NIKOLAOS - MARK HADDON'S DISCIPULUS - AND KERIMON IN ULTIMA THULE

   It is just after dawn when they see the box. They are returning to port, exhausted and ill-tempered with yet another meagre catch in the half-empty baskets at the stern—wrasse, bream, a young tiger shark which does not look healthy. They are tempted simply to sail by. The box contains something, certainly, given how low it is riding in the water, but the gods have shunned them so doggedly over the last few months that it will doubtless turn out to be filled with rancid meat or sodden flour or shattered earthenware. It promises some small entertainment, however, and none of them can resist the faint hope of treasure which will transform their lives. So they pull alongside, slip a rope under each end and heave.

  It is very heavy indeed, doubtless full of seawater, though why someone should go to the trouble of tarring it like this is a puzzle. And if someone went to the trouble of tarring such a box why would they do it in so amateurish a manner?

  “I’m breaking my back for a piece of junk someone threw overboard.”

  “Do you really want to hear another crew bragging about how they hauled in a crate of opals?”

  “Here it comes.”

  The box bangs down hard onto the deck and rolls over. There’s water inside, certainly, but some heavier mass sloshing back and forth in the water, something big.

  “Open it, then.”

  Gaius grabs a knife and stabs it into the point where the lid meets the corner under the sticky black covering. The wood splinters. He lifts his foot and stamps on the handle of the knife to drive the point further into the gap, as if he were driving a spade into hard earth. The lid splits away and water gushes onto the deck. And with the water out flops a hand, pale, thin, unmoving. Everyone steps back.

  “Neptuno has ago gratias meo patrono,” mutters Nonus to himself, “qui salsis locis incolit piscolentis…”

  “What if it’s not human?” says Nikolaos.

  “You are a child, Nikolaos,” says Mettius. “Do all of us a favour and hold your little tongue.”

  Gaius drives the knife into the opposite corner of the box. The lid comes away in its entirety and a woman’s body is washed onto the deck by the remaining water. She is wrapped in sodden grave clothes, bruised and bloodied with a broken nose. Nikolaos makes a noise like a small, frightened boy. This scenario did not feature in any of their imaginings. Then Mettius stoops and picks up a sodden hessian bag none of them has yet noticed. He hacks it open like a rabbit’s belly. Gold coins clatter onto the wet deck. Tetradrachms? They have no idea. They have never seen currency of this value before. Mettius throws his head back and cries like a wolf and everyone feels the mood shift. They are poor men, everyone has a knife in their belt and accidents happen all the time at sea.

  “Hoist her overboard,” says Mettius. No one moves or speaks. “She’s no use to anyone now.”

  But Korax is holding a sheaf of parchment he has retrieved from the bag Mettius has dropped. “Nikolaos?”

  Nikolaos takes the parchment. There is writing on it, in Greek, which he can read after a fashion. The ink has run badly but the script is still legible. His shipmates are illiterate. If he thinks fast he might be able to invent a message which will get them all back to harbour alive.

  “Read it, philosopher,” says Mettius, who is picking up the gold coins one by one.

  The message is so extraordinary, however, that any thought of saying something different slips from Nikolaos’ mind. “…and use this money to grant her a burial befitting the daughter of a king.”

  Mettius takes the parchment from his hands, rips it into four pieces and throws them overboard. “What difference does it make who she is?” He lifts two stacks of gold coins between his forefingers and thumbs. “This is what matters.” He holds everyone’s eye in turn to make sure they understand. He drops the coins into his pockets and grips Nikolaos’ chin. “What did we find in the box?”

  “We found a woman’s body.”

  “So clever but so stupid.” He slaps Nikolaos’ face and grips his chin for a second time. “What did we find in the box, boy?”

  “She’s moving.” It is Nonus.

  Mettius lets go of Nikolaos. Everyone looks down. The woman twitches, then rolls over, coughing bile and seawater onto the deck. Mettius bends down and grabs her arm. “Let’s get her over the side before you bed-wetters start having qualms.”

  He has lifted her by the armpits when Nikolaos hits him. The boy is not strong and the playground blow lands awkwardly but it is enough to knock the bigger man off-balance so that he lets go of the woman and stumbles face down onto the washboard. Gaius takes the woman and drags her under the standing shelter. Nikolaos has no plan. He is simply no longer able to control the anger which he has stoppered up over three years of humiliation. He pulls the knife from his belt and stabs Mettius in the back of the thigh. Mettius roars. Korax and Nonus look at one another, then over at Gaius. It is obvious what they must do right now, but they need to know that they are all going to share responsibility.

  Mettius cannot stand. “Help me!”

  Nikolaos lifts the knife again but the other men move him aside. He has already done his part. They each put a hand under Mettius’ legs and hoist together so that he pivots over the transom into the water. He turns and grips the rudder. Korax raises his own knife so that Mettius has to let go before his fingers are sliced off. “Row!” shouts Korax. Nikolaos grabs an oar. Nonus grabs an oar. Mettius flails in the water. He cannot swim. Nikolaos and Nonus fit the oars into the rowlocks, sit themselves on the bench and pull hard. Gaius is wrapping a tarpaulin around the sodden woman.

  “I have the gold!” yells Mettius. He is holding up one of the coins and laughing, as if he is going to paint hell red at their expense. Korax rehoists the sail. Mettius slips under and resurfaces for one final time. Then he is gone.

  His erstwhile colleagues are an hour out of port, enough time to hone the details of the story of how their captain roped a lead weight to his own ankle before stepping overboard. It seems plausible that a man filled with so much anger should finally turn it on himself. Besides, no one is going to ask questions, least of all his widow, though they would like to have given her a gold coin or two to help her feed her children.

  Each man donates a piece of dry clothing. The woman is shaking and cannot talk but she is alive. None of them have seen royalty in the flesh before, and none expected to see royalty in so sorry a state. The wife of Pericles of Tyre, so the parchment said, though they can tell no one, lest someone comes asking for the other contents of the bag. She looks as if she has lost a long boxing match against a much stronger opponent. Was it a punishment or a mistake? Did family or enemies do this to her? The men are in a fairy tale. They fished a princess from the sea, for a whole minute they were rich beyond their wildest dreams, they killed a man and then they were poor again. The loss feels like some kind of recompense for taking a life, but those coins will glitter in their dreams for the rest of their lives.

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 When they have docked, Gaius and Nikolaos unload the baskets while Korax and Nonus take the woman up the hill to the doctor’s house. He is not a doctor as such but he owns books, which is qualification enough in this tiny town. They do not mention the gold which they found then lost but ask politely if they may hear news of the woman’s condition and old man Kerimon promises that he will leave a message with the harbourmaster in a few days’ time. He gets his house slaves to wrap her in clean, dry blankets and sends the two fishermen away with the salt-caked shirt, the waistcoat, the woollen cap, the breeches and the boots in which she was delivered.

  In truth she does not need a doctor. Her bruises will heal. Her nose will set of its own accord, if a little off-centre. But something important has broken in her mind and it will never heal completely. She will not sleep for many days and even then she will never sleep deeply, knowing that she will wake at some point during the night to find herself back inside that floating coffin. Every time she enters a small chamber or a dense crowd her heart will race, she will start to sweat profusely and feel sick and find it hard to breathe. She will always leave doors open and if one slams behind her she will weep. She will never enter a cave, a cellar or a tunnel. She will, after many years, agree to travel by sea but it will be painful and she will do it only once. She will only ever feel truly comfortable out of doors, in sunlight, away from the coast. Even then she will be struck by moments of blind panic that overtake her with neither warning nor explanation.

  She talks for the first time towards the end of the third day. She thanks Kerimon for his kindness and asks that similar thanks be given to the fishermen. She apologises for the fact that she can tell him nothing of how she came to be here. It is both a lie and not a lie. There was a king’s daughter who married a prince and they loved one another beyond measure. It happened a long time ago and far away and there is nothing to connect that woman to the woman sitting here on the terrace under the vines.

  She says, “My name is Emilia.”

