16. The Kinyradai of Paphos

Evidence from and relating to Paphos especially lets us pick up the thread of Kinyras’ cult in the Classical period, and follow it down until later antiquity. Here the two broad patterns explored above—the social and political manipulation of Kinyras as a cultural icon, and the maintenance of his ancient role as a hieratic servant of the goddess—overlap most fully. And ultimately Paphian traditions, preserved at the sanctuary itself, may help us track Kinyras back to his mainland origin(s).

In 69 CE, the future Roman emperor Titus, on his way to Judaea to carry out the siege of Jerusalem for his father Vespasian, stopped at Paphos to consult with the sanctuary’s divination-priest about his own career prospects (the wise Sostratos gave a positive forecast). [1] Tacitus, in mentioning this voyage, includes a digression on the history of this most famous cult-site of Aphrodite: In the Annals, Tacitus again states that Aerias first built the Paphian temple, which was held to be the island’s oldest. Aerias, he says, was the father of Amathus, who had gone on to consecrate the temple to “Amathusian Venus.” Third in age was the temple to Jupiter at Salamis, established by Teukros. [3]

This scheme for the Cypriot temples, in which Paphos holds pride of place both chronologically and (vis-à-vis Amathous) by mythical genealogy, belongs to Tacitus’ catalogue of Greek sanctuaries that in 22 CE had to defend their authenticity before Tiberius, who was investigating rampant abuses in the granting of asylum. To be ‘reaccredited’, the various states were required to send “charters and ambassadors” to establish their legitimacy; and many, according to Tacitus, “put their trust in ancient superstitions.” [4] The emperor upheld the status of all three Cypriot sanctuaries, and the citizens of Paphos erected a stele proclaiming their gratitude and hailing Tiberius their savior. [5] The outcome, for Paphos at least, was probably a foregone conclusion, since this was the provincial seat of the emperor cult, [6] and the Julio-Claudians traced their descent from Venus herself. The latter point had been emphasized by the Community of Cyprus in their loyalty oath to Tiberius upon his accession just eight years earlier (14 CE)—the same occasion on which they invoked “Our Kenyristḗs Apollo.” [7]

When the evidence of the Histories and the Annals is combined, and one recognizes the leading role enjoyed by Paphos in the historical construction—which as it happens is broadly correct—it becomes clear that Tacitus’ material derives substantially from the Paphian priesthood itself. It is a précis—perhaps even a partial transcription—of their official report before the investigating tribunal, available to the historian through senate archives. [8] We are therefore dealing with a specifically Paphian understanding of Kinyras. [9]

Some of what Tacitus relays is familiar from other sources, in particular Kinyras’ association with kingship, divinatory arts, and of course the goddess and her sanctuary. [10] The details of Aerias and Tamiras, however, are quite unparalleled.

‘Aerias’ permits two interpretations. Most scholars have looked to Lat. aer, aeris (‘air’, from Gk. aḗr, aérοs), seeking a correspondence with Gk. Ouránios or Ouranós. [11] This would make him a sky- or storm-god like Baal or Zeus, and a male counterpart to Aphrodite Ourania, as later Greek sources often called the goddess when acknowledging her NE background. [12] Because Tacitus adds that “certain people consider this the name of the goddess herself” (that is, *Aeria), [13] some scholars dismiss Aerias as a misunderstanding or a fiction “assez tardif”—that is, a back-construction from Ourania. [14] Of course, the pattern of ‘Mr. and Mrs. Sky’ has ancient precedents in the Near East, beginning with Sumerian Anu and Inanna. [15] And it is generally recognized that this pattern is reflected in the coupling of Zeus and Dione, who appear unexpectedly as Aphrodite’s parents in Iliad five—a book containing several other unusual features of a Cypriot cast. [16]

