragmatic function in the narration,
as it could stress or emphasise the temporal coordinates.
3.2 Analogy between SOT phenomena and the Homeric narrative sequences
In the light of the above hypothesis, the coexistence of augmented and

unaugmented forms implies that, in synchrony, there are contexts which may
favour or disfavour the explicit expression of the reference time.
In compound sentences, for instance, the phenomenon known as “sequence
of tenses” (SOT) represents the typical environment in which R remains implicit.
The reason behind this is that the reference time of the embedded clause is set by
temporal anaphora with the matrix clause.14 Typically, the phenomenon occurs
with the use of moods, as in the Italian sentence below, in which the subjunctive
(‘fosse incinta’) is temporally anchored to the verb in the matrix clause.
(8) Gianni credeva che Maria fosse incinta.

‘John believed that Mary was (SUBJ) pregnant.’15.
Similarly, anaphoric relations between sentences may account also for the
distribution of the augment in Homer. In other words, we may expect that the
augment is absent when the reference time is determined anaphorically.16
In the Homeric language proper SOT phenomena with indicative forms are
not observable. However, I suggest an analogy between SOT and the Homeric
14 For references see, among others, Reichenbach (1947: 74); Giorgi and Pianesi (1997: 22).
15 The example is taken from Giorgi and Pianesi (1997).
16 The hypothesis that the temporal interpretation of unaugmented verbs may be determined by
anaphora is suggested also by Kiparsky (2005). Note, however, that, differently from Kiparsky, in
this paper verbs without the augment are not considered to be unspecified with regard to tense.
narrative sequences. These, being organised as series of events, form part of a

greater hierarchical structure and might therefore be compared to subordination
contexts.
In the Homeric poems, the story is narrated mostly in chronological order
and via an alternation of scenes (De Jong, 2007: 37). Nevertheless, the insertion
of analepses and prolepses (e.g. to recall genealogies of characters or stories of
people and objects) and the presence of ring patterns and characters’ speeches
reveal the existence of different interacting time frames. Such a complex structure
certainly requires signs to mark the cohesion and the internal hierarchy of the
episodes. I propose that the distribution of the augment is one of these signs.
From this perspective, the augment is used when it is relevant to specify or to
the stress the temporal coordinates, whereas the unaugmented verbs are preferred
when events are temporally interpreted by anaphoric relations with the other
events of the same narrative sequence.
Coming back to the minimal pair in (7), the selection of λάβ’(ε) or
ἔλαβ’(ε), which appears unexplainable, may thus be accounted for, in the light
of the presented hypothesis, when considering the two sentences as part of larger
narrative passages. In (9) Diomedes has just invited the elderly Nestor onto his
chariot to save him from the battle. The two heroes mount (βήτην) the car and
Nestor takes (λάβ’) the reins and lashes (μάστιξεν) the horses to close in on
Hector (γένοντο). The unaugmented form λάβ’(ε) is justified as the verb is part
of a sequence of events and therefore the specification of the reference time is
unnecessary, being it determined anaphorically with reference to the other events.
Conversely, in (10) there are different interacting time frames. While Diomedes
is facing Aeneas, Sthenelos, following his orders, steals Aeneas’ horses and gives
them to Deїpylos to be driven to the Achaeans’ ships. Then, having mounted his
car, he takes (ἔλαβε) the reins and pursues Diomedes. The main scene is thus
interrupted to describe other minor events in the meanwhile: the stealing of the
horses and a foreshowing of the path to the ships taken by Deїpylos. The use of
the augmented form ἔλαβ’(ε) may correspond to the need to stress the reference
time, as the narration moves back to its main thread (Diomedes facing Aeneas
and his mother Aphrodite). Note that the shift is marked also by the particle
αὐτὰρ.
(9) ὣς ἔφατ᾽, οὐδ᾽ ἀπίθησε Γερήνιος ἱππότα Νέστωρ.

Νεστορέας μὲν ἔπειθ᾽ ἵππους θεράποντε κομείτην
ἴφθιμοι Σθένελός τε καὶ Εὐρυμέδων ἀγαπήνωρ.
τὼ δ᾽ εἰς ἀμφοτέρω Διομήδεος ἅρματα βήτην·
Νέστωρ δ᾽ ἐν χείρεσσι λάβ᾽ ἡνία σιγαλόεντα,

μάστιξεν δ᾽ ἵππους· τάχα δ᾽ Ἕκτορος ἄγχι γένοντο (Il. 8.111–117).
‘So he spoke. Geranian horseman Nestor obeyed him.
The two strong aides, Sthenelos and the kind Eurymedon,
took care of Nestor’s horses.
The two men mounted Diomedes’ chariot,
Nestor took the shining reins in his hands.
He lashed the horses. Quickly they closed in on Hector.’
(10) οὐδ᾽ υἱὸς Καπανῆος ἐλήθετο συνθεσιάων

τάων ἃς ἐπέτελλε βοὴν ἀγαθὸς Διομήδης,
ἀλλ᾽ ὅ γε τοὺς μὲν ἑοὺς ἠρύκακε μώνυχας ἵππους
νόσφιν ἀπὸ φλοίσβου ἐξ ἄντυγος ἡνία τείνας,
Αἰνείαο δ᾽ ἐπαΐξας καλλίτριχας ἵππους
ἐξέλασε Τρώων μετ᾽ ἐϋκνήμιδας Ἀχαιούς.
δῶκε δὲ Δηϊπύλῳ ἑτάρῳ φίλῳ, ὃν περὶ πάσης
τῖεν ὁμηλικίης ὅτι οἱ φρεσὶν ἄρτια ᾔδη,
νηυσὶν ἔπι γλαφυρῇσιν ἐλαυνέμεν· αὐτὰρ ὅ γ᾽ ἥρως
ὧν ἵππων ἐπιβὰς ἔλαβ᾽ ἡνία σιγαλόεντα,
αἶψα δὲ Τυδεΐδην μέθεπε κρατερώνυχας ἵππους
ἐμμεμαώς· (Il. 5.319–330).
‘But the son of Capaneus did not forget
the agreements he had made with Diomedes, good at the war cry.
He held back his own single-hoofed horses from the fray,
lashing their reins to the rail. He run up to the horses
of Aeneas with beautiful manes and drove them out
from the Trojans to the Achaeans with fancy shinguards.
He gave them to Deїpylos to drive to the hollow ships,
his dear companion, whom he honoured above all his age-mates
because they were likeminded. Then Sthenelos mounted
his own car and took the glinting reins. Swiftly
he drove the horses with strong hooves, eagerly seeking
the son of Tydeus.’ (Tr. Powell)
Within the presented framework, the next paragraph aims to further explore
whether the interpretation of the augment as the specification of the reference
time is consistent with the use of the augment in the Homeric narrative sequences.
4 The hypothesis applied to Homeric narrative sequences
The analysis of the narrative passages included in a selected corpus of five books
of the Iliad (2, 7, 16, 18, 21) supports the hypothesis formulated in Section 3
and suggests that what Homeric scholarship has observed on the semantics and
distribution of the augment (see Section 2) could be reconsidered in agreement
with a temporal interpretation of the augment.
In fact, the impression of vividness or emphasis conveyed by the augment
may be related to the pronounced definiteness given by the specification of the
reference time. Incidentally, note that in (1) the augmented forms, which Bakker
reads as lifting Achilles’ grief into the present of the epic performance, are referred
to a time (the death of Patroklos) preceding that of the narrated scene.
Moreover, the distribution of the augment in Homer, with the augmented
verbs preferred at the beginning of narrative sequences, allows the analogy with
SOT phenomena proposed above. As the embedded clauses are temporally
interpreted via anaphora with the matrix, the same can be said for the higher
employment of unaugmented forms inside the narrative sequences, since “the
reference time of a non-initial sentence in a context is typically provided by the
immediately preceding sentence, i.e. set by temporal anaphora” (Dahl 2010: 51–
52). This hypothesis is supported also by syntax. In fact, the analysis of the corpus
shows a correlation between the occurrence of sequences of unaugmented verbs
and the high syntactic cohesion of narrative passages, in which anaphoric links
between adjacent sentences are produced by means of different strategies, such as
use of pronouns, omissions of arguments, tmeses of preverbs, etc. In such cohesive
syntactic contexts, it is therefore plausible that also the temporal interpretation
of related events is based on anaphoric links.The following examples may clarify
this hypothesis.
(11) Ὣς εἰπὼν πυλέων ἐξέσσυτο φαίδιμος Ἕκτωρ,

τῷ δ’ ἅμ’ Ἀλέξανδρος κί’ ἀδελφεός· ἐν δ’ ἄρα θυμῷ
ἀμφότεροι μέμασαν πολεμίζειν ἠδὲ μάχεσθαι (Il. 7.1–3).
‘So saying, shining Hector rushed out of the gates,
and with him went his brother Alexandros.
In their hearths both were eager to go to war, to fight.’ (Tr. Powell)
The lines in (11) open book 7. After the farewell to Andromache and the short
dialogue with Paris, a new narrative sequence starts with Hector rushing out of
the city with his brother to rejoin the battle. The beginning of the scene is marked
by the use of the augmented form ἐξέσσυτο, whereas the following two verbs are
unaugmented. In light of the proposed hypothesis, the augment highlights the
temporal setting of the events at the opening of a new narrative unit, specifying
the reference time. This specification, however, may be left implicit in the rest
of the sequence since the other verbs are all temporally anchored to the first
event17. From a syntactic perspective, the temporal anchoring correlates with the
syntactic cohesion of the passage, as it appears from the use of the pronouns τῷ
and ἀμφότεροι referred to Hector and to Hector and his brother, respectively, in
the second and third sentences. The sequence in (11) shows that the use of the
augment in Homer also contributes to the structuring of narration. In fact, the
selection of augmented or unaugmented forms may produce textual cohesion
or it may support the progression of the story, marking the organisation in
sequences and the shifts from one scene to another, as is also the case for the
following example.
(12) ἦ, καὶ ἀπ᾽ ἀκμοθέτοιο πέλωρ αἴητον ἀνέστη

χωλεύων· ὑπὸ δὲ κνῆμαι ῥώοντο ἀραιαί.
φύσας μέν ῥ᾽ ἀπάνευθε τίθει18 πυρός, ὅπλά τε πάντα
λάρνακ᾽ ἐς ἀργυρέην συλλέξατο, τοῖς ἐπονεῖτο·
σπόγγῳ δ᾽ ἀμφὶ πρόσωπα καὶ ἄμφω χεῖρ᾽ἀπομόργνυ
αὐχένα τε στιβαρὸν καὶ στήθεα λαχνήεντα,
δῦ δὲ χιτῶν᾽, ἕλε δὲ σκῆπτρον παχύ, βῆ δὲ θύραζε
χωλεύων· ὑπὸ δ᾽ ἀμφίπολοι ῥώοντο ἄνακτι
χρύσειαι ζωῇσι νεήνισιν εἰοικυῖαι (Il. 18.410–418).
‘He (the terrible monster) spoke and arose from the huge puffing anvil, limping.
But beneath [him] his thin legs moved nimbly. [He] placed the bellows
away from the fire, and (gathered) all the tools with which [he] worked
in a silver chest. [He] washed off his face and his two arms
and his strong neck and his hairy chest with a sponge, and [he] put on
17 The distribution of the verbs in the sequences of this paragraph might recall the principle of
“conjunction-reduction” invoked by Kiparsky’s (1968) to account for the use of the injunctive.
However, the analysis proposed in this paper differs from Kiparsky (1968) with regard to the
following aspects: 1) the domain of the hypothesis is expanded from the sentence to the whole
narrative passage; 2) it does not suggest the deletion of any feature, but rather interprets the
augment as an additional specification (cf. De Angelis 1999); 3) the distribution of the augment in
Homer is not considered the consequence of a blind syntactic mechanism, but a choice which may
serve narrative purposes.
18 The form is uncertain.
a shirt. [He] took up a stout staff and walked to the door, hobbling.
Then handmaidens made of gold moved swiftly (beneath) to support [their master],
looking like living girls.’19 (Tr. Powell)
The sequence follows a brief dialogue. Hephaistos’ wife has informed her husband
about the visit of Thetis and he has replied remembering the debt he owed to
the goddess for having saved his life. Now Hephaistos is leaving his work and
tools and he is getting dressed to meet her. The description of his preparation
functions as a whole scene. As in the example above, the use of the augment
helps to structure the passage. In fact, after the dialogue, the progression of the
story towards a new scene is characterised by the augmented form ἀνέστη. All
the other verbs are unaugmented, with the only exception of ἐπονεῖτο, which
refers to a previous time, and might also be favoured by metrical reasons. This
distribution is consistent with the interpretation of the augment as the explicit
expression of R and resembles the relation between embedded and matrix clauses
in SOT contexts. The reference time is stressed at the beginning of the new scene
and there is no need to recall it in the rest of the narrative sequence as all the
events are temporally and syntactically chained to one another. The scene is all
about Hephaistos, but the character (πέλωρ αἴητον) is mentioned only once at
the beginning of the passage, combined with the augmented verb. The omission
of the subject through the sequence creates cohesion, just as it does the tmesis
of ὑπὸ in the two occurrences of ῥώοντο, which again links anaphorically to
Hephaistos (‘moved beneath him’).
Unfortunately, the ability to investigate the hypothesis in long sequences
as that in (12) are often reduced by the large amount of uncertain forms, as
demonstrated by the excerpt in (13), in which the few certain unaugmented verbs
still are inserted in anaphorically cohesive clauses.
(13) ὣς ἄρ᾽ ἔφαν, πάλλεν δὲ Γερήνιος ἱππότα Νέστωρ,

ἐκ δ᾽ ἔθορε κλῆρος κυνέης ὃν ἄρ᾽ ἤθελον αὐτοὶ
Αἴαντος· κῆρυξ δὲ φέρων ἀν᾽ ὅμιλον ἁπάντῃ
δεῖξ᾽ ἐνδέξια πᾶσιν ἀριστήεσσιν Ἀχαιῶν.
οἳ δ᾽ οὐ γιγνώσκοντες ἀπηνήναντο ἕκαστος.
ἀλλ᾽ ὅτε δὴ τὸν ἵκανε φέρων ἀν᾽ ὅμιλον ἁπάντῃ
ὅς μιν ἐπιγράψας κυνέῃ βάλε φαίδιμος Αἴας,
19Squared brackets in the translation indicate words omitted in the Greek text. Round brackets are
used instead to add words which are present in the Greek text but are omitted in the translation.
ἤτοι ὑπέσχεθε χεῖρ᾽, ὃ δ᾽ ἄρ᾽ ἔμβαλεν ἄγχι παραστάς,

γνῶ δὲ κλήρου σῆμα ἰδών, γήθησε δὲ θυμῷ.
τὸν μὲν πὰρ πόδ᾽ ἑὸν χαμάδις βάλε φώνησέν τε· (Il. 7.181–190).
‘So they spoke. Gerenian Nestor, expert in horses,
shook the helmet and out from the helmet sprang the lot
of Ajax, just what everybody wanted.
A herald carried the lot everywhere through
the crowd, from left to right, showing it to all the captains
of the Achaeans, but they did not recognise it.
Every man denied it until he arrived, going everywhere
through the crowd, to the man who had marked it and thrown
it into the helmet, glorious Ajax. Then Ajax
reached out his hand. The herald stood near and placed
the lot in his hand. Ajax recognized the sign
on the lot. When he saw it, he rejoiced in his hearth.
He cast the lot on the ground beside his foot and said’ [...] (Tr. Powell)
The passage recounts the lottery to decide who will duel against Hector. The
quoted lines continue the previous scene, in which nine volunteers throw their
lot in the helmet of Agamemnon and the Achaeans pray for Ajax to win. The
passage is characterised by a high syntactic cohesion, which is given by the
omitted repetition of the object of most of the verbs and by the omission of
the subject in the last two lines. As the first part of the narrative sequence is
organised around the lot, the last clauses are about Ajax, but the reference to
both the topics is left implicit. The lot (κλῆρος) is mentioned at the line 182
(ἐκ δ᾽ ἔθορε κλῆρος κυνέης), but is omitted throughout the rest of the passage.
The verbs πάλλεν, δεῖξ᾽(ε), ἔμβαλεν are anaphorically referred to it. Similarly
Ajax is mentioned at the line 187 (φαίδιμος Αἴας), but is not repeated as the
subject of γνῶ, γήθησε, βάλε, φώνησέν, nor as the referent of the participial
expression ἄγχι παραστάς. In such an environment, in which the events are
so tightly connected to one another, the reference time may also be inferred
anaphorically with no need to make it explicit. However, it is interesting to
observe that two (possible)20 augmented forms occur at the intersection with
two significant points in the narration, i.e. the denial and the recognition of the
lot, thus contrasting Ajax with the other heroes. Even in the uncertainty given
by the presence of ambiguous forms, the example appears consistent with the
20 ὑπέσχεθε, as most compound verbs, is metrically uncertain.

