4. Stable Trees and Sudden Blooms: Images of Continuity and Change in the Cosmos

In this chapter, I will focus on the sorts of images that the Homeric poets associated with the concepts of order in the cosmos and of changes and challenges to that order—or to put it another way, with changes put into effect or merely threatened. As we shall see, these poets drew on the sturdy trees and pillars that listeners would have known from their own natural and built environments to illustrate the stability and permanence of cosmic order. But they also manipulated the characteristics of particular flowers, such as the narcissus of the Hymn to Demeter, or more general characteristics of flowers in the natural environment, such as the sudden blooms of the Greek spring, to explore changes and challenges to cosmic order. The Homeric hymns and epics, then, present two contrasting sets of images that helped audiences to conceptualize tensions between forces of change and stability in the cosmos.

In Part I, we were able to gain a clearer sense of the ways in which Homeric images of erotic bodies responded to the characteristics of flowers in the Greek natural environment by comparing them with equivalent images from the corpus of archaic Greek lyric. Similarly, we can set in relief the choices of the Homeric poets in forming their images of cosmic order and of changes and challenges to that order if we take into account imagery from the Hesiodic Theogony that treats similar themes. The Theogony, however, offers only partial parallels for the relevant Homeric images. The Hesiodic poets associated the structure of the cosmos with the structure of plants, and such imagery can readily be compared with Homeric arboreal images of cosmic order. But the Theogony does not employ vegetal imagery in its explorations of changes and challenges to cosmic order.

If Hesiodic parallels existed for the sorts of Homeric images of flowers and changes or challenges to cosmic order that we shall discuss below, we would expect most of all to find such imagery in the poem’s succession myth, where a series of rulers of the cosmos is unseated by female guile and by the violence of the ruler’s son. Cronus castrates his father Uranus with a sickle, from a hiding place provided by his mother Ge; he thus becomes ruler of the gods in his father’s stead (Theogony 159–182). Cronus then swallows his own children in order to pre-empt potential challenges to his rule, but Rhea deceives him by substituting a stone for her last-born son, Zeus, who in this way survives to overpower his father (453–500). These two successions are reminiscent of two Homeric passages that, as we shall see, associate challenges to cosmic order with floral growths—the disabling of Zeus in the Διὸς ἀπάτη, which is achieved through Hera’s guile, and the potential threat that Zeus faces from his own son in the Hymn to Apollo. [1] In neither Hesiodic passage, however, is there any hint of floral imagery; [2] nor have I been able to find secure parallels for Homeric associations of flowers and cosmic disruption elsewhere in archaic Greek literature. [3]

We do, however, find comparanda in the Theogony for the Homeric associations of trees and cosmic order that we shall discuss below. Two passages from the poem describe the structure of the cosmos in terms of the structure of plants. Firstly, in lines 727–728, the “roots of the earth and the sea” are said to have grown above the “neck” of Tartarus: This passage incorporates two images, both of which would have helped audiences to understand the structure of the cosmos. On the one hand the allusion to a “neck” imagines Tartarus, the lowest region of the Hesiodic cosmos, in terms of a jar or a body. [4] On the other hand, the image of roots explains the relationship of the earth and the sea with what lies beneath them. Archaic audiences would have been able to gain an appreciation of what is implied by the second image from their observation of roots in the natural environment, particularly the knotted roots of trees. As Martin West puts it, we should “perhaps imagin[e] the clear division between land and sea gradually disappearing in the underworld, as the two elements branch out in roots or veins that are inextricably intertwined with one another.” [5] Roots tangle with one another below ground but form distinct plants above the ground, just as land and sea are distinct on the earth but (in the Hesiodic conception) are confused with one another below it. [6]

At 811–813, we find another reference to roots, quite possibly the same roots as those referred to in lines 727–728: the threshold of Tartarus is fixed on “continuous roots.” Apparently we are to suppose that they reach continuously down (διηνεκέεσσιν), to the very bottom of Tartarus: The references in these lines to permanence and fixity (ἀστεμφὲς … ἀρηρώς) suggest one reason for the evocation of roots in the two passages—audiences were to conceive of the compartments of the Hesiodic universe as set in place immovably like plants on a root-stock. That the parts of the cosmos are somehow rooted offers an explanation for their stability in terms of a readily observable fact: the existence of roots below the earth that anchor plants in place. [7]

And the roots of the Hesiodic earth appear to share a further quality with those of plants: they nurture growth, a concept suggested in both passages by the root φυ-. The brazen threshold of Tartarus, fixed on its roots, is “self-generating,” αὐτοφυής. In the first passage, the roots “have grown,” πεφύασι. [8] Without our modern understanding of photosynthesis, the ancient Greeks believed that all the food of a plant—all it needed for growth—was taken up through its roots. Theophrastus, for instance, notes that Ἔστι δὲ ῥίζα μὲν δι’ οὗ τὴν τροφὴν ἐπάγεται … (“The root is that through which [a plant] draws nourishment for itself,” Historia Plantarum 1.1.9). [9] It appears, then, that these cosmic “roots” somehow nurture the development and continued growth of the cosmos.

With these images, then, the Hesiodic poets helped their audiences to imagine the permanent structure of the cosmos by describing it in terms of the plants that they were able to observe in their own environments. As we shall see, the Homeric poets likewise employed vegetal imagery in their descriptions of the cosmos; nevertheless, their use of such images clearly differs from that of their Hesiodic counterparts. In the Homeric poems, images of trees and pillars do not describe the actual structure of the cosmos, but rather evoke concepts associated with cosmic order, such as stability and permanence. Moreover, the Homeric poets associated challenges and changes to cosmic order with floral growths.