Nevertheless, I prefer the alternative proposal to connect Aerias and *Aeria with Lat. aes, aeris, ‘copper’ or ‘bronze’. [17] This would arise readily from reinterpretation of the goddess’s epithets Kýpris and Kypría, since the adjective kýprios, passing into Lat. as cyprius, was commonly applied to copper by the time in question (Lat. cyprium aes or just cyprium, whence Eng. ‘copper’). [18] While the etymology itself would be late, it would have been grounded in ancient and accurate traditions about the central importance of copper to the island—which was itself sometimes called aerosa for just this reason. [19] Its key early role in the cult of the goddess herself, we saw, is vividly illustrated by the Bomford Goddess, who has a close male counterpart in the Ingot God; and this coupling may be reflected in Aphrodite’s epithet Kythéreia, which many would see as a female counterpart to Kothar, the Syro-Levantine craftsman-metals god. [20] This latter idea finds compelling independent support in ps.-Meliton, who knew a myth of ‘Hephaistos’ (i.e. a metals god) controlling Cyprus before the intervention of a Kauthar-Kinyras figure (see Chapter 19). Admittedly, it would be quite astonishing for the Paphian priests of the Roman era to have maintained an “ancient memory” of a LBA metal-god. But Aphrodite’s great sanctuary at Paphos, if anywhere on the island, will have been a locus of early oral traditions, and may even have maintained written records from the LBA into the IA. [21]

Tamiras is equally obscure. [22] Hesykhiοs contains an entry for Tamirádai, defined as “certain priests in Cyprus.” [23] Possibly the lexicographer depends solely on Tacitus, but note that the plural form is not found in the historian himself, nor is Paphos specified. It is not clear from either source whether these Tamiradai were still active, but it sounds as if not.

Several etymologies, none entirely convincing, have been proposed for the Tamiradai. Movers suggested a link with Thymarete, the daughter of Pygmalion whom Kinyras married after emigrating from Cilicia in one tradition (if so, the named has obviously been Hellenized). [24] The syllabic sequence Tu-mi-ra, which occurs in an Eteocypriot inscription from Amathous and may be a DN, has been thought relevant. [25] Others point to the Hebrew tamar, ‘date-palm’, and suggest a connection with Sacred-Tree cult both on the island and in the Levant. [26] One might then think of the harper who sings before the sacred tree on the bronze stand discussed above. [27] But these vague ideas do not account for the special Cilician connection of the Tamiradai. A seventh-century Phoenician inscription from Cebel Ires Daği, in Rough Cilicia, contains the consonantal sequence TMRS, apparently a TN; this has seemed promising, but gives little purchase. [28] Slightly more tangible is a proposed connection with dammara-, a word of perhaps Luwian or Hurrian origin, which in Hittite sources designates temple-personnel, both male and female, charged with the care of grain; but the absence of overlapping function with the Tamiradai remains problematic. [29]

A final possibility is that Tamiras is somehow cognate with Thamyris/Thamyras. [30] We have seen that a cultic group known as Thamyrists (Thamyríddontes) was active in fourth-century Thespiai (Boeotia), evidently tracing their descent from the musician who in Homer’s hands was blinded by the Muses. [31] Unfortunately, their function remains largely obscure, frustrating comparison with the entrails-inspection of the Tamiradai. The hypothesis would offer a quite exact parallel to the Kinyradai in their self-presentation as descendants of a legendary lyrist. It would remain to explain how an evidently Aeolic lyre-tradition might find a cognate in early Cilicia and Cyprus. Still, an EIA Aegean/Achaean presence in Cilicia now seems beyond doubt. [32] Note that a further tradition of royal priesthood links Cilicia and Cyprus: the Salaminian lineage was implicated in a local Cilician tradition, whereby Ajax son of Teukros founded a dynasty and hereditary priesthood at Olbe. [33] There is also the term akhaiománteis—‘Achaean priests’ or ‘Achaean prophets’—defined by Hesykhiοs as “those who hold the sacred office of the gods in Cyprus.” [34] The word connotes an ultimately extra-Cypriot origin, and thus potentially deep antiquity; unattested in the island’s inscriptions, it may have been long obsolete by the Classical period. [35] It is therefore worth considering whether the Tamiradai represent some reflection, at the hieratic level, of a cultural encounter between Aegean immigrants and a Paphian religious and royal ‘establishment’ in the twelfth and/or eleventh centuries, with an older Kinyrad ideology eventually prevailing. [36] We saw a comparable duality in the competing myths that attributed the foundation of Paphos to either Kinyras or Agapenor, where again it was the Kinyrad apparatus that maintained the upper hand. [37]