hypothesis discussed so far, but it also shows that the distribution of the augment
with the augmented forms at the beginning of the sequence to stress the reference
time and the unaugmented verbs to follow is rather a tendency than a fixed rule.
In fact, the mixture of augmented and unaugmented verbs inside a narrative
passage may certainly indicate the involvement of multiple factors interacting in
the Homeric augmentation (metrics, morphology, syntax, etc.), but it may also
suggest that the specification of the reference time (and thus the selection of the
augment) represents a narrative choice.
In this regard, the story of the sceptre of Agamemnon in Iliad 2 is
particularly revealing. The passage is famous in the scholarship about the Homeric
augmentation. Kiparsky (1968: 39) proposes a brief extract of it to illustrate his
theory that the distribution of the augment in Homer responds to the principle
of “conjunction-reduction”. On the contrary, Bakker (1999: 55–56) refers to the
full passage to reject Kiparsky’s syntactic mechanism and thus support his own
view of the augment as a deictic particle expressing immediacy.
(14) ἀνὰ δὲ κρείων Ἀγαμέμνων

ἔστη σκῆπτρον ἔχων τὸ μὲν Ἥφαιστος κάμε τεύχων.
Ἥφαιστος μὲν δῶκε21 Διὶ Κρονίωνι ἄνακτι,
αὐτὰρ ἄρα Ζεὺς δῶκε διακτόρῳ ἀργεϊφόντῃ·
Ἑρμείας δὲ ἄναξ δῶκεν Πέλοπι πληξίππῳ,
αὐτὰρ ὃ αὖτε Πέλοψ δῶκ᾽ Ἀτρέϊ ποιμένι λαῶν,
Ἀτρεὺς δὲ θνῄσκων ἔλιπεν πολύαρνι Θυέστῃ,
αὐτὰρ ὃ αὖτε Θυέστ᾽ Ἀγαμέμνονι λεῖπε φορῆναι,
πολλῇσιν νήσοισι καὶ Ἄργεϊ παντὶ ἀνάσσειν (Il. 2.100–108).
‘King Agamemnon stood up,
holding the scepter that Hephaistos had made.
Hephaistos gave [this scepter] to Zeus, the son of Kronos, the king,
and Zeus gave [it] to the messenger Hermes, the killer
of Argos; Hermes, the king, gave [it] to Pelops,
driver of horses. Pelops gave [it] to Atreus, shepherd
of the people. When Atreus died, he left [it] to Thyestes, rich in sheep,
and Thyestes left [it] to Agamemnon
to bear, to rule over many islands and all of Argos.’22 (Tr. Powell)
21 This form is metrically uncertain.

22 Squared brackets in the translation indicate words which are omitted in the Greek text.
In the example, Agamemnon stands up to speak holding the sceptre in his hand,
while a short digression begins to tell the history of the sacred object, the symbol
of the King’s authority. The distribution of the augment reflects a clear distinction
between the main story-line and the history of the sceptre. In fact, the augmented
verb for ‘he stood up’ (ἀνὰ...ἔστη) belongs to the main story-line and occurs at
the beginning of a new narrative sequence, where the use of the augment might
respond to the need for stressing the temporal setting of the event. Instead, the
verbs referring to the history of the sceptre are unaugmented. Here the temporal
setting of the events is clearly interpretable as the verbs describe the consecutive
passages of the object from owner to owner. As in the examples above, the sentences
which include the unaugmented verbs are syntactically cohesive. Through the
sequence, the object of δῶκε, that is the sceptre mentioned at line 101, is totally
omitted. However, the selection of unaugmented verbs when the reference time
is easily inferred in cohesive context is not a rule. Rather, the distribution of the
augment in Homer indicates a narrative choice. In fact, in the last passage, which
describes how the sceptre came into the possession of Agamemnon, the verb is
augmented (ἔλιπεν). The syntactic structure of this couple of lines is exactly the
same as the previous ones, but, since the narration now comes back to the main
story-line, it is preferred to stress the temporal coordinates, specifying the “time
which is spoken about”23. The use of a different lexical form (λείπω instead of
δίδωμι) is particularly revealing.
In conclusion, the investigation of the corpus supports the interpretation of the
augment as the specification of the reference time (R). Considering the examples
above, the Homeric use of the augment indeed appears sensitive to narrative
factors, as it contributes to structure the narration, signalling the progression of the
story and its articulation into scenes. Specifying the time which is spoken about,
the augment provides more definite temporal directions, which allow to keep the
thread of the narration. Moreover, since they are more specific, augmented verbs
acquire relevance in the narration, suggesting that the different nuances conveyed by
the use of the augment (see Section 2) may be read in agreement with its temporal
function. In particular, in the analogy with SOT, the augmented verbs at the
beginning of narrative units appear isolated, so to speak, from the series of the other
events and might give impressions of greater emphasis or vividness as compared to
those unaugmented verbs included in chains of events, whose reference time can be
left implicit. However, the presentation of an event as isolated or as part of a series,
and thus its temporal specification, are not determined by systematic mechanisms,
23 Dahl (2010: 48). See Section 3.1.

but represent a narrative choice24. Therefore, it is plausible that the use of the
augment in Homer correlate with the activation of some pragmatic function.
In this regard, in the next paragraph, a closer look at syntax may suggest
interesting hypotheses for future research.
5 Proposal for a syntactic analysis
In Homer, a verb is generally unaugmented when it is followed by δέ or other

Wackernagel clitic. This tendency, which is commonly referred to as “Drewitt’s
rule” by the name of the scholar who first noted it,25 is usually ascribed to metrical
factors26 as well as to Kiparsky’s principle of “conjunction-reduction”.27 However,
I suggest that more specific syntactic reasons may also be involved, which support
the hypothesis of this paper.
In the framework of the Generative Grammar, Wackernagel particles are
commonly meant to mark the left periphery of the sentence (CP), i.e. the domain
where textual cohesion and pragmatic contents are encoded (Vai 2009; Dal
Lago 2009). In this light, therefore, Drewitt’s rule suggests that augmented and
unaugmented verbs may differ with regard to their syntactic behaviour.
A preliminary study in Rodeghiero (2017b) has already showed that
augmented and unaugmented verbs respect the assumed basic word order (SOV)
at the same proportion and have equal possibility to move to the left periphery of
the sentence. However, a difference in their syntactic behaviour may be observed
specifically in this area. In particular, the movement of augmented verbs to the
left periphery undergoes some restrictions.
Example (17) represents the typical distribution of augmented verbs in the
left periphery.28 Here the verb has moved to the leftmost part of the sentence
and it follows its argument (αὐτὸν). Unaugmented verbs may present the same
distribution, but they appear also freer to enter the left periphery even without
been preceded by their arguments, as in (15) and (16). This situation typically
conforms to Drewitt’s rule.
24 Cf. Bakker (1999: 61–62) for a similar interpretation, although from a different perspective.
25 Drewitt (1912).
26 Willi (2018: 366).
27 Willi (2018: 367); De Decker (2016: 286).
28It does not matter if the form in the example is metrically uncertain, since, as stated below, the
same distribution is shown by both, augmented and unaugmented verbs.
(15) λίπε δ ̓ ὀστέα θυμός.

left PRT bonesACC spiritNOM
‘And his spirit left his bones.’
(Il.16.743)
(16) CP{[τοῦ δ᾽] ἔχε θυγατέρα} IP{Πρίαμος,

heGEN PRT had daughterACC PriamNOM
Priam had his daughter as a wife.
(Il. 21.88)
(17) CP{Topic[LI(τρὶς δ᾽)] Focus[(αὐτὸν) ἀπεστυφέλιξεν} IP{Ἀπόλλων

Three timesADV PRT himACC pushed back ApolloNOM
Three times did Apollo push him back.
(Il.16.703)
One possibility to account for this distribution is to consider that different

reasons determine the movement of the verbs to the left periphery. In particular,
a working hypothesis may suggest that the movement of unaugmented verbs
is due to syntactic reasons, whereas that of augmented forms is determined by
pragmatic reasons. More specifically, it may be suggested that unaugmeted verbs
move to the left periphery mainly as effect of anaphora, i.e. to create textual
cohesion. In (18), for instance, the verb δῶκε has probably moved to the left to
follow its (omitted) object, the sceptre, which is mentioned at the beginning of
the sequence (see Section 4). Conversely, the movement of augmented verbs to
the left periphery may be the consequence of focus phenomena, as in the case of
εἵλετο, in (19), whose preceding argument (φρένας) is probably focused.
(18) CP{ Ἥφαιστος μὲν δῶκε Διὶ Κρονίωνι ἄνακτι

HephaistosNOM PRT gave Zeus son of Kronos KingDAT
Hephaistos gave (it) to King Zeus son of Kronos.
(Il. 2.102)
(19) CP{Focus[(ἐκ ) γάρ σφεων φρένας εἵλετο} IP{Παλλὰς Ἀθήνη.

awayADV PRT theirGEN witsACC took Pallas AthenaNOM
From them Pallas Athena took away their wits.

(Il.18.311)
If this is the case, the interpretation of the augment proposed in this paper might
thus receive further support, as this is consistent with the idea that the reference
time is inferred anaphorically in the case of unaugmented verbs, whereas it is
specified (or even focalised) by the augment in order to serve narrative purposes.
6 Conclusions
Some observations on the semantics of the augment in Homer appear to conflict

with the traditional reconstruction of the augment as a past tense marker. In an
effort to reconcile the synchronic tendencies with the diachronic perspective, this
contribution proposes to interpret the different nuances conveyed by the use of
augmented and unaugmented forms in the light of the original function of the
augment as a temporal adverb.
The core of the study is the hypothesis that the augment specifies the
reference time (R) in Reichenbach’s framework. The underlying idea is that, at
the linguistic stage represented by the Homeric poems, the augment still preserves
traces of its earlier adverbial meaning, thus explaining the impression of greater
emphasis conveyed by augmented verbs in the narration. In the light of this,
the optional use of the augment in Homer is considered as a resource to express
different narrative purposes.
The hypothesis is supported by the analysis of the narrative passages included
in a selected corpus of songs from the Iliad. In particular, it emerges that the
selection of augmented or unaugmented verbs responds to different needs in the
expression of the reference time, which is reflected also by the syntactic cohesion
of narrative units. This might also contribute to structure the narration, marking
the organisation in sequences and the shifts from one scene to another.
Finally, as an issue open to future research, the paper suggests that a syntactic
analysis of the distribution of verbs in the left periphery of the sentence may
further support the presented hypothesis.
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Present counterfactuals and verbal mood

in the Homeric poems
Roxanne Taylor
1 Opening remarks1
1.1 General introduction
The topic of this paper is a subset of the counterfactual conditionals found in

the two Homeric poems, the Iliad and the Odyssey, and in particular examines
the usage of the optative rather than a past tense indicative. A brief consideration
of the difficulties of using the Homeric corpus is given in Section 1. Two small
groups of counterfactuals, totalling just over a dozen examples, will be discussed
in turn in Sections 2 and 3, both featuring the optative and both with probable
present-time reference. In Section 2, a group of conditionals featuring second-
person optatives are examined, and their status as counterfactuals argued for.
These examples are used by speakers to make hyperbolic claims about situations
they, but not their hearers, have witnessed. The strictly logical and then rhetorical
workings of the construction are discussed, and the pressures for signalling to
hearers that there is no genuine counterfactual imagining at work presented. The
optative is here argued to indicate the status of the verbal predicates as not having
lowered discourse saliency on account of their use in hyperbolic figures of speech.
In Section 3, canonical present counterfactuals are examined; individual examples
are discussed in turn, as well as the wider nuances of making claims contrary to
the ongoing actual fact of the utterance time. The optative is argued to be a
means of balancing the difficulties of making present counterfactuals, indicating
to hearers that the actual utterance time is not being violated. The conclusion
indicates similarities and differences between this account and notions of the
unreal, and poses questions about the relative status of the indicative.
1 I would like to thank audiences in both Oxford and Helsinki for their valuable comments and
suggestions on earlier incarnations of this paper.
530 TAYLOR, Present counterfactuals and verbal mood in the Homeric poems
1.2 The corpus
A caveat about the Homeric corpus is required before examples of counterfactuals

are presented: the Iliad and the Odyssey are poetic texts, the language of which is
recognised as being an artificial kunstsprache, available only as the product of a long
textual transmission. The discussion that follows in this paper places complete
faith in the readings of the moods of verbal predicates in the text as it stands. The
Oxford Classical Text is the edition used for both poems. A few remarks will serve
to justify this approach. Firstly, even in literary language, constructions which
are deemed positively ungrammatical will not be tolerated, and will be rectified
within metrical parameters. The appearance of the optatives discussed here in
constructions where they are not found in Classical Attic must be treated as
representative of some historic and some synchronic grammar. Secondly, poetic
language is never a good excuse for ignoring a linguistic variation of potential
interest.
It will be noted that the optative verb forms which are the focus here are
not always metrically guaranteed. In one school of thought, this may inhibit any
further consideration of the syntactic variation, however, in another, taking the
transmitted text at its value is the only viable option where metre is ambiguous.
More to the point, in the case of attested optatives, it must be remembered that
in the manuscript tradition, given both the absence of the optative from Classical
Attic counterfactuals, and the early disappearance of the optative in the history
of Greek, optative forms will always represent the lectio difficilior, the ‘more
difficult’ reading, and hence have a good measure of textual validation. It is much
more likely that optatives once attested in counterfactuals have been replaced
by indicatives, in line with the grammar of Classical Attic and with a linguistic
variety that knows no optative, rather than that spurious optatives have replaced
indicatives.
1.3 Counterfactual conditionals
A counterfactual conditional may be described as a grammatical construction in

which a speaker imagines a situation which did not happen or is not happening.
There are around one hundred and twenty counterfactual conditionals in the
corpus. By way of orientation, two examples of canonical counterfactual
conditionals are given below; examples like these make up around half the corpus
and are the most intensively discussed in the literature but will not be the focus
here (e.g. Lang 1989; de Jong 1987; Wakker 1994; Wilmott 2007).
(1) τοιοῦτοι δ᾽ εἴ πέρ μοι ἐείκοσιν ἀντεβόλησαν,

πάντές κ᾽ αὐτόθ᾽ ὄλοντο ἐμῷ ὑπὸ δουρὶ δαμέντες (Il. 16.847–848).
‘And if twenty such men had fought with me, all would have died here, slain
by my spear.’
(2) καί νύ κ᾽ ὀδυρομένοισι φάνη ῥοδοδάκτυλος Ἠώς,

