21. Syro-Cilician Approaches

Kinnaru of Ugarit, I have argued, was probably but one regional manifestation of a more widespread pattern. Kinnaru himself, of course, belongs to a Syrian milieu. We also saw that material from the Hurrian sphere, stretching across Syria and into Cilicia/Kizzuwatna, documents both its second-­millennium kinnāru-culture, and divinization of cult tools and objects (see Chapter 6).

This background can help explain the curious oracular statue, enrobed and bearded, which Lucian saw beside the throne of ‘Helios’ at Hierapolis/Manbog. [1] This was presented to him as ‘Apollo’, but Lucian emphasizes its departure from typical Greek representations; the priests maintained that it was undignified to portray the god as a youth (an imperfect state). [2] One thinks of the bearded ‘Apollo’ who, seated or enthroned, plays an asymmetrical knr-type lyre on two fourth-century (Persian-era) Samarian coins. [3] Other Syrians will have regarded the Hierapolitan ‘Apollo’ as Nabu, the Babylonian scribe-god and son of Marduk whose cult flourished especially in the Neo-Babylonian period (626–539). [4] Nabu’s identification with Apollo was promoted especially by the Seleucids, harmonizing the former’s importance in the Babylonian royal cult with their own alleged descent from the Olympian. [5] Ps.-Meliton confirms that Hierapolitan ‘Apollo’ could indeed be called Nabu in Lucian’s time; yet this very passage—described by F. Millar as “a salutary warning as to the impossibility of arriving at a ‘true’ definition of the nature of Near Eastern deities” [6] —simultaneously reveals that ‘Nabu’ itself was not a fully satisfactory label to the priests:

When Lucian’s ‘Apollo’ and ps.-Meliton’s ‘Orpheus’ are read together, it becomes clear that the Hierapolitan god was depicted as a lyre-player. [8] Such a Nabu is corroborated by explicitly labeled representations from Palmyra and Dura Europos, which, while sometimes exhibiting iconographical influence of Apollo kitharōidós, equally contain many native Syrian elements, including instrument morphology. [9] Some are qualified as Nbw qnyt, which scholars have variously interpreted as ‘Association of Nabu’, ‘Nabu the Citharode’, or ‘Nabu’s Lamentation’. [10] And yet, though ‘Nabu the lyrist’ was clearly a popular conception in the region, this appears to be a local innovation, as Babylonian sources do not obviously connect Nabu with music, much less the lyre. [11] The problem needs further investigation, [12] but preliminarily it would seem that, in parts of Roman Syria, Nabu absorbed an indigenous, oracular, lyre-playing god; his name was displaced or forgotten, and he could be variously calqued as Apollo or Orpheus. This must be the same figure whom the Sabians of Harran venerated as the prophet ‘Orâfî’ (< Orpheus). [13]

In what follows, I shall argue that Syrian and Syro-Hurrian kinnāru culture has also left its imprint on several mythological traditions tracing Kinyras to North Syria and Cilicia. These complement, rather than contradict, Kinyras’ Byblian, and perhaps Sidonian, connections discussed in Chapters 19 and 20. And whereas with Byblos one must question whether Kinyras was a secondary accretion through his association with Adonis, the present material makes Adonis himself seem ancillary. While the geographical orientation of these sources is unambiguous overall, they present many puzzles, often insoluble. It is all the more welcome, therefore, that Cilicia has produced our most compelling iconographic evidence for a Divine Lyre—the so-called Lyre-Player Group of Seals, an analysis of which will appropriately conclude this study.

We have already seen one oblique link between Kinyras and Cilicia in the Tamiradai, the obsolete priestly order that yielded divination rights to the Kinyradai of Paphos. [14] Another connection is offered by an elegiac couplet in the Greek Anthology: These verses, traditionally assigned to Demodokos of Leros (late sixth century BCE), are now considered a post-Archaic, slavish imitation of the poet’s two authentic fragments. [16] Those are very close in structure and thought, but feature Milesians and Lerians instead of Cilicians. [17] This makes it uncertain whether Kinyras appears here for any special legendary associations with the region, or has just been plugged into the formula as a handy PN. The couplet does at least suggest the currency of the PN in Cilicia, and may well relate to the ‘Virtuous Kinyras’ discussed in Chapter 13.

More revealing evidence comes from two mythographic passages that share a basic framework, beginning with a descent from the Athenian hero Kephalos and leading to Kinyras’ marriage with Pygmalion’s daughter on Cyprus. The Kephalid genealogy is managed quite differently in each text, with the integration of disparate epichoric material presenting many interpretive challenges. But the unique names of Pygmalion’s daughter (Metharme or Thymarete, obviously variants) and Oxyporos, her son with Kinyras, show that this much of the two constructions is cognate; and that in turn permits a degree of comparative analysis that implicates a third text, bearing on what may be called the Egyptian Detour.

The origin of these Kephalid genealogies is obscure and probably complex. The presence of Kephalos himself, however, presumably originates in fifth-century Athenian political interests in Cyprus and Cilicia, perhaps finding mythographic expression in one or more Atthidographers. [18] We have already seen that other Athenocentric myths were linked to Akamas, Soloi, and Khytroi, and pondered how Euagoras of Salamis may have profited from an ‘Athenian Kinyras’. [19] So I shall concentrate here rather on what happens in the genealogies after Kephalos.

The first passage is a scholion attached to a verse of Dionysios the Periegete’s Description of the World (second century CE), where Cyprus is described as “the lovely land of Aphrodite, daughter of Dione.” [20] At first sight, the scholiast’s comments seem rather gratuitous:

We shall leave aside for now the introductory Egyptian myth, its possible relationship to what follows, and the marriage into Pygmalion’s family—these discussions require supplementary material from the second passage—and begin by examining Aoios and Paphos. Presumably their mother is to be understood as Eos, the Dawn goddess, well known for her loving abductions of beautiful mortals, including Kephalos. But the abduction motif itself has evidently been suppressed. This is suggested both by Kephalos’ ‘settling in’ (oikôn) Asia—potentially embracing Syria or even wider horizons, although a special connection with Cilicia will emerge below—and the euhemerizing version of Adonis’ death, which treats tales of divine abduction as deliberate falsehoods and misunderstandings. This may also be why Pandion features here as Kephalos’ father, not Hermes (as in the second passage to be considered). [24]