On the face of it, descriptions of Ogygia, island of Calypso, in Odyssey 1 and 5 offer the closest Homeric parallels for the Hesiodic images discussed above. Nevertheless, a careful study of the images in question reveals important differences from their Hesiodic equivalents that hold also for the other Homeric images of trees and pillars that we shall consider. Calypso’s island is first described at Odyssey 1.50–54:

Some scholars have argued that this passage reflects claims in wider Greek culture about the way the cosmos is structured, which in turn echo descriptions of the cosmos in other cultures. As Mircea Eliade has shown, the world according to the belief systems of many preindustrial peoples is structured around a Cosmic Tree, Pillar, or Navel, representing an axis mundi that connects earth, heaven, and underworld and that allows communication between the three realms. [10] Such peoples, then, treat images of trees and pillars as equivalent. And this equivalence is readily explicable: pillars in buildings would originally have been formed from tree trunks, even if they were later replaced by stone cylinders. [11] The presence of such imagery in early Greek culture is suggested by references to the ὀμφαλός (navel) of Delphi, which was believed to be located at the center of the world. [12]

Michael Nagler and Egbert Bakker (the latter drawing directly on the work of Eliade) have identified echoes of such beliefs in our passage from the Odyssey, which likewise incorporates images of pillars, trees, and navels. [13] As we hear in lines 52–54, Calypso’s father Atlas holds pillars that separate earth and heaven (γαῖάν τε καὶ οὐρανόν); the goddess herself lives ὅθι τ’ ὀμφαλός ἐστι θαλάσσης, “where is the navel of the sea” (50). According to these scholars, the ὀμφαλός at line 50 could be seen as “the umbilical cord between the various parts of the universe,” while Atlas, whose body connects two compartments of the cosmos, is “the axial figure par excellence.” [14] If this is the case, these different descriptions of navels, pillars, and trees would fulfill a similar function to that of the Hesiodic images discussed above: they would tell us something about the structure of the cosmos. These images from the Odyssey appear, moreover, to be echoed and reinforced by an arboreal image found in a later description of Calypso’s island: a fir tree is described as οὐρανομήκης (“heaven-high,” 5.239). [15] Like Atlas’ body, this tree reaches from one distinct realm to another—from the earth to the heavens: perhaps, then, this image also suggests the axis mundi. [16]

But there is, in fact, a different way to construe the relationships between these images: rather than seeing them all as references to the axis mundi or, indeed, to some other aspect of cosmic architecture, we can understand them as more general evocations of concepts associated with cosmic order, such as stability and permanence. Such a reading of these images would accord with the analysis of metaphor proposed by George Lakoff, Mark Johnson, and Mark Turner. [17] As Lakoff and his colleagues demonstrate, we draw on concrete constituents of our natural and built environments to help us grasp more abstract concepts. We might imagine rhetorical arguments in terms of architectural structures, or we might use the parts of plants to help us understand aspects of human lives: a plant’s shedding its leaves or flowers could illustrate the loss of youth, as in the elegiac poems discussed in Chapter 7. [18] And the insights of Lakoff et al. are readily applicable to Homeric images of trees and pillars, whether in Odyssey 1 and 5 or in the passages that we shall discuss below. Early audiences would have been able to observe the stability of trees in the natural world, which contrast starkly with the sudden growths of Greek flowers. And they would also have been familiar with the stabilizing function of pillars in buildings. Accordingly, when the Homeric poets juxtaposed images of trees and pillars with allusions to cosmic stability, listeners would have been able to draw on the former, more concrete concepts to understand the latter.

Two considerations support the notion that these passages from the Odyssey do not offer literal depictions of cosmic architecture, but rather descriptions of cosmic stability in keeping with Lakoff’s, Johnson’s, and Turner’s understanding of metaphor. Firstly, if the lines quoted above were giving a cosmic geography lesson, they would be doing a remarkably poor job at it. Those lines would offer a very vague account of cosmic structure. It is not at all clear how the different elements of the description at 1.50–54—Atlas, the navel, the pillars—relate to one another. [19] Nor is it clear how they relate to other descriptions of the cosmos that would have been familiar to early audiences. It is possible for instance that the unusual image of the “navel of the sea” would have reminded listeners of the “navel” at Delphi—and, indeed, the Byzantine commentator Eustathius associates these two “navels” in his discussion of Odyssey 1.50–51. But if the image in our passage of the Odyssey put early audiences in mind of Delphi and thereby of the center of the earth, it is not immediately obvious how they would have understood the relationship between the two images: it is not possible that both Delphi and Ogygia are situated at the earth’s center. [20] It is more likely, then, that the image of the “navel of the sea” carries with it more general suggestions of cosmic order than that it offers a precise lesson in the structure of the cosmos. [21] At most, such imagery suggests the sorts of concepts associated with the axial images, such as cosmic stability. [22]

Secondly, early audiences would have construed the implications of the trees and pillars of Odyssey 1.50–54 not only on the basis of concepts from wider Greek culture, but also in the light of similar imagery from Homeric poetry, found in the sorts of passages we shall discuss below. [23] And such imagery would likewise have discouraged them from seeing the descriptions of Calypso’s island as precise references to the structure of the cosmos. In none of the relevant passages could the images of trees and pillars represent elements of cosmic architecture. Nevertheless, all of the other passages that we shall consider in this chapter juxtapose such imagery with evocations of cosmic order. The Hymn to Apollo, for instance, offers no indication that the pillar in Zeus’ house is part of the structure of the cosmos: we are not led to believe that it supports the heavens or acts as a conduit between the different levels of the cosmos. This stable feature of Zeus’ home is, however, juxtaposed with a description of the union of Zeus and Apollo on Olympus. A reading of the hymn after the fashion of Lakoff, Johnson, and Turner offers an economical explanation for this juxtaposition: audiences are being invited to draw on their experience of pillars in their built environments to understand the cosmic stability that Apollo’s alliance with Zeus guarantees. Similarly, it seems very unlikely that the tree on which Sleep comes to rest in Iliad 14 represents the axis mundi or, indeed, any other aspect of cosmic architecture. Nonetheless, the juxtaposition of this mighty tree with evocations of cosmic order in the relevant passage would have enabled audiences to use their knowledge of trees in the natural environment to understand the more abstract concepts involved in the story. As we shall see, Sleep’s settling on the tree would, in particular, have reminded listeners of the stable order that the god undermines by incapacitating Zeus, the ruler of the cosmos.

All this suggests that images of trees or pillars play very different roles in Homeric and Hesiodic poetry: the Hesiodic imagery studied above describes the actual structure of the cosmos, but the Homeric poets used images of trees and pillars to help their audiences understand the abstract concepts of cosmic order and stability. And as we shall see, we can apply a similar analysis also to the floral images in the relevant scenes. These latter images are juxtaposed with evocations of challenges and changes to cosmic order and would have helped audiences to understand those abstract concepts. Listeners would have been familiar with the sudden intrusions of flowers into Greek spring landscapes, and this phenomenon offered them a way to conceptualize the disruption of orderly structures in the relevant scenes. And in this way a tension is generated between the associations of flowers and the associations of trees and pillars, both in the passages that we shall study and in the Homeric corpus as a whole.