The composite, layered nature of the Paphian priests’ ‘memories’ is striking. It is crucial, I believe, that Kinyras was presented as a secondary stratum by the priests themselves. The Paphians may be suspected of being motivated in part by a desire to surpass the other Cypriot sanctuaries in a bid for antiquity; for while the Amathousians obviously attributed to ‘Amathous’ the foundation of their temple in reporting to the Roman senate, the Paphians advanced Aerias as the father of Amathous. [38] Now ‘Amathousa’ is also found in some sources as the mother of Kinyras. [39] If the Amathousians placed any emphasis on this point, Kinyras would not have given the Paphians the oldest claim. Nor would traditions about Agapenor. [40]

Whatever the Paphian priests’ motivation or basis for promoting Aerias, their profession that Kinyras was a relative ‘latecomer’ must be essentially correct, if Kinyras is rooted in a Divine Lyre of mainland origin(s). This should be added to other traditions that connect Kinyras variously with Byblos, Syria/Assyria, Cilicia, and perhaps Sidon (see further Part Three). [41]

Of the ancient kings of Paphos, twelve are known by name, the earliest in the Esarhaddon prism inscription (N-A, 673/672 BCE). [42] Archaic statuary shows the Paphian kings in priestly costume, a clear enough indication that they already served as high priests in the seventh century (Figure 43). [43] This assumption accords well with the religious conservatism implied by the Classical inscriptions, in which one finds the formula “King of Paphos and Priest of the Queen”—using an old Mycenaean royal title for the goddess (Wánassa or Ánassa). [44] Such a pairing of king and goddess, we have seen, is a royal posture of deep antiquity, attested already in third-millennium Mesopotamia. That this was a LBA survival at Paphos, rather than an IA innovation, is supported by Astarte’s role as royal protectress at Ugarit and elsewhere (Chapter 15). The same idea endured among the IA Phoenician kings: those of Sidon and Tyre served as priests of the goddess, while tenth-century Byblian inscriptions portray the goddess as kingmaker and guarantor of the ruler’s life and power. [45]

This environment makes it easy to believe that the Kinyrad identity of the royal house was equally traditional. For the fifth century, we have seen, it is corroborated by Pindar, with Kinyras as “the beloved priest of Aphrodite.” [46] It has been suggested that Homer’s brief portrait of Kinyras as a Great King who sends a friendship gift to Agamemnon is evidence that he had not yet taken on a hieratic dimension. [47] But the perception of Kinyras could naturally have been different in and out of Cyprus, and from one genre to the next. Homer’s context of royal gift-exchange would not have especially encouraged the inclusion of priestly detail. On the other hand, as I have argued elsewhere, Kinyras was probably Aphrodite’s agent in a lost branch of epic that dealt with the heroic wanderings of Paris and Helen in the eastern Mediterranean. [48]

In the current state of evidence, it is only the city’s last king, Nikokles II (died ca. 306), for whom we have any detailed information, including on-the-ground epigraphic evidence of the Kinyrad legacy.

That Nikokles was an energetic and ambitious ruler is shown by a little corpus of royal inscriptions documenting an impressive building program. [49] He evidently (re)founded and presumably walled Nea Paphos, the harbor of which could accommodate a large fleet. [50] He also built a monumental new temple to Artemis Agrotéra (‘The Huntress’); [51] expanded an existing shrine to Hera; [52] consecrated an oracular hypogeum to Apollo Hylátēs; [53] and probably constructed defensive walls around Old Paphos in the turmoil that followed the death of Alexander. [54]

This evidence is clear “proof of an explicit cultural and religious policy of the king.” [55] One thrust of Nikokles’ program, with its building projects on behalf of Olympian gods, was probably to present himself as ‘more Greek’ than his predecessors. [56] Inscriptions in the old Paphian syllabary were now complemented by alphabetic and digraphic texts. [57] J. Mlynarczyk has suggested that Apollo was made the father of Kinyras at this time, integrating the Paphian royal line into a Panhellenic framework. [58] The goal would be, presumably, to anchor his dynasty more firmly in ‘international divinity’, since Kinyras, though he must have remained numinous on Cyprus itself, especially at Paphos, was probably not so recognized beyond the island. J.-P. Cayla would also attribute Apollo’s epithet Kenyristḗs to Nikokles, comparing the king’s cultivation of Apollo Hylátēs. [59] Alternatively, the title, which effectively absorbs Kinyras, may be a theological revision deriving from the Ptolemaic takeover of the royal cult (see below).

