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OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 30/12/2021, SPi
For my family
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Preface
This book tackles the controversial notion of soteria and the bewildering plurality
of gods called ‘saviour’ as a lens through which to explore larger issues concerning
Greek polytheism. The idea came from a then newly published inscription from
Aegae in Aeolis in Epigraphica Anatolica 2009, which speaks ambiguously of a cult
of an unidentified ‘Saviour’ goddess (Soteira) on the one hand, and of a new cult of
Seleucus I and Antiochus I as ‘Saviours’ (Soteres) on the other. From this arises a
series of intriguing questions never tackled before: who is this ‘saviour’ goddess?
What did it mean to call a divinity Soter or Soteira? What was the relationship
between kings and gods similarly called ‘saviour’ in Greek antiquity? The elaborate
text from Aegae is only one among several thousand inscriptions scattered all over
the Greek Mediterranean which attest to a similar phenomenon. The language of
‘saving’ is ubiquitous in the Greek world and especially in the Greeks’ dealings
with their gods, yet its centrality in Greek religion has long been obscured by its
later prominence in Christianity. This book investigates what it meant to be
‘saved’ and the underlying concept of soteria in ancient Greece. Yet it goes beyond
Greek religious vocabulary and cult epithets to investigate the lived religious
experience and thought world of the Greeks.
Inscriptions such as the one from Aegae constitute the most important source
for this project. I was first introduced to the art of epigraphy as a graduate student
at Oxford, and in the course of writing this book I have come to appreciate much
more fully its importance to historians. This is especially true when studying the
religious sensibility and lived experience of the Greeks, which, of all aspects of
ancient Greek religion, I have always found most gripping. Yet the material for the
book is not restricted to inscriptions on stone; it also includes archaeology,
numismatics, prose, and poetry, and the topic reaches beyond Classical antiquity
to early Christianity. The search for some of the least known archaeological sites
has led me up lonely hilltops in Arcadia and down dangerous highways in
modern-day Turkey. The time-span covered by these sources is also long; indeed
longer than I originally intended. In the course of research it became clear that the
subject of soteria cannot be restricted neatly to the Classical and Hellenistic
periods, but must embrace what came both before and after it. The result is a
study which spans from the late Archaic period to the early centuries of
Christianity, though the focus remains on Classical and Hellenistic Greece.
The writing of this book was completed in the Department of Classics and
Archaeology at the University of Nottingham thanks to a period of research
leave, after I first started it in the Department of History at Lancaster
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viii
University. Various other institutions have also provided valuable facilities and
stimulating environments for research: the British School at Athens, the Sackler
Library at Oxford, and the Fondation Hardt at Geneva have all been superb in
providing the necessary resources and intellectual stimuli. In 2020 my visit to the
Center of Hellenic Studies, Harvard, had to be postponed owing to the global
health crisis; nevertheless I am grateful to the CHS for its generous support with
electronic resources and for the opportunity to join their lively virtual community.
I would never have found the courage to tackle such a complex subject had it
not been for the unfailing support and exacting standards of Robert Parker:
I could not have hoped for a wiser and kinder teacher in my life. The reviewers
of Oxford University Press are most perceptive in their observations and insights.
Jan Bremmer, Emily Kearns, Barbara Kowalzig, and Teresa Morgan have read part
or the bulk of the manuscript at various stages of its preparation and provided
valuable comments. Bruno Currie, Lindsay Driediger-Murphy, Gunnel Ekroth,
John Ma, and Shane Wallace kindly discussed with me specific issues. I am
grateful to all of them for generously sharing their time, knowledge, and expertise,
and for challenging me to bring this book to a higher standard. For technical
support, I thank Sergio Quintero Cabello for producing the maps with great skill.
Friends in various parts of the world have been pillars of support in the back-
ground: they all know who they are.
The greatest and deepest debts I owe and can never repay are to my family: to
my parents for unconditional support and the freedom to take the path less taken,
to my sisters for all that they have done heroically, and to the little ones I wish
I could bring with me. This book is dedicated with love to my family and to Faye,
who is 26 as I write.
S. F. Jim
February 2021
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List of Illustrations
Cover illustration: Votive relief to Asclepius from the south slope of the Athenian acropolis,
Athens, Acropolis Museum, NM 1341 (© Acropolis Museum, 2012, photo by Socratis
Mavrommatis).
Disclaimer: The author has made every reasonable effort to clear permissions for the use of
Fig. 3, the elephant graffito in El-Kanais, which was first published in A. E. P. Weigall,
Travels in the Upper Egyptian Deserts (Edinburgh, London, 1909), pl. 31, and subsequently
reprinted in A. Bernand, Le Paneion d’El-Kanaïs (Leiden, 1972), pl. 54.1. Unfortunately the
original publishing house, William Blackwood and Sons, is no longer in operation and
cannot be contacted. The author would like to ask any rights-holders of this image to get in
touch should any issues come to light.
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Ancient authors and reference works are referred to as in OCD⁴, and occasionally
LSJ (1996). Epigraphical publications are abbreviated following Supplementum
Epigraphicum Graecum and the recently published ‘List of Abbreviations of
Editions and Works of Reference for Alphabetic Greek Epigraphy’ (accessible
via https://www.aiegl.org/grepiabbr.html). Abbreviations of periodicals follow those
in the American Journal of Archaeology (AJA) 95 (1991), 1–16 (as expanded at
http://www.ajaonline.org), and are supplemented by those in L’Année Philologique.
To the above epigraphic publications should now be added the Corpus of
Ptolemaic Inscriptions, 3 vols (Oxford, 2021–). At the time of writing this book
only the first volume of CPI is published, though a useful concordance of all CPI
texts is provided in the appendix of A. Bowman and C. Crowther (eds) (2020), The
Epigraphy of Ptolemaic Egypt (Oxford), 269–312.