  She was at sea for a couple of days at most, but it was enough to rip away the shell in which she had lived her entire life. She is ordinary now. Life is fragile and she can no longer take anything for granted. Days are all she has and they can be wasted or cherished, difficult as they sometimes are. To walk on warm dry stones is good, to eat fresh bread is good, to drink clean, cold water is good. If she met that prince now, what would she be able to offer him? What could he offer her? And her child? Thinking about this is the hardest thing of all, a hole in her belly which hurts like the labour that very nearly killed her. She does not even know whether the child survived. If they did then they will grow up cosseted and pampered and have nothing in common with Emilia, not unless they pass through a similar ring of fire which strips away the privilege and the presumption. And who would wish that on anyone, least of all on a child of their own? Better that Chloë is dead to all of them, to her child, to her husband and to herself.

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Kerimon is a generous host. He, too, found himself washed up in this coastal town, in his case after his fellow senators died in a coup in Samaria. He has been deprived of the company of social equals for many years and with the exception of this one bloody episode, about which he says nothing, the details of which Emilia later learns from Drusilla, the oldest of the house slaves, he recounts stories constantly, about his childhood and about the town news he hears via the documents he is asked to write and decipher for the illiterate or innumerate. He tells her about the early death of both his parents and the paternal uncle who beat him daily till his maternal aunt stole him away in the middle of the night, how he then grew up in his maternal uncle’s household as Allectus moved through a series of civil service postings along the Persian Gulf. He tells her about the lesser marvels of their own town—the sailor’s son with no toes who could see the future, the widow of seven years who remarried a month before her shipwrecked husband finally returned home, the man who bequeathed his small fortune to a horse.

  Kerimon is nearing sixty, a saggy man with a hangdog face and a tendency to drop objects and bump into furniture. He has no sexual interest in her. He is, however, besotted with a succession of young men whose attention is never wholly free of mockery. He has a large library—“a sad fraction of what I once possessed”—and is devoted to the garden laid out along a series of terraces descending to the river which feeds into the harbour. Every so often a grizzled traveller will arrive at the villa bearing a seedling from the world’s end and be rewarded with the kind of money other people spend on carnelian or garnet—mountain rhubarb, a bottlebrush tree, evergreen magnolia, fiercely spiked orange cacti…On occasion, instead of supervising his slaves, he gets down on his knees and digs the earth with his own hands.

 She thinks, sometimes, about her rescue. There was money in a bag. If the fishermen took it then they will have made better use of it than she could. One of them tried to throw her overboard. His fellows then threw him overboard. He will have drowned, surely. She has difficulty thinking of these acts in terms of right and wrong. What does she know of the stories which lie behind their actions? How much does one ever know of the stories which lead to the present moment? She has stepped out of life. She no longer has an investment. She can see it clearly now. Everyone inhabits a different world.

  She needs to be useful, to do something with her hands. So Drusilla is teaching her how to weave. It calms her, the way the body starts to operate without the mind’s bidding once you have learnt a skill. She is a good student this time around, she takes more care, she has more patience. She weaves a bedspread patterned with orange and blue diagonal lines. She is starting to learn how one weaves figures, landscapes, stories.

  Sometimes Kerimon finds her weeping. He seems embarrassed. He fetches a rug and places it over her as if it is cold from which she is suffering. He sits beside her and says nothing. Sometimes she looks at him and finds that he is weeping, too, though whether he is weeping for her or on his own account she never asks.

  Four or five weeks after her arrival one of the young men beats Kerimon about the head before stealing a ruby necklace and two silver cups. Emilia finds him in his chamber, sitting on the floor, a bloody gash running through his thinning hair, his right eye puffy and purpled. She cleans the wound then leads him to a stone bench in the corner of the garden where vines create a wedge of dappled shade. She lays the same unnecessary rug over his lap and sits beside him and reads from the Argonautica.

  ’Aρχόμενος σέο, Φοι˜βε, παλαιγενέων κλέα φωτω˜ν μνήσομαι…

  Beginning with you, Phoebus, I will describe the famous deeds of men of old, who, at the behest of King Pelias, drove the well-benched Argo down through the mouth of Pontus and between the Cyanean rocks, in search of the Golden Fleece…

  Autumn is turning to winter. It has been three months since her rescue and she is growing restless. She needs movement, purpose, responsibility, she needs to engage in some kind of business with other people. But none of the skills she possesses have much value at the end of this particular road where every woman weaves and Kerimon has cornered the market in the interpretation of legal documents and the writing of letters. But where else would she go, and why? She is fond of Kerimon. He welcomed her into his home when she had nothing. And as she once needed him now he needs her. Since the beating he moves like an older man who is nervous of falling. She does not like the idea of him living alone.

  One of her pleasures is walking in the hills behind the town, about which these maritime people seem largely incurious. She enjoys the quiet and her own company and likes the idea that she could simply carry on in any direction and nothing could stop her, the absolute freedom of it. She is returning to the villa one afternoon by a winding route she has not taken before when she chances upon a small deserted temple once dedicated to Artemis, but now derelict. Four columns under the portico and a single room behind the rear wall. The former priestess died years ago, Kerimon tells her later, and these are Neptune’s adherents, albeit sceptical ones, too inured to the weather’s fickleness to put anything but superficial trust in prayer.

  Her walks keep leading her back to the same spot. It is not the most beautiful of locations, a junction of five cart tracks, used enough to churn the mud but not enough to discourage weeds, two wooden byres left to rot, trees and scrub all around, a view of sorts down to the scruffier end of a scruffy town, other unremarkable hills beyond. There is a row of swallows’ nests behind the pediment. The temple must have been falling into disrepair even before the last priestess left. The wall paintings are sun-bleached and peeling, moss has made its dogged inroads, the initials of children and courting couples are scored into the plaster and builders have begun purloining the more extractable stones. But she belongs here in a way she cannot articulate. Perhaps it is the very unexceptional nature of the place which resonates.

  Kerimon no longer has anyone else to indulge and the project promises to keep Emilia in the villa for the next year at least so he is willing to pay for the work. Two men take on the roles of stonemason, builder, roofer, and plasterer. They are not craftsmen but one is hard-working and the drunkard is eventually replaced by the hard-working man’s son. The frescoes are restored by a painter of figureheads and shop signs. They are not accomplished pictures but they have a rough vigour and they are certainly eye-catching. Here is Diana hunting with her companions, a large dog at her side. Here is Artemis presiding over a childbirth. Here is the Lady of the Beasts in a forest, surrounded by a troupe of not wholly believable wild animals, one of which appears to be the offspring of a badger and a horse. Here is Lady Moon bestowing authority upon an unspecific ancient king.

  Emilia never becomes the priestess in any official sense. Rather, she realises belatedly that she has been something approaching a priestess in the eyes of the townspeople for a long time, even before she chanced upon the temple. She has possessed since her arrival an aura of the preternatural, the woman fished from the sea, dead then not dead, about whom nothing is known and who knows nothing about herself, the woman who walks alone in the hills and dwells in the villa of the wise man, casting her gaze over them all.

  She thinks they are coming to see the results of the restoration or to catch a glimpse of the crazy woman who has taken on this ridiculous job. She does not realise that the conversations these people strike up are anything beyond the ordinary, and it is this perhaps which gives them some of their power. They talk about children who have died of fevers and young men lost at sea. They talk about pregnancies and legacies, about violent husbands and unhappy wives, about wilful children, about wounds to the body and to the heart. She listens. And being listened to by someone held in such high esteem, by someone not quite of this world, makes them feel a little stronger, a little more in harmony with a discordant world, a little more able to solve their own problems without divine intercession. Most go away thinking they have been given wise advice which in truth they have told themselves. Perhaps this is what all prayer is, when the ceremony and the theology are peeled away, a serious stillness in which one talks quietly to one’s own best self.

  Marriages are consecrated. Funerals are performed. Small sacrifices are made at the little altar at the rear of the portico. Votive tablets are hung on the wall, plaster tiles bearing crudely drawn names and pictures of fishing boats and babies and naked couples and ploughs and farm animals and coins.