As to ‘Paphos’, this is only one of several genealogical constructions connecting Kinyras to the city of that name. A Pindaric scholion makes Kinyras’ parents Eurymedon and a Paphian nymph (or the ‘nymph Paphia’). [25] Eurymedon, if it is not a speaking-name, [26] could indicate autochthonous connections with southern Anatolia, as there was a Pamphylian river so called, and a region near Tarsus in Cilicia. [27] If this is the right approach, it would imply some crossing to Cyprus, either by Kinyras or Eurymedon himself, since the nymph-bride suggests a local Paphian birth (for both her and her son). An alternative Paphian mother is probably to be found in the ‘Paphos’ whom Ovid makes the offspring of Pygmalion and his ivory beloved. Although this child’s gender is obscured by variant readings, a female Paphos is more likely on our current understanding of the textual tradition. [28] A male interpretation is found in Medieval mythographers like Theodontius and Boccaccio, who not unreasonably assumed that Ovid intended a dynastic sequence Pygmalion > Paphos > Kinyras (see Appendix F, G). And, indeed, a father Paphos was evidently the norm. Besides the Dionysian scholion—obviously independent of Ovid—Paphos is probably given as Kinyras’ father by another Pindaric scholion. [29] Then there is an early third-century CE papyrus of ‘Greek Questions’, in which Paphos, unambiguously male, is called mētropoleítēs, citizen of the ‘mother city’—a designation Paphos enjoyed vis-à-vis the rest of Cyprus in the Roman period. [30] Clearly the question assumed that Paphos himself founded the city. If the text has been rightly supplemented with a reference to his son, it attests an otherwise unknown episode in which Kinyras steals something from Aphrodite and takes it to his house; the goddess comes, sees it in his hand, and seduces him in mortal guise. This explained some Paphian cult-practice involving “garlands of roses.” Adonis’ metamorphosis into the rose (through his blood) was presumably a parallel aition. [31]

Returning to the passage at hand, the scholiast tells us nothing about Aoios, and one wonders if this was true in his source; for this obscure and remarkable figure is something of a doublet to Paphos, and quite probably older. It is, after all, not Paphos, but Aoios, whose name means ‘He of the Dawn’ or ‘The Eastern One’ (< Gk. aṓs/ēṓs), [32] that is the more natural son of Eos. By a lucky chance, two ancient lexica preserve crucial material collated by some benevolent scholar of refined tastes. [33] Here we learn that Aoios was made son of Kephalos and Eos by the early Athenian geographer Phileas (fl. ca. 425–400), who further stated that Aoios was the first king of Cyprus and gave his name to a mountain there, from which ran two rivers, the Setrakhos (or Satrakhos) and the Aplieus. [34] Presumably, the idea that Aoios was an old name for Adonis, and that the Cypriot kings were his descendants, also goes back to Phileas.

The lexicographer went on to note an allusion by Parthenios (first century BCE), who called the Setrakhos ‘Aoios’ with reference to the river of this name that ran underground at the Corycian Cave in Rough Cilicia, where Typhon was supposed to be buried. [35] Evidently, Parthenios had the Cilician Aoios resurface on Cyprus, and he probably made this the meeting place of Aphrodite and Adonis (to judge from what must be an allusion in Nonnos). [36] Lightfoot’s conclusion that Parthenios was “offering a learned etymology” for the Cypriot river is inherently plausible; but the parallels she assembles for underground rivers—the Nile was thought to surface at Paphos, and it was foretold that the Pyramus, also in Cilicia, would one day come forth on the island—show that the poet was working with multiform folk-beliefs. This best explains why “Paphian Zeus” was invoked in an epigram (ca. 150–200 CE) commemorating the dedication of Pan and Hermes statues at the Corycian Cave itself, “where the Aoios flees in its invisible channels.” [37] These verses, despite their later date, are hardly dependent on Parthenios, but an independent sample of the traditions on which Parthenios himself drew.

The epigram’s invocation of Paphian Zeus; the conjunction of mountain and river in Cilicia and Cyprus alike; the naming of the Cypriot peak Aoios (or Aoion), ‘Son of the Dawn’ or ‘The Eastern One’, source of Cypriot kingship—all of this recalls the Levantine and Anatolian association of mountain peaks with a storm god who functions as royal patron, whom the king serves as high-priest. [38] Here we see the force of Aoios’ equation with Adonis, a parallel manifestation of the same pattern—notwithstanding the latter’s special connections to Byblos and Mount Lebanon, and the distinctive myths the Greeks developed about him. [39] Within Anatolia itself, note for instance the image of the Hittite King Tudhaliya IV (ca. 1245–1215) at the rock-sanctuary of Yazılıkaya, shown bestriding a pair of peaks, “probably indicating his association with the divine mountain from which he had taken his name”; in the procession of gods there, “the Sun-god is dressed exactly like the monarch … only the presence of the winged disk above his head distinguishes the deity from the king.” [40]

It may be relevant that Cypriot folk-tradition identifies a ‘Baths of Aphrodite’ on the north side of the Akamas peninsula, where Anatolia first comes into view when going north from Paphos. At this locus amoenus, it is said, the goddess met Adonis (much as in Nonnos). [41] Stavros Papageorghiou recalls a conversation in the early 1970s between some villagers—one may have been a douser—who were discussing how to find waters for irrigation. Some claimed that “rivers from Turkey run under Cyprus and this would solve the water problem in the island permanently.” [42] I do not know that this is said of the Baths of Aphrodite—it may be—but this need not be the ancient Setrakhos for the parallel to be significant. Still, it is worth emphasizing that, while Nonnos does connect the Setrakhos with Paphos (whence modern scholars tentatively identify it with the Diarrhizos at Kouklia [43] ), the poet’s Cypriot geography is otherwise quite loose; and in the present case he very possibly relied on Parthenios himself. [44] For either poet, a vague ‘Paphos’ may have sufficed for such an Aphrodite-scene. And the Baths are comfortably within Paphian horizons: remember that nearby Marion was traced back to Marieus, son of Kinyras. [45]

However Parthenios may have manipulated the material, it is certain that ‘Aoios’ is an old name in the region, being attested in various dialect forms and with special connections to southern Anatolia and Cyprus. It is found as Abṓbas at Perga in Pamphylia, and perhaps Ao and Gauas in Cyprus. [46] The identification with Adonis was made by the fifth century; besides Phileas, we know that Panyassis (ca. 470) called Adonis Ēoíēs in treating the tale of ‘Assyrian’ Theias and Smyrna (located at Byblos). [47] A certain Zoïlos, probably from Cedasa south of Tyre, [48] presumably had Panyassis in mind when he says that Aoios himself “was so called from his own mother; for the daughter of Theias was named not Smyrna but Aoia.” [49] The entry in Hesykhios for aoîa, defined as “trees cut and dedicated to Aphrodite by the [temple] entrances, as Hegesandros (?) reports,” must also be relevant. [50] Bearing in mind the artificial, Hellenocentric nature of Adonis himself, [51] and the Greek etymology of Aoios, it seems likely that Aoios arose during the EIA Aegean diaspora as a Grecophone term for various gods of the Baal type, and/or the kings in whose image Baal was created.