The Hymn to Demeter provides our first example of associations of flowers with cosmic change. We have already discussed the opening of the hymn as the story of the seduction and deception of Korē and considered the particular associations of the narcissus with such themes. But the narcissus and the hymn’s other floral images are also associated with changes in the order of the cosmos. [24] As will become clear, we can gain a full understanding of the treatment of such themes in the hymn only if we take into account the precise details of the poem’s images and the interactions of such images with the characteristics of flowers in the Greek natural environment.

The hymn offers a clear picture of the way in which the cosmos was structured prior to the events that it describes. The cosmos was neatly divided into three realms: Olympus, the earth and the Underworld. As we can infer from the final action of the poem (310–486), Zeus is the ruler of Olympus and, as Helios recalls in lines 85–87, Hades was allotted the world of the dead. What is more, Hades gained this privilege as part of a threefold division of the cosmos: Helios appears to be referring to the division of the world between Zeus, Hades, and Poseidon, to which the latter alludes in Iliad 15, as he asserts his claim to the sea and to honors equal to those of Zeus: [25] The events of Iliad 15 show that Poseidon’s claim of equality is tendentious: it seems he ultimately has no choice but to accept Zeus’ will. Yet his description of three realms and three broad spheres of influence is not challenged; and we can draw on it to understand Helios’ statement at Hymn to Demeter 85–87.

But the hymn also adds one important detail that is not mentioned by Poseidon at Iliad 15.187–189. The relevant lines from the Iliad make no claim about the possibility or impossibility of communication between the three realms. The action of the Hymn to Demeter, however, only makes sense if in the narrative time of the hymn this threefold division includes a rigid boundary between the upper and lower worlds. If this strict division did not exist, the abduction of Korē would not represent such a problem for Demeter. [26] She searches for her daughter in the upper world (40–73), but as soon as she hears from Helios that Hades has taken her daughter (74–87), she abandons her search. Apparently Hermes alone is able to travel to and from the Underworld in his role of the guide of the mortal dead, who make a one-way journey from the upper to the lower world. [27] But Demeter is unable to pursue Korē to the Underworld; it must not be possible for her to pass through the boundary between the two worlds.

As we shall see, Demeter’s problem is solved through changes to the existing order of the cosmos, and these changes are closely associated with descriptions of flowers. But Korē and Demeter are not the only ones to suffer from the rigid division between the upper and lower worlds: [28] it causes a problem also for another god, and the solution to that problem is likewise associated with floral imagery. If only Hermes is able to travel to and from the upper world at the start of the hymn, Hades, the god who separates mother and daughter in the first place, faces his own challenge: he is unable to visit the upper world to win a bride. The opening sequence describes the solution to Hades’ problem: the narcissus punches a hole in the previously impassable barrier between the upper and lower worlds and thus allows Hades to leave the Underworld.

The importance of the growth of the narcissus to Hades’ journey to the upper world is made clear in lines 15–17. The earth gapes immediately after Korē plucks the flower, and Hades leaps forth on the spot: The speed with which these actions follow one another suggests that Korē’s plucking the flower directly precipitates Hades’ emergence from the land of the dead. The flower creates the necessary passageway for him to travel to the upper world.

But the narcissus’ growth is of greater significance than is implied by its role in solving Hades’ personal problem; crucially, it breaches the boundary between the upper and lower worlds for the first time and thus creates the pattern for subsequent breaches. In this sense, the flower is a “miracle”: it not only allows Hades to complete a previously impossible and impermissible journey but, more importantly, opens up the possibility of future journeys—whether for Hades or for other characters. [29] After the growth of the narcissus, the barrier between the upper and lower worlds can no longer be conceived as impassable: the question only remains for whom, when, and on what terms it may be crossed in the future.

Audiences’ understanding of the importance of the narcissus to the ordering of the cosmos would have been enhanced by the description of the flower. The hymn’s depiction of the narcissus evokes the three compartments of the Homeric cosmos—the heavens, the earth, and the Underworld—and suggests its effect on all three: The narcissus grows from a root (ἀπὸ ῥίζης), i.e., from the realm of Hades below the ground; it blooms above the ground with a hundred heads (ἑκατὸν κάρα ἐξεπεφύκει); its sweet scent (κὦζ’ ἥδιστ’ ὀδμή) causes all heaven, the earth, and the sea to smile. These details suggest the change that has occurred in the relationships between the three realms of the cosmos. The very structure of the flower, which connects roots below the ground to blooms above it, mirrors the new connections that it creates between the upper and lower worlds. And the flower’s growth from beneath the ground suggests the new possibility of movement from the Underworld to the upper world. [30]

What is more, such suggestions of interconnections and movement between the different compartments of the cosmos are reinforced by the interactions of the description of the narcissus with the characteristics of narcissi in the Greek natural environment. Firstly, as Theophrastus informs us, the stem of the narcissus, like the suddenly growing plant of the hymn, emerges immediately, pushing up its flower-head. [31] It is, then, an excellent choice to convey the notion of a sudden growth that breaches the surface of the earth. Secondly, the appearance of the different species of Narcissus in nature echoes the clear division between flower and root described in the hymn, which suggests, in turn, the division between the upper and lower worlds: narcissi are comprised of a stem with no leaves that supports a single flower or inflorescence. [32]

The appearance of the flower in the hymn, however, represents an artistic development of the natural characteristics of narcissi, which would be impossible in nature. As explained in Chapter 2, the lines in question may well allude to many-headed narcissi such as the Narcissus tazetta or N. papyraceus, which grow multiple flower heads on a single stem. The Homeric poets have, however, exaggerated the profusion of the plant’s inflorescence, from at most twenty flowers in nature to a hundred in the hymn. [33] This exaggeration serves further to emphasize the contrast between the head and root of the plant, and to give a still clearer impression of the distinction between the upper and lower worlds. Such manipulation of data from the natural environment would have given audiences an understanding of the disruptive function of the flower, as it breaks apart the existing divisions of the universe: its appearance encapsulates the contrasts between the different compartments of the cosmos, while its upward movement suggests the creation of a new pathway between them.