Translations of quoted texts, where cited from existing editions, are indicated in
the footnotes. Where no translator is stated, the translations are my own. The
spelling of familiar Greek names is Latinized following OCD⁴, whereas Greek
personal names in inscriptions are Hellenized. All dates refer to unless other-
wise indicated.
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Introduction
‘Saviour’ Gods in Greek Polytheism
At some point during the fourth century , a workman in Athens brought an
offering to the shrine of Asclepius. ‘Saved’ apparently from some ‘mighty rocks’,
he thanked Asclepius with a marble relief, depicting himself and his mules
drawing a wagon and approaching the god and his family. Was he injured in a
landslide together with his animals, but fortunately restored to health by the god?
Far away from the Greek mainland, in Byblos in Syria, Apollodoros set up a stone
altar to a god whose name is no longer preserved, but who carries the epithet
‘[S]aviour’ ([S]oter): the inscription tells us that the god had saved him from the
trembling of the earth. In Kollyda in Lydia, a married couple set up a marble altar
to Zeus ‘for the safety (soteria) of themselves and their children’ after two people
were struck dead by lightning. They were not, as one might expect, praying for the
‘salvation’ of the deceased (perhaps their acquaintances?), but their own self-
preservation from the anger of the god.¹
At first sight there appears to be nothing which connects these snapshots, taken
from the lives of little-known individuals separated by time and place. Yet their
different hopes and experiences are expressed similarly with the cognate words
sozein (‘to save’), Soter (‘saviour’), and soteria (‘deliverance’, ‘preservation’,
‘safety’). The same language is used in innumerable prayers, dedications, and
sacrifices all over the Greek world to invoke the gods, asking them for protection,
safety, and deliverance—this is arguably the blessing most frequently sought in the
exchange of charis between man and gods. But what did it mean to be ‘saved’ in a
religion without doctrine, and to whom should the Greeks appeal in a world where
multiple gods reigned? This book is about the multiplicity of ‘saviour’ gods and the
associated blessing of soteria which they could dispense or withdraw. It focuses on
the power of ‘saviour’ gods in the lives of the Greeks, how worshippers searched
for soteria as they confronted the unknown and unknowable, and what this can
reveal about their hopes and beliefs.
The concept of soteria had close, and even entangled, relations with
Christianity. The word is also used in Christian writings, not least the New
Testament, to signify deliverance from the consequences of sin and attainment
¹ IG II/III² 4356 = IG II/III³ 4, 672 (fourth century ); Dussaud (1896), 299 (undated); TAM V.1
360 (33/4 ).
Saviour Gods and Soteria in Ancient Greece. Theodora Suk Fong Jim, Oxford University Press.
© Theodora Suk Fong Jim 2022. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780192894113.003.0001
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 3/1/2022, SPi
of a blessed afterlife through the mediation of Christ the Saviour. Yet as the above
episodes show, the concept goes back to Greek antiquity, where it had a different
meaning or meanings and entailed a different experience. Its centrality in ancient
Greek religion, however, has been obscured by its later importance in Christianity.
In their concern not to impose Christian notions on Greek polytheism, many
historians may have avoided the Greek concept altogether; or perhaps they have
simply taken it for granted given its prevalence in Greek society. Either way, the
result is that its place in Greek religion is left largely unexplored. Where Greek
soteria is occasionally discussed, scholars have sometimes anachronistically attrib-
uted aspects to the Greek notion which were alien to it.² The challenge for
historians therefore is to set aside our own cultural assumptions and expectations,
and to rethink what we think we know about the Greek word by a thorough
examination of the concept in its ancient context.
Yet this book is not simply about the Greek concept and religious language. At
the heart of the present study is the lived religious experience and thought world
of the Greeks, which the religious vocabulary and cult epithets can help to unravel.
What did the Greeks have in mind when calling a god ‘saviour’? How did they
imagine and experience soteria? This book’s particular emphasis is on worship-
pers’ religious world-views, and how their choices and behaviour were shaped by
their beliefs and perceptions of the divine. After about two decades of lively
debates on the term ‘belief ’, and the extent to which it can apply to the study of
ancient Greek religion, most historians now agree that ‘belief ’ is a useful and even
necessary interpretative tool in understanding Greek religion, that is, if the term is
used broadly in a sense devoid of Christian overtones, and if important distinc-
tions are recognized between belief in Greek polytheism and that in Christianity.
In the present study ‘belief ’ refers to worshippers’ religious world-view, presup-
positions, and statements about the gods. Nevertheless, beyond this broad con-
sensus the investigation of belief seems to have come to a standstill, and much
remains unresolved as to how we can penetrate the beliefs of ancient worshippers
and explore the variety of beliefs they entertained.³ The study of soteria is closely
intertwined with these issues. Not only is the experience of soteria one of the
clearest contexts where belief comes into play, it also illuminates a spectrum of
beliefs ranging from everyday dependence on divine protection to more height-
ened beliefs in the miraculous and extraordinary. In particular, this study will
investigate worshippers’ beliefs through the lens of divine naming—names and
cult titles of gods—which remain a relatively new area of enquiry in Classics.⁴
Despite increased scholarly interest in cult epithets and divine names, the focus
3
⁵ But see the insights of Scheid (2003), 35: ‘to discover the theology behind the practice, we shall
focus on the name of the deity, the deity’s epithets, the objects surrounding the deity’s religious image,
and the ritual actions performed around it’; Parker (2017a), 173: ‘naming—so all modes of address,
including epithets—is essential to a study of ancient and perhaps modern religious psychology’.