Aoios’ most frequent connections are with Cilicia. The area as a whole is said to have been called Aoia (probably poetic), [52] and Hesykhios tells us that the Cilicians were called Aoioi either from a river which flowed through the area (the Aoios, obviously) or “from Aoios the son of Kephalos.” [53] This dual entry brings us full circle to the scholiast’s Kephalid Aoios, and encourages us to view hero and river as largely the same (like the Adonis river at Byblos). There is an obvious parallel between the Cilician river’s resurgence on Cyprus (Parthenios) and the hero’s own crossing to the island (clearly implied by the scholiast’s location of his birth in ‘Asia’, on the one hand, and the strong Cypriot connections asserted by Phileas on the other). This deduction is confirmed by a precious, though meager, notice preserved in Isidore of Seville (ca. 600 CE), who mentions an “Aeos (sic) son of Typhon” as founder Paphos. [54] (Boccaccio brought this passage to the attention of King Hugo IV of Cyprus, and noted the conflict with Pygmalion > Paphos in Ovid. [55] ) The lucky mention of Typhon guarantees that a Cilician Aoios is in view, and connects him precisely to the Corycian Cave. The monster’s ‘fathering’ of a river is paralleled by a Syrian version of the Typhon myth, localized at Antioch: the monster’s slaughter by Zeus engendered a river, probably the Orontes. [56] Phileas is likely to have presented some such Cypriot immigration scenario; for while the geographer clearly treated Aoios’ insular associations in some detail, Anatolian matters dominate his other fragments (nearly half). [57] An immigrant Aoios also seems to have induced textual corruption in one MS of the Dionysian scholia. [58]

Given all this material, it is remarkable that the scholion credits not Aoios, but Paphos, with the passage to Cyprus and the city foundation there. Paphos appears to have displaced his brother, who was nevertheless kept in the family.

Kinyras’ second Kephalid genealogy is a much more elaborate construction found in ps.-Apollodoros, who duly placed it among his Athenian legends—though otherwise the material is startlingly unorthodox:

Preliminarily we may notice Kinyras’ three daughters and their Egyptian grooms, whom I shall propose below to identify with Hyon and his brothers in the first text above. For now we shall concentrate, as before, on the elements of Kinyras’ descent from Kephalos.

Ps.-Apollodoros’ genealogy can be seen in part as an expansion of what the scholiast gave, without implying any immediate textual dependence. While they diverge in whom they make founder of Paphos (Paphos and Kinyras, respectively), this difference is relatively insignificant for contemplating structural sympathies between the lineages, since the scholion was itself internally divided on the issue (so to speak), with Paphos evidently displacing Aoios as founder. Indeed, it is Aoios who provides the more obvious thematic link to ps.-Apollodoros, the first part of whose genealogy is dominated by figures with solar associations (Kephalos, Tithonos, Phaethon). At the same time, their obviously purposeful concatenation makes one wonder how best to approach the lineage—as a whole, in segments, or as individual links. Let us examine each element in turn.

Hermes, who ‘replaces’ Pandion at the head of the line, is not certainly paralleled as an ancestor of Kinyras. But a fairly likely vestige has been supposed at the end of the Hermes of Eratosthenes (ca. 285–194), the last two columns of which have left the merest mutilated scraps in a papyrus of ca. 25 BCE–25 CE. [61] Fortunately, a few scholiastic comments between the column margins reveal bits of subject matter. Cyprus and Paphos (the city) were definitely mentioned, as was the legend that Aphrodite’s sanctuary was never rained upon; and there is a possible allusion to Adonis-cakes. [62] This is an unexpected conclusion for a work about Hermes, but Parsons noted that “the range of such a poem is unpredictable,” speculating that Eratosthenes traced the god’s descendants down to Kinyras and the building of Aphrodite’s temple. The suggestion is certainly attractive, as no other link is known between Hermes and Paphos. Even if this is right, of course, the poet may not have followed the precise genealogy found in ps.-Apollodoros.

The mythographer continues with the traditional abduction motif that we missed in the scholion. But now we are awash in mythographic method; the three quasi-doublets Kephalos, Tithonos, and Phaethon are arrayed practically like the lists of comparable figures seen in Hyginus. [63] One expects Phaethon to be the son of Kephalos and Eos, as Hesiod has it; instead Tithonos, himself normally a target of Eos’ affections, has intruded. [64] Thus, Phaethon, who in Hesiod’s vision was abducted by Aphrodite to serve in her temple, now takes the place of Memnon, king of Aithiopia. We need not pursue these multiform myths in further detail: clearly some mythographer has chained together figures associated with the Sun and/or Dawn, and so the semi-mythical East. Like Aoios, each of these figures might aptly be called ‘He of the Dawn’. And as Aoios reflects aspects of Levantine kingship, so the goddess-abduction theme has recently been read as (at least partially) an interpretatio Graeca of a recurring element of ANE royal ideology—“the exaltation of the king’s soul into the sky—annually during his life and permanently after his death—in order to conjoin with a celestial goddess in a hieròs gámos.” [65] Van der Sluijs and P. James have also emphasized ps.-Apollodoros’ Syro-Cilician milieu in their persuasive comparison of the more familiar Phaethon myth—his disastrous outing on the chariot of his father, the Sun—with the Hurro-Hittite Song of Silver. [66]

Kinyras’ solar ancestors here have been connected with Herodotos’ statement that Cyprus was home not only to Greeks and Phoenicians, but a third group—presumably reflecting the pre-Greek island—who were “from Aithiopia.” [67] Note too that one version of the Kinyras-Myrrha myth was motivated not by Aphrodite, but by an angered Sun. [68]

Astynoos, who follows Phaethon, is entirely obscure. [69] That his name—‘mind of the city’ or ‘protecting the city’ (if one reads Astynóos)—has no obvious solar associations may suggest that we have entered a new segment of construction. But the link is perhaps intelligible if the solar figures do reflect ideals of ANE kingship and hence governance. Recall the traditional association of Justice with the all-seeing Sun, an idea famously illustrated by Hammurabi’s receipt of his kingship symbols from Shamash on the stele recording his laws. [70] This is one of several indications that the honorific ‘My Sun’ or ‘My Sun God’, attested for Hittite kings as early as the fifteenth century—well before the famous usage of the Amarna Age pharaohs—grew from ideas current in Mesopotamia during the early second and even late third millennium. [71] Note that a handful of balang-gods, bearing judicial names like ‘Judge of Sky and Earth’, are attested as servants of Utu (the Sumerian counterpart of Shamash). [72] Remember too the lyre-playing god that stood next to the throne of ‘Helios’ at Hierapolis. [73]

Returning now to ps.-Apollodoros, Sandokos and his deeds—the foundation of Kelenderis, marriage to Pharnake daughter of Megassares—must constitute an organic unit. This is shown both by the general obscurity of all the figures involved, and their geographical associations. These begin from the vague East implied by Eos and her descendants and adequately embraced by ‘Syria’, [74] from which Sandokos sets out for Cilicia. [75] This trajectory strongly supports Hercher’s emendation, whereby Megassares becomes king not of “the Syrians” but “the Hyrians.” [76] Hyria, not far from Kelenderis in Rough Cilicia, is thought by many to be the site of Ura, an important port under the Hittite Empire that traded extensively with Ugarit (it was eventually reincorporated as Seleucia Tracheia ca. 300). [77] Megassares is obscure. [78] Pharnake has been variously seen as a Persian ‘intrusion’ (given names like Pharnakes, Pharnos, Pharnabazos, etc.), and/or a Seleucid one (the fortress on the Orontes, which Seleukos refounded as Apamaea, was formerly called Pharnake). [79] But for neither idea does the passage give much purchase.