  Belatedly she finds herself thinking about the goddess whose intermediary she has accidentally become. Chloë gave the gods little consideration. They were a large and restive family ruling a neighbouring kingdom who demanded regular tribute and needed careful diplomatic handling. Even in her floating coffin she called out to none of them for intercession. But now? As Emilia she pictures the Huntress in the woods behind the temple, bow in hand, dogs at her side. Increasingly, at dusk, she will see flashes of something between the trees, and while she knows that it is probably the scut of a running deer, she feels…unalone, watched over.

  She returns to the story of Actaeon which had appalled her as a child—how the grandson of Cadmus is hunting in the valley of Gargaphie when he stumbles upon Artemis bathing in a clear, shaded pool in a sacred grove. Her nymphs cry out but are unable to shield the goddess on account of her height. Having no weapon to hand, she throws water at him and cries out, “Go and tell the story, if you can, of how you saw me naked.” Horns ---antlers--- spring from his forehead, his neck lengthens, his ears grow pointed, his hands become hooves, his skin a spotted hide. His hunting dogs can no longer see their master, only a frightened stag. They give chase and drag him to the ground. Forming a ring around the fallen deer so that each dog has a place at the table they fix their snouts deep into the flesh.

Terrified and suffering unbearable pain, Actaeon fills the valley with screams which are neither human nor animal. Then he screams no more.

  The story is still cruel and unfair, but she knows now that life can be cruel and unfair. There is perhaps some small justice in an innocent man, for once, being the victim of a woman’s capricious anger. But the myth hints at something else, the dangers of looking into the heart of the mystery. Questions always lead to more questions which lead to more questions. Do not seek out the sacred grove. Better to keep running with the hunt. She thinks too about those dogs. Were they, like Actaeon, human once? Did Ovid simply not have the time or the ink to tell their stories? She imagines them, sated and bloody-chopped, looking around for their master, finding themselves abandoned, their warm kennels far away and night coming down.

  She never utters the name Pericles, even in the privacy of her own mind. It edges into her field of vision sometimes. She pushes it gently away. She doesn’t know the name of Chloë’s child. It is perhaps better that way.

  Winter turns to spring. The hills smell of thyme and sage again. There is chamomile and dittany. There are heliotropes and gladioli. She sees kingfishers and, occasionally, a hoopoe. Two boats go down in a freak storm. Nine men are lost. A wife is left blind in one eye after she is punched in the head by her drunken husband. A house is destroyed by lightning. Nine couples are married. Thirteen people die, five of them babies. The body of a teenage boy is found high in the woods a month after his disappearance. A monstrous fish is caught, its weight beyond anyone’s guessing. It has to be towed back to harbour where a crowd of men haul it up the beach on log rollers. It has an ill-tempered expression, a mouth a child can climb inside and grey skin so smooth and shiny you can see your own blurred portrait in it. Opinions are divided as to whether it is a blessing or an ill omen, though everyone agrees that the meat is delicious. Only a small amount of it can be eaten, however, before the carcase starts to rot and emit a stench so strong it can be smelled leagues downwind. By this point the fish is more substance than object and must be put back into the sea over several weeks, stinking greasy shovel by stinking greasy shovel.

  Spring turns to summer. Kerimon is more frail, more easily fatigued. He takes as much interest in the garden as he ever did but he no longer clips and weeds and plants himself. The illiterate and innumerate come to the villa just as frequently, but after untangling a poorly drafted will or a long bill of lading he will sometimes sleep for an hour on the terrace. The difference in age would make them father and daughter but Emilia pictures them, instead, as two blackbirds sitting on a wall, two horses at a fence, the way animals sit so peaceably in one another’s company with neither noise nor fuss nor explanation. She asks him if they should seek the advice of a doctor from another, larger town. He believes that doctors are charlatans and that it is the quality of years which counts, not their number.

  Autumn and winter, mild as they are, take their toll. He finds it increasingly hard to breathe and is often racked with a cough that can be soothed only a little by Drusilla’s concoctions of honey, gentian and liquorice. He sometimes dozes off while Emilia is reading to him. He can no longer lie down at night but must sleep propped on a bank of pillows.

  Emilia deals with much of the paperwork that continues to arrive at the door. It blends seamlessly with her role at the temple. So much sadness flows from broken promises and monies unpaid, so many tragedies leave bureaucratic chaos in their wake.

  Both Kerimon and Emilia know, without speaking of it, that he will die in the spring. He is able to comfort her less and less when the memories ambush her during the day, but caring for him lightens her own burden. He can no longer read. His sight is milky and he cannot see much of the garden. His life has become a small thing.

  In his final month he talks about the coup in Samaria, how he watched from an attic window as one of the other senators was skinned by a mob, how he himself escaped by burying himself in a pile of dung on the back of a cart pulled by a merchant friend and how he still bears the scar left by an investigatory pitchfork thrust into the dung at the gates. She tells him in turn about Chloë and Pericles and the child whose name and gender she never knew. She tells him about the wrestling and the marriage and the birth at sea and how she woke to find herself adrift in a sealed crate.

  In his last two weeks he becomes increasingly confused. He thinks he is in Talmena. He thinks he is sailing on the Sea of Azov. He sees elephants. Woken by noises in the small hours they find him sleepwalking, moving with an ease and energy he has not possessed for years. They steer him gently back to his chamber. Come morning he is bed-bound once more. He asks repeatedly about an escaped songbird called Autonoë and cries, asking his uncle to stop beating him. He has moments of clarity. In some he is frightened. In others he seems utterly at peace with the world. One afternoon he says, “I seem to be making rather a performance of my departure. You must be exhausted.”

  He dies at night in the garden. They find him in the morning curled around an acacia. Drusilla assumes he became disoriented, went outside, could not find his way back in and died of the cold, but Emilia finds a key in the earthenware bowl from which she eats her wine-dipped bread every morning. He must have known that it was his final day. She likes the idea that death did not come to take him away but that he decided to go and meet it.

  She finds the locked box which the key opens. It contains papers which transfer ownership of the property and fortune to her. As if such things matter here in Ultima Thule, Kerimon has written in the accompanying letter. You have been my one true friend. Live well.

  His body is burnt in front of the temple. The crowd stretches into the shadows beneath the trees in every direction so that the forest seems to have grown from a field of people. One by one men and women climb the steps of the portico to share stories of his generosity. She sees none of the young men who hung about the villa in the early months of her stay. She waits long into the evening for the crowd to disperse. Dark descends and the last embers are still glowing inside the ashy pyre when a woman comes up to her and says that her mother died a year ago but that she still wakes in the night and sees the old woman standing at the end of the bed. Emilia listens. Life has started up again already.

  She gives a generous parting gift to the house slaves who wish to leave. Drusilla and Hamda, one of the younger women, choose to remain.

  Spring turns to summer. The heat is vicious. A forest fire comes close enough to the temple to leave the southernmost side of every column smoke-blackened. Many plants die in the garden. Someone breaks into the villa at night and steals a little marble bust of Eurynome and an oil lamp in the shape of a lion. The bust reappears in the garden ten days later, slightly chipped. On the same day she hears news of a young man falling to his death from a roof. It is pointless asking whether the events are connected.

  Summer turns to autumn. She reads several treatises on plants from the library. She starts to restore the garden. She has never done physical labour like this before. She is surprised to find that she likes the dirt under her fingernails that she can never wholly remove. She walks to the temple every day. She is rarely alone. She prays to the Goddess. She draws up contracts and tries hard to soften the impact of letters containing bad news.

  Autumn turns to winter. The days grow shorter. They close the shutters at sunset and put logs on the fire.

  This is her life. It is simple. It is complete.