Nikokles’ modernizing agenda notwithstanding, his inscriptions show clearly that he maintained the ancient customs of his house—presiding over the state cult as “Priest of the Queen,” and ruling together with her in some sense. It was this that justified his interventions in the sacred landscape: his priestly status was “not only evidence of his actual role in the cult of the goddess, but also proof of the legality of his secular power.” [60] Whether other Cypriot kings exercised such sacral kingship in the Classical period is less certain, since a comparable double titulary is so far unparalleled. [61] Yet there is suggestive evidence at least for Salamis [62] and Kourion, [63] and it would not be surprising if the conception were fairly common in varying forms on the island, given how generally the goddess was venerated.

Intimately connected with Nikokles’ official position as deputy of the goddess was his claim of Kinyrad ancestry. This is proven by an inscription discovered in 1953. Two elegiac couplets, paleographically dated to the last quarter of the fourth century, were carved on the base of a statue of the king, dedicated to Paphian ‘Aphrodite’ by an admirer at Ledroi (modern Nicosia): Despite considerable damage to the stone, T. B. Mitford rightly asserted that his exemplary supplements must convey the sense closely. [65] The inscription is supremely important for establishing that later literary traditions of a Kinyrad monarchy at Paphos were in fact historically founded. While Mitford’s thẹ[spesíou (‘div[ine-speaking’) is not certain, some word with the element ‘divine’ remains highly probable given the known theta, metrical constraints, and the need to find an appropriate epithet for Kinyras. [66] Thespésios, a formation that must go back to the second millennium, meant originally ‘proclaimed by a god’. [67] Epic diction uses it of such ‘ominous’ sounds as exalted music (including the lyre) and extends it to other awesome phenomena. [68] Note also Euripides’ description of Delphi as the “divinely-singing (thespiōidón) center of the world,” recalling that Paphos also styled itself as gês omphalós (see below). [69] A thespésios Kinyras would be a most appropriate source—always alongside the goddess herself, of course—for the Paphian kings’ priestly and mantic authority.

A statue-base found near Old Paphos contains a second inscription, which, though infuriatingly damaged, must relate to Kinyras. Composed in hexameters, and paleographically dated to the late fourth or early third century, this remarkable text gives a glimpse of a Kinyrad king or priest contemplating his own cultic persona. The recent supplements of S. Follet and J.-B. Cayla improve those of I. Nicolaou as to syntax and letter spacing, and more clearly bring out the divinatory dimension that seems required both by hieròn nóon (‘sacred mind’, 3) and the Kinyrad context. The dedicant’s name clearly commenced the second verse; I propose to read “Nikokles, king” (Nikokléēs basileús), which is metrically appropriate and well supported by other inscriptions from his reign. [70] The text might thus be:

Much is uncertain. But given the dedicant’s reference both to blood-descent (geneâs, 4) and devotional activity before the goddess (thyapolías, 2), Nicolaou’s Kiný]ra (genitive) in verse four must be right, the Kinyradai being the only hieratic lineage certainly known for historical Paphos. [72] Although Nikokles always bears the title “Priest of Wanassa” in the dedicatory inscriptions that are certainly his, those relate to his civic activities as a builder. The present text would deal rather with his duties in the goddess’s cult. The king’s construction projects were themselves cultic ventures in that he acted by divine approval; yet his status as the goddess’s agent was itself due to his Kinyrad descent. So, in the dedicatory texts “Priest of Wanassa” is a kind of shorthand, otiose in an inscription that details the king’s priestly duties.