εἰ μὴ ἄρ᾽ ἄλλ᾽ ἐνόησε θεὰ γλαυκῶπις Ἀθήνη (Od. 23.241–242).
‘And then rosy-fingered Dawn would have appeared to them as they lamented,
had not the goddess Athena with the bright eyes thought of something.’
The distribution of the verbal moods used in counterfactuals in the corpus is

depicted below in Table 1. Only the optative, and past tenses of the indicative,
often called the secondary indicative in the literature are used. The absence of
the subjunctive is not a surprise if the status of the early Greek subjunctive as an
irrealis counterpart to the future indicative is accepted. Counterfactuality cannot
by definition involve the future, since as Iatridou notes (2000:231) there is no
future fact to be counterfactual to.
Table 1
Protasis/ if clause/ antecedent Apodosis/ then clause/ consequent
Optative Optative*
Past indicative (aorist or imperfect) Past indicative (aorist or imperfect)
Past indicative (aorist or imperfect) Optative*
It is the constructions marked by the asterix (*) which will be discussed here.
An optative apodosis may be found in conjunction with either an indicative
or optative protasis, but an indicative apodosis only with an indicative protasis.
Both protases and apodoses show variation between indicative and optative, but
the combination of verbal moods across an entire counterfactual conditional is
constrained.
1.4 Previous accounts on the distribution of mood
Several explanations for this distribution of verbal moods have been proposed.
One approach advocated by Ruijgh (1971: §230) and Chantraine (1988: 206)
is straightforwardly temporal, mapping the indicative to past time reference,
and the optative to present time reference. This is basically accurate, and only a
tiny proportion of examples in the corpus challenge the links of mood and time
reference. However, such an account is descriptive rather than explanatory.
Other explanations, notably Greenberg’s (1986) and Bhat’s (1999) use a
three-way mapping of the Greek moods to a modality continuum ranging from
irrealis to realis (where these concepts are oriented to the speaker’s perspective on
a proposition), mapping the optative to the irrealis pole, and the indicative to the
realis pole, with the subjunctive occupying the middle ground. The place of the
subjunctive in this model is difficult, as the continuum establishes oppositions
between optative and subjunctive and indicative and subjunctive which are not
at work in Homeric counterfactuals.
More recently, Willmott, in the monograph The Moods of Homeric Greek
(2007) proposes a different kind of modality continuum for early Greek, one
which is also speaker oriented and ranges from compatibility of a proposition
with a speaker’s world view, “positive epistemic stance” to incompatibility with
world view, “negative epistemic stance” (124, 194). The indicative is mapped
to positive epistemic stance and the optative to negative epistemic stance. This
continuum faces the particular difficulty of the utility of a means to express
negative epistemic stance given that speakers seem to very rarely make claims
which qualify as such; moreover, if a proposition is outside a speaker’s world view,
how is it that she comes to formulate and verbalise it?
The explanation for the distribution of moods which I would like to suggest
here may be characterised as pragmatic, not semantic, based on the wider
utterance context of the speaker making his counterfactual utterance, including
the purpose of the utterance, and the dynamic between the hearer and speaker.
2 Counterfactuals with second-person optatives
2.1 The examples
Let us begin with our first group of examples, featuring second person optatives.
(3) is given as an initial illustration of the seven such examples in the corpus. As
in (3), in all examples in this group, the optative verbal predicates are either φημί,
‘say’, or a verb of seeing. Two such examples, (4) and (5), are made by character
narrators, the remainder, including (3) have the so-called “primary narrator” as
their speaker, to use de Jong’s (1987) narratological terminology.
(3) φαίης κ᾽ ἀκμῆτας καὶ ἀτειρέας ἀλλήλοισιν

ἄντεσθ᾽ ἐν πολέμῳ (Il. 15.697–698).
‘You would say they faced each other in battle without fatigue or weariness.’
Examples like this featuring second-person optatives and speech or sensory

predicates have not usually been considered alongside canonical counterfactual
conditionals like (1) and (2).
However, examples like (3) do show the requisite morphosyntax for a
counterfactual reading, including the modal particle ἄν/ κε(ν), and no subjunctive
verb forms. The conditional particle and a clausal protasis are absent from all seven
second-person optative examples, although the use of a conjunction like ἀλλά to
replace the conditional particle, or the absence of a clausal protasis altogether are
not uncommon in all types of counterfactual across the corpus.
(4), (5) and (6) are introduced as further examples, before an argument
in favour of the construction being counterfactual is presented.2 Note that all
examples involve a speaker directly addressing his hearer and imagining her
response to, or, as in (4), her participation in some situation. In all cases, the
situation being referred to happened in the past relative to the utterance time (the
present for speaker and hearer), and is something the speaker, but not the hearer,
witnessed first-hand.
(4) ἔνθ᾽ οὐκ ἂν βρίζοντα ἴδοις Ἀγαμέμνονα δῖον

οὐδὲ καταπτώσσοντ᾽ οὐδ᾽ οὐκ ἐθέλοντα μάχεσθαι,
ἀλλὰ μάλα σπεύδοντα μάχην ἐς κυδιάνειραν (Il. 4.223–225).
‘You would not then have seen divine Agamemnon slumbering, or cowering,
or not wanting to fight, but rather you would have seen him rushing into battle
which brings glory to men.’
(5) φαίης κε ζάκοτόν τέ τιν᾽ ἔμμεναι ἄφρονά τ᾽ αὔτως (Il. 3.220).

‘You would have said that he was someone morose and quite senseless.’
The speaker is Antenor, describing Odysseus’ visit to Troy to Helen.
2 The other relevant examples are: οἳ δ᾽ ἄλλοι ἀκὴν ἴσαν, οὐδέ κε φαίης / τόσσον λαὸν ἕπεσθαι
ἔχοντ᾽ἐν στήθεσιν αὐδήν (Il. 4.429–30); Τυδεΐδην δ᾽ οὐκ ἂν γνοίης ποτέροισι μετείη / ἠὲ μετὰ
Τρώεσσιν ὁμιλέοι ἦ μετ᾽ Ἀχαιοῖς (Il. 5.85–87); ὣς οἳ μὲν μάρναντο δέμας πυρός, οὐδέ κε φαίης
/ οὔτέ ποτ᾽ ἠέλιον σῶν ἔμμεναι οὔτε σελήνην (Il. 17.366–369).
(6) ἦ τοι γὰρ μῦθοί γε ἐοικότες, οὐδέ κε φαίης

ἄνδρα νεώτερον ὧδε ἐοικότα μυθήσασθαι (Od. 3.124–125).
‘For surely your words were like his, but you would not say that a younger man
spoke so appropriately.’
The speaker is Nestor, telling Telemachus about his father.
2.2 Justifying a counterfactual reading
The translations given above demonstrate such counterfactual readings, although

these may very well not be the preferred reading or translation for many readers.
These counterfactual readings are now justified in more detail. For all seven
relevant examples, given the imbalance in information held by the speaker and
the hearer about the situation described, a protasis, which in English might be
paraphrased as “had you been there”, or “if you were there”, balancing out the gap
of knowledge between speaker and hearer, can be supplied. It is important once
again to note that lack of an explicit clausal antecedent does not disqualify any of
this group from being considered as counterfactual.
In each example, the hearer has not, prior to the speaker’s utterance describing
some situation, made the imagined comment about that situation or experienced
the scene described. The propositions regarding the addressee’s speech acts,
thoughts, or experiences are therefore contrary to past fact. This is easier to accept
where the hearer is a character (as in (5) and (6)) whose actions and utterances
may be collected from the narrative, rather than where the hearer is the more
nebulous and abstract “primary narratee”, again de Jong’s (1987) terminology,
although the balance of likelihood and the improbability of responding to a
situation one knows nothing prior to being told about it helps.
Additionally, in each case, the hearer is not, in the utterance time, making
such comments or seeing such a scene. Once again, this is easier to verify where
speaker and hearer are characters; the hearer simply does not speak and can be
shown to be seeing the ongoing utterance-time situation. The propositions in
these examples are counterfactual to present fact too.
In the case of (4), as an example, the hearer may well see such a scene in her
mind’s eye, as is the nature of fictional narrative, but is not literally, physically, or
actually seeing Agamemnon’s battlefield bravery.
Examples like (3–6) may therefore be taken as being contrary both to past
and present fact; as indicated above, these are the only two categories that are
relevant, there being no future fact to counter.
In fairly practical terms we may capture the logic of this counterfactuality

by thinking of the hearer, character or narratee, being transported back in time
to the past situation described by the speaker event, which is either very distant
and somewhat abstract for narratees, or recent in terms of months and years when
the hearer is a character like Helen in (5). This facilitates the hearer making the
utterance she never made, or seeing or experiencing what she never did, counter
to past fact.
Alternatively, we may think of the speaker bringing the event recounted
forwards into the utterance time, by virtue of his narrative powers, producing
present counterfactuality. For instance, in (5), the speaker Antenor may be
thought of as summoning up Odysseus into the present for Helen, with a protasis
something like “if you could see him now”. The reactions of the hearer imagined
by the speaker remain counterfactual to the present time.
The examples themselves give no indication as to which of these logically
possible options is preferable. What is of greater importance is the possibility of
any counterfactual reading.
Alongside the counterfactual reading argued for here, there is another
possibility: this group of examples can be interpreted as having future potential
meaning, since they equally well fulfil the morphosyntactic requirements of this
construction. That said, the fact that the situations described by the speakers of
(3-6) are in the past relative to the utterance time of the speaker make a future
reading somewhat more awkward; in the future an apposite moment for the
hearer to respond to the speaker’s story may have passed. A future conditional
reading may certainly be adopted, however, I suggest it is less likely given the
communicative situations described, and at least, a counterfactual reading is a
viable alternative.
2.3 The place of the optative
Assuming a counterfactual reading for the moment, it is important to realise that

in all such examples, the speaker is not being terribly genuine in imagining his
hearer’s reaction to what he describes. These constructions are figures of speech,
and the exact logic laid out above as to how exactly a counterfactual fits together
is by-the-by in the grander scheme of the narrative- which is perhaps why there
are no explicit clausal protases. The hearer in all cases will not have, does not
have, or has not had, any real opportunity to make the response to the speaker,
or to perform the action expressed counterfactually. The speaker presses on with
the narrative and uses the conditional construction to stress his point as part of
a hyperbolic claim, about Agamemnon’s extreme bravery, Odysseus’ surprising

prowess, the incredible strength of the battle-weary warriors.
The figure of speech being used by the speaker in such examples relies on
implicating the hearer in the claim the speaker is making. At face value, the
claim may be a reasonable one: Agamemnon is a brave warrior in (4), Odysseus
speaks wisely in (6); or somewhat less reasonable: the warriors are not at all tired.
By involving the hearer by imagining her verbal or sensory involvement in the
situation depicted, the speaker creates an attachment between the hearer and the
speaker’s claim, hence forcing the hearer to agree with the claim made, however
reasonable or not she may consider it. It is a way of obtaining agreement from
the hearer, foisting such claims off the speaker and onto the hearer herself. It is
also a way of suggesting that the claims made are bold or surprising, such that
these persuasive manoeuvres must be used at all; Agamemnon’s bravery is made
more interesting (and perhaps more questionable in turn) than it would be by
a bald statement that “he did not shirk”. Such tactics of conviction, persuasion,
and making a more impressive story are the motivation for the inclusion of such
examples, not a genuine interest in playing out what the hearer might do if she
had seen what the speaker saw.
The hearer is heavily implicated in the speaker’s claims by way of this
construction and is forced to adopt them as her own. This implication of the
hearer has its cost to the speaker. The speaker risks being disagreed with- the
hearer would not have reacted in such a way, because she considers Agamemnon
an idiot, or because she would have spoken out to Odysseus, and so on. The
speaker risks interruption and having to cut off the narrative because of the active,
involved hearer he has created. To balance out the risk of hearer intervention, the
hearer needs to be told that this is a figure of speech and that her involvement
only goes so far. The signal for this is, I contend, verbal mood.
The optative is used because of these competing factors: making an outlandish
or mock-outlandish claim over which the hearer is given ownership, the risk of
hearer intervention, and a wish to signal that there is no genuine interest in the
hearer’s response to the situation described. An optative, I suggest, signals to the
hearer that the speaker has given the proposition lesser discourse saliency, and that
therefore she is not required to interact with the claim about her response, is not
required to offer a correction or an endorsement, and can instead deal only with the
claim being made about the situation under discussion- the claim that Odysseus was
surprisingly fluent, for example, not the larger claim that she would agree with this.
A speaker’s portrayal of an event as having lower discourse saliency does
not equal unimportance for speaker or hearer; the claims being made are still
assertions and make a contribution to the narrative. After all, the speaker has
bothered to verbalise such a proposition. Instead, the role of the optative may be
thought of as diminishing the impact of a proposition on the hearer; in this group
of examples this lesser impact is a signal of disingenuousness on the speaker’s part.
It may be clear that this consideration of the choice of verbal mood could
work equally well with a counterfactual or future potential reading for these
examples; once mood is taken to signify something at a conversational level
rather than being part of a constellation of features indicating time reference and
modality either reading is plausible. However, I maintain that counterfactuality
is a preferable reading because of the lack of a workable future time context for
all examples.
For this small fraction of the corpus, containing second person optatives,
then, an utterance-oriented approach to the use of the optative seems a successful
account of the deployment of the construction as a figure of speech, whilst
being able to handle the literal logic of counterfactuality. Speakers it seems, use
optatives at least when they do not seriously anticipate the verbal predicate being
taken on board by their hearers. Hearers in turn always respond appropriately to
such signalling; there are no interruptions or interventions.
3 Present counterfactuals
3.1 The examples
The second group of counterfactuals to be examined also show the optative. In this
set, the optative also appears in the explicit protasis, if such a protasis is expressed.
This set of examples have traditionally been deemed “present counterfactuals”.
Examples (7–9) are illustrative of the six examples across the corpus.3
(7) ἄλλως μέν σ᾽ ἂν ἐγώ γε καὶ ἡμέτερόνδε κελοίμην

ἔρχεσθε (Od.15.513–514).
‘In other circumstances I would tell you to go to my house.’
3 The other relevant examples are: εἰ καί νύ κεν οἴκοθεν ἄλλο / μεῖζον ἐπαιτήσειας, ἄφαρ κέ τοι
αὐτίκα δοῦναι / βουλοίμην ἢ σοί γε διοτρεφὲς ἤματα πάντα / ἐκ θυμοῦ πεσέειν καὶ δαίμοσιν
εἶναι ἀλιτρός (Il. 23.592–595); and two “mixed” conditionals where only the apodosis has an
optative and present time reference: εἰ μέν τις τὸν ὄνειρον Ἀχαιῶν ἄλλος ἔνισπε / ψεῦδός κεν
φαῖμεν καὶ νοσφιζοίμεθα μᾶλλον (Il. 2.80–81); εἰ μὲν γάρ τίς μ᾽ ἄλλος ἐπιχθονίων ἐκέλευεν/ ἢ οἳ
μάντιές εἰσι θυοσκόοι ἢ ἱερῆες /ψεῦδός κεν φαῖμεν καὶ νοσφιζοίμεθα μᾶλλον (Il. 24.220–222).
Telemachus addresses the stranger Theoclymenus.
(8) ἐπεὶ οὔ κε θανόντι περ ὧδ᾽ ἀκαχοίμην (Od.1.236).

‘For I would not so grieve if he were dead.’
Telemachus ponders his ignorance about his father’s death.
(9) εἰ μὲν νῦν ἐπὶ ἄλλῳ ἀεθλεύοιμεν Ἀχαιοὶ

ἦ τ᾽ ἂν ἐγὼ τὰ πρῶτα λαβὼν κλισίην δὲ φεροίμην (Il. 23. 274–275).
‘If we Achaeans were holding a games for someone else, surely I would take the
first prizes and carry them to my hut.’
Achilles opens Patroclus’ funeral games.