The growth of the narcissus not only causes the first breach in the boundary between the Underworld and the upper world but, as we see from floral imagery later in the hymn, is also reenacted in subsequent breaches. Such breaches are associated in the hymn with the annual returns of Korē, which solve the problem of Demeter described above. As a result of Demeter’s actions in the second half of the hymn, Zeus grants Korē the ability to pass between the upper and lower worlds. In order to force Zeus’ hand, Demeter starves mortals and animals of grain and thereby deprives the gods of sacrifices (305–332). And her plan succeeds: a compromise is eventually struck, whereby Persephone will spend two thirds of each year above ground but one third below it (398–400, 463–465). In every subsequent year, she will pass from the lower to the upper world and back again.

We saw in Chapter 2 that Korē is a double of the narcissus—a “flower-faced girl” who sees an image of herself in the flower. [34] When she re-appears from the Underworld every year, then, it is as if the narcissus blooms afresh. That we should interpret her re-emergence in this way is suggested by the following words of Demeter: Korē will rise up like a flower, along with the other blooms of the earth. With this prediction Demeter associates her daughter’s annual re-birth with the annual re-appearance of flowers in the spring. Audiences were thus encouraged to imagine the puncturing of the barrier between the upper and lower worlds that is described in the hymn in terms of the blooming of spring flowers. The change to the cosmos was as great as the change from the winter landscape to that of the spring—a particularly sudden change in Greece. [35] Conversely, audiences would also have gained a new perspective on the blooms they saw every spring: these sudden irruptions into the Greek landscape reenacted and confirmed the original breach in the structure of the cosmos.

And it may, in fact, be the case that the spring growths of Hymn to Demeter 401–403 represent a still more marked change than these subsequent springs. The explicit reference to spring flowers at Hymn to Demeter 401 suggests a contrast with the flowery meadow at the start of the poem, which is not explicitly associated with the spring—even though it resembles the spring meadows that would have been familiar to early audiences. Korē’s first re-birth may, then, precipitate the first spring—the first return of floral blooms after the darkness and barrenness of winter. [36] On this reading, before Demeter withers the plants of the earth in response to Korē’s abduction (305–309), they had flourished constantly. Korē’s return from the Underworld would thus act as an aition for the seasons that were observed by Homeric audiences and as an archetype for all subsequent disruptions of winter landscapes by spring blooms. If this is the case, the reordering of the cosmos as a whole is here illustrated by way of a reordering of time on earth.

We have seen, then, that the floral images of the Hymn to Demeter are associated with changes in the structure of the cosmos. Floral imagery in the Delian half of the Hymn to Apollo carries similar associations. The sudden growth of flowers on Delos suggests the changes to the cosmic order either threatened or actualized by the birth of Apollo. The arrival of Apollo carries with it a potential threat to Zeus’ supremacy; nevertheless Apollo declares his allegiance to his father. Apollo claims new prerogatives and thus effects a change in cosmic order; but in so doing he strengthens rather than undermines Zeus’ divine dispensation. Conversely, images of a pillar and a tree suggest the stability and endurance of the cosmic order guaranteed by Zeus and Apollo. In this way, the imagery of the hymn would have helped audiences to understand the tensions between forces of change and continuity in the poem.

Apollo demonstrates his ability to destabilize the cosmic order in the opening scene of the hymn; but an image of a pillar suggests the reconciliation of his power with that of Zeus. The potential threat posed by Apollo is made clear in the first four lines, which describe him as he makes an appearance among the Olympian gods, whether for the first time or on one of many occasions. [37] He draws his bow, and all the gods leap from their seats: These opening lines set up the prospect of a violent challenge from the god. And since the action occurs specifically in “the house of Zeus,” they suggest the possibility of a challenge to Zeus’ authority. [38]

The following lines however create a more positive impression of Apollo’s relationship with Zeus and with the other gods: While the other gods are alarmed and quite literally forced from their proper places, Zeus is unperturbed by Apollo’s arrival. The calmness also of Leto, the only other god to keep her composure, associates her with Zeus and shows her confidence that her son does not, in fact, intend to attack Zeus and the other gods. And Apollo’s menace is finally dissipated when Leto takes his bow and hangs it on a pillar of Zeus’ house (8).

Audiences’ familiarity with the stabilizing function of pillars in buildings would have helped them to understand the implications of this image. The description of Apollo’s disorderly arrival on Olympus in the opening lines has now given way to an image of stability associated with Zeus and Apollo and with the relationship between the two gods. Leto places Apollo’s bow on the pillar of Zeus’ house and at that moment Zeus is described as Apollo’s father (line 8). Further emphasis is placed on their relationship in lines 10–11, which describe how “Father Zeus gave Apollo nectar in a golden cup, / And offered a pledge to his dear son.” The demonstration of their bond serves as the signal for the other Olympians to resume their seats (11–12). While the opening lines depict a challenge to order on Olympus, the image of a pillar—a stable architectural element—associates the relationship between Zeus and Apollo with the concept of stability. As we shall see, these elements of the scene anticipate Apollo’s adoption of positive roles within Zeus’ Olympian regime later in the poem: father and son will work together in support of the same cosmic order.

But the mention of Leto’s joy in lines 12–13 adds a somewhat discordant note to the opening scene: her joy (χαίρει, 12) is occasioned not by the reconciliation of Zeus and Apollo but by Apollo’s might and archery (13), qualities that recall his violent entrance in the first four lines. [39] And this ambivalent ending sets the tone for the remainder of the Delian half of the hymn, which holds in balance suggestions of the young Apollo’s potential for disorder with indications of the more positive contributions that he will eventually make.

Firstly, the account of Leto’s search for a place to give birth to the new god echoes the description of Apollo’s threatening behavior in the first four lines and gives a clearer indication of the threat that the new god poses. The pregnant Leto tours the Greek world, trying to find a land willing to host her son, but all the islands and cities take fright at the thought of the new god (30–47). Like the gods in the opening scene, who “tremble” at Apollo’s fearsome appearance (τρομέουσιν, 2), these different places “were trembling” (ἐτρόμεον, 47) at the thought of Apollo’s birth. And when Leto appeals last of all to Delos, the island likewise “tremble[s]” (τρομέω, 66). For it has heard that Apollo will be “exceedingly reckless” (λίην … ἀτάσθαλον, 67) and that “he will rule greatly over gods and mortals” (μέγα δὲ πρυτανευσέμεν ἀθανάτοισι / καὶ θνητοῖσι βροτοῖσιν, 68–69). Similarly, the unruly Typhoeus at Theogony 820–880 attempts to overthrow Zeus, “and would have ruled mortals and immortals” (καί κεν ὅ γε θνητοῖσι καὶ ἀθανάτοισιν ἄναξεν, 837). Delos, then, expects Apollo to seize power from his father in the same way that—as we learn from the Theogony and are reminded later in this hymn (Hymn to Apollo 339)—Zeus himself had displaced Cronus. If Delos’ fears are in any way justified, the birth of Apollo brings with it the potential for an epochal shift in the rulership of the cosmos.

