A fragment of Hermesianax

The opening third of a fragment from book 3 of Leontion by the Hellenistic poet Hermesianax. The full passage is nearly 100 lines long and only survives thanks to Athenaeus’ quoting it at Deipnosophistae 13.597 (though this text and translation are from the Loeb Hellenistic Collection). This book of the work is what Athenaeus describes as a κατάλογον … ἐρωτικῶν – a catalogue of love affairs. Some of these will be sillier to ponder than others.

Such as Oeagrus’ dear son [Orpheus] summoned back
From Hades, furnished with his lyre: Agriope [= Eurydice]
Of Thrace. He sailed to that implacable, harsh place
Where Charon draws into his public craft
Departed souls, and cries across the lake
That pours its stream through beds of lofty reed.
That lone musician Orpheus suffered much
Beside the wave, but won the various gods;
Lawless Cocytus with his menacing scowl
And the dread regard of Cerberus he withstood,
His voice sharpened in fire, in fire his cruel eye,
On triple rank of heads freighted with fear.
With song he won the underworld’s great lords,
For Agriope to regain the gentle breath of life.

Nor did the Graces’ master, Mene’s son,
Musaeus, leave Antiope unsung,
Who, to the adepts by Eleusis’ strand,
Expressed glad cries from secret oracles,
Leading Demeter’s Rarian celebrant
With ordered step; in Hades still she’s known.

And I say that even Boeotian Hesiod
Lord of all knowledge, left his home and came,
In love, to Ascra, Heliconian town;
And, wooing Eoie, Ascraean maid,
He suffered much, composed whole catalogues
In homage, with the girl heading the list.

The very bard, whom Zeus’ fate upholds
Sweetest divinity of all versed in song,
The godlike Homer set mean Ithaca
To verse for love of wise Penelope.
Smarting for her, he settled in a tiny isle,
Leaving his own broad homeland far behind;
And hymned Icarius’ race, Amyclas’ town
And Sparta, touching on his own distress.

οἵην μὲν φίλος υἱὸς ἀνήγαγεν Οἰάγροιο
Ἀγριόπην Θρῇσσαν στειλάμενος κιθάρην
Ἁιδόθεν· ἔπλευσεν δὲ κακὸν καὶ ἀπειθέα χῶρον,
ἔνθα Χάρων κοινὴν ἕλκεται εἰς ἄκατον
ψυχὰς οἰχομένων, λίμνης δ᾿ ἐπὶ μακρὸν ἀυτεῖ
ῥεῦμα διὲκ μεγάλων χευομένης δονάκων.
πόλλ᾿ ἔτλη παρὰ κῦμα μονόζωστος κιθαρίζων
Ὀρφεύς, παντοίους δ᾿ ἐξανέπεισε θεούς·
Κωκυτόν τ᾿ ἀθέμιστον ὑπ᾿ ὀφρύσι μηνίσαντα
ἠδὲ καὶ αἰνοτάτου βλέμμ᾿ ὑπέμεινε κυνός,
ἐν πυρὶ μὲν φωνὴν τεθοωμένου, ἐν πυρὶ δ᾿ ὄμμα
σκληρὸν, τριστοίχοις δεῖμα φέρον κεφαλαῖς.
ἔνθεν ἀοιδιάων μεγάλους ἀνέπεισεν ἄνακτας
Ἀγριόπην μαλακοῦ πνεῦμα λαβεῖν βιότου.

οὐ μὴν οὐδ᾿ υἱὸς Μήνης ἀγέραστον ἔθηκεν
Μουσαῖος, Χαρίτων ἤρανος, Ἀντιόπην·
ἥ τε πολὺν μύστῃσιν Ἐλευσῖνος παρὰ πέζαν
εὐασμὸν κρυφίων ἐξεφόρει λογίων,
Ῥάριον ὀργειῶνα νόμῳ διαπομπεύουσα
Δημήτρᾳ· γνωστὴ δ᾿ ἐστὶ καὶ εἰν Ἀίδῃ.

φημὶ δὲ καὶ Βοιωτὸν ἀποπρολιπόντα μέλαθρα
Ἡσίοδον, πάσης ἤρανον ἱστορίης,
Ἀσκραίων ἐσικέσθαι ἐρῶνθ᾿ Ἑλικωνίδα κώμην·
ἔνθεν ὅ γ᾿ Ἠοίην μνώμενος Ἀσκραϊκὴν
πόλλ᾿ ἔπαθεν, πάσας δὲ λόγων ἀνεγράψατο βίβλους
ὑμνῶν, ἐκ πρώτης παιδὸς ἀνερχόμενος.