In this second group of examples, unlike those presented in 2, present time
reference is less controversial. Certainly, a future interpretation of the apodoses can
be adopted; Achilles’ carrying away of the prizes is subsequent to his competing
and hence the apodosis may have relative futurity; Telemachus’ alternative grief
is logically and temporally subsequent to finding out that his father has died
and both are possibilities which may eventuate at some point in the future when
he speaks. However, without going into such temporal minutiae it is equally
possible that the entire situation, Telemachus’ grief in the knowledge his father is
dead is viewed as contrary to present time. A present state of affairs beyond the
exactitude of the utterance time is imagined.
Quite regardless of this, however, the protases of these conditionals have
present time reference, note the use of the temporal adverb νῦν, ‘now’, in (9). The
games for someone other than Patroclus are a present time alternative to those
held for him; the state of affairs in which Telemachus can host guests is a present
time alternative to the pervading situation in which he cannot. For the time
being, present time reference for both halves of the conditionals will be assumed,
but once again time reference will in fact be relatively unimportant in the account
given of the optative.
3.2 Epistemic stance in present counterfactuals
It is this group of examples which present the most straightforward challenge

to some previous interpretations about the status and value of the optative in
counterfactuals, particularly Willmott’s (2007:124, 194) link between the
optative and negative epistemic stance, which recall is equated to a speaker’s view
of how the world works. For example, Achilles, the speaker of (9), presumably has
his own success at a funeral games well within his world view, as something easily
imaginable and well-supported by past experience; it is a perfectly reasonable
claim and one his hearers may be expected to approve. In (7) and (8) Telemachus
imagines a more straightforward life on Ithaka, including the ability to provide
hospitality and to grieve his definitely dead father in the socially accepted way. In
both cases, the situation he imagines is the normative, expected one, in contrast
to the difficult idiosyncrasies of his actual situation, and thus ought to be well
within his world view. The specifics of each example are difficult to reconcile
with negative epistemic stance and thereby challenge the wider connection with
optative usage.
3.3 Account of the optative
3.3.1 Individual examples

On an example-by-example basis the use of the optative to downplay the
conversational significance of verbal predicates can be identified.
Let us take (9) as a starting point, since both clauses are positively expressed
on the surface. Achilles is addressing the Greeks assembled for Patroclus’ funeral,
and speaks to bow out of the proceedings. In this utterance his goal is to kickstart
the games and to attract as many volunteer competitors as possible, so that the
games for his friend are a worthy commemoration. To do so, he needs to remove
his own overbearing presence as a rival competitor. However, perhaps rather
perversely, he does this by describing a situation in which he takes part in a
competition and wins all the prizes: a situation, which, at face value, might be
enough to make his audience think twice about volunteering to join in and set
aside their own hopes of winning. Use of the optative, I suggest, makes it possible
for Achilles to mention such an unpalatable proposition, making clear to his
hearers that it can be disregarded as his intention. The impact of the proposition
on his hearers is diminished.
In (7) by contrast, Telemachus makes a roundabout apology for packing
Theoclymenus off to a country estate rather than giving him his due hospitality
in the royal household on Ithaka. It is paramount that no confusion arises, that
Theoclymenus does not think he has actually been invited to the palace, only to
be disappointed. Telemachus, whilst mentioning inviting him to the palace must
make clear that that better invitation does not stand. Use of the optative achieves
this, signalling the status of the proposition of inviting his guest to the palace as
being of low saliency.
3.3.2 All presents are optative

It is notable that that all present counterfactuals in the corpus appear with the
optative. If choice of verbal mood between optative and indicative is driven by
speaker-oriented factors, like speaker perspective or epistemic stance towards the
proposition made, we logically predict a free choice of indicative or optative quite
regardless of time reference; hence indicatives ought to be possible in present time
reference counterfactuals. This is not the case; in the Homeric poems, present
counterfactuality always entails the presence of optative verbal mood. There are
even two examples of counterfactuals with mixed time reference, which in turn
show both indicative and optative.
It needs remembering, however, that the raw numbers involved in this
generalisation are tiny; only six examples. It may well therefore be a matter of
coincidence that the present counterfactuals attested in the corpus are all the
types of counterfactuals (whatever type that may be) that attract optative mood
regardless of time reference. That said, the exclusivity of optative mood remains
surprising when combined with the kinds of speaker attitudes described above
found in the attested counterfactuals. Speakers describe counterfactual situations
which they prefer to the present, which they find highly feasible, which they
have good experience of, all using the optative mood. This is quite unlike the
distribution of mood suggested by Willmott’s (2007) account, which recall does
not discuss these examples directly.
This universality of the optative in present counterfactuals is potentially
challenged by a single example:
(10) τῷ κέ με πόλλ᾽ ὤνησεν ἄναξ, εἰ αὐτόθ᾽ ἐγήρα (Od. 14.67).

‘My lord would have granted me many benefits, if he got old here.’
Eumaeus considers his relationship with Odysseus.

Although Eumaeus’ apodosis could well refer to benefits he would have
received from Odysseus in the years between the start of the Trojan War and
recent past, and so be strictly a past counterfactual, he might quite plausibly
be thinking of the present. In his imagined scenario, there is no reason why the
benefits granted by Odysseus would stop in the present time. The protasis refers
to a process of ageing which, had Odysseus returned from Troy in good time, or
never gone, would hopefully still be ongoing for both Odysseus and Eumaeus as
Eumaeus speaks.
We will return to consider (10) further below.
3.3.3 Discourse difficulties

I suggest that this constancy of the optative with present time reference, and the
fact that optatives occur in (7), (8) and (9), despite speakers making propositions
which are well within their world view, stems precisely from the fact that these
are counterfactuals with present time reference, and the pragmatic consequences
of making counterfactuals with such time reference. Factors surrounding
the production of present counterfactuals push speakers to assign them lower
discourse saliency for their hearers.
(7–9) involve speakers talking about themselves in emotional terms,
especially in (7) and (8). It is crucial that all six optative present counterfactuals
show first-person optatives, and involve speakers talking about themselves, in
fairly intimate terms, discussing their feelings, dreams, hopes and plans.
Speakers making present counterfactuals in the Homeric corpus therefore face
the difficulty of imposing themselves and their emotions upon their hearers. They
are selfish, stepping away from the mutually available context and background to
introduce their own inner experience. This dynamic to optative counterfactuals
in Homer can easily be framed in terms of the politeness face work theory of
Brown and Levinson (1987), or more recent reconsiderations thereof, like Watts
(2003), although this is not the space for detail.
More importantly, it is also empirically, visually as well as aurally, obvious to
hearers and speakers alike what the actually-occurring situation is in the utterance
time, despite any counterfactual propositions the speaker may make. Present
fact is available to all the senses of the speaker and hearer, in the background
of counterfactuals. To take a concrete example, in (9), it is evident (and well-
known in advance) to all the Greeks, Achilles’ hearers, and to Achilles himself,
whose funeral it is; Patroclus is the Greek missing from the company. In (8), both
Telemachus and Theoclymenus are well aware that Telemachus is in no position
to host at the palace.
Present counterfactuals are made to the accompaniment of the shared,
actual, conversational background of speaker and hearer. This conversational
background entails both shared knowledge, as is relevant for a past counterfactual,
but also the empirical evidence of the actual utterance situation which impinges
on speaker and hearer’s senses. The general contention made here is then that a
present counterfactual is qualitatively different for both speaker and hearer from
a past counterfactual, not simply in terms of the obvious temporal distinction,
but because the actually occurring utterance-time situation impacts speaker and
hearer in a different way from an actually occurring situation which is recalled
only in memory, as is the case when a speaker makes a past counterfactual.
To explain the constancy of the optative in present counterfactuals, it can

be said that propositions contrary to present fact violate the mutually available,
visually apparent ongoing actual situation in the utterance time; more specifically
Homeric counterfactuals happen also to always be speaker-oriented and
emotional. As a result of these factors innate to making present counterfactuals,
speakers habitually present their present counterfactual propositions as having
lower discourse saliency, lessening the impact on the dynamic between speaker
and hearer. Present counterfactuals are a challenge to the dynamic between
speaker and hearer, and using an optative to signal the less salient status is a
means to temper the difficulties. Once again, this suggestion could be framed in
the terms of theories of politeness, but this is not the place to do so.
3.4.(10) revisited
With this in mind we can return to (10) and see that it is a non-problem, putting
aside the suggestion that the counterfactual need not have present time reference
at all. As a first observation, the verbal predicates in (10) are not in the first person,
but have the absent Odysseus as their subject, although the speaker remains
relatively emotional and self-centred as he fantasises about an improvement in
his own lot.
In (10) the difficulty of actually occurring present is lesser than in other
examples in the corpus. The speaker strongly desires Odysseus’ return, and the
hearer is (ostensibly, he is of course in fact Odysseus in disguise) a stranger for
whom Odysseus’ absence is neither here nor there. Odysseus’ absence does not
occupy the same visual and empirical status for the speaker and hearer of (10) as
those in (7) and (8), for example.
Of great relevance to (10) is the irony that Odysseus is the hearer being told
how wonderful it would be if he were back, with the narrative conceit being that
the speaker Eumaeus is unaware of this. I will not go so far as to suggest that the
indicatives in (10) show that the speaker knows who his hearer is- it is no longer
contrary to fact, past or present- and therefore, because he is dropping a hint
about his recognition and his hopes of reward, dispenses with the lowering of
the saliency of his proposition appropriate to a present counterfactual. However,
I can well imagine such a claim might be made more fully in a more literary
context.
4 Closing remarks
In sum, speaker’s use of moods is utterance- oriented, taking into account not just
speaker’s stance towards a proposition, but hearer identity, the goal and status of
the utterance and the shared-background between speaker and hearer. Optatives
show that a verbal predicate does not have full assertive status, or is not to be taken
at its face value, as a counterfactual imagining. The contribution of the optative
closely interacts with the counterfactual construction, producing utterances used
and accepted as hyperbolic claims, assurances that actual fact will not be altered
or violated, and apologies for actual fact. If a single label is required for the use of
the optative established here, something like lowered discourse saliency is offered:
the optative is used to indicate that the verbal predicates it marks have lower
discourse saliency, in turn allowing them to be interpreted as the speaker intends
by hearers – as hyperbole, boasts, apologies, and so on.
It may be noted that this account of the optative is not dissimilar to accounts
of the optative as the irrealis or unreal mood, such as that in Palmer (2001).
However, this account is couched not in ontological terms but in a discourse-
oriented framework.
The examples discussed here all feature optative verb forms, and therefore
the present discussion has been unable to consider whether the indicative is a
default and the optative is a choice made away from that default when pragmatic
circumstances demand a softening or lessening of the saliency of a proposition,
or, alternatively, whether indicative and optative are both possibilities, sitting on
a more traditional modality-like continuum. Much of the discussion here has
used terminology more appropriate to the former possibility, but both are viable
approaches pending a fuller investigation of the more prevalent indicative.
References
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Greenberg, Joseph H. 1986. The realis-irrealis continuum in the Classical Greek
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University Press.
Committal verbs in Greek aggressive magic:

a pragmatic analysis
Mariarosaria Zinzi
1 Introduction
The aim of the present paper is to propose a pragmatic-oriented account of

Greek aggressive magic. In particular, it will be investigated if and to what
degree the illocutionary force of the formulas uttered in the so-called prayers
for justice differs from that of pure defixiones. The former are in fact described
as supplications to the god(s) in a subservient way, while the latter as orders
uttered to the god(s) in an aggressive way. According to Versnel’s description,1
orders in prayers for justice are overtly mitigated by a subservient disposition of
the sorcerer, honorifics, overwhelming reasons given, the request that the act be
excused, supplications. The gradience of the force of directive speech acts will be
analysed by focusing on a small set of Greek curse tablets containing committal2
verbs (παρα)(κατα)τίθημι and παραδίδωμι, which express the entrusting of the
culprit to the god(s) and are generally linked to the so-called prayers for justice.3
1 See Versnel (2010: 279–282).

2 I borrow the expression from Kropp (2010), who uses the adjective ‘committal’ for naming
the ‘committal formula’ by which the giving of someone or something to supernatural powers is
elicited. For a list of committal verbs used in magical texts see Section 3.
3 See Versnel (1991, 2010), Poccetti (1998), Faraone, Garnand & López-Ruiz (2005). See in
particular Versnel (2010: 338): “The verb παρατίθεμαι occurs together with κατατίθεμαι in two of
the three Acrocorinth texts. The verbs deserve some fuller discussion here. Stroud rightly comments
on their “common use in defixiones”. It should be noted, however, that, by contrast with the
monosemantic term καταδῶ, the verb παρατίθεμαι has a range of denotations and connotations, as
my translation “deposit with, give in charge of ” has already suggested. One fairly common meaning
is “deposit documents, give in charge, commit or commend (a person) into another’s hands” (LSJ
s.v. B 2). Another is “dedicate a gift to a god”. In each of these denotations it comes very close to
the verbs ἀνατίθημι, ἀνιερόω, do, dono mando, commendo, used in prayers for justice for “to give” a
culprit or a stolen object to the god. At any rate, the verb may just as well be indicative of a prayer
for justice as of a binding defixio. Actually it better fits the prayer situation and closer investigation
must clarify in which of the two categories the term may prevail. It is clear enough, however, that
the occurrence of this term itself by no means suffices to range a curse among the class of the defixio
or the borderland-curses”.
546 ZINZI, Committal verbs in Greek aggressive magic
Since a prayer is generally described as less threatening than an injunction, the

analysis will consider the elements which encode the control of the defigens over
the action and which activate strategies of politeness, i.e. performative speech
acts, directives, pragmatic markers. The theoretical framework in which those
strategies will be analysed is that of politeness as proposed by Brown and Levinson
(1987). Brown and Levinson define politeness as the effort to maintain face, i.e.
the public self-image that one person wants to claim for himself. Orders and
requests are acts which by their nature threaten the addressee’s negative face, that
is “the want of every ‘competent adult member’ [i. e. of a social context] that
his actions be unimpeded by others” (Brown and Levinson 1987: 62). By using
negative politeness, which is oriented towards partially satisfying hearer’s negative
face, the speaker recognizes and respects it and “will not (or will only minimally)
interfere with the addressee’s freedom of action” (Brown and Levinson 1987: 70).
2 Defixiones and prayers for justice
“Defixiones, more commonly known as curse tablets, are inscribed pieces of lead,
usually in the form of small, thin sheets, intended to influence, by supernatural
means, the actions or the welfare of persons or animals against their will” (Jordan
1985: 155). Besides (or within)4 pure defixiones, a specific type of curses, named
prayers for justice, has been isolated by Versnel (1991). They can be defined as
“pleas addressed to a god or gods to punish a (mostly unknown) person who
has wronged the author (by theft, slander, fraud, crime, abuse, false accusations,
magical action), often with the additional request to redress the harm suffered by
the author (e.g. by forcing a thief to return a stolen object, or to publicly confess
guilt)” (Versnel 2010: 278-279).5 Defixiones are usually described as products of
aggressive magic by which the defigens obliges the god(s) to do something, whilst
prayers for justice would act by pleading the deities.
Versnel isolates prayers for justice by highlighting some formal characteristics
that seem to the scholar typical of the type, such as the stating of his/her name
by the principal, the invocation of gods other than the usual chthonic deities,
4 See Versnel (2010: 275).

5 The introduction of prayers for justice within the taxonomy of curse tablets caused a twofold
reaction: on the one side, many scholars accepted it and employed it in their works, on the
other side it has been strongly criticised by German scholars, above all from Martin Dreher who
thoroughly explained the reasons of his opposition to the category (Dreher 2012). See on the issue
Versnel (2010).
flattering epithets etc. What is relevant, prayers for justice are always described as
supplications uttered from a submissive mortal to a sovereign god: in my view,
this should lead to a subservient way, morphologically, syntactically and lexically
encoded, of asking the god(s) to punish the culprit.
3 The language of magic
Aggressive magic consisted of both praxis and logos. As for praxis, the tablets
were rolled into scrolls or folded into small packets and deposited in tombs,
sanctuaries or bodies of water. The manual rite could be simultaneous or not
to the both graphic and acoustic uttering of the enchanting formula (logos).
Within a magic act, words, by means of more or less fixed formulas, have the
power to change reality:6 as stated by Frankfurter (2005: 177), “the written word
carried sufficient power in ancient world that, in publicly posted or inscribed
forms, it could serve as an illocutionary declaration in itself, reifying in letters
the very situation described or declared in the text”. That makes, under certain
circumstances, a magic utterance a performative speech act.7 Curse tablets can be
described as “textual archetypes of non-fictional documents” which “report the
original wording of the curse as direct speech” (Kropp 2010: 357).8
The language of magic has been studied under several respects.9 Nonetheless,
it is not well defined in pragmatic terms. As regards Speech Act Theory, by
instance, Austin (1962) does not include magic language, neither does Searle
(1979), whose model was intended to build on and extend Austin’s classification.
Harm-causing curses are in fact difficult to capture within the existing speech-
6 “[…] in a ritual context […] words can immediately create a new reality: after uttering special
words, usually conventional ones, i.e. traditionally fixed formulas, in a more or less ritualised
context, things are no longer the way they used to be” (Kropp 2010: 358).
7 See Poccetti (1991, 2005 [2008]).
8 It goes without saying that fictional data, such as curse tablets, can not be taken as a substitute
for spontaneous face-to-face conversations. Nonetheless, they are said to reflect “what was going
on in real life, but […] in a somewhat different and more focussed form” (Taavitsainen and Jucker
2008: 212). For the debate surrounding the diachronic analysis of speech acts see Archer (2010).
For further insights on the use of fictional data in the field of historical pragmatics see e.g. Jucker
and Taavitsainen (2000), Kohnen (2007), Molinelli (2008).
9See among others Tambiah (1968) for anthropology, Poccetti (1991, 1995) for a linguistic point
of view, Albrecht et al. (2018) as regards history and religion. See also Frankfurter (2005) and
Todorov (1973).
act categories.10 As for Latin curses, Kropp (2010) proposes the new class of
transformatives which emphasizes “the speaker’s intention, which is to produce
directly (or automatically, or without any intermediary) the transformation of
the concrete extra-linguistic phenomena specified by the performative verb”.11
Conversely, Urbanová and Cuzzolin (2016) go back to Austin’s (1962) categories
and describe magic curses as both exercitive “in relation to the supernatural
entity involved, in that it is compelled to act against somebody or some entity,
sometimes even implicitly”12 and behabitative in relation to the addresses(s) of
curses. More recently, Murano (2018) has proposed, for ancient aggressive magic
in general, to abandon the categories created for ordinary language, which do
not fit properly an extra-ordinary context and language such as magic, and to
adopt Benveniste’s theory of enunciation,13 which incorporates Austin’s (1962)
theory and Jakobson’s (1960, 1963) theory on the polyfunctionality of language.
According to Murano, direct and indirect speech acts are functionally equivalent
in that they represent different syntactical and pragmatic strategies which can
encode conative utterances.14
The categorising of cursing being beyond the scope of the paper, it will be
nonetheless proposed that a pragmatic-oriented analysis of the cursing formulas
can provide fruitful insights in their description and categorisation. As stated by
Jay (2000: 195), “Curses represent a form of magical thinking: Spoken words
have the force of physical acts. When a speaker uses a particular word or phrase,
the negative set of consequences specified in the curse is assumed to befall the
victim”. Ancient curse tablets are then likely to convey an aggressive message,
through which the magician violently binds the culprit to a punishment, also by
obliging the god(s) to fulfil the malediction. At the contrary, prayers for justice
are expected to show a deferential tone in invoking the deity: under a pragmatic
respect, one would then expect the formulas of the latter kind of curses to be
morphosyntactically and lexically marked by a higher degree of politeness than
defixiones. In order to investigate that, I will focus on a specific type of speech act,
10 See Archer (2010).