⁶ e.g. Parker (1983), 281–307, on ‘Purity and Salvation’; Adluri (2013), Philosophy and Salvation in
Greek Religion, and its various chapters.
⁷ See Chapter 1.
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threats, relief from famine, or deliverance from other natural disasters. Unlike
some studies in Greek religion which emphasize the role of either the polis or the
individual at the expense of the other,⁸ this study will attend both to individuals
and to collectives, and demonstrate that the two perspectives are compatible and
provide the necessary complement to each other. Subsequent chapters will exam-
ine more closely the diversity of ‘saving’ experiences of communities and their
members, and the possible interactions and influence between them.⁹ Whatever
the situation and the object concerned, soteria implies safety or preservation from
some force threatening it, whether real or potential, encountered or perceived.
Underlying the concern for soteria is the Greek world-view about the unpredict-
ability of divine action and the instability of human fortune. The importance
attached to soteria in Greek antiquity is further demonstrated in the many Greek
personal names beginning with the root sos-.¹⁰ Whether they relate to personal
circumstances at birth or in life, these personal names must reflect to a certain
extent the hopes and desires of individuals.¹¹ Their prevalence is one index of the
deeply-seated need for soteria in Greek society.
The seemingly simple, yet notoriously difficult, question of ‘what is a god’ has
stimulated lively discussions among historians.¹² What, then, is a ‘saviour god’,
and how did a god become a ‘saviour’? The earliest known literary references to
Greek gods as soteres are in the Homeric Hymns, where the word refers to
Poseidon and the Dioscuri in their capacity to save at sea. From at least the late
Archaic period, Soter came to be applied as a cult epithet to an increasing number
of major and lesser gods. So quickly did the epithet spread from one god to
another and from place to place that, by the end of the Hellenistic period, there
was hardly any region in the Greek Mediterranean where we do not find traces of
divine ‘saviours’. A god might be called Soter in thanks for and commemoration of
the deliverance he effected for an individual or community; the epithet was
usually, though not exclusively, used retrospectively after divine aid. But one
5
could also call upon a god as Soter before a risky enterprise or during a crisis.¹³
Depending on the means, initiatives, and vows of worshippers and worshipping
communities, a momentary address to a god as Soter might sometimes be
transformed into a permanent cult for the god under that title.¹⁴ More often
than not, however, the evidence does not permit us to determine whether an
established cult under that epithet lay behind a reference to a Soter, and therefore
in this study I have included occurrences of the epithet regardless of whether a
permanent cult is attested, and whether Soter was used as a permanent epithet or
temporary form of address.
Until recently, divine names and epithets have remained probably the most
under-studied aspect of the divine, and yet this is one of the most illuminating
areas for analysing the gods and the Greeks’ perceptions of them. A cult epithet is,
at the most basic level, a ‘focusing’ device for identifying or focusing attention on a
particular aspect of divine power or a particular cult site of a god.¹⁵ Thus Zeus
Meilichios singles out Zeus’ ‘kindly’ aspect from his other faces, whereas Zeus
Panamaros picks out his cult in Panamara from his many sanctuaries in Asia
Minor. Innumerable cult epithets are attested in the Greek world and new ones
continue to be brought to light with new epigraphic finds. Some of these epithets
were specific to a single deity—such as Phoibos (‘Pure’, ‘Radiant’) for Apollo, and
Phytalmios (‘Producing’, ‘Nourishing’) for Poseidon, whereas others could apply
to more than one god in the Greek pantheon as the divine function they denoted
was not the preserve of a single divinity—such as Epekoos (‘Listener’), Epiphanes
(‘Manifest’), Hegemon (‘Leader’), and Soter (‘Saviour’). Soter was by far the most
popular and widely shared ‘trans-divine’ epithet of this latter kind.¹⁶ Usually used
to invoke a god’s ‘saving’ power within a circumscribed field, Soter could be borne
independently by different gods who could lay claim, if in varying ways, to the
power to ‘save’. Consequently we shall encounter many divinities similarly called
Soter in the masculine, or Soteira in the feminine: Apollo Soter, Heracles Soter,
Zeus Soter, Athena Soteira, Artemis Soteira, Kore Soteira, to name but a few.
This system of cult epithets raises important questions about the unity and
multiplicity of the divine. Given that multiple epithets could be applied to the
same god, how much difference is there between the innumerable Zeuses bearing
different epithets? On one level Zeus Meilichios simply represented an aspect of
¹³ e.g. Arr. Anab. 6.19.4–5, Indica 20.10, 21.2: Nearchus sacrificed to Zeus Soter before setting sail.
¹⁴ e.g. Xen. An. 3.2.9, 4.8.25: the Greek troops sacrificed to Zeus Soter and other gods in fulfilment of
a vow, and instituted games and contests in their honour. On cults founded by private individuals, see
e.g. IG IV 840 = IG IV².2 1236; IG IV 841; I.Egypte métriques, no. 109.
¹⁵ Parker (2003); Parker (2017a), ch. 1. Note that a theonym can be combined with both types of
epithets, the topographical and the functional, and it is not uncommon to find Soter being attached to a
double cultic name: e.g. [Ἀ]π̣όλλωνι Κενδρεισηνῳ σωτῆρι (IGBulg III 919), Ἀπόλλωνι Νισυρείτῃ σωτῆρι
(SEG XLIX 1718), Ἀρτέμιδι Περγαίαι Σωτείρα[ι] (IG XII.3 1350), and Ἀπόλ[λωνι] Διδυμεῖ Σωτῆρι (IG
XII.4 566).
¹⁶ Brulé (2007), 329, uses the phrase ‘épiclèses trans-divines’.