αὐτὸς δ᾿ οὗτος ἀοιδός, ὃν ἐκ Διὸς αἶσα φυλάσσει
ἥδιστον πάντων δαίμονα μουσοπόλων,
λεπτὴν ᾗς Ἰθάκην ἐνετείνατο θεῖος Ὅμηρος
ᾠδῇσιν πινυτῆς εἵνεκα Πηνελόπης·
ἣν διὰ πολλὰ παθὼν ὀλίγην ἐσενάσσατο νῆσον,
πολλὸν ἀπ᾿ εὐρείης λειπόμενος πατρίδος·
ἔκλεε δ᾿ Ἰκαρίου τε γένος καὶ δῆμον Ἀμύκλου
καὶ Σπάρτην, ἰδίων ἁπτόμενος παθέων.

Are you planning to Homer me to death?

This started with something about Philitas of Cos, an early Hellenistic poet and scholar whose works survive only in a few small fragments. But when looking at testimonia for Philitas I found this genuinely hilarious passage from a 3rd century comic poet named Strato in his Phoenicides. The text is reported in Athenaeus at 9.383.

Since there’s no good way to footnote here I’m just linking to definitions of the ‘obscure’ words even though most are defined after use and are common enough Homeric terms anyway. Switch to the Cunliffe or Autenrieth entries for the Homeric definitions.

I’ve taken a male Sphinx into my house,
not a cook! By the gods, I don’t understand
a single word he says. He’s here with a full supply
of strange vocabulary. The minute he entered the house,
he immediately looked me in the eye and asked in a loud voice:
“How many meropes have you invited to dinner? Tell me!”
“I’ve invited the Meropes to dinner? You’re crazy;
do you think I know these Meropes?
None of them’ll be there. By Zeus, this is
too much—inviting Meropes to dinner!”
“So isn’t a single daitumōn going to be present?”
“I don’t think so. Daitumōn?” I did a count:
“Philinus is coming, and Moschion, and Niceratus,
and so-and-so, and so-and-so.” I went through them, name by name;
I didn’t have a single Daitumōn among them.
“No Daitumōn’ll be there,” I said. “What do you mean? Not one?”
He got real irritated, as if I was treating him badly
because I hadn’t invited Daitumōn. Very strange.
“Aren’t you sacrificing an earthbreaker?” “No, I’m not,” I said.
“A cow with a wide forehead?” “I’m not sacrificing a cow, you bastard.”
“So you’re making a sacrifice of mēla?” “No, by Zeus, I’m not.
Neither of these—just a little sheep.” “Aren’t mēla sheep?”,
he said. “Apples are sheep? I don’t understand
any of this, cook,” I said, “and I don’t want to.
I’m quite unsophisticated; so talk to me very simply.”
“Don’t you realize that Homer uses these terms?”
“He could talk however he wanted to, cook!
But what does that have to do with us, by Hestia?”
“In the future, if you don’t mind, keep him in mind.”
“Are you planning to Homer me to death?”
“That’s how I’m used to talking.” “Well, don’t talk
that way when you’re around me!” “For four drachmas”,
he says, “I’m supposed to abandon my principles?
Bring the oulochutai here!” “What’s that?”
“Barley.” “So why, you idiot, do you talk in riddles?”
“Is any pēgos available?” “Pēgos? Suck me!
Say what you want to say to me more clearly!”
“You’re an ignoramus, old man,” he says. “Bring me some salt;
that’s what pēgos is. Let me see a basin.”
I had one. He made the sacrifice and used countless other
words of a sort no one, by Earth, could have understood:
mistulla, moires, diptucha, obeloi. The result was that
I would’ve had to get Philetas’ books
to figure out what all the vocabulary he used meant.
Except now I began to beg him to take a different tack
and talk like a human being. I doubt Persuasion herself would
ever have convinced him, by Earth; I’m sure of that.