11 Kropp (2010: 378).
12 Urbanová and Cuzzolin (2016: 326).
13 Benveniste (1963, 1970).
14 “Magic” cursing is also analysed in texts relating to the witch-hunt in Early Modern England
by Culpeper and Semino (2000). The scholars claim that pragmatic frameworks such as Austin’s
Speech Act Theory can provide useful insights, but that social and cultural contexts must also be
taken into account - e.g. by applying Levinson’s (1992) notion of “activity type”).
namely directives, which constitute the core of the magic utterance and “which
constitute a fruitful laboratory to explore the dynamics of identity expression and
negotiation” (Fedriani et al. 2017: 65). Directives, according to Searle (1975),
cause and permit the interlocutor to perform a given action; alternatively, they
can also prevent the interlocutor from doing something.15 They are “by definition
potentially impolite acts that threaten the interlocutor’s negative face and […]
tend to be modulated under certain circumstances through pragmatic strategies”
(Fedriani et al. 2017: 65).
The analysis will more specifically focus on directives of curses which contain
παραδίδωμι and (παρα)(κατα)τίθημι: the two verbs belong to the type which I
have called committal. Committal verbs are exceptional within the spectrum of
the verbs of curse tablets for they neither refer to an act of manipulation nor to
a illocutionary act:16 by using them the plaintiff hands over a good or a person
to the god(s), who is or are now responsible for the punishment.17 Committal
verbs in Latin and Greek curse tablets are mando (and its compounds demando,
15 In Searle’s taxonomy of illocutionary acts (Searle 1975: 11), directives are described as “attempts
(of varying degrees, and hence, more precisely, they are determinates of the determinable which
includes attempting) by the speaker to get the hearer to do something. They may be very modest
‘attempts’ as when I invite you to do it or suggest that you do it, or they may be very fierce attempts
as when I insist that you do it”. Directive speech acts broadly correspond to Givón’s manipulative
speech acts (Givón 2001).
16 Audollent (DT: vii-viii) lists more than twenty alternative verbs of curse tablets, the most
frequent being καταδίδωμι, καταγράφω and παραδίδωμι. Kagarow (1929: 25–28) identifies
two semantic fields for such verbs: (1) literal binding (verbs compounded with δέω) and (2)
verbs with technical or legal connotations that either “register” the victims before an imagined
underworld tribunal (i.e., compounds of γράφω) or simply “consign” the victims to the control
of the chthonic deities (i.e., compounds of τίθημι and δίδωμι). The verbs of the curse tablets are
generally connected to the idea of binding (δέω and its compounds, ligo and its compounds)
and nailing down the cursed (e.g. defigo), which recall the physical act of the manipulation of the
tablet. They also embrace other kinds of actions, such as writing (γράφω), depositing, entrusting
(e.g. mando and its compounds, παραδίδωμι), and verbs directly connected to the illocutionary
act, such as cantare and ἀράομαι. They do not have a magic meaning per se, instead acquire such a
denotation by being used within the context of a spell. Pragmatic principles underlie phenomena
of meaning transformation in the context of binding curses. For further insights into the verbs of
binding formulae see among others Audollent (DT), Kagarow (1929), Tomlin (1988), Faraone
(1991), Graf (1997), Ogden (1999), Poccetti (2005 [2008]), Murano (2010, with a special
emphasis on the Oscan tradition).
17 The deity “tackles the investigation and the prosecution and presides as the judge over an
imaginary court” (Versnel 1991: 73). See also Huvelin (1901: 31) for Latin mando and Faraone
(1991: 5).
commando, commendo), dono, (παρα)(κατα)τίθημι, παραδίδωμι, ἀνιερόω,

ἀνιαρίζω, ἀνατίθημι. They have been tentatively described as legal or technical
terms that shift responsibility for the binding to the divine sphere, although some
of them, namely dono, ἀνιερόω, ἀνιαρίζω and ἀνατίθημι, are explicitly linked
to the semantic field of religion, for they express the idea of ‘dedicating’ and
‘consecrating’ someone or something to a deity. As stated above,18 some scholars
have proposed that such verbs are connected to the so-called prayers for justice
and that they especially recur in one subset of the category, namely the curses
against thieves.
Among committal verbs, παραδίδωμι and (παρα)(κατα)τίθημι have been
chosen because they are not per se semantically linked to religion or magic. They
have been selected in curse tablets when they appear in the first person singular of
the present indicative, for the form is prototypical of performative speech acts.19
Occurrences in the first person singular make explicit the illocutionary force of
the utterance of the sentence: as Benveniste (1963: 10) points out, an utterance
is performative in that it denominates the act performed because the speaker
pronounces a formula containing a verb in the first person of the present. The
present indicative, as underlined by Searle (1989: 557), “marks an event which
is right then and there, simultaneous with the utterance, because the event is
achieved by way of making the utterance”. Hence, I have considered only the
utterances in the first person singular, i.e. the forms adhering to the model
identified by Benveniste, to be performative speech acts and chosen to leave aside
utterances in the second person singular and in the third person singular.20
Committal verbs constitute performative utterances insofar they manifest the
intention to perform the action and this is sufficient, in an appropriate context,
for the performance of the action. They in fact satisfy the following four features
of performative speech acts listed by Searle (1989: 548), but already elicited by
Austin (1962):
1. An extra-linguistic institution. Magic is a field which specialises in time in
Greek tradition. Aggressive magic, in particular, is a private practice connected to
the underworld: curse tablets are deposited in tombs, shrines, wells, fountains, that
is places connected to the underworld, and chthonic deities are usually invoked.
18 See Section 1.
19 Austin (1962) calls such forms explicit performative formulas.
20 The following occurrences have been left aside: παρκατίθεται (SEG 48, 1234 bis), πα[ρκαττίθ]
ε̣τ̣[αι] (SEG 30, 1162), παράδοιτε (DT 38, 22–23). The form πα[ραδί]δομε (DT 163, 66) has
been interpreted as a first person singular of the present indicative middle.
2. A special position by the speaker, and sometimes by the hearer, within the
institution. The defigens is the one who curses one or more persons for agonistic
reasons or in order to punish a (mostly unknown) person who has wronged him/
her. He or she can do that by himself/herself or with the help of professional
figures such as magicians.
3. A special convention that certain literal sentences of natural languages
count as the performances of certain declarations within the institution. The
verbs employed in ritual utterances such as curses, normally indicating everyday
actions like binding, depositing, writing, singing, acquire a performative meaning
within the rite.
4. The intention by the speaker in the utterance of those sentences that his
utterance has a declarational status, that is, it creates a fact corresponding to the
propositional content. The defigens, by uttering the curse, changes the reality and
the cursed person is, from that moment on, bound or entrusted to the god(s).
Curse texts are ritual speech events which, in pragmatic terms, have two
participants, namely the speaker, i.e. the defigens, and the god being addressed,
who is identifiable as the addressee, the incantatory function being, in Jakobson’s
terms, “some kind of conversion of an absent or inanimate “third person” into an
addressee of a conative message” (Jakobson 1960: 354). Cursing is associated with
the expression of anger and frustration:21 ancient curse texts are in fact mostly
characterised by jussive formulas and imperative requests, with different levels of
manipulative strength, uttered by the speaker towards the god, who is compelled
to do what the defigens orders.
4 Analysis
The analysed texts are 41 in total (see Appendix 1). They span from the IV cent. BC
to the IV-V cent. AD. They have been found almost all over the Greek ecumene.
A large amount of curse tablets containing committal verbs παραδίδωμι and
(παρα)(κατα)τίθημι have been found in the Athenian Agora (fourteen texts),22
close to Porta San Sebastiano in Rome (four texts)23 and in Carthago (three
texts). Performative speech acts are encoded in the analysed texts not only by
committal verbs; other verbs typical of defixiones can occur in the same text in the
21 See e.g. Culpeper and Semino (2000).

22 See Elderkin (1937) and Jordan (1985).
23 See Wünsch (1898) and Mastrocinque (2005).
first person singular of the present indicative (see e. g. 1, 2, 3, in bold), for a total
amount of 16 texts out of 41:
(1) ἀξιῶ ὑμᾶς εἵνα κατὰ κράβατον τιμορίας τιμωρήσητε (DT 156, Rome,
IV-V cent. AD).
‘I pretend that you seek revenge on a bed of punishment.’
(2) Θετί]μας καὶ Διονυσοφῶντος τὸ τέλος καὶ τὸν γάμον καταγράφω (SEG
43, 434, Pella, IV-III cent. BC).
‘Of Thetima and Dionysophon the ritual fulfilment (of the wedding) and the
marriage I bind by a written spell.’24
(3) ὁρκίζω σε καὶ ἐναρῶμαί σε καὶ ἐνεύχομαί σ〈σ〉οι (Stroud 125-126,

Acrocorinth, Roman period).
‘I adjure you and I implore you and I pray to you.’25
Since the responsibility for the offence to be punished is shifted to the deities,
we expect prayers for justice to contain directive speech acts by means of which
the defigens forces the god(s) to do something. The analysis entailed logging all
illocutionary acts (performances “of an act in saying something as opposed to
performances of an act of saying something”)26 and the terms of address employed
in them, in order to underline their strategic use, for they are “by far the most
obvious and common devices employed to convey linguistic politeness in the
process of interaction” (Ilieva 2003: 173). Textual features evoked by Versnel,
such as the commitment to the god(s) and the supplicating behaviour of the curser
(including the requests that the act be excused), are likely to be morphologically,
syntactically and lexically encoded in order to activate politeness strategies.27
Such strategies have been recently underlined, by instance, for Ṛg-vedic hymns
(Ilieva 2003), but can be considered typical of all appeals to the gods. Ilieva
24 Translation by Voutiras (1998).

25 Translation by Stroud.
26Austin (1962: 99). For illocutionary acts see also the reformulating of Austin’s speech acts theory
by Searle (1975).
27 This fits the conditional implications proposed by Givón (2001: 312), according to which a
higher hearer’s power/status implies a lesser hearer’s obligation to comply and a greater speaker’s
need to be deferent. Politeness strategies are employed in order to recognize “the autonomy of the
others, expressed by non-imposing, non-intrusive negative or distancing behaviour” (Ilieva 2003:
173).
correctly reports that the main goal of the praying person is “to put the gods
in a benevolent disposition during the ritual event and to relate certain wishes
to them in the hope that they will be fulfilled, a goal which determines, first,
the structural components of the hymn, and, second, the rhetorical-linguistic
features of the text” (Ilieva 2003: 172).
Directivity is morpho-syntactically encoded by means of verbs in the
imperative (4, 5, 6), in the subjunctive (7) and, very rarely, in the optative (8):28
(4) Ἑ]ρμῆ καὶ Γῆ, ἱκετεύω ὑμᾶς τηρ(ε)ῖν ταῦτα καὶ τούτους κολάζ(ε)τ(ε)
(DTA 100a, Attic, IV cent. BC).
‘Hermes and Ge, I beg you to guard those things and punish those persons.’
(5) κατάδησον αὐτοῖς τὸν δρόμον τὴν δύναμιν τὴν ψυχὴν τὴν ὁρμὴν
τὴν ταχύτητα, ἄφελε αὐτῶν τὴν νείκ[ην, ἐμπόδισ]ον αὐτοῖς τοὺς πόδας,
ἔκκοψον ἐκνεύρωσον αὐτοὺς (DT 237, Carthago, II-III cent. AD).
‘bind their race, strength, breath, impetus, speed, take away the victory from
them, tie their hooves down, ruin, weaken them.’
(6) Εὐ]τ̣ι̣χ̣ι̣[α]ν̣ο̣[ῦ ψ]υχέσθω [τὸ ὄνομα καὶ] [ἡ ψυχή, ἡ ὀρ]γή, ἡ ἐ[πιστήμη,

ἡ ἐπιπο]νπή, ὁ ν[οῦ]ς, ἡ ἐπιστή[μη, ἡ ἐπι][πονπή, ὁ λο]γισμός (SEG 35, 215,
Athens, III cent. AD).
‘Let Eytichianos’ name and breath, impulse, knowledge, reckoning, mind,
knowledge, reckoning, intellect grow cold.’
(7) δῇς ἰς̣ τὸν τῆς λήθης ἀφώτιστον αἰῶνα καὶ καταψύξῃς καὶ ἀπολέσῃς
(SEG 35, 213, Athens, III cent. AD).
‘bind in the unilluminated aiôn of oblivion and chill and destroy.’29
(8) οὕτως καὶ τὸ σῶμα [κα]ὶ [αἱ σ]άρκες καὶ τὰ νεῦρα καὶ τὰ ὀστᾶ καὶ τὰ
μέλη καταψύγοιτο καὶ τά σπλάνχνα (SEG 35, 227, Athens, III cent. AD).
‘let the body and the flesh and the muscles and the bones and the members
grow cold and the bowels.’
I tentatively propose that directive speech acts could also be encoded as final
utterances, in the infinitive (9, 10), the subjunctive (11) or the optative (12),
28 For further readings on the modes of injunction in ancient Greek see Denizot (2011).
29 Translation by Jordan (1985).
governed by the committal verb. Such acts seem to encode orders by employing
an indirect strategy:30
(9) παραδίδωμι τοῖς καταχθονίοις θεοῖς τοῦτο τὸ ἡρῷον φυλάσσειν (IG II²
13209, Attic, II cent. AD).
‘I commit to the subterranean gods this grave that they look after it.’
(10) παρατί[θεμαι τὸ μ]νῆμα ἡμῶν Γῆι Κόρηι Πλούτωνι πρὸς [τὸ

μ]ηδένα τολμῆσαι μήτε ἀφ’αἵματος μήτε ἀλλότ̣ριον χρήσασθαι αὐτῶι μήτε
δυνηθῆναί τίνα μετὰ τὴν ἐμὴν ἐνταφὴν ἀ̣νοῖξαι τὸ κ̣αμάριον (IMT 611,
Assos, II cent. AD).
‘I entrust our grave to Ge, Kore and Pluto that no one blood relative or stranger
dares use it nor can someone open the chamber after my burial.’
(11) βαβαρφαβω[ρ]β[ω]ρβορβαβαιη κ[ραταιὲ Βεπτυ], π̣α[ραδί][δ]ωμί

σοι Εὐτιχιανὸν τὸν Αἰθάλους μαθητήν, ὅπ[ως κατα]ψύξῃς [αὐτὸν] καὶ
ἀπολ̣[έσῃ]ς̣ [καὶ ποιήσῃς] ἄτονον, ἄνουν, ἀκέ[ραιον, (SEG 35, 215, Attic,
III cent. AD).
‘(“Borphor” syllables) -babaie, mighty Bepty, I hand over to you Eutychian, the
pupil of Aithales, that you may chill him and destroy (him) and make (him)
slack, mindless, harmless.’31
(12) Ἀβρασαρξ, παρατίθεμαί σοι Ἀδίεκτον... ἵνα ὅσον χρόνον ὧδε κεῖται
μηδὲν πράσσοι (SEG 40, 919, Pannonia Superior, III cent. AD).
‘Abrasarx, I commit to you Adiektos… that, as long as it lays like this, he can
not do anything.’
The quantitative occurrence of types of directives is outlined in Table 1:
30 “Certains emplois typiques du subjonctif en proposition subordonnée (comme le but ou la

crainte) peuvent être rapprochés de ses emplois directifs” [Some typical subjunctive uses in
subordinate clauses (such as purpose or fear) can be compared with its directive uses] (Denizot
2011: 271).
31 Translation by Jordan (1985).
Table 1. Types of directives