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Zeus, and therefore was not intrinsically different from Zeus without any epithet
or with other epithets. But on another level Zeus Meilichios could be depicted with
a different iconography, was invoked separately from Zeus under another epithet,
and received different offerings and cultic actions, as if he had an autonomous
status.¹⁷ Drawing on cognitive dissonance theories, Versnel resolves this apparent
paradox by arguing for the capacity of the human brain to entertain multiple
perceptions of the divine, and to shift from one conception to another by switch-
ing between different registers, so that ‘gods bearing the same name with different
epithets were and were not one and the same, depending on their momentary
registrations in the believer’s various layers of perception’. Given the Greeks’
ability to shift their perception unconsciously from one image of Zeus to another,
the multiplicity of Zeuses in the Greek world was perhaps taken for granted by the
ancients: to ordinary Greeks it was probably a non-issue, even though it may seem
problematic to us today.¹⁸ The phenomenon of ‘trans-divine’ epithets, however,
raises a further set of questions. If the application of different epithets to the same
god could create, as it were, different gods, to what extent then did the sharing of
the same epithet by different gods render them similar in character and function?
How much difference was there between the plurality of gods called Soter? These
are some questions which we shall explore in the course of this study.¹⁹
If the Greek ‘saviour’ gods did not grant ‘salvation’ after death, what power did
they actually exercise, and how did they affect the everyday life of the Greeks? In
comic fantasy, the birds in Cloudcuckooland imagine themselves as new gods
dispensing blessings to mankind: protection of crops, health, wealth, longevity,
happiness, life, peace, youth, laughter, dances, festivals, and even bird’s milk.²⁰ To
this fairly impressive list of divine functions we may add sustenance of life,
marriage, childbirth, child-rearing, coming of age, law and order, justice, political
stability, military victory, trade, craft, and so on. Though involved in many of these
spheres of life, ‘saviour’ gods were not normally the source of the above blessings;
instead, their role was to maintain worshippers’ existing well-being (soteria) in
these fields, or they might be called upon to lend aid in times of trouble so that the
equilibrium in life could be restored and a state of safety or security be attained.
Under normal circumstances the Greeks were unlikely to invoke Zeus Soter for
rain and fertility of the fields. Agricultural prosperity was usually subsumed
within regular sacrifices for ‘the health and safety’ of the polis, and only when
crop failure became a reality would we see the Greeks praying to Zeus Soter
¹⁷ A much-cited example is Xen. An. 7.8.1–6, where Xenophon, despite his regular worship of Zeus
Basileus, had incurred the wrath of Zeus Meilichios for not sacrificing to him. On Zeus Meilichios, see
Cook (1914–40), vol. 2.2, 1091–1160; Jameson, Jordan, and Kotansky (1993), 81–103.
¹⁸ Versnel (2011), esp. ch. 1, quotation at 82 (Versnel’s italics). Non-issue: but see a rare instance of
reflection by Socrates in Xen. Symp. 8.9.
¹⁹ See Chapter 4.
²⁰ Ar. Av. 586ff., 731–4, 1061–71. On areas of divine intervention, see also Mikalson (1983), 18–26;
Burkert (1987), 12–29; Parker (2005b), chs 17–18.
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7
explicitly for favourable weather conditions.²¹ They were unlikely to invoke Zeus
Soter for military success unless in situations of military crisis, and so on.²² When
the Greeks called upon Zeus Soter, they were not invoking a different god from
Zeus without an epithet, but a particular aspect of divine power subsumed within
Zeus’ divine persona. It was usually only when specific needs for ‘deliverance’,
‘protection’, and ‘rescue’ arose that the Greeks would activate this aspect of divine
power by invoking the gods under the epithet Soter. It can therefore be hard to
identify the workings of ‘saviour’ gods outside specific situations when the Greeks
needed deliverance from particular troubles. The power to ‘save’ was a subset of
the gods’ multivalent power, and in many ways the most important.
Multifarious as divine involvement might be, the interventions of ‘saviour’
gods were most clearly discernible in those areas involving the greatest dangers
and human anxieties. Warfare and seafaring gave rise to the largest number of
divine ‘saviours’: Zeus, Artemis, Athena, and Heracles were all popular military
‘saviours’, and Zeus, Apollo, Artemis, Athena, the Dioscuri, Heracles, Isis,
Poseidon, and Tyche, among others, are all attested as maritime ones, if with
varying frequency. Political liberation from internal and external threats tended to
be attributed to Zeus Soter, as was deliverance from natural catastrophes such as
earthquakes.²³ Cures from particular illnesses could be sought from Asclepius as
well as, though less often, his family members and Isis, whereas Apollo presided
over plagues.²⁴ These are just some broad spheres in which ‘saviour’ gods were at
work. Their ‘saving’ operations were more highly varied than can be outlined here,
and subsequent chapters will demonstrate the diverse nature of these gods and
their wide-ranging power in the life of the Greeks.
Among the plurality of ‘saviour’ figures available for help, Zeus was probably
the most popular in the Greek world. He was invoked in so many spheres of life
other than the military and political that, as a speaker in Alexis puts it, Zeus Soter
was by far the ‘most useful’ (χρησιμώτατος) of gods to mortals.²⁵ Little less
impressive was the range of ‘saving’ functions of his daughter Artemis. Not only
could she intervene in military operations, she was also, inter alia, a protectress of
the household and a saviouress in sailing. As the examples of Zeus and Artemis
demonstrate, the multiplicity of divine power was the mark of a major Olympian
figure; by contrast, the power of minor divinities was much more delimited.
Asclepius and Hygieia specialized in healing, the Dioscuri in maritime rescue,
Eileithyia in childbirth, and so on. Heroes, though they could also ‘save’, rarely
²¹ e.g. a group of villagers prayed to Zeus Chalazios Sozon (‘Zeus of Hail who Saves’) in Hasluck
(1904), 21–3, no. 4. Other instances related to agriculture will be discussed in Chapters 2 and 3.