JOHANNA KOIVUNEN - A Clinging Embrace

A Clinging Embrace 

A Study of the Female Rapist in Ovid’s Metamorphoses

Johanna Koivunen, Stockholms universitet

I want to bring attention to the feminist research on Ovid, and the Metamorphoses in particular. One big influence in the field was Amy Richlin’s essay collection Pornography and Representation in Greece and Rome (1992). Richlin wrote herself in it about Ovid’s female characters in the essay “Reading Ovid’s Rapes”. According to Richlin, “even in his lifetime critics found his poetry disturbing because of the way he applied his wit to unfunny circumstances” (1992: 158). Richlin introduces her essay with those words in order to ask the question “how [are we] to read texts, like those of Ovid, that take pleasure in violence” (1992: 158). In her essay she discusses the problems of doing a feminist reading of such a text without dismissing it or praising it wrongly. Her essay reviews possible solutions to this question, and because it is polarising as well as methodological it has inspired feminst research into Ovid since then, and its explicit interest in rape is useful to this paper. 
However, more recent discussions of Ovid’s women and feminism focus less on the dated view of pornography (Alison Sharrock, another authority in the field, points out that the texts in Richlin’s essay collection include many different aspects of sex and label it all pornography [1998: 184-85]), and are turned to a broader gendered study of many examples of “queer” characters. 
In the Metamorphoses there are a number of women that have what Richlin describes as “excessive desire” (1992: 166). They include women who desire unions that are either problematic (like Medea in book 7 and Scylla in book 8) or incestous (like Byblis in book 9 and Myrrha in book 10), out of which only two get who or what they want through more or less open means (Medea and Myrrha). But, among those 50 rapes, there is only one female rapist, who, in addition, appears in “the only rape scene in the Metamorphoses that involves explicit physical contact” (Richlin 1992: 165). It is in the story of Salmacis and Hermaphroditus in book 4 (verses 285-388). Hermaphroditus has appeared in the recent scholarship on Ovid that focuses the queer or gendered readings on various gender-transgressive characters. Hermaphroditus is of interest here because in Ovid’s hands, Hermaphroditus becomes both male and female when a man and a woman fuse, and is not born that way (although this is not clear-cut, as pointed out by Georgia Nugent [qtd. in Zajko 2009: 188] and Robinson 1999: 217). The research has mainly been interested in what it is that emasculates Hermaphroditus, his dual gender and whether the union is successful or not (for example Romano 2009, Robinson 1999 and Zajko 2009). Such research does not ignore Salmacis, but as of yet, Salmacis has not been treated with the research-attention she deserves. There are a number of aspects that make her an interesting subject to study.  
Victoria Rimell in her book Ovid’s Lovers (2006) is interested in the desiring subject. Her grasp of desire is, according to Spentzou “triggered by the conflicting energies and irreconcilable tendencies of the Ovidian selves” (Spentzou 2009: 391). The desiring subject is not only looking for an Other to fulfill them in a Lacanian sense (like Narcissus) but is also actively looking and the gaze has a “self-realizing potential” (like Medusa) (Spentzou 2009: 391). These looking, desiring subjects stare at their victims and become victimised, and also reveal the relational subject that comes about in a relationship with others as well as itself. The point of using the Gorgon’s way of looking – Rimell finds her off-spring throughout Ovid’s writing – is that “subjects become objects, victors become victims, interiors become exteriors” (Spentzou 2009: 392). This is one aspect in which Salmacis is interesting: there are  few female desiring subjects in the Metamorphoses and even fewer of those that act in any way against the will of their desired object. But desire is, in Rimell’s study not “just … a bland, incessant game of absence and lack but also … a collision of creative energies and convictions” (2006: 21). Desire, in a poem such as the Metamorphoses, is one of the driving forces. Because of this, desiring subjects are allowed to voice their adventure to a larger extent.
The story of Salmacis and Hermaphroditus is told by one of three sisters in a spinning-room as they entertain themselves with needlework; they are too “good” to take part in the wild orgies and stay inside to dutifully and modestly keep their hands busy with weaving and spinning. But modest as they are, “the wild, transgressive, erotic nature of the tales which the women tell to lighten the work raises problems and contradictions in their self-presentation as too respectable for Bacchic inspiration” (Sharrock 2002: 213). The aspect of storytelling, gender and subjectivity is important in Ovid’s writing, and yet another aspect that informs Salmacis’ story and can help explain why it is different from the other rape scenes in the Metamorphoses.
There are, in summary, many fruitful modes of reading put forward in the last thirty years of Ovidian scholarship that are generated by gender studies. With this in mind I want to read the story of Salmacis and Hermaphroditus, which is interested in all of this: rape, desire, and storytelling. In addition to the above mentioned scholars, I have used readings and analyses of Ovid’s works by Don Fowler, on presence and communication (2000), Philip Hardie on narrative and desire (2002), and Alison Keith, on sexuality and gender (2009). 

Method and Aim 

The danger of misreading and misunderstanding is, according to Spentzou, stressed by Ovid’s stories, despite all the possible readings they present (often retelling an already-told story in a different way or with a different conclusion) (2009: 387). Spentzou claims “choosing the wrong reading is disastrous,” (which, in the poem itself, Narcissus and Cephalus do) (2009: 388). The danger or misunderstanding is present on all levels, from the character to the reader: “the author does not determine meanings and the reader has the responsibility and must face the consequences of deciding on the meaning of the text” (Spentzou 2009: 388). And this has to be done on a text full of “silences, gaps, and narrative seduction” (Spentzou 2009: 386). One solution to such a problem is to read the passages that are filled-in and undress the narrative seduction (or the seductress), i.e. to use the passages that are more explicit to see what they reveal, and engage with the narrator’s motivations and possible desires. Thus, turning to Salmacis is an essential venture, because her story is unusually explicit. 
I aim in this paper to study the story of Salmacis and Hermaphroditus in depth. In particular, I want to study Salmacis and her identity as a female rapist. Previous research has remained at the study of the Salmacis’ emasculating environment, whether she acts like a male rapist, and if she fails as she does. I am interested in all of these things, but would like to see how she relates to the other characters she is like, i.e., is she like other nymphs, other rapists or other desiring subjects. In order to do so I plan to use a comparative study of what I call a “prototypical” rape scene and Salmacis’ rape scene. What I refer to as a prototypical rape scene is an attempt to find a generic rape scene from the Metamorphoses, which is one committed by a man unto a powerless woman.  I will compare how the rapists and their victims are depicted, in what environment they appear, how the rape is portrayed and what the story results in. In addition to this comparative analysis, I will look at Salmacis’s story from some of the aspects mentioned in the above theoretical background: her desire and the narrative framework. This will help me see what allows rape to take a center stage in this poem.

 Instead of reviewing Ovid’s construction of masculinity or femininity, or whether his writing can be viewed as feminist in any way, Rimell asks “about relationality, about the desiring subject in Ovidian poetry as being-in-relation” (2006: 4). She focuses on the most dialectical work of Ovid, the double Heroides, where lovers write each other letters. But this view can certainly be extended to his other works (and she does this as well), where desiring subjects never act alone, even when their desire is one-sided. She comments on “Ovid’s fascination with communication between lovers, and with doubling, interaction, competition and exchange more generally” (2006: 8) and says that it culminates in Heroides. But much of Ovid’s writing 8 is about relationships, connection, love and so on. I would like to extend the idea of communication between subjects desiring each other (as in Heroides) to communication between desiring subjects of his stories, via doubling, interaction and exchange. There is, I think, more exchange of approach, characterisation and action between Salmacis and Zeus than between Salmacis and Hermaphroditus, or Zeus and any of his ladyloves (Europa, Danae, Leda, Callista, and so forth).