Mood Total
Imperative Independent 110 110
Dependent 0
Subjunctive Independent 34 69
Dependent 35
Optative Independent 6 9
Dependent 3
Infinitive Independent 0 8
Dependent 8
The high number of forms in the imperative and the subjunctive is due to the
fact that several directives can occur in the same text, as seen in (5) and (7). The
imperative occurs in 22 and the subjunctive in 20 texts out of 41. As expected,
the imperative is the most employed mood for conveying directivity. The
subjunctive mood is generally less commonly employed than the imperative for
encoding positive orders in Greek.32 Nonetheless, as Jannaris (1897: 449) claims,
“Prohibition being nothing else than a negative command […] or exhortation
(deprecation), its proper exponent, the subjunctive mood, was naturally suggested
also for the kindred notion of affirmative exhortation or command”. According to
the scholar, the third person and subsequently the second person of the subjunctive
could be interchanged with the same persons in the imperative.33 According to
Denizot (2011), the subjunctive only has an exhortative meaning, when used
in the first person plural34, or a defensive one, when used in the second/third
person. An exhortative meaning of directives in the subjunctive can be traced
in curse tablets. The use of irrealis, which can be encoded by the subjunctive in
Greek, is one of the coding principles listed by Givón (2001: 313) as linguistic
tools for weakening manipulative speech acts. Occurrences in the optative are
rare in curse tablets. According to Denizot (2011), the optative can encode
directives in fictitious contexts: “ce n’est qu’indirectement que l’interlocuteur est
amené à comprendre qu’il lui est demandé de réaliser ce procès” [the hearer is
only indirectly led to understand that he is asked to accomplish the process]
32The second person of the subjunctive is normally used for encoding prohibition, see Goodwin
(1897), Jannaris (1897), Van Emde Boas and Huitink (2010).
33 Jannaris (1897: 565).
34 See also Humbert (1960: 114).
(Denizot 2011: 455). The optative allows for uttering indirect directive speech
acts since it conveys alethic modality, the felicity condition of the act being that
the addressee can accomplish the order (Denizot 2011). Lastly, the infinitive only
occurs in the analysed texts in dependent clauses with a final meaning.
Directives could occur either in the second person, singular or plural, or
in the third person, singular or plural. When the third person is used, verbs are
frequently in the passive form (see e.g. 6) and make reference to the victim of the
curse, the hearer implicitly remaining the agent of the action.35 Impersonalizing
mechanisms such as passives are described by Brown and Levinson (1987:
194–198) as negative politeness strategies: they work by avoiding reference to
the addressee as the agent of the directive. Nevertheless, the god remains the
agent and the illocutory force of the speech act is not lowered.36 The quantitative
occurrence of directives according to the person is outlined in Table 2:
35 For imperatives in the third person see Denizot (2011: 154-163). In particular, the scholar
explains: “Le destinataire exprimé dans les énoncés directifs […] ne doit donc pas être considéré
comme un sujet syntaxique. Il s’agit d’un constituant extra-propositionnel, situé en dehors de la
syntaxe de la préposition constitutive de l’énoncé directif ” [The addressee of directive utterances
[…] must not be considered as a syntactic subject. He is an extra-propositional constituent, placed
out of the syntax of the main utterance of the directive speech act] (Denizot 2011: 184).
36 Directives in curse tablets seem to act differently from Greek regular maledictions, which Denizot
(2011) describes as similar to wishes: “Les souhaits et le malédictions peuvent prendre la forme
locutoire traditionnellement associée à l’acte directif, avec l’impératif, mais leur force illocutoire
n’est pas directive. Les emplois de l’impératif ne se confondent donc pas toujours avec l’acte directif.
Cette particularité des souhaits et des malédictions ne se retrouve pas dans les propositions à
l’impératif qui ont un sens comparable à des propositions hypothétiques” [Wishes and maledictions
can take the locutionary form which is traditionally linked to the directive speech act, that is the
imperative, though its illocutive force is not directive. The uses of the imperative do not always
confuse with the directive speech act. Such peculiarity of wishes and maledictions can not be found
in utterances in the imperative which have a similar meaning to hypothetical utterances] (Denizot
2011: 255). Maledictions in curse tablets always maintain a high illocutionary force, for magic can
control and manipulate reality in a more unavoidable way than a normal person can do.
Table 2. Occurrences of directives according to the person

Mood
Imperative 2nd person 85
3rd person 26
Subjunctive 2nd person 29
3rd person 6
Optative 2nd person 1
3rd person 5
The high frequency of the 2nd person imperative is due to the fact that more
than one instance can occur in the same text (see e.g. 5). Strategies of negative
politeness different from morpho-syntactic encoding are rare in the curses.
In order to partially satisfy hearer’s negative face, by instance, the defigens can
communicate that any infringement of hearer’s territory is recognized as such
and is not undertaken lightly. Hence, reasons for the appeal are presented to the
god(s). They occur in only three curses: in (13) reference is made to a theft, while
in (14) and (15) a generic accusation for impiety is elicited:37
(13) κατατίθεμε τοὺς κλέψ[αν]τας (SEG 30, 326, Athens, I cent. AD).
‘I hand over those who robbed.’
(14) ἰς κατεργασίαν καὶ μάγαρσιν παρατίθε̣μαι ὑμ̣εῖν θεοῖς ἀλειτηρίοι[ς] καὶ

θεα〈ῖ⟩ς ἀλει[τ]ηρίαις (Stroud 124, Acrocorinth, I-II cent. AD).
‘to destruction and for working a spell38 I commit to you avenging gods and
goddesses.’
(15) παραθίτομα[ι] καὶ καταθί̣[το]μ̣α[ι] Καρ̣π̣ί̣μην Βαβίαν στ̣εφανηπλόκον

Μοίραις Πραξιδίκαις ὅπως ἐγδεικ[ήσ]ωσι τὰς ὕβρ{ι}εις (Stroud 125-126,
Acrocorinth, Roman Period).
‘I hand over and deposit Karpime Babia the garland weaver to the Moirai
Praxidikai so that they may exact vengeance for her insolent behaviour.’
The deference of the defigens towards the god(s) is moreover elicited by employing
honorifics (taxemes and adjectives) such as κράταιος, ἄναξ, κύριος, ἅγιος,
37 Versnel (2010: 322) lists impiety among the occasions for prayers for justice.
38 For the interpretation of μάγαρσιν see the commentary by the editor on Stroud 125–126.
δέσποινα,39 which can be found in 18 texts (see e.g. 11). The lexemes κράταιος
and ἄναξ occur almost only in curse tablets from the Athenian Agora, whose
formulaicity has been underlined by Jordan (1985) - ἄναξ also occurs in NGCT
23, a defixio from Oropos (III-II cent. BC). By employing such words, the sorcerer
reconstructs a taxonomy which is generally disrespected in curse tablets, for the
enchantment of magic can force even a god to do something.
Deference is also elicited in two texts by clearly stating that the sorcerer is
begging for the god(s) help (see also 4):
(16) ἱκέτις ὑμῶ<ν> γίνο[μαι (SEG 43, 434, Pella, IV-III cent. BC).
‘I beg you.’
By employing such strategy, as Denizot (2011: 143) claims, the defigens “donne
une grande importance à son interlocuteur, puisque celui-ci a le pouvoir
d’accorder une faveur à un suppliant (il ménage donc sa face positive), et indique
explicitement qu’il respecte par avance son interlocuteur en ne lui demandant rien
de contraignant (et il ménage ainsi sa face négative)” [gives great importance to
his hearer, for he has the power to grant a favour to a supplicant (he thus satisfies
his positive face), and explicitly indicates that he respects in advance his hearer by
not asking him anything binding (and he thus satisfies his negative face]. On the
contrary, the verb κελεύω, semantically opposed to the begging, occurs once (17):
(17) κελεύωσ̣[ε (SEG 38, 1837, Oxyrhynchos, III-IV CE).

‘I order you.’
5 Conclusions
According to the literature, in prayers for justice the action of cursing should be
only partially carried out by the sorcerer, since he/she entrusts the culprit to the
god(s). Moreover, such texts should not be likely to express a directive meaning
by means of an order, rather by means of a prayer.
On the contrary, the results of this preliminary analysis of a small group of
curse tablets containing performative acts conveyed by παραδίδωμι and (παρα)
(κατα)τίθημι, verbs usually connected to prayers for justice, suggest that the force
of the illocutionary act could be considered the same as that of pure defixiones,
39 For such honorifics in Greek see Dickey (1996: 100–103).

for many reasons. First, the co-occurrence, besides committal verbs, of verbs
conveying performative speech acts suggests that the defigens keeps the control
over the action. Secondly, the analysis has revealed that strategies involving modals
and pragmatic markers are employed in order to either directly or indirectly
convey a directive meaning and that negative politeness strategies are not always
activated. Different levels of manipulative strength can be detected, going from
injunction, which is the most frequent, to exhortation. As for morpho-syntax,
the imperative is the most employed mood, its occurrences being far higher than
those of the subjunctive, the optative and the infinitive. This fits the description
of directive speech acts given by Denizot (2011), who proposes that directivity
in Greek is prototypically encoded by the imperative, then by the subjunctive
and the infinitive, by deontic, alethic and, following, epistemic expressions,
lastly by interrogative and interro-negative utterances. The subjunctive is equally
employed in independent and dependent sentences, while the optative is mostly
employed in independent clauses; the infinitive never conveys directive meaning
in independent clauses40. It has been tentatively proposed that directive speech
acts can be indirectly conveyed in final utterances: a good number of occurrences
seems to confirm such hypothesis, even though directives in final clauses have
a lower manipulative force than ‘pure’ directives – that would explain the use
of the subjunctive and of the optative. Strategies of negative politeness, such as
impersonalizing mechanisms, are seldom activated.
Lastly, rare instances of pragmatic markers conveying respect and deference
towards the god(s) have been found, the majority of them being scattered in
groups of curse tablets found in the same place and likely to have been composed
by the same magician or on the basis of the same rituals vehiculated by manuals.41
To sum up, if requests and prayers must be considered as directive, but not
compelling speech acts,42 the occurrences which have been presented in this
paper seem not to be ‘pure’ prayers. The defigens does not seem to negotiate his
position in the relation between him and the god(s): he exhibits a linguistic mark
of power, in most cases with a high manipulative force, even though he admits
that the hearer has the capacity to accomplish his orders. Such suggestions can
at this stage only be speculative: further studies on all curse tablets containing
committal verbs are needed43.
40 For the infinitive conveying orders see Denizot (2011).

41 For the ancient manuals of magic see Brashear (1995).
42 Denizot (2011).
43 Greek and Latin curse tablets containing committal verbs are so far c.ca one hundred.
Appendix 1: Selected texts
Reference Location Date

DTA 100a Greece, Attic IV cent. BC
SEG 43, 434; NGCT 31 Macedonia, Pella IV-III cent. BC
SEG 47, 1523 = SEG 44, 844; Italy, Tiriolo IV-III cent. BC
NGCT 82
I.Rhegion 19 Italy, Rhegion III cent. BC
NGCT 23; Epigr. tou Oropou Greece, Oropos III-II cent. BC
745°
SEG 34, 952 Sicily, Lilybaion II cent. BC
TDSG 29, 1; NGCT 112; Sicily, Messana II-I cent. BC
Orsi 1916, pp. 154-159
IGEP 455; SEG 49, 1405; Hispania citerior, Cuenca I cent. BC -I cent. AD
NGCT 89
SEG 30, 326; SGD 21; Elder- Greece, Athens I cent. AD
kin 1937.3
Stroud 124 Greece, Acrocorinth I-II cent. AD
Stroud 125-126 Greece, Acrocorinth I-II cent. AD
IG II² 13209 Greece, Attic II cent. AD
IG II² 13210 Greece, Attic II cent. AD
IC II xvi 28 Crete, Lappa Roman period
SGD 23; Elderkin 1936 Greece, Athens III cent. AD
NGCT 81; I.Rhegion 20 Italy, Rhegion II cent. AD
IMT 611 Troas, Assos II cent. AD
SGD 22; Elderkin 1937.2 Greece, Athens II-IV cent. AD (El-
derkin), III cent. AD
(SGD)
DT 237 Africa Proc., Carthago II-III cent. AD
SEG 35, 213; SGD 24 Greece, Athens III cent. AD

SEG 40, 919; IGPannonia 50; Pannonia Sup., Savaria III cent. AD?
NGCT 53
SEG 38, 1837 Egypt, Oxyrhynchos III-IV cent. AD
DT 155 a Italy, Rome IV-V cent. AD
DT 156 Italy, Rome IV-V cent. AD
DT 161; Wunsch 22 Italy, Rome IV-V cent. AD
DT 163; Wunsch 24-25 Italy, Rome IV-V cent. AD
IK Iznik 87 Bithinia, Nikaia
DT 86 a Greece, Achaia (in Boeo-
tia reperta)
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Indices
Ancient sources 281; 579–580: 281; 585–586: 277;