As to Sandokos himself, there are two schools of thought. Already in 1877 E. Meyer connected him with the Sandas (Sandes, Sandon, Sandan) whom a handful of classical sources treat as a hero or god associated especially with Cilicia, Cappadocia, and Lydia; he is shown on terracotta reliefs and coins from Hellenistic and Roman Tarsus, and is found as a theophoric element in many PNs in these regions. [80] Ammianus Marcellinus (fourth century CE) knew a tradition that Tarsus was founded not by Perseus, but by Sandan—“a wealthy noble, setting out from †Aethio.” [81] Some would read Aithiopia here, a kind of parallel for Sandokos leaving Syria. But this emendation is hardly certain, and would seem to conflict with Sandas’ probable Cilician/Luwian origin. [82] While Sandas is not lacking further Syro-Phoenician associations, these are evidently secondary. [83] This is indicated first by Stephanos of Byzantium’s entry on Adana, the ancient royal seat of the House of Mopsos/Hiyawa in Cilicia. [84] Here ‘Sandes’ is a son of Gaia and Ouranos—thus a Titan, brother to an eponymous Adanos and two further Cilician figures, Ostasos and Olymbros, along with the more familiar Kronos, Rhea, and Iapetos. [85] This portrayal of Sandas as an ‘Elder God’ was dramatically confirmed by PNs in documents of the OA colony at Kanesh (ca. 1900), [86] and fourteenth/thirteenth-century Luwo-Hittite and Hurro-Hititte texts. [87] The most informative of the latter corroborates Sandas’ Cilician associations. This is the Zarpiya ritual, named after a divination-priest (^lúA.ZU) of Kummanni—probably in later Cappadocia, but once capital of Kizzuwatna. The ritual, calling on Sandas repeatedly, was to be performed “If the year (is) bad, (and) there is constant dying in the land.” [88] He is invoked as “Divine Šantaš, King” or “Sun of Heaven,” and represented logographically as Marduk (^dAMAR.UD). [89] The ritual includes an invocation of the deified ancestors and the god Ea to partake in offerings; a choir of virgin boys to sing in Luwian; and a “quasi-bilingual Luwian hymn” to be “conjured” by the “Lord of the House” (probably a priest). [90] The reason for the identification of Šantaš and Marduk, and his description as ‘Sun of Heaven’, though not entirely clear, [91] support his interpretation as a war god and pantheon-head. [92] That he was equally connected with the agrarian cycle is suggested both by the context of the Zarpiya ritual, and an annual ‘burning-man’ ceremony attested down into Roman times, which was also a basis for the general identification of Sandas with Herakles from the Hellenistic period onwards. [93]

The competing interpretation of Sandokos, going back to J. P. Brown in 1965, was recently revived and strengthened by James and van der Sluijs. [94] Brown proposed to derive Sandokos from Sem. √ṣdq (‘righteous’) on the strength of the Sydyk who appears among the culture-heroes of Philo of Byblos, who renders him in Greek as ‘Just’ (díkaion). [95] Sydyk’s twin, not noted by Brown, is Misor, which should mean ‘Fair’. [96] At that time it was debated whether Philo’s Justice Brothers went back to true Canaanite/Phoenician deities, or were abstractions of a later age. But in 1968 the pair was discovered as Ṣdq Mšr in an Ugaritic text, evidently a prayer for blessing from a long list of gods, nearly all grouped in twos. [97] This confirmed the theophoric character of the element ṣdq in PNs, of which there are Amorite, Ugaritic, Biblical, and Phoenician examples, including a fifth-century king of Lapethos, on Cyprus, called Ṣdqmlk, ‘Sydyk-is-king’. [98] This last name points to the special associations of ṣdq and mšr with Canaanite/Phoenician royal ideology. [99] Already a tenth-century Byblian inscription describes Yahimilk as ‘just king’ (mlk ṣdq) and ‘righteous king’ (mlk yšr, < mšr). [100] Similar applications are found in Biblical contexts, typically in connection with the justice of Yahweh. [101] Cognate ideas in Mesopotamia, going back to the OAkk. period, are connected with the pair Misharum and Kittum, who sometimes belong to the divine retinue of the sun-god Shamash; though Ṣdq is ‘replaced’ here by Kittum, Ṣdq’s own solar associations are seen in the expression “Sun of Righteousness” in the Hebrew prophet Malachi. [102]

Although no specific attributes have yet materialized for Ṣdq in Ugaritic texts, there are some relevant notices in classical sources deriving from the Syro-Phoenician sphere. Philo places his Sydyk and Misor later in the same stretch of culture-heroes that earlier included Khousor and the unnamed brother whom I would interpret as an evanescent ‘Kinyras’. [103] The two sections appear to be doublets in part, probably due to Philo’s harmonization of parallel regional variants. But evidently he did not understand Sydyk’s and Misor’s ancient attributes very well. [104] Their puzzling discovery of salt has been variously explained (always looking to royal and juridical ideals). [105] Misor’s son Taautos (< Thoth) is credited with inventing the alphabet, echoing Khousor’s lógoi. Sydyk’s children are unnamed but compared to the Dioskouroi and other Greek brother-sets; they invented ships and sailing (again recalling Khousor and his brother), [106] while their own unnamed sons discovered the medicinal use of herbs and (again like Khousor) incantations (epōidaí). [107] Later, in speaking of Beirut, Philo adds that Sydyk was father, by one of the Kotharat goddesses (whom he calls ‘Titanids’ or ‘Artemids’), of ‘Asklepios’—a Greek calque that also suggests medical and incantatory skills. [108] Yet when Sydyk’s eight sons are united at the climax of Philo’s account, they are cited not for doctorly virtues, but wordcraft. The deeds of Kronos/El, Philo says, were recorded “by the seven sons of Sydyk—the Kabeiroi—and the eighth son, their brother Asklepios,” at the behest of Misor’s son Taautos. [109] The commemoration and celebration of the world order through scribal arts are appropriately attributed to descendants of the Just-and-Righteous Brothers; but this equally echoes the lógoi of Khousor (and the exegetical activities of Khousarthis, his female counterpart). [110]