THE FEMALE RAPIST: SALMACIS AND HERMAPHRODITUS 

The story of Salmacis and Hermaphroditus is told by Alcithoe to her sisters as they sit inside and weave during a festival to Bacchus. Her two sisters go first and tell the stories of Pyramus and Thisbe and Clytie and Helios. When it is Alcithoe’s turn, she begins by mentioning a couple of stories she won’t go into: a nymph, angry at a shepherd who pursues her, transforms him into a stone; Sithon, who was both man and woman; Celmis who went mad; the Curets born out of rain; and Smilax and Crocus, lovers who were turned into the eponymous flowers. Instead she chooses a story “dulci ... novitate” (a lovely novelty) (4.284). It is about Salmacis, a nymph who lives alone in the forest, who prefers resting and grooming herself over hunting with Artemis, like the other nymphs. She sees the young man Hermaphroditus, son of the obvious gods, coming to the pond she lives by. She falls instantly in love, he tells her to go away, she hides and when he goes swimming she is overcome and rushes to him. As she clings to him, she begs the gods that they may be united. The gods grant her wish, they are joined in body and soul and Hermaphroditus leaves the pond both male and female. He responds by praying to the gods that they poison the water so everyone who enters it will be like him. This is an alternative origin story to Hermaphroditus’ dual gender. It is the only occasion of a woman explicitly raping someone in the Metamorphoses and it is the most explicit sex scene in the poem (Richlin 1992: 165). 
Before I delve into the story itself, I want to bring attention to the narrator of the story. When Alcithoe has finished, Bacchus notices that they blatantly ignore his festival and in punshisment their looms and fabrics are turned into climbing plants and they are turned into bats: “conatae … loqui minimam … vocem / emittunt peraguntque leves stridore querelas” (trying to speak they emit the smallest sound and finish their small complaints with a high-pitched sound) (4.412-13). They are punished for ignoring one god, Bacchus, despite choosing to honour another goddess, ie Athena (“nos … quas Pallas, melior dea, detinet” [we keep to Pallas, who is a better goddess] [4.38]). Their punishment is targeted to their speaking and storytelling: they are not explicitly silenced, as many others are in the Metamorphoses, but it is made certain that no one will be able to understand their talking. Many characters, and women in particular, are transformed, and often these leave a trace in the world as a reminder of their disappearance – Myrrha’s tears become the myrrh oil (a perfume), Philomela and her sister are remembered as sweet-singing birds, and laurel-leaves from Daphne adorn Apollo’s head. The Minyeides, however, are turned into creatures that must hide in the dark (“lucem … perosae / nocte volant” [detesting the light, they fly at night] [4.414-15]) and will not be heard by anyone but themselves. Either what they do or what what they tell stories of is not something worth honouring. 
Below I will look at the story of Salmacis and Hermaphroditus. Alcithoe’s sisters also tell stories of desiring women and failed unions (Pyramus and Thisbe famously die together and dye the cherry tree’s berries red; Clytie is in love with Helios and Helios with her, but he ignores her. She sits watching the sun for days until she transforms into a flower that follows the sun). But Salmacis is something entirely different from them. Below I look at the following aspects: the rape, the rapist, the victim and the surroundings and compare them to the story of Europa. I have also included the transformation as its own aspect in order to view the story’s conclusion.

I. Non Nota Dianae (the Rapist) 

Salmacis is the name of the nymph and of the pond the story revolves around. (The water is described with a number of different words. For simplicity’s sake I will call it “a pond” in English. The words in Latin are: fons, stagnum, unda, aqua, latex and lympha.) The line between the nymph and the water is vague and this will become apparent in a number of ways. The first mention of Salmacis is of the pond. The story will explain how the water came to be “infamis,” (notorious) (4.285) and how and why it effeminises, “quare male fortibus undis / … enervet” (why it wrongly effeminises with powerful waves), and softens, “remolliat,” whoever touches it (4.285-86). The narrator tells us that the water is famous, “vis est notissima fontis” (the power of the pond is famous) (4.287). Since this is the prelude to the story, it seems like the pond is the main character of the story, rather than the nymph or Hermaphroditus. However, I believe it is too simple to separate the nymph from the water, and that in the end we have to talk about the nymph-as-the-water. 
Salmacis the nymph enters in verse 302, after Hermaphroditus and the pond have been introduced. She is “nympha … sed nec venatibus apta nec arcus / flectere quae soleat nec quae contendere cursu” (a nymph who was not apt to hunt deer, nor used to bend her bow or compete by running) (4.302-3). Despite being a nymph she is none of the things that a typical nymph is, suggesting she is less than or not really a nymph. More important though: she is “sola … Naiadum … non nota Dianae” (the only naiad not known to Artemis) (4.304). The Leader of the Hunt does not recognise her.
Her sisters, the naiads, have told her to pick up her spear and quiver and combine her relaxation with hunting. When these “shoulds” are said (verses 4.306-7), they are spoken by the naiad sisters. The narrator coolly relates almost word-for-word that she does not pick up her spear and quiver nor combine her relaxation with hunting. The entire characterisation of Salmacis points out where she is not like other nymphs, but refrains from any outright moralisations. This narrator has this in common with the Loves of Zeus narrator: they report what happens without judging too much, except with occasional nods to the readers to alert them to pay attention. 
Salmacis spends her time bathing her “formosos … artus” (beautiful limbs) (4.310). She combs her hair with “Cytoriaco … pectine” (a Cytorian boxwood comb) (4.311) and watches herself in the water, as if peering in a mirror: “spectatas consulit undas” (she consults the observed waves) (4.312). This is one indication that the water is an extension of her. This is made clearer when she is described “nunc perlucenti circumdata corpus amictu / mollibus aut foliis aut mollibus incubat herbis” (now, draping her body with a transparent dress, she lies on soft leaves or soft herbs) (4.313- 14). She is dressed in clothing that is, like the pond, “perlucens”. The pond is “lucentis” (clear) (4.297) and “perspicuus”(transparent) (4.300) and you can see all the way to the bottom, just like you can see all the way through Salmacis clothing. Moreover, she, like the pond, lies amid “foliis” and “herbis”. She is a clear and see-through entity in a lush environment. Salmacis the nymph and Salmacis the pond are more or less the same – if not the same being, at least the same kind of being. Keith writes about Salmacis and her close link to the environment in her essay on sexuality and gender in Ovid’s poetry. She notes that “classical poets repeatedly feminize and sexualize the landscapes in which they set male action” (2009: 361). She also notes some similarities between Salmacis the pond (lymphae [4.298]) and Salmacis the nymph (nympha [4.302]): both are uniquely uncustomary – the pond uncustomarily empty of vegetation and the nymph uncustomarily uninterestered in nymph-acitivities –, their transparency of water and clothing, and Salmacis’ use of the pond to mirror herself (Keith 2009: 361-62). Thus Salmacis and the environment are made the same, and the environment is feminised along with Salmacis. 
However, the feminisation of Salmacis is less straight-forward. Matthew Robinson notes that “even before their combination into one androgynous being, both Hermaphroditus and Salmacis are playing the male and female part” (1999: 218). This refers not only to the fact that Salmacis has the aggressive role in the union. Salmacis is clearly different from the typical nymphs, all of whom are very innocent and feminine in their company of only women. But she appears to be more feminine than them, because she rejects the less-feminine actions of the Hunt’s naiads – actions of active women who reject love and sex – while she embraces actions more typically female and passive. This is perhaps why she is not known by Artemis and not part of the Hunt: she has an interest in sex and Artemis is usually blind to that (for example, see the story of Callisto in book 2, who is raped by Zeus and then rejoins the Hunt: its leader, because she is innocent or virginal, [“et, nisi quod virgo est, poterat sentire Diana” (if she had not been a virgin, Artemis could have sensed it) (2.451)] is the only one among the naiads who does not realise what has happened to Callisto when she becomes pregnant). It is remarkable to use the most girly and innocent of the gods to compare Salmacis to: Salmacis is at once not girl enough to hunt with the others, but more feminine than those naiads, as well as both more innocent (picking flowers rather than killing animals) and less innocent than them, because she is not known by Artemis herself, innocent virtue personified. In this setting, the Hunt’s naiads are like the young bulls Taurus-Zeus appears among. Salmacis, like Zeus in his romances, becomes the most sexual being in a surrounding of asexual beings. Finally, several of her actions prior to engaging with Hermaphroditus are that of a sexual object, for example bathing. The flower-picking is not only preferred over hunting, it also, according to Keith, places her alongside nymphs about to be raped and women about to be married in epic poetry (2009: 363). But when she meets her lover, she is not “plucked” like these other women, but acts according to the male rapist of so many myths (Keith mentions both Zeus and Hades [2009: 363]) (for this idea, also see Robinson 1999: 217-18). Salmacis bends the tropes of femininity and nymphs and makes her difficult to predict, to Hermaphroditus’ disadvantage. 
When Salmacis has seen Hermaphroditus, before she approaches him, she makes sure she is beautiful “nec tamen … / quam se composuit, quam circumspexit amictus / et finxit vultum et meruit formosa videri” (not until she has composed herself, inspected her dress and modified her face and deserves to be seen as beautiful) (4.317-19). This may be compared to Zeus’s transformation into a bull. The same word is used to describe them, “formosus” (Salmacis was also said to bathe her “formosos … artus” earlier [4.310]). However, Taurus is by the narrator called formosus, while Salmacis is by the narrator said to be making sure she deserves to be seen as formosa when she is about to approach her victim. She is aware of and ready for being objectified. Hidden, she looks upon Hermaphroditus as he undresses and goes for a swim. She sees his naked body and 

placuit ... cupidine formae 
... exarsit: flagrant quoque lumina nymphae,
non aliter quam cum puro nitidissimus orbe 
opposita speculi referitur imagine Phoebus (4.346-49) 