²² See especially Chapter 2.
²³ Political liberation: I.Priene 11 = I.Priene IK 6, and other examples in Chapter 2. Earthquakes:
Dussaud (1896), 299; I.Anazarbos, no. 49; Aristid. Or. 49.38–41 (Hieroi Logoi III) Keil.
²⁴ See Chapters 2 and 3. But neither Asclepius nor Apollo was frequently called Soter in these
particular spheres as they were the chief averters of diseases even without the epithet.
²⁵ Alexis fr. 234 K.–A. = Ath. 15.693a.
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carried cult epithets as their power was limited to specific functions in restricted
localities.²⁶ It is important to realize, however, that the demarcation of timai
between different gods is not as rigid as we may think; overlaps, extensions, and
even changes in divine functions are not uncommon. Contrary to what we might
expect, Asclepius Soter could also, exceptionally, be a god of the battlefield and a
saviour at sea.²⁷ Such transgressions are nevertheless restricted and temporary,
and the established powers of the different gods usually held one another in
check.²⁸
Despite their potential to ‘save’, it would be misleading to assume that ‘saviour’
gods were necessarily benevolent helpers of mankind. In fact many of them were
major Olympian figures with both a dark and a positive side. Thus Zeus Chalazios
Sozon (‘Zeus of Hail who Saves’) could send or withdraw rain and hail at his will,
and might have been conceptualized differently from the usual Zeus Soter. Apollo
could send plague as well as cure it. Poseidon could cause storms to rise just as he
could quell them. In one of the episodes which we shall examine later in greater
detail, Poseidon Soter saved the Greek navy, not by protecting it from a storm, but
by wrecking the enemy forces.²⁹ Asclepius and the Dioscuri are exceptions to this
in bringing only aid rather than harm to mankind. How, then, did the Greeks deal
with the multifaceted power of the gods as a simultaneous source of evil and
blessings? Versnel’s idea of shifting foci mentioned earlier is illuminating in this
respect: the human cognitive system could accommodate different and even
contradictory perceptions of, say, Poseidon as a ‘saviour’ who was himself a
most dangerous destructive force. Yet the insights of Versnel and Parker could
be complemented and pushed further by considering the function of the epithet.
In the Greeks’ dealings with their gods, the epithet Soter probably provided a
means of coping with the multivalent nature of divine power. By focusing
attention on the ‘saving’ aspect of the gods, the epithet could bring to the fore
the positive and protective aspect of a divine persona, allowing the other, threat-
ening aspects of divine power to recede temporarily into the background. In other
words, the epithet was a lens by which worshippers could focus on one aspect of
the god and distance themselves from others.
In his discussion of God in the Old Testament, the biblical scholar Westermann
distinguishes between what he calls the ‘saving god’, who intervenes in crises, and
the ‘blessing god’, who keeps the world running by providing rain, crops, and so
on. This is a variant of the distinction in anthropology between ‘high-intensity’
and ‘low-intensity’ rituals.³⁰ It is tempting to think, from what we have just seen,
that the Greek ‘saviour’ gods were predominantly responsible for ‘saving’ rather
²⁶ Heroes: some rare examples are Achilles Soter in the Black Sea (IGDOP 50), Sosipolis in Elis
(Paus. 6.20.2–5, 6.25.4). See also other heroes and heroines in Kearns (1990).
²⁷ IG II/III² 4357 = IG II/III³ 4, 673; IG IV².1 128.57–78; AvP VIII.3, no. 63.
²⁸ Parker (2005b), 388; Parker (2011), 87. ²⁹ Hdt. 7.192, to be discussed in Chapter 1.
³⁰ Westermann (1979), 26–9, 44–5. Anthropological distinction: see e.g. Van Baal (1976).
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9
than ‘blessing’. However, as will become clear as we proceed, they had a ‘blessing’
aspect as much as a ‘saving’ one; that is, they preserved the general well-being of
worshippers as well as providing rescue in emergencies. Compared to divine
interventions in the military and maritime spheres, less dramatic and less readily
visible in the evidence are their roles in such areas of life as childcare, craft, trade,
marriage, and agriculture.³¹ It is hard to see ‘saviour’ gods in action in these fields
as they did not bring immediate benefit or tangible protection. Yet the Greeks
could put their children, household, craftwork, property, crops, and animals
under divine protection by praying for soteria. In the day-to-day experience of
the Greeks, most of the time ‘saviour’ gods would remain in the background
almost unnoticed, preserving the order of the world. It is often only when things
went wrong—family illness, crop failure, natural disasters—that the Greeks might
invoke a relevant god for specialized aid. Whichever terminology we employ to
characterize these two aspects of divine ‘saviours’, the distinction thus made
between them is not clear-cut. It is blurred and fluid since the preservation of
existing well-being and the deliverance from actual troubles are but two sides of
the same coin. No sooner does a man come off safe from danger than he worries
about how long his well-being will last.³² Many thank-offerings commemorating
divine deliverance from a crisis would therefore pray also for continued divine
protection, which shows that their dedicators had both the past and the future in
mind. ‘Saviour’ gods and the soteria they dispensed were both precautionary and
crisis-related, both preventive and curative. Instead of focusing on a particular
‘saving’ action in isolation or putting it in one fixed category or another, we need
to see it as part of a continuum of human experiences oscillating constantly
between safety and danger.
So far we have mentioned Olympian gods and lesser divine figures called Soter.
Yet the word ‘saviour’ was by no means a preserve of the gods; the Greeks also
used it of human beings who performed a major or lesser service.³³ Some of these
individuals were so called momentarily in a sudden outburst of gratitude without
any implication of cultic worship, whereas others—especially Hellenistic kings
and Roman emperors—were given the title permanently in cult and worship.