669–673: 281. Supp. 110–597: 272;
Aesop: Prov. 50.1–2: 366 157: 287, 289; 163–167: 276, 281;
Anthologia Palatina: 7.383: 143 186: 278; 293–302: 281; 518–521:
Antipho: In novercam 10.7–8: 364 287, 289; 566–571: 287–288; 1078–
Aristophanes: Ach. 11: 328, 330; 165: 327; 1079: 378
242: 330; 284: 329; 400: 334; 454: Genesis Rabbah (GenR): 1.12: 115, 124;
331; 1207: 329. Av. 1628: 331. Ec. 3.1: 127; 8.1: 122, 126; 12.10: 118;
499: 366. Eq. 774–776: 379; 813: 14.2: 123; 18.4: 121; 20.12: 115;
330. Lys. 268: 364. Nu. 492–493: 34.8: 117; 36.7: 116; 48.9: 124;
331; 1485–1489: 274. Pax 193: 331; 53.7: 118; 79.6: 117; 93.6: 118
259–261: 362; 274–275: 362. Ra. Herodotus: 1.94: 36; 1.64.2: 217;
116: 331; 187: 334; 521: 323, 327; 1.171.25–27: 379; 1.56.14–17:
571: 34. V. 971–972: 378 355; 1.57.9–13: 368; 1.64.9–11:
CIG 9902: 135 356; 1.94.32–34: 371; 2.43: 392;
Comica Adespota: 1185: 34 2.115.24–26: 355; 3.19.1–3: 363;
Democritus Epigrammaticus: 101.1–2: 357 4.145.18–19: 377; 4.155.4–7: 370;
Demosthenes: 18.108.3–4: 356; 18.225.4– 6.107.19–108.1: 379; 6.125.6–8:
226.1: 359; 19.222.3–9: 279; 363; 7.13.10–11: 371; 7.150.15–
26.17.3–5: 369; 49.25.4–26.1: 363; 151.1: 379; 8.5.14–16: 377;
57.8.1–3: 377 8.57.10–58.1: 369; 9.34.11–12: 376
Euripides: Alc. 1082–84: 397. Andr. 515– Hesiod: Erg. 198–99: 306, 316; 436–439:
746: 272–273; 540–543: 276; 551– 306, 317; 453: 306, 309, 317; 608:
552: 287, 289. El. 272–273: 399; 306, 308, 317–318. Th. 337: 99‚ 475:
667–668: 396–97. Hec. 218–443: 313‚ 698: 304‚ 892: 313
272–273; 229–230: 287, 289; 251– Hesychius: 102, 103, 107
253: 277; 258–263: 277; 396–397: Homer: Il. 1.37–41: 338; 1.231: 328;
287, 289; 726–863: 272–273; 1.474: 1; 2.4: 489; 2.38: 485;
765–66: 289; 824–825: 281. Heracl. 2.56–59: 8, 341; 2.80: 537; 2.100–
55–287: 272; 63: 287, 293; 67–68: 108: 522; 2.102: 525; 2.219: 10;
277; 117: 286; 140: 286; 147: 286; 2.337: 434; 2.409: 489; 2.478–479:
166–168: 286; 171–174: 286; 248: 10; 3.30–31: 8; 3.56–57: 430; 3.97–
280; 257–261: 287–288; 259: 286; 100: 344; 3.124: 10; 3.210: 1; 3.220:
674–676: 399. Or. 380–724: 272; 533–535; 3.303–304: 344; 3.373–
481: 277; 520–521: 276; 544–550: 374: 426; 3.428: 427; 3.456–460:
275, 281; 559–560: 281; 579–581: 344; 4.6: 489; 4.223: 533, 535–536;
568 Indices
4.429: 533; 4.459: 12; 4.501–502: 428; 4.274: 437; 4.722–723: 342;
11, 13; 4.518–519: 6; 5.22–23: 421; 5.211–212: 6; 5.308–311: 427;
5.85: 533; 5.303: 484; 5.319–330: 5.445–446: 338; 6.16: 9, 6.164: 436;
517; 5.328: 514; 5.354: 6; 5.461: 6.221–222: 365; 6.239: 342; 7.186–
364; 5.597–599: 104; 5.757: 7; 194: 346; 7.269: 437; 8.83–96: 459;
5.801: 10; 5.897–898: 428; 6.177: 8.177: 10; 9.378: 435; 9.554: 485;
484; 6.341: 360; 6.393: 435; 11.397–41: 460; 12.271–276: 347;
6.480–481: 6; 7.1–3: 518; 7.17– 12.340–351: 347; 14.67: 540, 542;
20: 513; 7.104: 418; 7.104–106: 14.459–461:340; 14.462–467: 340;
419; 7.181–190: 521; 8.5–9: 345; 14.495: 342; 15.169: 485; 15.267:
8.111–117: 517; 8.116: 514; 8.305: 7; 15.304–306: 341; 15.307–312:
9; 8.559: 8; 9.9: 9; 9.16: 365; 9.181: 341; 15.423: 491; 15.513: 537,
489; 9.323–345: 457; 9.388–390: 539, 541; 16.241–242: 11; 17.121:
7; 10.41: 487; 10.278–282: 338; 491; 17.250: 483; 17.360–363:
10.283–284: 339; 11.169: 8; 11.181: 491; 17.368: 491; 18.248–249:
438; 11.380–382: 429; 11.734: 6; 19.282–284: 425; 20.29: 486;
419; 12.228: 486; 12.400–402: 12; 21.27–28: 327; 23.241: 531, 533;
13.343: 487; 13.506: 13; 14.303: 24.32–34: 425; 24.237: 488;
99; 14.474: 7; 14.475: 11; 15.139– 24.284–286: 429
140: 10; 15.172–173: 343; 15.601: Hymni Homerici: 4.227–253: 462
436; 15.627–628: 9; 15.641–643: 7; IG V,1 679–680: 36
15.697: 533; 16.190: 143; 16.360: IG VII 188: 35
9; 16.659–661: 7; 16.644-651: 490; Lucan: Bellum Civile 10.321–322: 105
16.703: 525; 16.743: 525; 16.747: Lysias: 3.47.5–48.4: 385; 4.7.5–7.6: 384,
99, 103, 107; 16.787: 418–419; 395; 4.13.10–14.2: 394; 7.6.3–6.5:
16.828: 419; 16.847: 531, 533; 395; 11.8.1: 384; 12.91.2–5: 394;
17.277: 436; 17.366: 533; 17.598– 13.40.1–2: 363; 30.27.5–6: 378;
599: 13; 18.1: 512; 18. 52-53: 342; 31.9.1–4: 365
18.90–92: 365; 18.235–238: 512; Niketas Choniates: Orationes 59: 34
18.311: 526; 18.410–418: 519; Novius Exodium fr. 24: 33
18.402–403: 104; 19.150: 432; Novum Testamentum: Act. Ap. 9.37: 140;
20.487–489: 11; 21.38: 481; 21.88: 20.9: 140; 21.38: 150. 1 Ep. Jo. 2.18:
525; 21.324–325: 104; 22.108: 483; 135. Ep.Ti. 4.13: 140. Ev.Jo. 1.14:
22.426–428: 422; 23.274: 538–539, 191. Ev.Luc. 5.17: 183; 11.14: 177.
541; 23.592: 537; 23.606–607: 426; Ev.Marc. 2.23: 184. Ev.Matt. 7.28:
23.777: 8; 24.58: 11; 24.220: 537. 177, 187; 28.2: 191
Homer: Od. 1.208–209: 9, 1.236: 538, Old English: ÆCHom II, 28: 106–107,
539; 541, 3.77–78: 481; 3.86–87: ApT 11: 106
343; 3.124: 534, 536, 3.260–261: Old Norse: Lausavísur from Magnúss saga
431; 4.105: 437–438; 4.178–181: berfoetts 6.1–2: 99, 106–107
Plato: Cra. 383a: 248; 391a: 254; 405d5– Thucydides: 1.1: 228; 1.1.2: 227–228;
e1: 359; 418b7–c3: 359; 430e-431a: 1.8.1: 219; 1.10.3: 229; 1.10.4:
247. Ep. 315d1–d4: 357. Grg. 474c: 229; 1.10.5: 229; 1.24.2: 215;
247, 253; 479c: 248; 497a: 256; 1.33.2: 225; 1.39.1: 223; 1.45.1:
497b-c: 246; 497d: 245; 501c-d: 220; 1.46.1: 220; 1.49.7: 222;
252; 505d: 256; 513c: 256. Lg. 1.50.2: 22–28; 1.53.3: 219; 1.74.3:
944d5–7: 357. Phd. 62b: 238; 63a: 391; 1.91.4: 222; 1.120.3.1–2:
255; 64d-e: 238; 64e-65a: 239; 65b- 368; 1.126.2: 2191;126.6: 230;
d: 237, 249; 66a: 243; 67b: 243; 67d: 1.127: 219; 1.134.4.3–4.5: 355;
243; 67e: 242; 68b: 250; 68c: 243; 1.142.7: 224; 2.4.8: 220; 2.12.4:
68d: 242; 69e-70a: 240; 71a: 242; 222; 2.21.1: 218; 2.29.4: 217;
71d: 238; 72a: 241; 72a: 244; 75b: 2.31.2: 227–228; 2.51.5.3–4: 378;
241; 77a: 255; 77e4–7: 370; 84c: 2.60.6–7: 392; 2.62.1: 225; 2.64.3:
253; 84d: 253; 105e: 251; 107b: 254; 227–228; 2.89.4-5: 224; 2.102.5:
115c-d: 255. Phdr. 276d3–4: 360. 215; 3.10.5: 223; 3.24.3: 220;
Plt. 289d10–e2: 378. Prm. 131a4–5: 3.40.2.1–2.2: 369; 3.103.1: 216;
377; 131c5–7: 377. R. 428e9–429a3: 3.113.1-5: 228; 3.113.6: 227–228;
378; 550d3–4: 357; 569b8–c3: 367. 4.16.2: 218; 4.23.1: 217, 223;
Smp. 205d: 434. Ti. 90e6–91a1: 366 4.39.3: 220; 4.46.5: 223; 4.59.4:
Plautus: Asin. 382: 331. Merc. 922: 331. 218, 223; 4.67.3: 223; 4.117.2: 218;
Mil. 427: 332. Most. 528: 331. Pers. 4.119.3: 220; 5.10.8: 218; 5.26.3:
765: 332. Pseud. 1065: 332. Stich. 218; 5.43.1: 220; 5.74.1: 229; 5.85:
395: 331; 763-64: 332 223; 5.93–94: 390; 5.104: 223;
Plutarch: Crass. 33: 133. Lucull. 14.5, 5.105.3: 218, 223; 5.113.1: 220;
14.21, 29.4: 133 6.10.5: 223; 6.13.1: 229; 6.17.5:
PY Ta 641.1: 23; 708.1: 23; 714.1: 23 229; 6.54.4: 223; 6.61.1: 225;
SEG 21.500:147; 31.626: 135; 54.929,2: 6.61.2: 218, 223; 6.63.2: 215, 223;
135 6.80.1: 223; 6.80.2: 223; 6.91.4:
Sophocles: Aj. 94–99: 396. El. 1171– 383–384, 394; 6.92.5: 229; 7.13.2:
1172: 394; 1172: 383. OC 560–568: 218; 7.26.2: 223; 7.44.1: 225;
392; 1189–1191: 393. OT 132–136: 7.55.1: 225; 7.75.7: 229; 7.77.2:
393. OT 359–361: 397; 1130–1133: 214; 7.81.2: 218; 7.86.4: 223; 8.1.2:
400; 1033–1034: 397. Ph. 72–76: 229; 8.9.1: 223; 8.41.2: 229; 8.48.5:
391 254: 327. Tr. 627–29: 400; 663– 223; 8.74.2.1–2.3: 356; 8.84.3: 223;
670: 396; 1238–1240: 284 8.85.1: 221; 8.87.1: 223; 8.96.1:
Strabo: 11.14.15: 133; 17.1.42.20: 368 229; 8.95.5: 221
Terence: Adelph. 160: 332; 852: 333. Andr. Vedic Sanskrit: RV 8.64.11: 106; RV
84: 332; 183: 334; 854: 33. Eun. 9.86.43bc: 105, 107; RV 10.75.8ac:
311: 333. Hec. 664: 332. Phor. 324: 105. Śatapatha Brāhmaṇa 1.4.1: 103
333; 496: 333 Vetus Testamentum: Ex. 4.24: 189. 2. Ez.
570 Indices
28.13: 143. Jo. 8.18: 147; 8.26: 148. Homer 68, 99, 114, 143, 208, 303–305,
Ju. 9.7: 148. 1 Ma. 15.16: 145. Ps. 308, 313, 337–338, 364, 406, 408,
17.27: 144 412, 424, 429–432, 450, 452, 455,
Virgil: A. 2.496: 105 459, 467, 479–493, 510–528, 549
Xenophon: An. 1.2.26.4–5: 363; 2.1.3: Nemesis 306, 308, 450, 452, 455, 459,
481; 4.5.5.3–6.1: 376; 7.1.20.2–4: 467, 530
363. Cyr. 4.5.4.1–3: 368; 6.2.8.1–3: Nestor 489, 516–517, 521, 534
366. HG 2.1.25.1–3: 362; 2.4.9.5–6: Nyx 305
377; 3.5.12.6–8: 376; 4.5.8.4–6: Odysseus 338–343, 346–348, 425, 427–
360; 6.3.19.3–8: 369 429, 435, 454, 458–461, 484–485,
487–489, 491, 533, 535–536, 540,
542
Names (ancient) Pamour 82
Patroclus 538–539, 541
Achilles 10–11, 104, 342, 423, 425, 483, Plautus 324, 328, 331
489, 512, 518, 538–539, 541 Poseidon 308
Aeschylus 115, 495, 501 Prima 158, 161
Agamemnon 7, 273, 279, 281–283, 285, Quadratus 163–164
289, 338–339, 342–343, 345, 425, Sophocles 386, 389, 396, 495, 501
432, 458, 460–461, 467, 485, 488– Symphonos 158
489, 495, 521–523, 533–534, 536 Telemachus 534, 538–539, 541
Aidos 306, 308 Terence 324, 328, 332
Antenor 533, 535 Theoclymenus 538–39, 541
Apa John 73–74 Thucydides 207–234, 259–270, 386, 389
Apa Nepheros 73–74 Uranos 304–305
Apa Paieous 73–74 Zeus 230, 308, 342–343, 345, 425, 429,
Aphrodito 73–4 462, 485–486, 489
Aristophanes 324, 328, 330, 495, 501
Dioscoros 73–74
Erebos 305 Names (modern)
Eumaeus 540, 542
Euripides 69, 133, 271ff., 334, 386, 389, Acedo-Matellán, Victor 365
495, 501 Auwera, Johan Van der 482
Eutaktos 159 Bakker, Egbert 424, 426, 449–450, 453,
Gaia 304–305 463
Helen 533, 535 Basset, Louis 449, 463
Hemera 305 Bottin, Luigi 449, 463
Herodotus 36–37, 39, 115, 129, 217, 386, Chantraine, Pierre 3, 32–33, 36, 37, 348,
389, 405–406, 408, 412 403–404, 408, 412, 479, 483, 488,
Hesiod 301–321, 450–451, 454, 467 490, 531
Cooper, Guy L. 479 Plungian, Vladimir A. 482

Cristofaro, Sonia 481 Rau, Jeremy 33
Cuny, Albert 309 Rijksbaron, Albert 479–480
Dardano, Paola 38 Schwyzer, Eduard 3, 37, 216, 383, 385,
Debrunner, Albert 3, 177, 483 403, 483
de Jong, Irene 530, 532 Sicking, Christiaan 208, 250
Denaux, Adelbert 178, 181–182, 185–186, Stassen, Leon 481
200 Taillardat, Jean 36
Dewell, Robert 353 Wakker, Gerry 207–208, 235, 253, 257
Dik, Simon 372, 380, 405 Willmott, Jo 479, 483
Drewitt, John 449, 455, 463, 470
Duhoux, Yves 479, 480, 484
Funck, Anton 353 Places and localities
Gerth, Bernhard 383–384, 368, 480, 483
Goldberg, Adele E. 365, 380 Acrocorinth 545, 552, 557, 560
Goodwin, William Watson 479–481, Amorion 158, 170
483–484 Anatolia 20, 22–25, 31, 37, 141
Hoffmann, Karl 417–418, 449, 463 Asia Minor 22, 36–37, 134, 136, 142,
Hogeterp, Albert 178, 181–183, 185–186, 146, 148, 152, 157, 160, 166, 171
200 Askra 309
Joüon, Paul 180–81 Assos 554, 560
Kahn, Charles 191–92 Athens (Agora) 553, 557, 560–561
Kiparsky, Paul 417–418, 456, 464, 471, Carthago 551, 553, 560
515, 519, 522, 524 Hermopolite 73
Koch, Konrad 449, 463 Kellis 64, 73–74
Kölligan, Daniel 191–192 Pannonia Superior 554, 561
Kühner, Raphael 47, 53, 208, 224, 227, Pella 552, 558, 560
383–386, 403, 480, 483 Phator 74
Lanérès, Nicole 195 Phrygia 157–158, 161, 163, 165, 170–171
Luraghi, Silvia 364 Rome (Porta San Sebastiano) 551–552,
Mateu, Jaume 365 561
Mathys, Audrey 33
Méndez Dosuna, Julian.V. 480
Mumm, Peter-Arnold 449–450, 453, 463 Subject index
Muraoka, Takamitsu 180–181, 190
Noonan, Michael 481 accusative of respect 2–21, 23, 25
Palmer, F. R. 482 action (event) 404–412
Palmer, Leonard R. 483, 488 action noun 404, 411
Platt, Arthur 449–450, 453, 463, 509, adjectives 3, 8–12, 19, 35, 37, 102, 106,
511, 513 119, 129, 144, 207, 211, 394, 418,
572 Indices
430, 557 470, 524