Broadly compatible material appears in a Photian epitome of Damaskios (fl. ca. 515–540 CE), who, speaking of Beirut, confirmed that ‘Sadykos’ was the father of the Dioskouroi/Kabeiroi, with Asklepios an eighth. But here we are given Asklepios’ Phoenician counterpart, ‘Esmounos’—that is, Eshmoun, whose cult is best attested for Sidon. [111] The glossing of Eshmoun as Asklepios implies that Sydyk/Sadykos could be understood as Apollo, and this is confirmed by Pausanias, who reports a quarrel he had with a Sidonian at the shrine of Asklepios in Achaea. This tiresome tourist maintained the superiority of Phoenician religious knowledge, and offered an allegorical interpretation of Asklepios as air and his father Apollo as the sun. [112] He was clearly translating Sadykos/Sydyk and Eshmoun into Greek terms, and in so doing provides important confirmation of Ṣdq’s ancient solar associations. [113]

Let us now consider the relative merits of Sandokos’ two paternity suits. Against the prima facie similarity of Šantaš and Sandokos (especially given a PN like Sandokes, satrap of Cyme during Xerxes’ invasion), one may place the form Sadykos of Damaskios, and the Greek rendering of the Heb. priestly title Ṣādōq (< √ṣdq) as Saddouk and Saddoukaîoi (with dissimilation of dd to nd readily paralleled in Imperial Aramaic). [114] Both Šantaš and Ṣdq enjoy the BA antiquity of Kinnaru/Kinyras. Both have the solar associations that would explain Sandokos’ integration into the lineage of ps.-Apollodoros; but the credentials of Ṣdq are rather stronger and clearer here. Astynoos/Astynoos, evidently reflecting ideas of civic justice, also seems more immediately relevant to Ṣdq; recall that Kinyras had daughters called ‘Orsedike’ (‘Upright Justice’), Laodike (‘Justice for the People’), and possibly Eunoe (‘Benevolence’). [115] But Šantaš as a Marduk-like city-god (Tarsus) might also support such ideas. While Sandas seems a good match for Sandokos’ foundation of Kelenderis and alliance with Ura/Hyria, one wonders why the more traditional Tarsus was not mentioned instead. And Sandokos’ departure from Syria for Cilicia is certainly better suited to Ṣdq. The geographical trajectory might be mapped, for instance, onto Ugarit’s relations with Ura/Hyria; or IA Phoenician penetration of Cilicia—noting that ṣdq appears as a royal virtue of Azatiwatas in the Phoenician texts at Karatepe (ca. 725–700), while an inscription from Cebel Ires Daği (ca. 650) “even indicates that judicial records were written in Phoenician.” [116] That both Ṣdq and Kinnaru were divinized at Ugarit also makes Ṣdq the more promising archetype for Sandokos, while what little we know of Sadykos/Sydyk from Phoenician-derived sources is broadly suggestive of Kinyras/Kothar-like qualities. Finally, the Greco-Phoenician equation of Sadykos and Apollo may well explain why, for Hesykhios, it was not Sandokos but Apollo who partnered with Pharnake to produce Kinyras. [117]

Weighing everything up, the case for deriving Sandokos from Ṣdq does seem rather stronger than that for Šantaš. But the evidence is hardly decisive. Whichever interpretation is followed—assuming that one or the other is indeed correct—Sandokos’ presence in the solar lineage is intelligible, and Kinyras is endowed with solid Syro-Cilician associations. Ps.-Apollodoros thus presents a Kinyras who is structurally equivalent to both Aoios and Paphos—a Cilician immigrant to Cyprus who then founds Paphos.

While the Dionysian scholiast and ps.-Apollodoros diverge on Kinyras’ precise Kephalid descent, their agreement on his union with Pygmalion’s family, and the son Oxyporos who is otherwise unparalleled, shows clearly that here at least the accounts depend upon the same unique tradition. [118] Their names for Pygmalion’s daughter—Thymarete and Metharme—are obviously variants of a single figure, again known only from these passages. Whether either form is original we cannot say, though Thymarete more readily yields an appropriate etymology—‘pleasing the heart’ (cf. thymarḗs, thymaréstē) being likely in itself as a bride’s name, and a nice complement to Kinyras as a musical god/hero. [119]

Given the uniqueness of Oxyporos and Thymarete/Metharme, we are justified in asking whether the three further daughters in ps.-Apollodoros—Orsedike, Laogore, and Braisia—are equally integral to this version of Kinyras’ family, or merely tacked on from a separate myth or myths. The latter would seem likely enough but that our Dionysian scholion is the only other source that implicates Kinyras in Egyptian affairs. One must consider, therefore, whether the two Cypro-Egyptian scenarios are mutually illuminating. I believe they are.

When the scholion is taken by itself, there is no obvious connection between the colonization of Kerastis/Cyprus by Hyon and his brothers, on the one hand, and the Kephalid material that follows. That these two events are indeed related, however, emerges from an extract of Donatus’ fourth-century commentary on Vergil, preserved in the collection attributed to Servius. [120] After a more-or-less conventional version of Cinyras and Myrrha, Donatus/Servius launches into an unusual variation of the Adonis myth. [121] This alter ordo fabulae begins as follows:

So Thilo’s standard text of 1887. Some decades earlier, however, F. C. Movers had seen that this passage was akin to the Dionysian scholion, where the restoration ‘Hyon’ was indicated by the ‘Yon’ of Donatus/Servius; similarly, the divergent ‘Celes’ (Servius) and ‘Keltes’ (scholion) indicated an original ‘Kettes’. [123] This is clearly an eponymous founder for Kition. [124] The corrupt ‘Epiuotasterius’ must conceal two separate figures. [125] Movers, reading Epivius, Asterius, and Hyon, saw these brothers as representing the island’s Egyptian, Phoenician, and Greek cultural influences, respectively. [126] This explanation for Hyon, at least, is attractive: though a Greek ‘father’ of Phoenician Kition may seem jarring, it would be paralleled by Javan and his son Kittim in the Table of Nations. [127] And his marriage to a daughter of Kinyras would then present an ethnic structure akin to the weddings of Teukros and Elatos. [128] But Hyon’s Egyptian origin in the tale complicates any such Aegean interpretation.

The curious fact that Donatus/Servius specifies but a single daughter for Kettes—Erinoma—suddenly clarifies the scholiast’s ápais: Kettes is not ‘childless’ (so Movers), but ‘without male heir’. [129] The relevance of this to the scholiast’s Kephalos > Paphos > Kinyras comes from the sequel in Donatus/Servius. Offended by Erinoma’s chastity, Venus makes Jupiter fall in love with her, while Juno seeks revenge by convincing Venus (strangely enough) to have Adonis smitten by the girl too. Adonis rapes Erinoma, whom the pitying Diana then transforms into a peacock; fleeing the wrath of Jupiter, the young hunter crosses over not to Mount Lebanon as one might expect, but the wooded Mount Kasios in Syria—a most interesting epichoric variant, as this had been sacred to Ugaritian Baal and Hurrian Teshup (as Saphon and Hazzi, respectively). Mercury sends a boar that lures Adonis into the open, and Jupiter’s thunderbolt does the rest. In a baroque catastrophe, the laments of Venus and blandishments of Juno persuade Jupiter to revive Adonis, while Diana returns Erinoma to human form. The baffled couple, reunited as in a New Comedy, reign together on Cyprus and have a son named ‘Taleus’, perhaps another corrupt eponym (< Idalion? Tamassos?).