³¹ But see Eur. Med. 14–15 for a rare application of soteria to marriage: the nurse reflects that the
greatest soteria is when a woman is not at variance with her husband. Here soteria denotes a state of
married life which is free of trouble.
³² On human life as a mixture of good and bad fortune, see e.g. Hom. Il. 24.527ff.; Solon, fr. 13 West,
with commentary in Noussia-Fantuzzi (2010); Aesch. Supp. 93–5; Eur. HF 62, IT 475–8.
³³ Much rarer in the evidence are non-royal women called soteira: e.g. Eur. Heracl. 588 (Heracles’
daughter); TAM V.1 535 (a prophetess); Bean and Mitford (1965), 43, no. 47 (probably a nurse or wife
of a physician).
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Whether human or divine, one might be called Soter for the ‘saving’ (in graver or
less serious senses of the word) he performed or was expected to perform.³⁴ From
this arise interesting questions of whether the title of Soter was a mark of divinity,
and the extent to which monarchs formally honoured under this epithet were on a
par with the traditional gods. Alongside our analysis of ‘saviour’ gods, we shall
explore how human beings were recognized as such and how their roles compared
to that of divine ‘saviours’. In particular, the cults of Hellenistic kings formally
called Soter—such as Demetrius Poliorketes, Ptolemy I, and Antiochus I—will
form the subject of a chapter.³⁵ Instead of limiting our investigation narrowly to a
particular category of ‘saviours’, or dismissing applications of soter to human
beings as ‘non-religious’, a richer and more thorough understanding of the
phenomenon can be achieved by bringing together various kinds of saviours.
The crossover between divine epithets and royal nomenclature, and the different
forces with which the same word was used of different agents, may prove
particularly illuminating for Greek conceptions of ‘saviour’ and the values
attached to it.
The last few decades have seen a multiplicity of new paradigms in the study of
Greek religion. Instead of focusing on ritual practices, origins, and evolutionary
developments, which had dominated scholarly interest for much of the twentieth
century, there has been a shift of focus back to the gods themselves: the complex
working of Greek polytheism, the system of relations between the gods, the
theology behind it, and ways of conceptualizing and experiencing the divine.³⁶
How, then, does the study of ‘saviour’ gods fit into these existing paradigms? To
what extent can the plurality of ‘saviour’ gods be analysed by using recent
approaches, and can the phenomenon in turn put these frameworks to the test,
thereby confirming, nuancing, or refining their insights?
We have seen how a major god like Zeus Soter and Artemis Soteira could
operate in many different spheres of activity; at the same time a particular area of
life might involve a number of gods variously associated with it. According to the
³⁴ Gods and human beings aside, inanimate objects might occasionally be described as soter or
soteira for their protective functions: e.g. Soph. Eurypylus fr. 211 line 12 Radt: a spearhead as soteira
(ὦ λόγχα, σώτ[ειρα πατρός]). Pl. Symp. 209d4–6: in their role as the guardian of the city, Lycurgus’ laws
are referred to as the ‘saviours of Sparta’ (σωτῆρες τῆς Λακεδαίμονος). Gow–Page, HE, Posidippus XI: the
famous lighthouse on Pharos in Alexandria was referred to as ‘saviour of the Greeks’ (Ἑλλήνων σωτήρ), as
it was built ‘for the safety of mariners’ (Strabo: 17.1.6, 791: τῆς τῶν πλοιζομένων σωτηρίας χάριν).
³⁵ See Chapter 5.
³⁶ See nn. 37–8 below, and the more recent analyses of e.g. Bremmer and Erskine (2010) (with
bibliography at 23 n. 21); Parker (2011), 64–102; Versnel (2011); Bonnet, Pirenne-Delforge, and Pironti
(eds) (2016); Bonnet et al. (2016).
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11
³⁷ Some classic studies are e.g. Detienne and Vernant (1974); Vernant (1980a); Vernant (1983);
Vernant (1991), 195–206, 246–50.
³⁸ Detienne (1997); Detienne (1998).
³⁹ A good recent book on different maritime gods is Fenet (2016). On the opposing relations
between Poseidon and Aphrodite as gods of the sea, see Pirenne-Delforge (1994), 434–7.
⁴⁰ The event, to be discussed in Chapter 2, is referred to in Callim. Hymn 4, 171ff., Galatea, fr. 378–9;
Diod. Sic. 22.9; Paus. 1.4.4, 10.19.5–10.23; Just. Epit. 24.4–8; Cic. Div. 1.37, 81. Sacrifice and festivals:
IG XII.4 68, and other documents in Nachtergael (1977), appendices II–III.
⁴¹ I.Anazarbos, no. 49.
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specific roles: Poseidon Asphaleios could stop the tremor of the earth, whereas Ge
Hadraia was the earth-goddess who remained steadfast. Yet again here Zeus was
involved only in the broad general sense that ultimately he controlled everything
that occurs. A different case is the frequent pairing of Zeus Soter and Athena
Soteira attested in various parts of Greece: it is only a supposition that Athena
contributed metis to complement the power wielded by Zeus, as the sources do not
make explicit how they ‘saved’ together.⁴² Perhaps relevant is the picture in the
Homeric poems of Athena as Zeus’ agent, bringing about his will through direct
action.⁴³ The frequent combination of Athena Soteira with Zeus Soter in cult and
in prayers may also be a manifestation of the goddess’ genealogical and cultic
relations with her mighty father, rather than a reflection of their complementary
modes of actions. We are vividly reminded of representations of her unusual birth
in Attic vase-paintings, where Athena emerged, but was not yet fully separated
from, her father, as if she was integrally related to Zeus.⁴⁴ How sharply aware the
Greeks were of the different contributions of different ‘saviour’ gods is hard to
determine. What we see is their perception of a shared power to save, expressed by
the trans-divine epithet Soter.⁴⁵ So important is this aspect of their power that the
name of gods is sometimes suppressed, leaving us with anonymous gods such as
Theoi Soteres (‘Saviour Gods’) or the bare epithet Soter or Soteira,⁴⁶ which
emphasizes the saving power of the god rather than its identity.