If, however, one follows Cayla in dating to the early third century, the inscription will reflect rather the transition to mere priestly Kinyradai in the post-monarchic period—presumably a high priest’s celebration of the cult’s alleged perseverance in the Kinyrad line, despite the Ptolemaic takeover (see below). This would certainly be interesting. But a monarchic context seems rather more likely if one accepts J. Mlynarczyk’s argument that the statue originated not in the temple at Palaipaphos, but “an unknown sanctuary in the vicinity of the Zephyria cape.” [73]

That thyapolía refers to divinatory sacrifice—a natural implication of the word itself—is corroborated by the striking hieròn nóon, whether construed as “his art’s sacred intention” (Nicolaou) or “the mind of the gods” (Cayla). [74] Given Tacitus’ statement that at Paphos “it is prohibited to pour blood over the altar; the burnings-altar (altaria) is kindled only with prayers and pure fire,” [75] thyapolía could well indicate the incense rites implied by many sources, especially a fourth-century Paphian coin with Aphrodite before a thymiatḗrion. [76] But since Tacitus himself also says that the Kinyradai inspected the entrails of victims brought by consultants, this must remain a possible context for the inscription. [77] While extispicy must have transpired away from the main altar, the goddess was probably still implicated in the outcome. [78] But perhaps thyapolía refers to all dimensions of Kinyrad priestly technique, and the ongoing maintenance the goddess’s cult. [79] Given a musical Kinyras, the “arts of his line” may well encompass some lyric dimension—even in a divinatory context. Recall the Hurrian liver-omen text that seems to contain kinnāru, and of course the Biblical evidence for lyre-prophecy. [80] A record of cult expenditures from OB Larsa may also imply use of a balang during an incense offering. [81]

When one balances Nikokles’ modernizing tendencies with the conservative and distinctly Paphian expressions of piety just discussed, it seems clear that this was no culturally insecure, provincial conformist, but a proud and astute political player who wished to perpetuate and magnify his ancient house. His actions must be seen against the chaotic events following Alexander’s death in 323. That the Paphian king should be caught up in the wars of succession was inevitable, since Cyprus was rich in resources and key to naval supremacy in the eastern Mediterranean. In 321, Nikokles joined with Nikokreon of Salamis and the kings of Soloi and Amathous in backing Ptolemy against Perdikkas, the latter supported by Marion, which withstood an initial siege. [82] Nikokles evidently considered himself a partner, not a menial. For soon after Alexander’s death, between 323–319, Nikokles issued a notorious Alexandrine on which he inserted, in miniscule characters, his own name within the mane of a lion-skin worn by Herakles—“a furtive kind of assertion of independence.” [83] Equally significant is his rewalling of the old city. [84] There is also a syllabic inscription, still poorly understood, which seems to be a kind of loyalty oath, related perhaps to Nikokles’ consolidation of forces against impending crisis. [85]

As other Cypriot kings resumed issuing autonomous coins—perhaps ca. 319 with the death of the regent Antipater and the deepening political chaos—Nikokles’ mint produced a type bearing a powerful patriotic message (Figure 44). [86] On one side was the goddess with battlemented crown, perhaps trumpeting his new fortifications. [87] For the reverse, Nikokles adapted a Greek type which was fairly common in the fourth century—Apollo sitting on the omphalós and holding either bow or lyre. [88] Although the lyre-variant could have had special resonance for a Kinyrad king, and the pairing of bow and lyre was as ancient on Cyprus as in Greece, [89] for this coin Nikokles opted to use the archer—an appropriately martial image for his troubled times. Clearly this Apollo stands in some sense for the king himself, or his royal line. Nikokles could simultaneously demonstrate Olympian piety to a Greek audience, [90] and advance a claim of religious autonomy. For Paphos, like Delphi, was known as the “navel of the earth” (gês omphalós). [91] It is not known how early this precise designation was applied to the city, and it was probably a deliberate echo of the Delphic claim. The essential idea, however, must have been very ancient, grounded in the immemorial prestige of Aphrodite’s great sanctuary—as important a cult center for Cyprus and environs as Delphi was in Greece. It is thus quite possible that the island-wide panḗgyris described by Strabo goes back to Nikokles’ reign, if not beyond. This would certainly provide one strong motivation for the king’s monumentalization of New Paphos, whence began the ten-mile procession to Old Paphos with which the festival began in Strabo’s day. [92] In any case, Nikokles’ omphalós coin symbolized his kingdom’s religious authority, and insinuated that Paphos was its own political center, not someone else’s periphery. It was a potent assertion of sovereignty.