Other factors in the hymn, however, counteract the impression made by Delos’ speech. As we have already heard, Zeus is unperturbed by Apollo’s arrival on Olympus (line 5): it does not seem that he shares Delos’ concerns about his son. But we are nowhere given reason to believe that Apollo is simply too weak to mount a challenge to his father. Presumably, then, Zeus is confident that Apollo will not choose to challenge him. If this is the case, the hymn offers Apollo a double compliment: he possesses the kind of dangerous power that would make him a worthy adversary for his father, but he elects to use it to more constructive ends. And as we shall see, Apollo answers Delos’ fears of revolutionary change in the cosmos when, shortly after his birth, he declares his allegiance to Zeus’ will: “I shall prophesy the unfailing will of Zeus to mankind” (χρήσω δ’ ἀνθρώποισι Διὸς νημερτέα βουλήν, 132). The hymn, then, explores themes of change and continuity in the cosmos, but finds a way to reconcile the two: a new god claims new powers, but he will use these powers in a manner consonant with the order established by Zeus. [40]

With these considerations in mind, we can approach the vegetal imagery of the Delian half of the hymn and explore the ways in which it helps audiences to understand the themes of cosmic change and continuity. In order to get a full sense of the implications of the relevant images, it is necessary to consider their interactions with natural environments that would have been familiar to archaic Greek audiences. Early performances of the hymn may well have taken place on Delos itself. Walter Burkert, for instance, proposes that the syncretized Delian and Pythian hymn preserved in our texts—with its descriptions of Apollo’s birth on Delos and subsequent career at Delphi—was performed for the first time at Polycrates of Samos’ “Pythian and Delian Festival” on Delos in 523 or 522 BCE. [41] If, however, as many scholars believe, our version of the hymn combines two originally separate compositions, earlier performances of the Delian half of the hymn would nevertheless in all probability have taken place on Delos. [42] Audiences on Delos would have appreciated references to the appearance of the island and would have noticed the ways in which the Homeric poets responded to it.

We should bear this in mind when we consider references to a date-palm at lines 18 and 117 of the hymn. Firstly, Leto is described “leaning against the tall mountain and the Cynthian mound, / very close to the date-palm under the flows of the Inopus” (κεκλιμένη πρὸς μακρὸν ὄρος καὶ Κύνθιον ὄχθον, / ἀγχοτάτω φοίνικος ὑπ’ Ἰνωποῖο ῥεέθροις, 17–18). Later, the hymn describes more clearly the role of the date-palm in Apollo’s birth. As Leto gives birth, she kneels and braces herself against the tree: ἀμφὶ δὲ φοίνικι βάλε πήχεε (“she threw her arms around a date-palm,” 117). Allen, Halliday, and Sikes explain that Greek women might adopt a kneeling position during parturition; [43] that being the case, it is reasonable that Leto would want to brace herself against a solid object of some kind. But we might ask why, in particular, a date-palm should carry out this role, rather than, for instance, the mountain that is mentioned in line 17.

In order to understand the tree’s significance, we need to consider its relationship to the other vegetation described in the hymn and to the sort of Delian landscapes that would have been familiar to early audiences. Firstly, palm-trees sacred to Apollo were a notable feature of the Delian landscape. [44] They had been present on the island from an early date, as is suggested by the reference to such a tree at Odyssey 6.161–163: Odysseus recalls the awe he felt on seeing a date-palm by the altar of Delian Apollo. It is likely that early audiences listening to performances of the hymn on Delos would likewise have seen a tree by Apollo’s altar. [45]

The hymn indeed places special emphasis on the antiquity of Delian palm-trees in contrast with the other vegetation of Delos. When the island is left uncultivated, as is the case nowadays, it reverts to a rocky and relatively infertile landscape (Plate 5). [46] The hymn’s description of the island prior to the birth of Apollo responds to and, indeed, exaggerates the natural sparseness of the vegetation on the island. Delos is portrayed as rugged and apparently barren; only the date-palm is mentioned as growing there. Early in the poem, Delos is craggy (16, 26), as the island itself admits (72), and every other land visited by Leto is more fertile (48). Leto threatens that, if Delos does not accept Apollo, it will remain infertile and will never bear animals and plants (54–55). Audiences were thus encouraged to believe that the island was at first almost lifeless. They would have gotten the impression that no vegetation other than the date-palm linked pre-Apolline and Apolline Delos, but that this one element of the island’s flora had endured to their own day. [47]

Through its role in the story of Apollo’s birth and its relation to the other vegetation of Delos—both that described in the hymn and that which would have been familiar to early audiences on the island, the date-palm is associated with two concepts. On one level, it is an image of stability: it is the object against which Leto braces herself as she give birth. [48] On another level, it is an image of continuity: it is the only element of the Delian vegetation that is said to have endured from pre-Apolline to Apolline Delos. And such notions would have been reinforced in early performances by audiences’ knowledge of the characteristics of the palm-trees of Delos, which as noted above were an enduring feature of the island.

In this way, the arboreal image in line 117 interacts with important themes of the hymn. The Delian hymn as a whole explores notions of change and stability, of (potential) insurrection and maintenance of order: Apollo’s violent intrusion at the start of the hymn is balanced by Zeus’ and Leto’s calm reactions; Delos’ alarm at the thought of the new god is answered by Apollo’s declaration of allegiance to Zeus’ will (line 132). The date-palm contributes to the poem’s explorations of stability and counteracts the impression that Apollo will be a source of disorder. And as with the pillar in the opening scene, this stable object is closely associated with Leto and Apollo: she places his bow on the pillar; at line 117–119 he “leaps forth” as she braces herself against the tree. Unlike the pillar, the date-palm is not explicitly associated with Zeus. Rather, given its importance to Delian cult it suggests the stability that Apollo’s presence on Delos will bring. But with both images, the Homeric poets helped their audiences to understand the abstract concept of stability through concrete concepts drawn from their environments—the pillars that they would have seen in buildings and the trees of Delos and elsewhere.