As we shall see throughout this study, the composition, prominence, and
functions of ‘saviour’ gods varied considerably from one local pantheon to
another; yet traditional structuralism has little scope for accommodating change
across time and space. Even when a homonymous god bore the same epithet
Soter, his power could vary notably from place to place, and hence arises the
earlier question about the multiplicity and unity of the divine. What structuralism
does not explain is why some gods’ power could be activated in certain situations
and localities, but remained dormant or absent in others. While some ‘saviours’
(such as Zeus and Artemis) were almost universally worshipped, if with different
local emphases, other gods appeared only in particular localities as saviours and
might exercise prominent saving functions not familiar to us from their usual
share of timai in their Panhellenic persona. One such example we shall encounter
is Hecate: neither prominent nor popular in the Greek mainland, Hecate Soteira
⁴² Zeus Soter and Athena Soteira: e.g. Lycurg. Leoc. 17 (Piraeus); I.Rhamnous, nos. 22, 26, 31
(Rhamnus); Diog. Laert 5.16 (Stagira); IG XII.4 279, 350, 358, 370, 407 (Cos); SEG LIX 1406
A (Aigai in Aiolis).
⁴³ e.g. Hom. Il. 4.70–2. Cf. Aristid. Or. 37.28 Keil, on the notion that Athena was the power (δύναμις)
of Zeus.
⁴⁴ Birth of Athena: Hes. Theog. 924–9; LIMC II.1 s.v. Athena, nos. 343–64.
⁴⁵ Some other epithets come closer to denoting a deity’s mode(s) of action, e.g. Aphrodite Euploia
(‘Fair-Sailing’) in Paus. 1.1.3, IG II/III² 2872, IOSPE I² 168; Aphrodite Galenaia (‘Calmer’) in Callim.
Epigr. 5 and Gow–Page, GP, Philodemus XV = Anth. Pal. 10.21.
⁴⁶ Jim (2015); Graf (2017). See also Chapter 4.4 on anonymous saviour gods.
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13
was a mighty goddess in Lagina who delivered her city from major military crises
through her manifestations.⁴⁷ Her centrality at Lagina seems to stand in sharp
contrast with her attributes in other parts of Greece, so much so that we may
wonder whether this is the same Hecate as the one(s) elsewhere.⁴⁸ Similar issues
have been tackled in a seminal article by Sourvinou-Inwood. Using the case study
of Persephone at Locri, where the goddess apparently presided over wedding and
marriage rather than appearing in her usual form as a goddess of fertility or the
underworld, she reminded us that we cannot simply extrapolate a god’s local
personality from his Panhellenic one or from one local cult to that of another, as
divine personality could be affected by a community’s circumstances as they
developed.⁴⁹ Early structuralism’s emphasis on a single mode of activity gives, as
has often been pointed out, too static a picture, when in practice a community’s
changing needs and circumstances might help to shape the perception, personal-
ity, and functions of an existing divinity or give rise to new cults of ‘saviours’.⁵⁰
Far from being fixed and clearly-defined, the function, personality, and com-
position of ‘saviour’ gods could be continually configured and re-configured,
albeit within certain limits, according to the experiences, needs, and decisions of
communities and individuals. The role of individuals is not to be neglected or
under-estimated in the process. As we shall see in subsequent chapters, worship-
pers might coin new epithets or apply an epithet to a god hitherto not so called
according to their own circumstances. The same deity with the same epithet might
be interpreted differently by different individuals or by the same individual in
different contexts. The open nature of Greek polytheism afforded individuals
much freedom of choice as well as thought: the same worshipper need not always
appeal to the same god or set of gods when dealing with similar situations.⁵¹ How
individuals made choices as to which ‘saviour’ to turn to in their moment of need,
and what their decisions might reveal about their beliefs and perceptions of the
divine, are important questions which we shall explore in this study. It is only
relatively recently that the role of private individuals has been coming back into
focus in the study of Greek religion.⁵² Contrary to some recent critiques, this
⁴⁷ Hecate Soteira at Lagina: I.Stratonikeia, nos. 505, 507, 510, 512; see Chapter 2.
⁴⁸ However, Hes. Theog. 411–52 describes Hecate as a multivalent goddess who has a share in the
earth, the sea, and the sky, and who protects soldiers, horsemen, athletes, herders, and fishermen. The
hymn’s authenticity and its sharp contrast with the goddess’ character in the later periods have been
much discussed. See commentary of West (1966), ad loc.
⁴⁹ Sourvinou-Inwood (1978); see also Kearns (2013), 281–4, on ‘centripetal’ and ‘centrifugal’
tendencies in Greek religion.
⁵⁰ The role of human communities in ordering, delimiting, and shaping divine privileges is
emphasized by Borgeaud (1996), esp. 19–23.
⁵¹ e.g. IG XII.3 Suppl. 1333 (= IG XII.3, 422), 1337, 1347: Artemidorus of Perge addressed various
dedications, apparently all related to safety at sea, to different gods.
⁵² The extensive footnote in Versnel (2011), 121–2, n. 355, summarizes the state of scholarship
on personal religion up to 2009. For more recent treatments of personal piety, see e.g. Jim (2014b),
130–75.
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⁵³ Polis religion: Sourvinou-Inwood (1988) and (1990). Criticisms of the polis religion model: e.g.