Nikokles’ proud gestures must have alarmed Ptolemy, and perhaps especially the founding of New Paphos. [93] But Nikokles was still of his party between 315–312 as Ptolemy put down the Cypriot allies of Antigonos—Kition, Lapethos, Keryneia, and Marion, destroying the last-named and deporting its population to Paphos—its southern neighbor—where it helped fill Nikokles’ new foundation (as confirmed by a sudden swelling in the archaeological record). [94] Only two years later, however, Nikokles and his house suffered the famous catastrophe that is colorfully related by Diodoros and Polyainos. [95] Ptolemy, suspecting the Paphian king of negotiating with Antigonos, who was reaching the height of his powers, dispatched two henchmen to surround the palace and demand that Nikokles kill himself. This he did after protestations of innocence fell on deaf ears. According to Diodoros:

The falling-out of Ptolemy and Nikokles has been convincingly related to the settlement of the 313/312 campaign: while Nea Paphos was awarded only the deported inhabitants of Marion, Nikokreon of Salamis was given the lands and revenues of the other defeated cities, and made stratēgós of Cyprus to boot. But after Nikokreon himself died in 311/310 under unknown circumstances, confrontation with Nikokles was a logical follow-up to the suppression and killing of other Cypriot kings:

Even if Nikokles’ family was not as thoroughly eradicated as Diodoros and Polyainos assert, Ptolemy will hardly have tolerated a Kinyrad heir of any standing to continue as Priest of the Goddess, a position of such great and ancient moral authority in the region. [98] Yet the cult of the goddess had to go on, and the divination-­priests in Tacitus’ day, we saw, did maintain a claim of Kinyrad descent. The intervening history, and the nature of Ptolemaic restructuring, is far from clear. The island was now subject to a military governor (stratēgós), a position of great distinction and strategic importance given to the highest dignitaries of the Ptolemaic court, including members of the royal family. [99] But the Paphian cult itself was apparently governed by a “Leader of the Kinyradai” (ho arkhòs tôn Kinyradôn). This title is attested in an inscription from the reign of Ptolemy IV Philopator (221–205), recording the dedication of a statue of his daughter by a certain Demokrates son of Ptolemy. [100] Demokrates’ patronymic does not prove a direct Ptolemaic intervention in the priestly succession—the name became generally popular in this period—but it hardly suggests continuity of the royal line. Yet presumably the Leader of the Kinyradai did carry on at least some of the old king’s priestly duties. [101] These would have included extispicy (Tacitus) and probably incense offerings to the goddess. Hierogamic gestures, although depoliticized, may well have continued at the level of agrarian magic and ritual poetics. Kinyras, through Aphrodite and his children (Adonis, Myrrha, et al.), could thus survive in some of his ancient roles.

A Leader of the Kinyradai (or equivalent) must have continued to preside over the Paphian cult even after, in the reign of Ptolemy V Epiphanes (204–181), he was technically outranked by the military governor who henceforth added “High Priest of the Island” to his title. [102] The principal reason for this innovation, which mirrors a development in the contemporary Seleucid satrapies, was probably to increase tax revenues from the island’s temples, of which Old Paphos boasted the wealthiest. [103] This is also when New Paphos seems to emerge as the island’s administrative capital. [104]

One of the first of these governor-priests was Ptolemy of Megalopolis, who had been a courtier of Ptolemy IV Philopator before assuming the Cypriot stratēgía under Epiphanes in 197. [105] To him we owe a brief but precious glimpse of the archaeological landscape of Old Paphos a century after the monarchy. He wrote an apparently muck-raking account of his former patron’s reign, of which only four fragments remain. By a lucky chance, one of these relates to Kinyras and the Kinyradai. The passage was tapped by Clement of Alexandria and Arnobius for tirades against pagan temples, which they interpreted euhemeristically as tombs of bygone mortals now wrongly venerated. For both, Kinyras concludes a list of legendary figures believed to be interred in the temple precincts of major gods. [106] Kinyras was apparently unique, and so the more outrageous, for being buried with “his whole family—indeed his whole family line”; and Ptolemy guaranteed his information, according to Arnobius, “on the authority of letters” (litterarum auctoritate). What does this mean? One reasonably assumes that Ptolemy wrote about the Kinyradai after his appointment to the governorship, in which case he could have made his “declaration” on the authority of his own eyes, rather than by appeal to some earlier historian or ethnographer. This strongly suggests that he referred to epigraphic evidence in the sanctuary itself, akin to the inscriptions discussed above. [107] And there must have been something that was displayed as the tomb of Kinyras himself. [108] Since Clement and Arnobius cite their examples to illustrate customs of pagan worship, it should follow that Kinyras received such attentions at Paphos—that his sepulcher doubled as a kind of shrine within the temple precinct. When one considers that vestiges of Cypriot cult lingered on into the Medieval period at various ancient sites, [109] such activity is perfectly possible for Paphos in the second century BCE, when Ptolemy was writing—and even the second or third CE, with Clement. [110]