(she enjoys it … she burns with desire for its beauty: the eyes of the nymph also burn, not unlike when the most shining Phoebus with his pure orb is reflected in the mirror’s opposite image) 
Despite the close link she has with the water, she burns, she is on fire. This brings to mind the previous story told by the Alcithoe’s sister, where the Sun, also known as Phoebus, falls in love with the maid Leucothoë (Helios comes to Leucothoë dressed as her mother and rapes her [“ille / vim tulit invitae” (he took me unwillling with force) in her own words (4.238-39)], after which Leucothoë is punished  by being buried alive, away from the eyes of the sun). But the sun is translated into her element by being mirrored in the water. Salmacis is here likened to other rapists and her gazing at her object of desire is in itself an action, and one transformative since it is like the sun’s “gazing” – that is, able to burn. 
As soon as Hermaphroditus has jumped into the water, Salmacis is moved to action. Fowler reads Salmacis impatience and inability to wait, her “vixque moram patitur” (and she is hardly able to wait) (4.350), as “hardly a female characteristic, but much more a mark of the male” (2000: 163). It is also recognised in the words that describe Zeus’s desire: “vix iam, vix cetera differt!” (now, he can hardly postpone the rest) (2.863). In addition, Fowler finds her “whole attitude towards Hermaphroditus, and in particular her instantaneous move from spying to attempted possession, … one we can recognize as male” (2000: 163). But this is not the action of men only, as there are women throughout the Metamorphoses who act and are not willing to spy, such as Myrrha, Byblis, Medea, and Scylla. (May I also bring up the perhaps most famous spy of the Metamorphoses: a man, Actaion, who watches the Hunt bathe in book 3, and is "deerly" punished for it?) What brings them together is their burning desire. This is an action of a desiring subject. We notice this because what motivates both Zeus and Salmacis is “sperata voluptas” and “sperata gaudia” (hoped-for joy) (4.368) respectively. They are not happy with what they have: they are explicitly looking forward to what comes next. And along with Salmacis, I turn to the desired object, Hermaphroditus.

II. Flowers and Ivory (the Victim) 

Hermaphroditus is a “puerum natum” (boy child born) of Hermes and Aphrodite (4.288), “cuius erat facies, in qua materque paterque / cognosci possent” (in whose appearence both mother and father could be recognised) (4.290-91). We may assume he is beautiful with those parents. We do not find out his name until after he has transformed, but we are told that he carries the name of both his parents. I think he shares this aspect with Europa: she is made important as the mother of a famous Cretan dynasty, Kings Minos and Rhadamanthys, and we find out who she is only then. Similarly Hermaphroditus is made important once he is this male and female creature, not before, and thus we are given his name later. He has grown up on the mountain Ida with naiads and leaves it to eagerly discover the world and unknown places, and enjoys it (“gaudebat” [4.295]). One such place is the pond where Salmacis lives. Hermaphroditus is in other ways not as anonymous as Europa is, but we find out most about him through the eyes of Salmacis. When she sees him, she approaches and and says to him that he is “credi / esse deus” (believed to be a god) (4.320-21), like Cupid, and that his parents, brothers and sisters, she supposes, must be “beati” (happy) (4.322), “felix” (lucky) (4.323) and “fortunata” (fortunate) (4.323) (Cupid actually being his half-brother). His would-be wife is “longe cunctis longeque beatior” (far more happy than the rest) (4.325). Thus, Hermaphroditus is desirable in the eyes of Salmacis but she does not tell him so directly, but thinks how it would be to be someone close to him. She is not yet entirely able to “objectify” him, but rather objectifies his relatives and herself, since she would like to be his wife. 
When Salmacis has spoken her first words of love, Hermaphroditus acts like any pursued love-interest should: “pueri rubor ora notavit / (nescit enim quid amor), sed et erubuisse decebat” (the blush marked the boy’s face [for he did not know what love is], but to blush became him) (4.329-30). He blushes and the discomfort looks well on him. Richlin comments on this trope in Ovid’s writing: “the display of the woman’s body and fear to her rapist-to-be … often precedes her rape” (1992: 162). Hermaphroditus, however, does now show fear, but discomfort and a lack of understanding: he is so innocent he does not know of or recognise love. While he is in many way likened to the female rape victim, he is not frightened but rather ashamed, which is both a comment on his probable advantage in strength, and that the inequality between them, or between sexual aggressor and victim, is founded on lack of knowledge. This is similar to what was found between Taurus-Zeus and Europa: while the assailant obviously had the upper hand in strength, he made a point of ridding himself of it, and what had Europa commit to being victimised was her lack of understanding of the situation.
But now, the narrator has begun to describe Hermaphroditus in various objectifying ways. The colour of his blush is like “aprica pendentibus arbore pomis / aut ebori tincto … aut sub candore rubenti, / cum frustra resonant aera auxiliaria, lunae” (apples hanging on a sunny tree or painted ivory or the moon’s whiteness become red when, in vain, copper gongs resound to help) (4.331-333). It is an apple lit by sunshine (ripe and ready to be picked), painted ivory (a beautiful thing unnecessarily painted, ie gilding the lily) and the moon reddening with the total eclipse, an omen believed to be painful to the moon, and which was driven away with noises of beaten copper gongs (Björkeson 2015: 401n332-33) – an ominous simile, understood as a a cry for help, and a colour not pleasing but meant to be driven off. This means that the colouring is not only viewed in a positive light. Additionally, according to Robinson, these similies evoke both male and female characters in Metamorphoses, for example Narcissus, Lavinia, and Menelaus, and even “the moon was thought to be bisexual” (1999: 219n50). This predicts Hermaphroditus’ transformation, or suggests it is not only his union with Salmacis that makes him dual-gendered. 
Hermaphroditus is allowed to explicitly express his uninterest (in contrast with Europa). He says “desinis, an fugio tecumque ... ista relinquo” (stop, or I run away and leave this with you) (4.336). He threatens to leave the pond (ista) as well as the nymph, and partakes in mixing up pond and nymph. Despite this, he does not realise that the threat of the nymph does not go away just because the nymph does. When he is left alone, he removes “mollia ... velamina” (the soft clothing) from “tenero … corpore” (the tender body) (4.345). Note, that Hermaphroditus’ body is already tender (soft, or young) before he jumps into the water. Again, it appears that he already has the femininity within. In the water he shines like “eburnea si quis / signa tegat claro vel candida lilia vitro” (ivory figurines or white lilies, if someone covered them with clear glass) (4.354-55). He is again likened to ivory, but this time only covered by glass (which was said to make ornaments more beautiful [Björkeson 2015: 401n355-56]), clearly preferable to being painted red, and to a white lily. A white lily in water brings a water-lily to mind and this, I think, is how the water works: already he is more linked to the water and to its femininity. When he was on land and more ready to resist Salmacis, he was likened to an apple in a treetop. This alerts us to the importance of the environment, which is what I will examine next.