Kindt (2009), revised in Kindt (2012), 12–35; Eidinow and Kindt (2015); and bibliography in Parker
(2011), 58, n. 57. Evaluations of these critiques: Parker (2011), 57–61; Harrison (2015); Jim (2016);
Pirenne-Delforge (2016).
⁵⁴ Pironti (2007), 285, already speaks of a ‘réseau aphroditéen’; Pirenne-Delforge and Pironti (2009);
Pirenne-Delforge and Pironti (2015) for a brief treatment; Pirenne-Delforge and Pironti (2016) for a
detailed exposition.
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Despite being such a pervasive phenomenon, the cults of ‘saviour’ gods and the
underlying concept of soteria have attracted remarkably little attention among
Classical scholars. Long ago useful groundwork on divinities called Soter and
Soteira was laid by the relevant entries in Georg Wissowa’s re-edition of Paulys
Realencyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft and Wilhelm H. Roscher’s
Ausführliches Lexikon der griechischen und römischen Mythologie.⁵⁵ However,
much of the material is now out of date and needs to be supplemented by new
epigraphic and archaeological discoveries in the last century. Nock’s article on
‘soter and euergetes’ contains many valuable insights, but it is concerned more
with the varied use of these titles for human beings from the Classical to the
Roman periods than the gods.⁵⁶ Where historians discuss ‘saviour’ gods in ancient
Greece, some of them tend to study one specific cult without considering its
relation to other ‘saviours’.⁵⁷ Others are interested in the literary motif of ‘saving’
in a particular text or genre of text, in particular poetry,⁵⁸ but without always
paying close attention to the language used or investigating the wider significance
of soteria in Greek polytheism. More recently, focusing on a different type of text,
namely the Orphic gold leaves and philosophical discourses, the volume edited by
⁵⁵ RE III.A,1 s.v. Soter, Soteria, Sozon, Sozousa; Roscher, Lex. IV, s.v. Soteira, Soter, Soteria
(personification), Sozon, Sozusa.
⁵⁶ Nock (1951).
⁵⁷ Launey (1987), 914–17, on the military significance of Zeus Soter; Delemen (1999), 39–43, nos.
286–91, on the Anatolian rider god Sozon; Raaflaub (2004), 102–17, on the political aspect of Zeus
Soter/Eleutherios.
⁵⁸ e.g. Herzog-Hauser (1931); Burian (1986); Kearns (1990); Faraone (1997); Scullion (2005);
Herrero de Jáuregui (2016); Herrero de Jáuregui (2017); Tordoff (2017).
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17
Testament (2002) treats the use of Soter in the Septuagint and the New Testament
thoroughly. Nevertheless, his whole treatment is shaped by his concern with the
title of Soter applied to Christ. As a result, his emphasis lies on the application of
this title to human beings rather than on gods called Soter or the concept of
soteria; nor is he interested in the problems internal to the study of Greek
polytheism which will be treated in the present study.
To better understand the Greek conceptions of Soter and soteria, and to develop a
richer and more varied view of the religious attitudes involved, it is necessary to go
beyond the above discussions by stressing epigraphic and archaeological evidence
in addition to the literary, and by focusing on the actual use of the language of
‘saving’ in the ancient sources.
Although references to ‘saviour’ gods are also found in literary sources, it is
epigraphic evidence which can best illuminate the diverse experience of the
Greeks. In a much-quoted passage from Plato on piety, one of the definitions
Euthyphro suggests for ‘piety’ is saying and doing what is pleasing to the gods in
prayer and sacrifice, and this would in return bring security (σῴζει) in domestic
and public affairs.⁶⁴ Whether or not one agrees with his view, divine protection is
clearly an important goal underlying the whole ritual system and the exchange of
charis between man and gods. Whether in times of need or in normal circum-
stances, the Greeks could sacrifice to the gods praying for soteria for themselves,
their family, property, community, and so on. They could also make a vow to the
gods, promising an offering should the soteria hoped for be granted.⁶⁵ As a result
we have thousands of prayers and dedications all over the Greek world, offered by
individuals and communities in hope and/or gratitude for soteria and testifying to
the ‘saving’ power of the gods. This great abundance of epigraphic evidence will
form the bulk of the material in this book. These prayers and dedicatory inscrip-
tions bring us close to the ‘saving’ experience of the Greeks and their interactions
with the gods. Dedicatory inscriptions aside, we have innumerable decrees con-
cerning sacrifices performed for the soteria of the polis and its constituent
groups.⁶⁶ Other epigraphic records we shall come across include, inter alia, decrees
⁶⁷ The category of ‘sacred laws’ has been questioned: see Parker (2004b); Lupu (2009), 3–112, 502–4;
Carbon and Pirenne-Delforge (2012); Harris (2015). See also the useful website A Collection of Greek
Ritual Norms (CGRN, http://cgrn.ulg.ac.be/).
⁶⁸ See Appendix II. ⁶⁹ See Chapter 6.
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CHAPITRE XII
DIEU ET LE ROI
FIN
TABLE DES MATIÈRES
Pages
PRÉFACE 7
CHAPITRE I. — IMPRESSIONS D’ENFANCE 12
— II. — LA GUERRE DE 1870 27
— III. — AU COLLÈGE 41
— IV. — TEMPS PERDU 95
— V. — AU RÉGIMENT 104
— VI. — LE SYMBOLISME 131
— VII. — L’ANARCHIE 160
— VIII. — CHEZ CLEMENCEAU 195
— IX. — LE SILLON 216
— X. — LES LIBÉRAUX 227
— XI. — CHARLES MAURRAS 259
— XII. — DIEU ET LE ROI 316
NOUVELLE LIBRAIRIE NATIONALE
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