By contrast, floral imagery in lines 135–139 emphasizes the changes wrought by the coming of the god. [49] The relevant lines mark the moment when, shortly after his birth, Apollo first strides onto Delos. As he does so, golden blooms cover the island: As scholars have noted, the description of these golden blooms marks the island’s response to Apollo’s divine presence—much as, for instance, the floral growths of Odyssey 5 or the Hymn to Pan respond to the presence of Calypso and Pan (see Chapters 5 and 6 below). [51] But more remains to be said about this floral image. In particular, we need to take into account its interactions with the natural environments familiar to early audiences and with the hymn’s depiction of change and continuity. We have already seen how the hymn’s descriptions of the date-palm respond to characteristics of the Delian natural environment and interact with allusions in the hymn to the barrenness of Delos. Likewise, in order to get a full understanding of the floral imagery from lines 135–139 we need to consider its relationship with the other vegetation of the hymn and with the Delian landscapes that would have been familiar to early audiences. Unlike the descriptions of flowers in Odyssey 5 and Hymn to Pan, which portray them as constant features of the landscapes inhabited by Calypso and Pan (Chapter 5 below), Hymn to Apollo 135–139 places emphasis on the change that has occurred in the Delian flora. What is more, when we consider the relationship of the golden flowers with their immediate context and with the wider themes of the Delian half of the hymn, it becomes clear that this floral image echoes and reinforces the idea of the significant changes to the Olympian order threatened or actualized by the coming of Apollo.

The description of the golden flowers at lines 135–139 of the hymn responds to annual changes in the Delian natural environment. In spring and at the beginning of summer Delos, like other islands and coastlands of the Aegean, is lit up by a “short-lived burst of colour.” [52] But the description of the flowers in the hymn departs from such natural phenomena. By describing the flowers that bloom on Apollo’s arrival in terms that recall the spring blooms of the island, the Homeric poets transferred the characteristics of an annual, impermanent phenomenon to a single, transformative event, which renders the previously bar​ren island lush with vegetation. Every subsequent spring on the previously barren island would repeat this first, miraculous bloom. [53] Similarly, as we saw above, the Hymn to Demeter suggests that Persephone’s first re-birth from the Underworld does not merely accompany the growth of spring flowers but may also herald the world’s first spring. In both instances, a repeated phenomenon from the natural environment is concentrated into a one-off, supernatural event that provides the origin for that phenomenon.

The floral imagery in lines 135–139, then, associates Apollo’s presence on Delos with a significant change in the natural environment. And this depiction of a significant change in the natural world accompanies a change in the cosmic order, as we see from its immediate context and from the wider narrative of the Delian half of the hymn.

To understand the sort of change that has occurred we should consider, in particular, Apollo’s claim of new prerogatives, which he makes immediately before the description of golden flowers. The first line of Apollo’s speech has mixed connotations: “May I possess the dear cithara and the bent bow” (εἴη μοι κίθαρίς τε φίλη καὶ καμπύλα τόξα, 131). Apollo’s patronage of music will benefit both gods and men. Shortly afterwards the hymn describes the music-making of the Delian maidens, who sing of the gods and of men and women of the past (157–161). In lines 182–206 Apollo himself is depicted as he makes music with the other gods. And this new association of Apollo with the sphere of music represents a change to the benefit of gods and men: both will delight in musical performances; and the gods will derive additional pleasure from the hymns of mankind.

The reference in line 131 to Apollo’s “bent bow,” however, would have reminded audiences of his violent entrance into the house of Zeus in the first four lines of the hymn. The description of Leto’s joy at her “mighty, bow-wielding son” (125–126) also recalls the opening scene. The relevant phrases echo the language of lines 12–13, which as we have seen strike a discordant note at the end of the opening sequence: χαίρει δὲ πότνια Λητὼ / οὕνεκα τοξοφόρον καὶ καρτερὸν υἱὸν ἔτικτεν, 12–13; χαῖρε δὲ Λητὼ, οὕνεκα τοξοφόρον καὶ καρτερὸν υἱὸν ἔτικτεν, 125–126 (“lady Leto rejoices [Leto was rejoicing, 125] because she bore a mighty, bow-wielding son”). As is clear by this point in the hymn, Apollo will not challenge Zeus’ rule. And in fact, he later uses his bow in service of Zeus: he slays the Pytho, the foster-mother of Typhaon (357–358), whom Hera brings into the world in defiance of Zeus. But the echo of the opening scene in line 131 reminds us that Apollo had to choose not to use his potentially dangerous power against the Olympian order. In the light of these later events, we understand the significance of Leto’s actions in lines 6–9: by hanging his bow on the stable pillar of his father’s house, Leto suggests the stability that the alliance between Apollo and Zeus brings to the cosmos.

Moreover, the second line of Apollo’s declaration carries clearly positive connotations. As mentioned above, Apollo states that he will reveal Zeus’ will to mankind (132). A change to the better has thus occurred in the relationship between gods and mortals. In the absence of indications to the contrary in the hymn, it may be that this moment marks the birth of prophecy—of the communication of divine purposes to mortals. [54] At the very least, Apollo’s words anticipate the establishment of the most important oracle of the Greek world, that of Delphi, which is the subject of the second half of the hymn. The coming of the oracle improves communications between the different levels of the cosmos, though in a manner distinct from the growth of the narcissus in the Hymn to Demeter: while the narcissus opens up a physical breach between the upper and lower worlds and enables Hades to journey between them, Apollo’s oracle conveys Zeus’ will from Olympus to the earth.

The floral imagery of Hymn to Apollo 135–139 works in tandem with the surrounding lines to give a sense of the changes that have occurred, or that might have occurred, if Apollo had chosen to use his strength against the Olympian order. Apollo’s words at 132–133 describe two kinds of change, one threatened and one actualized. The references to his archery in lines 125–126 and 132 remind us of his potentially dangerous power, with which he might have chosen to challenge the existing order of things. But greater emphasis is placed on the positive change that, in fact, takes place: he claims new prerogatives that support rather than undermine Zeus’ Olympian order. And the floral images of lines 135–139, which describe a significant change in the natural environment, underline the significance of the change that has occurred in the cosmic order as Apollo assumes his new roles. In this way, concrete concepts of floral growth drawn from the sorts of natural environments familiar to early audiences would have helped them to understand the more abstract notion of changes to cosmic order and the part played by such concepts in this scene.