In the troubled reign of Euergetes II Physkon (146–116), the inscriptions attest what appears to be a new designation, “The Priests of Paphian Aphrodite.” [111] Yet this need not mean that Kinyradai had ceased to exist: the title may only be an umbrella term for several groups of cult functionaries, of whom the Kinyradai remained one. Alternatively, ‘Kinyradai’ itself may once have had this collective force, [112] but was phased out of official use for some reason. Perhaps the old royal connotations were now felt to be potentially subversive, at odds with the Ptolemaic ruler cult itself. [113]

When Ptolemy IX Soter II (Lathyros) established a quasi-independent kingdom on the island in 106/105, the old stratēgía became obsolete, and with it apparently the position of “High Priest of the Island.” [114] At Paphos a mantiárkhēs is now twice attested: such an officer must have overseen divination, personally conducting it as the occasion demanded—for illustrious visitors like Titus, for instance—and was perhaps the equivalent of High Priest. [115] Whether he also counted himself a Kinyrad—as Tacitus would suggest—is unclear; if so, ‘Leader of the Kinyradai’ had presumably fallen out of formal use.

On the death of Lathyros in 80, a bastard ascended the Cypriot throne; it was this Ptolemy who, when in 58 Cato the Younger offered him the high priesthood of Paphian Aphrodite if he would stand down, famously preferred suicide to demotion. This confirms that the temple then had its own high priest (whether mantiárkhēs, hagḗtōr, [116] or some other title), and shows that the position had maintained enough of its ancient regal prestige to be “the best equivalent for royal power which [Cato] could offer.” [117]

Under the Empire the title High Priest (arkhiereús) is definitely attested in 212, and is probably to be restored in an inscription of the earlier first century CE. [118] This, with the contemporary testimony of Tacitus, shows that a continuous Kinyrad self-identity is not incompatible with periodic changes in official nomenclature. This is confirmed by the Kinýrarkhos (or Kinyrárkhēs) who appears in a heavily damaged inscription from the reign of Antoninus Pius (138–161 CE). [119] The title clearly recalls “Leader of the Kinyradai” from four centuries earlier—an “archaistic revival, perhaps merely honorific, of which the purpose eludes.” [120]

The temple hierarchy was clearly not immune to diachronic development, perhaps especially as to titulary. Whereas ‘Leader of the Kinyradai’ in a third-century BCE context may very well suggest the highest officer in the cult, apparently in Antonine times the Kinýrarkhos was distinct from the High Priest. [121] Presumably, then, the Kinyrarch led but one of the temple’s colleges, the activity of whose members is indicated by the root kinyr-. The implications of this must be pursued next.

Although the precise relationship between the old kings and the Kinyradai who operated thereafter (under one name or another) is elusive, one important issue can be pinpointed. The titles “Leader of the Kinyradai” and Kinýrarkhos, along with Tacitus, show that the Kinyradai were not only a royal and/or priestly ‘lineage going back to Kinyras’—a natural interpretation of the patronymic suffix [122] —but equally a coeval priestly cohort. For the monarchy one might try to harmonize these diachronic and synchronic senses by supposing that the larger royal family constituted the Kinyradai, from whose ranks the priesthood was drawn. This seems probable enough; but it does not completely account for the post-monarchic period with its interruption of the royal line. Nor is it credible to divorce completely the synchronic and diachronic senses, assigning one kind of Kinyradai to each period. For even if one regards ‘Kinyradai’ per se as a titular contrivance of the Ptolemies, stressing the legitimacy of cult continuity despite the loss of monarchy, yet an analogous body of priests must already have existed, whose activity would have to be well described by the new label, if new it was.