-anaphoric pronominal 220 code-switching 82, 119, 122, 128–129
-relational 37–39 cohesion 516, 518–521, 524–526
adverbs 31–38, 63, 66, 68, 70–71, 129, commissive 389, 392
201, 216, 218, 221, 349, 394, 417– common ground 209-216, 218–219, 221,
445, 514–515 224–225, 228–231
aggressive magic 545–548, 550 completive clause 480
agrarian context (agrarischer, bäuerlicher compositionality 79, 83–84
Kontext) 301, 309, 312 compounds, dvandva-like appositions
Anatolia 20, 22–25, 31, 37, 141 125–126, 129
Anatolian languages/linguistic area 5–6, conative-expressive function 328–329,
13–14, 19–21, 23–25 333–334
archaism (Archaismus) 311 conditionals 274, 421, 439, 529–533,
Ascidiacea 103 537–538
Asia Minor 22, 36–37, 134, 136, 142, consecutio modorum 479, 492
146, 148, 152, 157, 160, 166, 171 contact-induced feature/change 20–22,
Attic dialect (attischer Dialekt) 308 38, 177–204
augment 447–471, 509–526 control (lexical feature) 405, 407
base verb 63 convergence 22, 24, 65, 79, 81, 84, 192
bilingualism 65, 79, 119–120, 128, 171, copular (constructions) 179, 190–193, 195
311–312 counterfactuality 531, 541
-bilingual archives 72, 84 counterfactuals 417, 419–424, 427, 430–
-bilingual community 129 433
-bilingual country/environment 64, curse formulae 166, 168, 171
170, 182 defixiones 545, 546, 548, 551, 558
-bilingual interference/influence 46, defocaliser 274–275, 280–281, 294
64–65, 81–84 denial 390, 395, 398, 400
-bilingual text 44, 157–158, 166 diglossia wihout bilingualism (Diglossie
-bilingual speakers/ writers 72, 80, ohne Zweisprachigkeit) 311–312
82–84, 120, 129 direct speech 226, 390, 427, 547
bodies of water 100, 104–105, 107 directive speech acts 545, 549, 552–553,
Boeotian dialect (böotischer Dialekt) 309, 556, 559
311–312 discourse markers 82, 185, 211, 259–270,
caesura 496 398, 400
case marking 4, 13, 375, 495, 499, 500, double accusative construction 2, 4–5,
502–505 11–13, 17, 18–21
case substitution 323–24, 327–328, 333 downgraders 274, 278, 282, 284, 287,
change (of state) 354, 357–358, 365 289, 291
characterisation 273, 281, 286–287, 294 dual 301–321
clitics 50, 418, 448, 455–456, 463–464, -body parts (in dual, Körperteile im
Dual) 303, 305, 308, 319 γίγνομαι (syntax of ) 177–179, 184, 191–
-disappearance of (Schwund des 192, 195
Duals) 301–302, 311 gnomic aorist 449, 452, 453, 467
-neglect of (Dualvernachlässigung) Homeric 1–29, 405–406, 417–445
301–321 -corpus 530
-oxen (in dual, Rinder) 304, 306–307 -hymns 450
-ploughing, ploughs (use of dual re- -syntax 531
lated to, pflügen, Pflüge) 304, 306– iconicity 495–496, 502, 505
308 illative 389, 391
duality (Zweiheit) 310 implication 372, 374
dyadic structures 395, 400 inalienable possession 5, 12, 18–19
dynamism (lexical feature) 405 indefinite “you” 532–34
ellipsis 103, 387–389, 400 indicative 479, 480–481, 484–485, 487–
epic Greek 455–456, 464 489, 491
-early Greek epic (frühgriechisches -in Homer 531–532, 540
Epos) 301 indirect interrogative sentence 479, 485,
epistemic 230, 387, 417–440, 482–488, 488, 490–491
492, 532, 538–540, 559 inferential evidentiality 482
epithet 100, 104 infinitive 47, 167, 184–186, 387, 390,
Erga (Hesiod) 301–321 393, 398, 435, 438, 488–489, 553,
event (typology) 405–407, 409 555–556, 559
evidential(ity) 208, 387, 424, 426, 479– injunctive 417–20, 422–423, 432–433,
492, 509 435, 438–440, 450, 453, 456, 464,
exclamation(s) 323–325, 327–329, 333– 509, 514–515, 519
334, 387, 390, 395, 397 instrument 403, 405, 408–412
exclamative 387, 399 insubordination 386–389, 398–399
existential constructions 178–179, 185, insults 277, 283–284, 286
190–193, 195, 197–199 interference 21–22, 46, 64–65, 79–84
face 541–542 intonational units 496
felicity conditions 274, 277–278, 288 irony 272, 287, 289, 291–294
fetching 354, 362 irrealis 417, 419–421, 423, 433, 439–440,
foaming 99–107 531–532, 543, 555
foamy 100, 102, 104–107 iterative forms 451
foamy-ness 100, 102, 104, 106–107 jussive 47–48, 383, 390, 393, 551
frequency of use 495, 499, 503 καὶ ἐγένετο construction 177–187, 190,
funerary epigram 157–174 199, 200–201
funerary monument 167 language contact 1, 21–22, 31, 36–39,
games 31–34, 36–39 64–65, 69, 114, 119–120, 125, 128,
genre-specific language (Gattungssprache) 133, 178, 235
308 -Greek-Anatolian 21ff., 31ff.
574 Indices
-Greek-Aramaic/Syriac 111, 125, 134 nominative pro vocative 323, 328–130,

-Greek-Armenian 133ff. 334
-Greek-Egyptian 64ff., 111 Nvivo (software) 278
-Greek-Hebrew 111ff. 178, 184 object 4, 12, 63, 67, 76, 80, 87, 162, 165,
language mixing (Sprachmischung) 312 167, 210–211, 231, 268, 346, 355,
left periphery 524–526 358–359, 361–364, 366–367, 369–
Lexical Functional Grammar 65–66, 79 371, 374, 376–377, 386, 404, 409–
linguistic borrowing 112, 114, 116, 120, 410, 479, 503, 521, 523, 525
123, 126–129 ocean 100, 104–107
linguistic change 22 Odysseus, recognition of 542
ΛΚΝ 353 optative 479–484, 486–88, 490–492
LSJ 111, 145, 190, 216, 353, 407–408, -in Homer 540
430 -oblique 479–480, 482–484, 488,
ludonyms 31–32 492
Lydia(n) 31, 36–39 overpoliteness 287, 290–291, 294
meaning definition 372 paideia 170
meaning postulates 371–374, 380 partial possession 374–375
metacomments 275, 281 particles 46–47, 50, 67, 69, 82, 87, 162,
metonymy 411 166, 178, 181, 183, 207–231, 259–
metrical analysis 496, 505 268, 348, 383, 387, 417–420, 422–
modality 387, 417–445, 479–480, 482, 424, 428, 432–433, 435, 437–440,
485, 492, 532, 537, 543, 556 456, 464, 486–487, 509, 511, 516,
mode 479–480, 482–483, 488–489, 491 522, 524, 533
mono-clausal 384–386, 390–393, 395– phrasal verb 63–69, 74–84
396, 398, 400 Poetic grammar 530
Motionsfemininum 121 politeness 541–542, 546, 548, 552, 556–
movement 354–355, 357, 359–362, 364– 557, 559
365, 371 -strategies 273–274, 281, 287, 294
multiple preverbation 68, 70, 84 position (event) 405–407
narrative sequence 512, 515–518, 520– possession 353, 356, 367, 374–379
521, 523 prayers for justice 545–548, 550, 552,
narratology 532 557–558
Narten present 102, 107 predicate frame 355, 358–360, 364, 366–
negation 212, 214, 421, 453, 461, 464, 367, 370–372, 374, 380
468 present counterfactuals 537–540
Neo-Phrygian 157–160, 162–163, 165– presupposition 367–368, 370, 372, 374
167, 169–170 preverb 63–64, 68–71, 77–78, 84, 353,
neutralization 324 365, 367–368, 370, 373, 375, 380
New Testament Greek 190, 201 preverbation 68, 70, 84, 353
-Luke’s Greek 179–183, 200 process (event) 405–407
productive morphology 123 tense 417–418, 455, 509–510, 515

property 358, 366 -aorist 63, 69, 87, 165, 177, 192,
prosody 169, 495–496, 498, 505 200, 267, 337, 348, 422, 432, 449–
Proto-Indo-European 31, 37–38 455, 465–467, 487, 510, 531
purpose clause 481 -future 192, 417, 480, 483, 486–490,
P-word 63–72, 74–80, 84–85 492, 531
realis 532 -future-perfect 480
realis vs irrealis 417, 419, 421–423, 433 -historic/narrative 455, 479, 482,
reference time 513–523, 526 485, 488, 492
regionalism 81, 83–84 -imperfect 165, 178, 187, 192, 422,
Reichenbach (tense system) 513-515, 526 432, 435, 439, 451, 455, 465–466,
result 409–412 531
river 99–100, 102–107 -past 439, 450, 456, 479, 509, 515,
-flying rivers 99 526, 529
-mother of all rivers 99, 102, 104, -perfect 162, 348, 397, 450
106 -present 510
sea-squirts 99–100, 103–104, 107 -present perfect 449, 513
seething 99–107 -pluperfect 88, 454, 464–466, 469
-seething-ness 100, 102, 104, 106– Theogony (Hesiod) 301–321
107 tmesis 63–64, 68–69, 84, 520
selection restrictions 380 univerbation 68–69, 76
semantic bleaching 68, 71, 79, 84 unselected arguments 365
spatial 353, 364–365, 380 upgraders 274, 276, 278, 282, 284, 286,
speaker-bystander axis 283–284, 286, 294 288, 292
speech vs narrative 454, 466 valence (qualitative, quantitative) 380
state (event) 405–407 verbal formula mismatch 287, 292, 294
state (initial/final) 365, 372, 374 Wackernagel particles 524
subjunctive 162, 288, 383–384, 393, whole-part construction 5, 12
479–480, 482, 489, 490, 515, 531– word formation 32, 35, 117, 121, 353
533, 553–555, 557, 559 word order 50–51, 56, 76, 387, 498, 505,
subordination 201, 388, 400, 453, 469, 524
516 parts of speech (Wortarten) 308, 319
substitution 354, 358–359, 367, 369,
370–371, 372–374
supplication 271, 284, 294 Words
surprise 385, 390, 395, 398, 400
syntax 3, 5, 53, 82–83, 178, 180, 184– Gothic
187, 190–191, 195, 200–201, 259,
365, 518, 522, 524, 556, 559 ƕaþjan* 99, 101, 106
temporal anaphora 515–518 ƕaþo 101, 106
576 Indices
Greek που 427–428

πρώτατος 123–124
αἰγεία 115 σικάριος 150
ἀνδρόγυνος 126 σίσυρνον 115
ἄρα 419, 424–426 τέναγος 103
ἀρχικριτής 127 τήθεα 99–100, 103–104, 107
Ἀσοραιος 146 τήθη 99
Ἀφροδίτη 104 τηθύα 100, 103–104, 107
ἀφρῷ μορμύρων 104, 107 Τηθῡ́ς 99–100, 102–104, 106–107
ἀψίς 146 τοι 429–430
βήρυλλος 143 τοπάζιον 146
βία 118–119 ὕδραυλις 116
βλώσκω 433 φελόνης 140
γαῖσον 147 χαράδριος 151
γε 428–29 χοραύλης 116
δή 207–209, 211–231, 426–427 ὥστε 383–385, 387, 389–400
δίδραχμα 140
*δρόμαυλις (?) 124 Latin
ἐκβιβαστής 119
ἔκδικος 118 agnina (pellis) 115
ἐργασία 141 cāseus 100
εὐρακύκλων 144, 151
θεμέλιος 127–128 Old English
θηριακή 144
Ἰησοῦς 142 hwaþerian/hwoþerian 106–107
καῖσαρ 135
κανδήλη 136 Old Norse
κέ(ν) 420–423
κῆτος 141 lauðr 105–107
λάγειος 115
μάλα 430–432 Swedish
μάλιστα 391, 396
μέλλω 433–439 kva 101, 106
μέλω 433–434
μηχανή 140 Vedic Sanskrit
Νέρων 135
οὕτως 384, 396 kváthant 102
πεντακοστή 142 ārjīkī́ya-105
πήγανον 140 Māthavá 103
ποταμός 99–102, 104, 107
List of contributors
Sara Agliardi Victoria Fendel

Ruprecht-Karls-Universität Heidelberg University of Oxford, Leverhulme Early
sara.agliardi@hotmail.it Career Fellow
victoria.fendel@classics.ox.ac.uk
Rutger J. Allan
Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam Riccardo Ginevra
r.j.allan@vu.nl Marie Skłodowska-Curie Fellow in Indo-
European Linguistics
Annamaria Bartolotta University of Copenhagen
Università di Palermo riccginevra@gmail.com
annamaria.bartolotta@unipa.it
Christina Katsikadeli
Giulia Bucci Universität Salzburg
Sapienza, Università di Roma Christina.Katsikadeli@sbg.ac.at
giulia-bucci@hotmail.it
Daniel Kölligan
Paola Dardano Julius-Maximilians-Universität Würzburg
Università per Stranieri di Siena daniel.koelligan@uni-wuerzburg.de
dardano@unistrasi.it
Frédéric Lambert
Francesco Dedè Université Bordeaux Montaigne
Università degli Studi di Milano Frederic.Lambert@u-bordeaux-
francesco.dede@unimi.it montaigne.fr
Philip De Decker Antonio Lillo

Universiteit Gent University of Murcia
filipdedecker9@gmail.com lillo@um.es
Trevor Evans Rafael Martínez Vazquez

Macquarie University Universidad de Sevilla
trevor.evans@mq.edu.au rmartinez@us.es
578 List of contributors
Lucio Melazzo Emilia Ruiz Yamuza

Università degli Studi di Palermo Universidad de Sevilla
lucio.melazzo@unipa.it eruiz@us.es
Elisa Nuria Merisio Vladislav Slepoy

Università degli Studi di Firenze Universität Salzburg
elisanuria.merisio@unifi.it. vladislav.slepoy@sbg.ac.at
Alberto Pardal Padín Roxanne Taylor

Universidad de Salamanca The University of Manchester
pardal@usal.es roxanne.taylor-4@postgrad.manchester.ac.uk
Antonio Revuelta Puigdollers Liana Tronci

Universidad Autónoma de Madrid Università per Stranieri di Siena
antonio.revuelta@uam.es tronci@unistrasi.it
Sira Rodeghiero Jesús de la Villa

Università degli Studi di Padova Universidad Autónoma de Madrid
sirarodeghiero@gmail.com jesus.delavilla@uam.es
Sandra Rodriguez Piedrabuena Mariarosaria Zinzi

Universidad de Sevilla Università degli Studi di Milano
spiedrabuena@us.es mariarosaria.zinzi@unifi.it

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römischen Namengebung. 1990. 92 p. Poetics. Historia, Argumentum, and Fabula
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Roman Eastern Policy and Other Studies in Latin Poetics of Fiction. 1996. 173 p.
Roman History, edited by Heikki Solin and Vol. 109 (1996)
Mika Kajava. 1990. 174 p. Kuisma, Oiva: Proclus’ Defence of Homer.
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The accusative of respect in Homeric Greek as evidence for language 1

The Greek suffix -ινδα within the Micro-Asiatic multilingual context 31

Not overstrong in his Greek: modern interpretation of ‘Egyptian’ 43

Phrasal verbs in a corpus of post-classical Greek letters from Egypt 63

Greek loanwords in post-Biblical Hebrew/Aramaic: some case 111

Notes on Greek loanwords in Classical Armenian 133

Interaction between Greek and Neo-Phrygian in funerary epigrams 157

Contact-induced change and language-internal factors: 177

Focus of attention and common ground. The function of the 207

Degrés et nuances de l’acquiescement dans les dialogues de Platon 235

Im/politeness strategies in Euripides: an approach to linguistic 271

III Morphology and syntax

Exclamative nominatives and nominatives pro vocatives in Greek 323

Reduplicated and non-reduplicated imperatives: κλύθι and κλύτε vs 337

The preverb μετα-: a cognitive and constructionist analysis 353

Insubordination in Ancient Greek? The case of ὥστε sentences 383

IV Modality, semantics, and pragmatics

Modality and Injunctive in Homeric Greek: The role of epistemic 417

A semantic-pragmatic analysis of the augment in epic Greek, 447

Oblique optative and inferential evidentiality in Homer 479

A usage-based approach to prosody and second argument realization 495

The augment in Homeric narration from a temporal perspective 509

Present counterfactuals and verbal mood in the Homeric poems 529

Committal verbs in Greek aggressive magic: a pragmatic analysis 545

List of contributors 577

This volume is a collection of twenty-nine papers that had their preliminary

Helsinki, November 2020

The accusative of respect in Homeric Greek as

1 Introduction and overview1

1.1 Definition of “accusative of respect”

(1) a. ὃ δὲ φρένα τέρπετ᾽ ἀκούων. (Il. 1.474)

b. μὲν Μενέλαος ὑπείρεχεν εὐρέας ὤμους (Il. 3.210)

1.2 Previous analyses

Terminology aside, even the origin of the accusative of respect is uncertain.

A somewhat different approach is that of Carol Rosen, who focuses on the

5 See also Blümel (1927), and Blümel (1935).

homogenous, and based on the framework of the Relational Grammar, Rosen

Romagno also overcomes a serious difficulty that perhaps vitiates Delbrück’s

The following reassessment of this topic is directly stimulated by the article of

by Homeric Greek and Anatolian languages. A fundamental presupposition for

2 The accusative of respect in Homeric Greek

2.1 The forms