Our final set of images is taken from the Διὸς ἀπάτη in Iliad 14, which we studied in Chapter 3 as a story of seduction and deception. But as in the other passages that we have considered, the relevant lines also employ arboreal and floral imagery to explore the themes of cosmic order and of challenges to that order. [55] The cosmic change described in the Διὸς ἀπάτη differs, however, from the other changes that we have studied in this chapter. In the Hymn to Demeter, the narcissus initiates a change to the structure of the cosmos that is in accordance with Zeus’ plans. In the Hymn to Apollo, flowers suggest the change brought about by the new god. But he chooses not to use his might in defiance of Zeus; ultimately his arrival marks an alteration of the Olympian system, not its overthrow. In the Διὸς ἀπάτη, by contrast, flowers are associated with a challenge to Zeus that is put into effect—though the eventual impact on the cosmic order is not nearly as great as that which is threatened by the arrival of Apollo.

As we saw in Chapter 3, Book 14 tells the story of Hera’s seduction of Zeus in order to further her own aims in the Trojan War. Hera is angry at her husband for favoring the Trojans; she therefore plots to divert his attention from the battlefield so that their brother, Poseidon, can rally the Greeks. She decides to seduce her husband and therefore asks Aphrodite for the Girdle of Desire. She also appeals to the god Sleep, who is to lull Zeus into a post-coital slumber (232–279). As a result, Zeus is overcome with sleep and Hera’s seductive wiles: he acknowledges that desire has conquered his mind (ἔρος … ἐδάμασσεν, 315–316), and at lines 352–353 he lies prostrate, “conquered by love and sleep” (ὕπνῳ καὶ φιλότητι δαμείς, 353).

If we focused on these details alone, we would read this purely as a seduction scene. But a second theme that we have not yet explored runs through the whole episode alongside these erotic elements: there are a number of allusions to order and disorder in the cosmos. In Book 14, the most striking of these allusions are found in the speeches of Hera. She is obliged to explain her actions both to Aphrodite and to Zeus; and she gives pretty much the same excuse in both cases (14.200–202, 205–207 ≈ 301–306). And the justifications that she presents mingle the theme of seduction with broader cosmic themes.

At first sight, Hera’s excuses seem to focus only on the theme of eroticism and to have purely innocent implications: she plans to reconcile two divine lovers, Oceanus and Tethys, who have fallen into strife. And she has a ready explanation for why she would want to help the couple: she owes them a debt of gratitude, since they raised her (14.202, 303). In this way she justifies her request for “affection and desire” (φιλότητα καὶ ἵμερον, 14.198), which Aphrodite honors by lending her the Girdle of Desire. Presumably, Hera wants Aphrodite to believe that she will use the girdle’s powers to renew the divine couple’s affections for one another (φιλότητος, φιλότητι, 207, 209). Hera’s story also helps allay Zeus’ suspicions regarding her presence on Mount Ida: she is on the way from Olympus to visit the home of Oceanus and Tethys.

Other elements of Hera’s speeches, however, allude to cosmic structure and to cosmic disruption and thereby hint at the more subversive intentions that she harbors in her interactions with Zeus. In conversation with Aphrodite, she mentions the reason why she was cared for by Oceanus and Tethys: they received her from her mother Rhea “when wide-seeing Zeus / settled Cronus beneath the earth and the harvestless sea” (ὅτε τε Κρόνον εὐρύοπα Ζεὺς / γαίης νέρθε καθεῖσε καὶ ἀτρυγέτοιο θαλάσσης, 203–204). She thus refers to the structure of the cosmos (the earth and sea, the realm below) and also to a significant change in the cosmic order—Zeus’ overthrow of his father Cronus. As mentioned above, this is one of the major upheavals that occur in the cosmos of the Hesiodic Theogony (492–500).

Hera prudently omits this last detail from her speech to Zeus. But in her speeches both to Aphrodite and to Zeus, the language that she uses to describe Oceanus and Tethys introduces further allusions to cosmic structure and disruption. She claims that she is planning to visit the ends of the earth (πείρατα γαίης, 200), a second reference to the structure of the cosmos. There she will visit “Oceanus, origin of the gods, and mother Tethys” (Ωκεανόν τε, θεῶν γένεσιν, καὶ μητέρα Τηθύν, 201) and “resolve their indiscriminate quarrels” (σφ’ ἄκριτα νείκεα λύσω, 205, 304). The two gods are described in terms reminiscent of the kinds of theogonic poetry that would have been familiar to at least some early listeners. The description of Oceanus as the “origin of the gods” departs from the Hesiodic tradition, which traces the genealogy of the gods back to Earth and Heaven. But it is reminiscent of an Orphic fragment, which Socrates cites at Plato Cratylus 402B, shortly after quoting Iliad 14.201: [56] What is more, as Richard Janko points out, the reference at Iliad 14.205 and 305 to the “indiscriminate quarrels” (ἄκριτα νείκεα) of these primordial gods suggests a first stage in a theogony. Such a theogony imagines the original chaotic state of the cosmos in anthropomorphic terms, as a quarrel between two lovers. The introduction of order to the cosmos is then conceptualized as the separation of the squabbling lovers. Perhaps, then, if Hera were somehow able to reconcile these primordial parents, she would return the cosmos to its primeval, undifferentiated state. [57]

Hera’s words would have invited ancient audiences to view the events of Book 14 in terms not only of seduction but also of cosmic disruption. Granted, it is not likely that they would have expected a complete overthrow of cosmic order of the sort hinted at by Hera’s talk of reconciling Oceanus and Tethys. As with audiences of the Hymn to Apollo, who were aware that Apollo would not, in fact, overthrow his father, they would have known that Hera’s actions would not reconstitute primal chaos, since the cosmos retained its good order in their own day. Nevertheless, Hera’s allusions to Oceanus and Tethys cast her actions against her husband in Iliad 14 as a challenge to cosmic order. And indeed, her disabling Zeus will undermine his control of the cosmos.