Fortunately, the word itself permits further inferences. As M. L. West pointed out, the Greek patronymic suffix can yield not only ‘Sons of Kinyras’ but ‘Sons of the Lyre’, corresponding exactly to the normal WS designation of professional ‘guilds’, with their claims of common descent. [123] This interpretation is highly plausible within a larger NE context; recall the royally sponsored groups examined in Part One (Ugarit, Bible) and the lyre-orchestras of the Cypro-Phoenician symposium bowls (Chapter 11). ‘Leader of the Kinyradai’ and ‘Kinyrarch’ would then simply designate the ranking kinýra-player of a larger college. Nor is this incompatible with the divination duties Tacitus attributes to the Kinyradai: the Biblical material, we have seen, attributes various ritual, ‘magical’ powers to the kinnōr and its players, including forms of prophecy, which go well beyond the simply musical. This scenario would also explain how the Kinyradai continued so readily after the fall of Paphos, since they need never have been limited to the royal family.

The paradox of Kinyradai as both ‘cultic lyrists’ and ‘royal dynasty descended from Kinyras’ may be neatly resolved by supposing that the kings of Paphos, in presiding over state rituals as “Priest of the Queen,” did so effectively as Leader of the Kinyradai (vel sim.). [124] This deduction is perfectly compatible with the conclusions reached in other chapters on different grounds—that Kinyras was a kind of royal performing role, and that kinýras itself means basically ‘kinýra-player’. [125] It may be that a separate ‘lead kinyrist’ was already operative in royal Paphos—a kind of Chief Singer as at Mari or under David—who oversaw the execution of practical liturgical matters, while the king, though active as high priest of the goddess—and so notional leader of her cult—did not trouble himself with the detailed management of the Kinyrad priests. [126] Still, the comparanda from Ugarit and Hattusha show that, while royal cult performances were essentially honorary, some real participation was necessary. And since the Paphian king was himself of professed Kinyrad descent, he would necessarily act as the ‘Lead Kinyrad’ of his generation, whoever else may have conducted more quotidian tasks, musical or otherwise.

The Kinyradai, considered diachronically as a royal dynasty, also recall the royal mortuary cult of Ugarit—where the king’s ancestors were divinized, and the kinnāru was apparently a symbolic marker of eternal, blessed kingship. One might therefore see the Paphian kings as somehow incarnating Kinyras in successive generations. [127] West’s view that Kinyras “is nothing but the mythical eponymous ancestor of the Kinyradai,” though right in one sense, does not account for the deep antiquity, and materiality, of Kinnaru and the Mesopotamian balang-gods. There are indeed clear examples of eponymous ancestors being secondarily derived from group names (Homer himself is now often suspected); but the opposite process, a group taking their name from an established figure, is equally well attested. [128] To be sure, a Divine Kinnaru must ultimately be a professional projection—an exaltation by hieratic lyre-players of their own religious authority, social status, and venerable tradition. But such a gesture, to account for Kinnaru at Ugarit, will antedate the Kinyradai of historical Paphos by so many centuries that they themselves were perhaps unaware of Kinyras’ ‘artificial’ origin, regarding him in all sincerity as an ancient demigod priest-king whose duties to the goddess they perpetuated. Such a ‘dwindling’ may be paralleled by divine figures of Linear B reappearing as minor characters in Greek mythology (when not disappearing altogether). [129] Yet it does seems clear, from “Our Kenyristḗs Apollo” and the other evidence so far considered, that the lyric Kinyras remained rather numinous down to the Classical period, and even to the time of Tiberius.

To conclude, we must seriously entertain the possibility that the Kinyradai of Paphos—as a royal lyric clan—go back in one form or another to the pre-Greek LBA. This idea, which will seem far-fetched when considering only the city’s few and relatively late historical inscriptions, becomes much more compelling once one’s horizons are expanded by the systematic considerations explored in this and previous chapters. After all, the goddess’s cult operated continuously across the LBA–IA transition, and must have been appropriately staffed throughout.