Leaving aside the artificial and excessive recombinations of traditional mythemes, the tale’s ultimate resolution brings together the lines of Hyon and Kinyras—an alliance that can explain the seemingly abrupt transition from one house to the other in the Dionysian scholion. And with this, we return full circle to the Cypro-Egyptian weddings in ps.-Apollodoros. For the unique Thymarete/Metharme and Oxyporos make it seem inevitable that the three daughters of Kinyras who end their lives in Egypt are the very Cypriot brides whom the Egyptian brothers win in the cognate account of Donatus/Servius. It is striking that brides and brothers alike were all individually named. If this connection is right, it would follow that Kinyras was already established on the island when the Egyptians arrived. True, ps.-Apollodoros says that Kinyras’ daughters ended up in Egypt, whereas the action of Donatus/Servius seems to unfold mainly on Cyprus and in Syria. But the marriages of the Egyptian brothers themselves are barely addressed, apart from the daughter Erinoma; and the river where she lives as a peacock—Cisseum fluvium—was indeed probably in Egypt. [130] Admittedly, the synchronism of generations would be slightly awkward, with Adonis the great-uncle of Erinoma (Hyon + daughter of Kinyras > Kettes > Erinoma). But this is hardly insurmountable given the many far-fetched relationships and developments otherwise involved—not to mention Kinyras’ ripe old age (160 years in Anakreon). [131] I believe therefore that our three passages preserve traces of a single original account, independently epitomized and variously recombined with other material (for all three differ substantially in how they handle the most famous element—the death of Adonis). [132]

I would even propose a specific source: the Colonies of the Egyptians by the Hellenistic historian Istros (ca. 250–200), an associate of Kallimakhos and himself probably from Paphos. [133] That this work followed Egyptian ventures to Cyprus specifically is guaranteed by one of our few notices, which shows that Istros told how the island got its historical name: The parallel syntax shows that Philostephanos offered one explanation, Istros another; and that it was Istros who made Kypros the daughter of Byblos and Aphrodite. This too fits the hypothesis, as Kypros is not one of Kinyras’ children in either the scholion or ps.-Apollodoros. If we are on the right track, several further inferences become possible. First, Hyon and his brothers would have come before the account of ‘Kypros’, since at the time of their colonial venture the island was called Kerastis/Kerastia. Whether this was ever more than a nickname or poetic epithet is doubtful; but it invited considerable Hellenistic speculation. [135] That Istros progressed from Kerastis/Kerastia down to ‘Cyprus’ would also explain why Dionysios’ mention of Kýpros triggered the scholiastic notice about Kerastis/Kerastia—although the train of thought is not carried through, at least in the scholion’s present form. We must also assume that Kypros, daughter of Byblos and Aphrodite, somehow came to the island, perhaps through dynastic marriage; in any case, this must be added to the traditions linking Byblos and Cyprus (Chapter 19). This suggests, alongside Kettes/Kition, that Istros presented the island’s Phoenician element as overlaid on an older Egyptian stratum. One should recall that Adonis and Osiris were eventually identified at both Amathous and Byblos, [136] and that one mythographic stream traced Phoenician figures like Agenor back to Egypt. [137] Possibly, Istros was encouraged to develop this angle as a reflection of the Ptolemaic political circumstances under which he wrote. [138]

We have now surveyed the principal ancient sources that connect Kinyras with Syria and/or Cilicia (for Theodontius/Boccaccio, see Appendix F). All the material, more and less traditional, has come to us through at least one pair of mythographic hands, from the fifth century onwards. Sometimes regional variants were stitched loosely together in rough cultural chronography (the Kephalid descents, Pygmalion); or they were elaborated as in a mythological romance (the Egyptian Detour). The cumulative effect should convince us that, outside of Cyprus, ‘Kinyras’ lived parallel lives in both Syria and Cilicia. This is not surprising given the confluence of several factors: Kinnaru of Ugarit and probably other regional Syrian cognates; the Syro-Hurrian adstrate in Cilicia/Kizzuwatna; the persistence of Hittite royal ideology in the Neo-Hittite states; and Phoenician influence in IA Cilicia. It also corroborates the suspicion that Kinnaru and other such Syro-Cilician ‘Kinyrases’ were, like their Cypriot cousin, actors in popular mythology. [139]

Although we have not been able to penetrate very far beneath these sources, archaeology provides a considerably deeper foundation. While analyzing Cypriot lyre-morphology I noted two MBA seals, from Tarsus (Cilicia) and perhaps Mardin (southeastern Turkey), showing an early combination of round-base and zigzag arms that complicates interpretation of similar Cypriot instruments as merely ‘Aegean’. [140] We may now consider the actual subject matter of the seals. In both, the lyrist is among animals; as with the Megiddo jug, any Orphic interpretation [141] must yield to third-millennium Syro-Levantine parallels (of course, one may still derive Orpheus himself from the same milieu). [142] The seal from Mardin (?) is of particular interest for our subject (Figure 45 = 4.5e). Its top register is a row of birds streaming out in front of the lyrist, as though projected from his instrument and even echoing its shape. As Li Castro and Scardina have perceived, not only does the musician himself have birdlike features, but the stream of birds, as it comes around the cylinder seal, feeds back into his head from behind. [143] This creates an Escher-like metamorphosis, an infinite musical ékstasis, or epiphany, through lyric performance.

Jumping forward a millennium, we come to the well-known Lyre-Player Group of Seals, which collectively offer, I believe, the clearest representation of a Divine Lyre in its several aspects. After establishing Cilicia as the seals’ most probable point-of-origin—this has not been universally recognized—we shall examine their find contexts and functions, and finally the iconographic system of the prominent specimens with lyre-players. These are inextricably allied to the remainder of the Group through further shared motifs, to be considered as needed.