Listeners would have understood the vegetal imagery of Book 14 in the light of such themes. As in the Hymn to Apollo, we encounter both an arboreal image that evokes the concept of stability in the cosmos and a floral image suggestive of change. After arriving on Mount Ida, where he will shortly disable the king of the gods, Sleep withdraws to a tree:

The tree on Ida could not be mistaken for the axis of the world. It is an exceptionally tall tree (περιμήκετον, μακροτάτη), which soars above the mists on the mountain; but unlike the tree on Calypso’s island at Odyssey 5.239, it does not reach οὐρανός, the highest point of the Homeric cosmos. [59] Nevertheless, in the context of Iliad 14 and 15 the growth of this tree into the clear air (αἰθήρ) associates it with Zeus’ cosmic governance. Such associations become evident in the following book. After Zeus has awoken and re-established his supremacy on earth, Poseidon not only lays claim to the sea (as mentioned above) but also specifies that αἰθήρ and οὐρανός are under the sway of his brother: Ζεὺς δ’ ἔλαχ’ οὐρανὸν εὐρὺν ἐν αἰθέρι καὶ νεφέλῃσι (“Zeus was allotted the wide heaven in the air and the clouds,” Iliad 15.192). Sleep’s tree, then, is associated with the realm of Zeus, as it is defined in this part of the Iliad.

The tree of 14.287–289 is also, like the date-palm and pillar of the Hymn to Apollo, suggestive of the stability of Zeus’ rulership, which Hera hopes to undermine. As we have noted, trees were strong and stable constituents of the natural environments familiar to early audiences; the Homeric poets were therefore able to use arboreal images to help their audiences to conceptualize more abstract kinds of stability. Given the association of Sleep’s tree with Zeus’ realm, our passage from Iliad 14 suggests specifically the stability guaranteed by Zeus’ rule. But when Sleep settles on this tree that reaches the clear air, his action prefigures his conquest of Zeus at 14.352–353, which offers a challenge to such stability. The image of Sleep settling on this tree would, then, have suggested to archaic audiences the potential significance of Hera’s betrayal: her disabling of Zeus will (albeit temporarily) neutralize his control of the cosmos.

The floral imagery that we find later in the scene likewise suggests the cosmic implications of the events of the Διὸς ἀπάτη. At the moment when Zeus takes Hera in his arms, flowers begin to bloom beneath the divine lovers: On one level, this floral imagery reflects the erotic themes explored in Iliad 14. While the floral images that we discussed in Chapter 2 are associated with erotic bodies prepared for seduction and deception, the imagery of Iliad 14.346–349 marks the climax of a story of seduction and deception. Αnd it does so with suitably striking imagery: the floral term ὑάκινθος is found nowhere else in the Iliad, and the formula χθὼν δῖα, which evokes the gleam of the fecund earth, is not attested in the nominative in any other passage of Homeric poetry. But these lines also interact with the sorts of cosmic themes introduced by Hera’s speeches. As in the Hymn to Apollo, we have an image of change in the natural environment that helps to illustrate a cosmic change. As in the hymn, an annual phenomenon—the blooming of spring flowers on Mount Ida—is here imagined not as a recurring event but as a unique response to the events of the Διὸς ἀπάτη. The bloom is sudden and miraculous: flowers appear where previously there were none. [60] This remarkable effusion of flowers suggests the potentially serious implications of the disabling of Zeus at Iliad 14.346–353. At line 353, he lies prostrate, conquered by love and sleep; and his governorship of the cosmos sleeps with him. [61]

When he awakes, Zeus acknowledges that Hera’s insubordination could have had serious consequences. By allowing Poseidon to aid the Greeks in defiance of Zeus’ will, she might have caused conflict between the two brothers. Such a conflict would have shaken the cosmos: even Cronus and the Titans would have known of it (15.225). Zeus’ words echo 14.203–204, where Hera refers to Zeus’ placement of Cronus below the earth. [62] Moreover, Poseidon’s own words challenge Zeus’ vision of cosmic order. Zeus orders Poseidon to leave the battlefield, citing his earlier birth and greater might (15.157–183). In response, Poseidon alludes to the equal apportionment of the cosmos between Zeus, Hades, and himself, quoted earlier in this chapter. He also explains that the earth was left as common ground (187–199). Poseidon thus suggests that Zeus’ command to him to leave the battlefield is an affront to the proper ordering of the cosmos: he should by right enjoy freedom of action on the earth. [63]

But despite this contest of words Zeus is able quickly to reassert his control over the battlefield and over his fellow gods: the disruption caused by Hera’s disabling of Zeus does not, then, turn out to be as serious as it might have been. Poseidon chooses not to defy his brother and, at Iris’ suggestion, tones down his response to Zeus (200–217): he threatens only that if Zeus chooses to spare Troy against the will of his fellow gods, he will hold “incurable anger” (ἀνήκεστος χόλος, 217) against him. Zeus’ assertion of superiority over his brother, then, wins out over Poseidon’s claim of equality between them, and the conflict imagined by Zeus at 224–225 does not materialize; nor, a fortiori, do the more serious consequences hinted at by Hera in Book 14. Zeus is also able to reverse the damage done to the Trojans by Poseidon’s interference in the battle. Most importantly, he sends Apollo to revive Hector, whom during the Greeks’ brief ascendancy Aias had incapacitated with a stone (14.409–420, 15.220–270). [64] The change indicated by the sudden growth of flowers at 14.346–349 is shown to be only temporary.

In this and the other Homeric passages that we have studied, the Homeric poets drew on vegetal imagery to help their audiences understand the abstract notion of order in the cosmos. Cosmic order and in particular the order guaranteed by Zeus’ divine dispensation was as strong and enduring as great trees. The Homeric poets also employed floral imagery to illustrate the challenges and changes to the established order of the cosmos—whether the revolutionary challenge imagined by Hera or changes in accordance with Zeus’ plans. In so doing, they drew on the changes that occurred in landscapes every year with the blooming of spring flowers but concentrated them into one-off, miraculous events.

There is more to be said about these images and about their interactions with the natural environments familiar to the Homeric poets and their audiences. In particular, we need to explain not only why flowers and trees carried different associations from one another, but also why they should be associated with antithetical notions of the established order of the cosmos and of changes and challenges to that order. As we shall see in Chapter 6, such an antithesis can be explained if we bear in mind Greek perceptions of contrasting modes of vegetal reproduction.

But before doing so we need to explore other Homeric vegetal images that form a complement to the sorts of cosmic images that we have considered in this chapter, and which will aid in our study of the modes of vegetal reproduction in Chapter 6. As will become clear, the depiction of an ongoing tension between the established order of the cosmos and forces of change is echoed in Homeric representations of civilization and wilderness—of good order and its opposite as those concepts relate to humankind. And again, the Homeric poets employed arboreal and floral imagery to illustrate these abstract concepts.