III. Temperie Blandarum Captus Aquarum (the Environment) 

The pond is described in detail when Hermaphroditus finds it and it is at once remarkable to him: “stagnum lucentis ad imum / usque solum lymphae” (a pond with clear water all the way to the bottom) (4.297-98). The pond is crystal clear without any kind of growth: “non illic canna palustris / nec steriles ulvae nec acuta cuspide iunci” (neither marshy reeds nor barren sedge or rush with sharp points) (4.298-99). The water is “perspicuus” (transparent) (4.300). However it is surrounded by lush vegetation: “vivo / caespite cinguntur semperque virentibus herbis” (surrounded by living grass and always vigorous herbs) (4.300-1). This is familiar from the story of Europa: the larger surroundings are fertile and alive, but the most central location is not fertile but is empty of life (Taurus was a stud bull in a herd of young bulls, grazing on a beach full of herbs and plants). The infertile midst is a decoy for the danger it poses to the victim who enters it. However, the pond is not as indifferent to its visitors as those young bulls are: the pond has the ability to transform the swimmer. 
When Hermaphroditus believes he is left alone in “vacuis ... herbis” (empty herbs) (4.341), he dips his feet in “adludentibus undis” (playing waves) (4.342) and the environment mirrors his mood. He is “temperie blandarum captus aquarum” (captured by the temperature of the coaxing water) (4.344) and the water is personified as an enticing being (acting as Salmacis in her absence). When Hermaphroditus jumps into the water, it is “in latices.... in liquidis ... aquis” (in the water … in the watery liquid) (4.353-354) and he “translucet” (shines) (4.354) – immediately taking on properties of the water. 
As mentioned before, water is an element controlled by women. It is, Rimell writes, arousing as well as sexually threatening for men (2006: 187). The woman bathing is a common trope in Latin literature (Rimell 2006: 187), but in Metamorphoses it is a dangerous area. Salmacis’s pond is not only her domain, but an extension of her, and Hermaphroditus commits himself to the danger when going in the water. But he, like Europa, enters this freely because he does not know the implication of the water. Thus, because of his lack of knowledge, he commits himself to the rape.

IV. Sperata Gaudia Nymphae (the Rape) 

The desire to take action begins with “visumque optavit habere” (she wishes to hold the one she has seen) (4.316) when Salmacis catches sight of Hermaphroditus. If there is someone else, Salmacis agrees that “mea sit furtiva voluptas” (my pleasure may be secret) (4.327): the idea that she will respect someone in her position, but not the object of her desire, removes agency from her victim: she will not listen to what he says, but to whom he belongs. Otherwise, she thinks that “thalamum … ineamus eundem” (we would enter into the same bedroom) (4.328) which is a more equal action than what it turns out to be – however, she prophetically speaks the truth since they will enter any bedroom together when they are one. When she has spoken to Hermaphroditus she begs and begs him for “sororia saltem / oscula” (at least a sister’s kiss) (4.334-35) and she brings her arms around his neck. Afraid he will leave she says “loca ... haec tibi libera trado” (I hand over this place for free to you) (4.337). She then “simulat ... discedere … / ... respiciens ... / delituit flexumque genu submisit” (pretends to walk away, … looking back, … hides and lowers herself, bending, to her knees) (4.338-40). As she hides she is at her most submissive, on her knee, but this is only her pretence. As Fowler has pointed out, Salmacis is one of the women who “want to be there, not merely to look on and watch and talk” (2000: 159). She is a desiring subject bound to act. Consequently, when she has seen Hermaphroditus naked she can hardly put it off anymore, “vix iam sua gaudia differt” (now hardly postponing her joy) (4.350) (echoing similar words spoken of Zeus). At this point she says “vicimus et meus est!” (we have won and he is mine) (4.356). This means two things: when Hermaphroditus enters the water he has already “lost” – Hermaphroditus is now Salamcis’ possession. In addition, notice the plural of vicimus – it may be the common humble plural, but this is the only time Salmacis uses the plural of herself. It is very much as if she and the pond are speaking together: she and the pond have won and now he belongs to her. In response, she removes her clothes and enters the pond. 
Up until this point the story shares the narrative of the prototype story: the scene is set, the rapists have gotten the victims where he/she wants them, without protection, in an environment chosen by them (for both Zeus and Salmacis, it’s in the water, even if the level of the victim’s vulnerability is different. Taurus makes sure he is in control of Europa in the water while Salmacis is in control of the water). The narrator of Europa’s story stops and we will have to guess to understand what happens next. It is not difficult to guess and the narrator has given us plenty of clues. But the female narrator, Alcithoe, continues and does not shy away from saying what goes on in the gaps. 
I read the rape scene from the moment Salmacis has gone into the water until she has begged the gods that they be united, imposing the transformation immediately after her words: we can no longer speak of Salmacis as her own subject. The scene is between verses 358-372. Over these fifteen verses, there are 21 predicates, 8 of which Salmacis is directly the subject, and 4 of which she is the subject indirectly in a couple of similes. 4 are spoken by Salmacis when she prays. 5 of the predicates have Hermaphroditus as a subject (1 passive). Salmacis’ first 4 predicates and the passive predicate speak of her actions as forceful. Hermaphroditus is the object of them: tenet, carpit, subiectat, tangit (holds, plucks, holds from under and touches) (4.358-60). 11 For every one of these verbs except subiectat, Hermaphroditus is unwilling: pugnantem (tenet) (fighting), luctantia (oscula carpit) (struggling kisses), invita (pectora tangit) (unwilling chest). The final predicate here, “hac ... circumfunditur illac” (he is poured over from here and there) (4.360) demonstrates that he does not stand a chance of getting away, despite “nitentem contra elabique volentem” (struggling against and wanting to flee) (4.361). Salmacis is evidently the aggressor and Hermaphroditus is obviously unwilling – the narrator offers no doubt about it. 
What follows then is a couple of similes. Salmacis is the subject of the main clauses (implicat, solent … intexere, continet [entangle, have the habit of covering, and holds fast] [4.362-67]) as a snake, ivy, and octopus respectively. The snake simile is perhaps the most interesting: as in other similar scenes, the male is portrayed as an eagle (here “regia … ales” [royal winged one] [4.362]) and the female as the snake he catches (Richlin 1992: 164). But this snake entangles itself in the eagle’s head, feet and wings when it has lifted into the air. As the bird of prey, Hermaphroditus is the subject of sustinet and rapit (restrains and carries off) (4.362-63): forceful and predatory words and actions. But Hermaphroditus the eagle accidently caught a snake able to fight back and Salmacis as the snake is the subject of the following verbs, alligat and implicat. The simile, according to Richlin, keeps the gendered descriptions but turns them around in this moment with reversed gender roles (1992: 166). Rimell reads the snake as Medusa hovering in the background (2006: 17, 29). Medusa is certainly someone who caught would be able to fight back: just by looking at her victim (or they seeing her), they are dead. The following two similes show, I think, the experience of being dominated by Salmacis. The ivy covers the long tree trunk completely, and the many-limbed octopus holds its caught enemy under water (another image of a Gorgon and her many-tentacled head [Rimell 2006: 93]): it seems as if Salmacis must have more than two arms. And the environment study has already showed that she does: she is in fact the pond itself. 
Hermaphroditus then makes an attempt to be released. He is the subject of the predicates perstat and denegat (resists and denies) (4.368-69). But Salmacis takes over as the subject of premit and inhaerebat (presses and clings to) (4.369-70), like the octopus and the ivy, and at last, says her prayer to the gods, which will be her final mode of attack. Her words are what seals the deal for her. She says to him that it is no good to fight because he will not be able to flee (once again with a prophetic strain to her words). Then she begs the gods that they “ita ... iubeatis” (order it so) (4.371) and that they will not be separated again. Her wish is granted by the gods and Hermaphroditus is neither released nor held against his will. They transform. 