The Group was first identified by C. Blinkenberg in 1931, who described fourteen specimens from Lindos (Rhodes) and another thirty-one from various collections; he rather acutely detected a blend of Cypriot and ‘late Hittite’ elements, and made several observations still generally accepted: the seals were the product of a single workshop operating over a limited period in the eighth century. [144] E. Porada named the Group in 1956 when discussing two examples from H. Goldman’s excavations of EIA Tarsus, along with fifty-two parallels, including further specimens from Syria, Phoenicia, Cyprus, and Greece. [145] The seals’ repertoire of motifs is very wide, but among the figural examples lyre-players, in various type-scenes, predominate (14.5 percent of the current total). Porada, specifying a later eighth-century date, defined the style more closely, appreciating its “assured economy of means,” with the “alternation of hatched and plain areas produc[ing] a pleasant variation” and “a noticeable vertical and horizontal accent in the composition.” [146] She argued for an origin on Rhodes, then apparently central to the distribution, and producing the greatest single concentration. She supported this with the valuable observation—still largely unappreciated—that the round-based lyres of the seals could be morphologically Aegean. [147] Having committed herself to the Rhodian hypothesis, Porada acknowledged in a postscript five further examples from Cilicia that had come to her attention, and suggested that these were made locally under Rhodian influence. [148]

The picture expanded considerably with G. Buchner’s excavations of Pithekoussai on Ischia (Italy), the site of an early Euboean colony (founded ca. 775). The necropolis initially produced thirty-eight examples in twenty-nine tombs, the closed contexts verifying Porada’s later eighth-century dating (ca. 740–720). The new specimens were published in 1966 by Buchner and J. Boardman, with further parallels bringing the total corpus to 162, and Italy and Etruria now well represented. [149] The inland distribution of some seals in Syria argued against a Greek source, while the closest iconographic and stylistic parallels were in the Neo-Hittite sphere; this, along with elements of N-A influence, indicated an origin in North Syria or Cilicia, with the latter especially favored by clear sympathies in the Karatepe reliefs. [150] The large numbers from Pithekoussai were explicable via Greek, and especially Euboean, trading ventures to the region (Tarsus, Al-Mina), otherwise well documented. [151]

In 1990, Boardman augmented the collection with fifty-eight further specimens and now promoted a North Syrian over Cilician origin from the distribution as newly understood. [152]

But the balance shifted decisively in 2001 when H. Poncy and others published thirty-five new examples from the Adana museum, so that Cilicia now rivaled Ischia as the single most productive region. The publishers also pointed out that the dark red and greenish serpentine commonly used for the seals is abundant in the Cilician plain. [153] When this is combined with Buchner’s and Boardman’s iconographic analysis, and the fact that the only known sphragistic use is documented at Tarsus, [154] the seals’ Cilician origin is now beyond reproach. Their dating would fit with the prosperous reign of Urikki of Que/Hiyawa, [155] prior to the Cilician revolt following the death of Sargon in 705—the culmination of which in Sennacherib’s destruction of Tarsus (696) would explain the seals’ sudden disappearance. The Cilician setting can also account, as North Syria will not so well, for their Aegean-style lyres, given the Aegean background of Urikki’s ‘House of Mopsos’ and the ‘Half-Achaeans’ (Hypakhaioí) of Cilicia; the Karatepe reliefs also show such an instrument, purposefully juxtaposed with one of Syro-Anatolian design. [156]

In 2009, M. A. Rizzo, unaware of the new Cilician seals, published thirty examples from the sanctuary of Athena at Ialysos (Rhodes), adding an Appendix of thirty-three further parallels not known to Boardman. [157] Embracing (casual) observations by I. Winter, Rizzo emphasized the seals’ Phoenician sympathies—these had never been denied [158] —and rightly noted that their distribution in Italy, Etruria, and Greece adhered to patterns of Phoenician trade. [159] All of this caused her to revert to Porada’s Rhodian hypothesis, modified to include a Phoenician workshop on the island. But this cannot be maintained against the new Cilician seals. First, these match the Rhodian specimens in simple numbers. Second, as P. Scardina rightly notes in a balanced reassessment, Phoenician stylistic elements are perfectly intelligible in Cilicia, which enjoyed a substantial Phoenician presence and influence at this time. [160] This will equally account for the seals’ western distribution, including Rhodes itself; the island’s steady commerce with Cilicia is reflected in the contemporary ceramic record and traditions of Rhodian ‘foundation’ at Cilician Soloi and probably Tarsus itself. [161]

A few further seals have since come to light, [162] and some fifty more from Pithekoussai await publication. [163] More will surely appear. But the current corpus of 345 separate images (some seals are four-sided) presents a sufficiently representative sample for confident analysis.

We saw that the primary function of seals—as a form of identification—is attested for the Group by an impression from Tarsus. As Boardman pointed out, however, these were “very much a … bazaar product,” requiring perhaps ten minutes each to make. [164] Therefore, not much evidence for sphragistic use is to be expected from elite contexts. Probably from the start, these seals also served an amuletic function, as commonly in the ANE from earliest times. [165] This helps explain what may otherwise seem a dramatic contextual shift in Cyprus, Greece, and Italy. In the first two areas, our seals are usually found as votive offerings in coastal sanctuaries. [166] This distribution naturally coincides with the routes by which the seals themselves were carried; perhaps some were dedicated for safe voyages, again an apotropaic function. [167] The Italian and Etrurian finds show that the seals were indeed worn, since silver mountings are sometimes found. [168] Many specimens come from tombs, especially on Ischia where they normally appear in graves of the young. This context especially has suggested an amuletic use. [169] That is probable enough, though we may equally suspect a fad at work given the narrow period of manufacture, the downmarket buyership, and Pithekoussai’s position in the Euboean trade network; as Boardman noted, the entire collection could fit in a single sack. [170] The seals’ attractive designs were clearly popular, and this will have fueled production. [171] Note that, as with the Cypro-Phoenician symposium bowls, the seals’ round-based lyres will have presented a familiar-yet-exotic aspect to Greek customers. [172]

Turning to the actual imagery, Porada proposed that, in accord with ANE ideas, their “designs were meant to secure for the owner the protection of the deities whose symbolic animals or monsters, whose worship or ritual or whose very image appears in the seal designs”; in particular the images of birds and lions—especially one with a goddess standing on a lion—suggested some form of the ‘Syrian Goddess’. [173] Buchner and Boardman, observing the random distribution of seal-motifs in the Ischia burials, concluded that amuletic properties adhered to the seals per se (by virtue of their stone). [174] Doubtless the large repertoire of motifs was in part commercially motivated (something for everybody). But this need not invalidate Porada’s sensible suggestion (even apart from the possibility that the seals were repurposed at Pithekoussai). As variable as the seals’ designs are, the great majority adheres to a single underlying iconographic system. Thus, any one specimen could potentially invoke the ‘meaning’ of the whole.