V. Mixta Duorum Corpora (the Transformation) 

After this we can no longer speak of Salmacis the nymph, or a rape scene. What follows is the transformation of Hermaphroditus and his prayer. The transformation is described thus: “mixta duorum / corpora iunguntur” (a mix of two bodies is united) (4.373-74) where the two appear to take equal place and then “faciesque inducitur illis / una” (one appearence is put on them) (4.374-75) – they are still plural but in one shape. The transformation is compared to a tree grafted onto another tree, which “crescendo iungi pariterque adolescere cernit” (by growing they are united and appear to mature together) (4.375). It is true that both trees grow, but they will remain separated species, which makes their union perhaps less like Salmacis’ and Hermaphroditus’ (or reveals what their union is like in truth). The simile, though, says that they appear to grow old at the same time. The transformation goes on with the odd description: “complexu coierunt membra tenaci” (the limbs unite in a clinging embrace) (4.377). It seems to describe the rape rather than the transformation, by using the verb coeo and calling it a clinging embrace – Salmacis love is in every way a clinging embrace. Now “nec duo sunt sed forma duplex, nec femina dici / nec puer ut possit, neutrumque et utrumque videntur” (they are not two but of double form, and could be called neither woman nor man, and seems to be neither and both) (4.378-79). They are now a true merging of male and female, equally Salmacis and Hermaphroditus. Or are they? 
Into the water, “liquidas undas” (the liquid waves) (4.380), Hermaphroditus went as a “vir” (male) (4.380), and came up “semimarem” (half-male/hermaphrodite) with “mollita ... / membra” (soft limbs) and “non iam voce virili” (now without a male voice) (4.381-82). He prays to his parents that “quisquis in hos fontes vir venerit, exeat inde / semivir” (whoever comes into this pond as a man, will leave as a half-man) and that he will “mollescat” (grow soft) with the touch of the water (4.385-86). The softening is the most important aspect of his loss of manliness. But even as he speaks, Salmacis has no part in him. He speaks of his experience and what happened to him in the water. The aspect of Salmacis he wears is the softer limbs and the not-male-nor-female face, and this is the exact aspect he wants to imbue the water with. Salmacis is found not in him but in the pond. Finally, while Hermaphroditus keeps his name – already a mix of a man and a woman’s – it is the pond that will wear Salmacis’ name. 
The gods answer Hermaphroditus’ prayer as well. Both parents are “motus … nati rata verba biformis / fecit” (moved by the two-formed child they make his words true) (4.387-88) and “incesto fontem medicamine tinxit” (tinge the pond with polluting medicine) (4.388). The water is tinged – probably no longer as crystal clear as it was when Hermaphroditus found it – with incesto medicamine. Incestus refers to anything unclean and impure – that may be what it means, the no longer clear water – but it also carries the meanings sinful, defiled and in violation of religious laws. And these damning attributes Hermaphroditus’s parents apply to him.
 In this episode, the narrator does follow the action one step closer. But compared to Europa, it is the rapist who disappears. The victim is able to leave, however traumatised or transformed, but with a voice. Georgia Nugent concludes similarly “Hermaphroditus remains ... what he already is—and that is a male subject, always fully conscious of himself as such” (qtd. in Fowler 2000: 159). Salmacis, and the other desiring women in similar position to Salmacis, are very verbal and have a living interiority. Of these – Myrrha, Medea, Byblis, and Scylla – Salmacis is the one with the smallest amount of spoken lines. But she, when she loses the ability to speak herself, has taken over someone else’s interiority. Europa is never anything but her body and her reproductive abilities. But Salmacis becomes one with her victim and gets to keep on making victims. Salmacis is a powerful rapist in this way. I want to suggest it is not Salmacis who is punished here, but the sisters who tell the story of Salmacis.

CONCLUSION

 I have compared two rapists from the Metamorphoses. Zeus is a repeat offender and represents a more typical description of a rapist in comparison to Salmacis, who stands out as the only female rapist in the Metamorphoses. However, the fact that Salmacis is a female rapist matters little: she is not made more masculine because of her actions, but remains, and is emphasised as, feminine. They share many traits such as being in control, not specifically in terms of strength, but in information. They are able to manipulate various circumstances, for example the environment and their appearance, which gives the victims a sense of security and has them “walk into the trap”. Most important, though: they are the narrative force of their story, not only subjects but actors. This is of course a necessity in making a rapist a rapist: being willing to act upon their desires even when their objects do not consent. But the narrative is not only willing to follow them, but also willing to present the actions with them in the centre. As Hardie says of the narrative in the Metamorphoses, in his Lacanian reading of it: “desire is the moving force of all signifying processes and is perpetually propelled forward as the desire for something else” (2002: 67). Rimell theorised similarly, but added that it is not, here, a desire for something lacking but a desire that opens up creativity and communication (2006: 21, Spentzou 2009: 391). Desire becomes the same thing as narrative force. Their victims also share traits: both are innocent to a fault. They are made complicit in their own rape by being unaware of what their actions mean. Apart from this, they take up little room in the narrative. We know almost nothing of Europa and despite knowing a little bit more of Hermaphroditus, it is less than what we know about Salmacis. I have noted similarities in the environment: there is one layer of infertility (the young bulls, the Hunt’s naiads and the pond’s lack of growth) in an otherwise fertile and living setting (the lush beach and the pond’s surrounding growth). The environment works to express the character’s interiority as they wander around it. We also have the proximity to water, which predicts what should happen. Europa should, like women in her position, be abandoned on the beach by her leaving hero, but she is instead taken away. Salmacis should, like nymphs, be discovered in her hidden grove and risk being raped, but instead she does that. The environment, more than anything, gives the victims a false sense of security. The environment mirrors and emphasises the characters’ various feelings and motives and if the stories’ victims knew better how to read environment, or knew of others like them, they could have used the environmental clues as warnings.
The rape scene’s representation is the most significant difference between these stories. Between Europa and Zeus-Taurus it is not shown at all and it all takes place in the gap between books 2 and 3. Between Hermaphroditus and Salmacis it is depicted – if not the actual sex than at least the overpowering. This is where I think the gender matters. The narration follows more closely in order to depict how the overpowering takes place. Of course Zeus is a god and male and his strength is obvious. Salmacis is not necessarily as strong, but we find she has means of overpowering her victim, despite his struggles, without much difficulties, and despite being portrayed as very feminine and carefree, even lazy. 
Another thing the depiction of the rape offers is more empathy with the victim and their situation. Showing the rape scene gives the victim an ability to resist and, if not successfully, at least show that he or she is unwilling. Europa appears to invite the rape and since we are not allowed to see the rape itself we cannot see her reactions when she realises what is about to happen. She is afraid as she leaves but she cannot even wave for help, because she is in a position of holding on to her rapist. Hermaphroditus is not only allowed to vocally reject Salmacis, but struggle against her and exact a revenge. Depicting the rape might be gruesome, but it is a purging of the victim’s apparent complicity in the rape. 
Finally, I would like to bring up the results of these rapes. A narrative obsessed with characters, how they are linked, and desire, will not tell stories for nothing. The narrative will bring about more of what it is interested in: characters and their creative desires. The result of Zeus-Taurus’s rape is Europa’s children, the Cretan royal dynasty. This cycle spans parts of book 8 of the Metamorphoses and brings about several stories of desire and action (for example about Scylla, Pasifaë, the Minotaur...). Still Zeus is able to keep desiring others and keep creating stories. Europa’s brother is brought to look for her and incites other chains of events (another royal dynasty and another narrative cycle to follow its generations). The result of Salmacis’ rape is similar. Hermaphroditus walks away with Salmacis in his mind and his old eagerness for the world (the transformation does not appear to have changed him much) and that combination should bring about stories. Salmacis also becomes the pond that is now inbued with the effeminising poison, which will transform anyone who enters the pond: Salmacis, like Zeus, will keep on violating victims that happen upon her. We do not hear of these possible stories, though, because their narrator was silenced and turned into a bat along her sisters. Their narrator was the opposite of an active desiring subject, who spurned Bacchus in order to sit inside and tell her sisters stories. 
What has been shown in this paper is that desiring subjects are actors, regardless of gender and power. The characters that move this complicated narrative forward are characters that desire things and act upon their desires, to their detriment or luck. Other superficially powerless desiring subjects, like Medea and Myrrha, are allowed to voice their stories, but Salmacis is more desiring and more explicit than any of them. Despite them often being silenced in the end, we hear their voices in the poem because they want something and dare to take it.

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