The Group is characterized by a tendency towards abbreviation—of more complex scenes from which one or a few elements might be extracted for a given seal; and of the elements themselves, which can appear in shorthand form, making room for other details. [175] The latter pattern is most conspicuous with the Sacred Tree, which in its fullest form includes volutes and palmette foliage, and can be flanked by detached palmettes. This provides the interpretive key for the free-floating palmettes and volutes that are otherwise common. [176] When all such forms are taken together, the Sacred Tree emerges as the Group’s primary motif (in 45 percent of the corpus). [177] Appearing variously within its orbit are sphinxes or gryphons, quadrupeds (deer and goats), birds (the seals’ second most common element at 43 percent), worshippers both human and divine, besides winged sun-disks and the occasional ankh. [178] That the Tree stands for a goddess, as often in ANE art, is confirmed by one example where the Tree’s position between worshippers is taken by the goddess herself. [179]

The iconography is certainly eclectic, and Boardman was reluctant to assign it much concrete religious meaning. [180] But as D. Collon reminds us of ANE seals generally, “what we too often tend to regard as a haphazard collection of filling motifs had the purpose of involving as many deities and beneficent powers as possible on behalf of the seal owner.” [181] The Lyre-Player Group’s dynamic range recalls the Cypro-Phoenician bowls—if one viewed them with a periscope. Indeed the bowls are a vital parallel. For their thematic material is equally wide-ranging, with scenes of daily life and the decorative treatment of elements from several traditions; but as we saw, this mélange does not negate the religious connotations of the frequent musical cult-scene, which persisted throughout the bowls’ lifecycle on Cyprus, part of their home territory (Chapter 11). The seals that feature lyre-players assume a rather similar backdrop. I have analyzed this subset into several Types, which I rank in order of the apparent importance of the Lyre-Player himself (see Table 2 and Figure 46). I say ‘apparent’, and now use a singular, capitalized ‘Lyre-Player’, because all Types, I propose, participate in a single iconographic subsystem that may be deduced from them collectively, with each Type taking its meaning from the others.

What may be regarded as the full cult-scene is found only occasionally. In several variations (Types Va–c), it shows an enthroned figure attended by musicians and other devotees, sometimes with an offering. [183] This is clearly a form of the ritual banquet so common in ANE art; and here as elsewhere one cannot distinguish between human and divine beneficiaries. [184] The ambiguity is reinforced by the identical clothing of the seated figure and the winged gods in other specimens. [185]

As with the Cypro-Phoenician bowls, where lyrists predominate despite considerable variation in the ensembles’ makeup, the Lyrist in our seals is the only musical constant; he appears alone (Va), with a double-piper (Vc), or with the standard Syro-Levantine trio of lyre, pipes, and frame-drum (Vb). The same favoritism applies in Type IV, but now the focus narrows to the cult-scene’s musical dimension. The full trio/orchestra can be shown (IVc), or just the Lyrist and frame-drummer (IVa–IVb). The latter—reminiscent of Hittite ritual texts calling for lyre and drum together [186] —leave room for an abbreviated Sacred Tree, and reveal the ultimate center of the celebration, thus explaining the apparent precedence of musical performance per se over the enthroned listener of Type V.

This conclusion is corroborated by Type III, which presents a startling shift. For the throne is now occupied by the Lyre-Player himself, who is thus drawn into the human-divine borderland this seat entails. The mutual coherence of Types III and IV is shown by the pivotal and frequent IIId, where the Lyrist again faces a female frame-drummer, but is now the clear focus of her performance—a striking prediction of Pindar’s Cypriot choruses around Kinyras. That the seated Lyrist is one-and-the-same as the enthroned figure of Type V’s full cult-scenes is shown by the other variations in Type III, which implicate him in the banquet. He drinks through a straw from a large vessel (IIIb), an ancient Mesopotamian motif relatively scarce by now, but seen on the roughly contemporary Hubbard amphora (Figure 26 = 5.5p). [187] The feast- or offerings-table can appear between the Lyrist and the frame-drummer (IIIc), reiterating the connection of her performance with the larger rite, while maintaining the Lyre-Player’s twofold role as both singer and song-recipient. A puzzling variant shows the Lyrist with a fish (IIIe, image unavailable); I have noted its potential relevance to Kinyras the Mariner. [188] In a final permutation, the enthroned Lyrist adores the Sacred Tree (IIIa): whatever honors he himself receives are passed on through his own performance to this higher power. The same connection is illustrated by the lower register of seal BB 41c (Type IIIc), an explicit scene of goddess worship. [189] This dual focus is precisely what we saw in the first Kourion stand—an enthroned musician who mediates between his celebrants and a Sacred Tree standing for a Goddess. [190]

With Type II we return to the standing Lyrist of Type IV. But now the exalted status granted by Type III is maintained through the Lyre-Player appearing by himself and along with winged familiars. Most common (IIb) is a bird, that ancient companion of lyre scenes—and indeed lyre-morphology—in the ANE and Aegean, typically suggesting divine inspiration and epiphany through music. [191] This idea is not invalidated for our seals by the bird’s appearance in other groupings; that the bird itself stands for divinity is shown by specimens where it takes the place of goddess or Tree as the object of adoration. [192] This reading of the Lyrist-bird conjunction is corroborated by the inclusion of a devotee in one variant (IId [193] ) and the Sacred Tree in another (IIa). Similarly exalted tones are roused by the gryphon or sphinx who accompanies the musician in Type IIc. These creatures, we saw, had a deep history in Cyprus attending Sacred Trees and royal or divine figures; one was seen on the second Kourion stand with the two harpers—standing and enthroned, face-to-face. [194]

The Lyre-Player, progressively assimilated to royal and divine registers in Types IV, III, and II, achieves full apotheosis in Type I. This is represented by only two precious exemplars, unknown when the seals were first studied. [195] Again the Lyrist stands before the Sacred Tree, but now magnificently winged. [196] He is a fully fledged divinity in his own rite.

The oscillation between seated and standing lyre-players had already suggested to Porada the possibility that “in these scenes the lyre player is no ordinary mortal or even a priestly musician but the god Apollo.” [197] Buchner and Boardman were more cautious about the seated musician: “the other lyre-players seem not to be divinities, and there is no lyre-player god, Greek or eastern, with both a bird and a sphinx as familiars.” [198] Both statements were shaped by the search for the seals’ origin: ‘Apollo’ would support Porada’s Rhodian hypothesis, but undermine the Cilician/North Syrian analysis. True, Buchner and Boardman include the qualification “Greek or eastern” in their agnostic declaration. But what ‘eastern lyre-player god’ could they have named at all—with or without bird and sphinx? For that was before Kinnaru had risen again from Ugarit. The Type I seals change the picture completely, as Boardman himself later recognized: But even this is surely too cautious. Boardman himself went on to compare the Cypriot cult-shrines we examined in Chapter 10, which he had previously connected with the Homeric expression “divine singer” (theîos aoidós). Then too he had puzzled over the identity of this eastern Lyre God, hoping his name might one day be discovered. [200]

There should now be little doubt that the seals’ winged Lyre-Player is closely akin to Kinnaru of Ugarit and Kinyras of Cyprus. By whatever name he was known to the artisan and his apprentices who cut the seals, these remarkable images provide a welcome and solid basis for the literary traditions of a Syro-Cilician ‘Kinyras’. They give us our clearest representation of a Divine Lyre. That the instrument is never shown alone is consistent with the vital role of performance in summoning the divine. But the lyre itself is effectively spotlighted as the common ground in all five Types—from the cultic musicians of V–IV, through the royal lyrists of III, and the increasingly numinous II and I. At the climactic epiphany, the Divine Lyre stands before his Goddess, serving her in song—embodying all cult performers and the lyrist-king himself. Here is the very essence of Kinyras.