σφίγγ᾿ ἄρρεν᾿, οὐ μάγειρον, εἰς τὴν οἰκίαν
εἴληφ᾿. ἁπλῶς γὰρ οὐδὲ ἕν, μὰ τοὺς θεούς,
ὧν ἂν λέγῃ συνίημι· καινὰ ῥήματα
πεπορισμένος πάρεστιν. ὡς εἰσῆλθε γάρ,
εὐθύς μ᾿ ἐπηρώτησε προσβλέψας μέγα·
“πόσους κέκληκας μέροπας ἐπὶ δεῖπνον; λέγε.”
“ἐγὼ κέκληκα Μέροπας ἐπὶ δεῖπνον; χολᾷς.
τοὺς δὲ Μέροπας τούτους με γινώσκειν δοκεῖς;
οὐδεὶς παρέσται· τοῦτο γάρ, νὴ τὸν Δία,
ἔστι κατάλοιπον, Μέροπας ἐπὶ δεῖπνον καλεῖν.”
“οὐδ᾿ ἄρα παρέσται δαιτυμὼν οὐδεὶς ὅλως;”
“οὐκ οἴομαί γε. Δαιτυμών;” ἐλογιζόμην·
“ἥξει Φιλῖνος, Μοσχίων, Νικήρατος,
ὁ δεῖν᾿, ὁ δεῖνα.” κατ᾿ ὄνομ᾿ ἀνελογιζόμην·
οὐκ ἦν ἐν αὐτοῖς οὐδὲ εἷς μοι Δαιτυμών.
“οὐδεὶς παρέσται,” φημί. “τί λέγεις; οὐδὲ εἷς;”
σφόδρ᾿ ἠγανάκτησ᾿ ὥσπερ ἠδικημένος
εἰ μὴ κέκληκα Δαιτυμόνα. καινὸν πάνυ.
“οὐδ᾿ ἄρα θύεις ἐρυσίχθον᾿;” “οὐκ,” ἔφην, “ἐγώ.”
“βοῦν δ᾿ εὐρυμέτωπον;” “οὐ θύω βοῦν, ἄθλιε.”
“μῆλα θυσιάζεις ἆρα;” “μὰ Δί᾿, ἐγὼ μὲν οὔ,
οὐδέτερον αὐτῶν, προβάτιον δ᾿.” “οὔκουν,” ἔφη,
“τὰ μῆλα πρόβατα;” “<μῆλα πρόβατ᾿;> οὐ μανθάνω,
<μάγειρε,> τούτων οὐδέν, οὐδὲ βούλομαι.
ἀγροικότερός εἰμ᾿, ὥσθ᾿ ἁπλῶς μοι διαλέγου.”
“Ὅμηρον οὐκ οἶσθας λέγοντα;” “καὶ μάλα
ἐξῆν ὃ βούλοιτ᾿, ὦ μάγειρ᾿, αὐτῷ λέγειν.
ἀλλὰ τί πρὸς ἡμᾶς τοῦτο, πρὸς τῆς Ἑστίας;”
“κατ᾿ ἐκεῖνον ἤδη πρόσεχε καὶ τὰ λοιπά μοι.”
“Ὁμηρικῶς γὰρ διανοεῖ μ᾿ ἀπολλύναι;”
“οὕτω λαλεῖν εἴωθα.” “μὴ τοίνυν λάλει
οὕτω παρ᾿ ἔμοιγ᾿ ὤν.” “ἀλλὰ διὰ τὰς τέτταρας
δραχμὰς ἀποβάλω,” φησί, “τὴν προαίρεσιν;
τὰς οὐλοχύτας φέρε δεῦρο.” “τοῦτο δ᾿ ἐστὶ τί;”
“κριθαί.” “τί οὖν, ἀπόπληκτε, περιπλοκὰς λέγεις;”
“πηγὸς πάρεστι;” “πηγός; οὐχὶ λαικάσει,
ἐρεῖς σαφέστερόν θ᾿ ὃ βούλει μοι λέγειν;”
“ἀτάσθαλός γ᾿ εἶ, πρέσβυ,” φησ᾿.“ἅλας φέρε·
τοῦτ᾿ ἔστι πηγός. ἀλλὰ δεῖξον χέρνιβα.”
παρῆν· ἔθυεν, ἔλεγεν ἄλλα ῥήματα
τοιαῦθ᾿ ἅ, μὰ τὴν Γῆν, οὐδὲ εἷς ἤκουσεν ἄν,
μίστυλλα, μοίρας, δίπτυχ᾿, ὀβελούς· ὥστε με
τῶν τοῦ Φιλίτα λαμβάνοντα βυβλίων
σκοπεῖν ἕκαστα τί δύναται τῶν ῥημάτων.
πλὴν ἱκέτευον αὐτὸν ἤδη μεταβαλεῖν
ἀνθρωπίνως λαλεῖν τε. τὸν δ᾿ οὐκ ἂν ταχὺ
ἔπεισεν ἡ Πειθώ, μὰ τὴν Γῆν, οἶδ᾿ ὅτι.

And the tenth to madness extreme enough to make people throw stones

From Apuleius’ Florida (20.1-2 in the Loeb edition):

There is a famous saying of a wise man over dinner: “The first bowl,” said he, “is for thirst, the second for cheer, the third for pleasure, the fourth for delirium.” Not so the Muses’ bowl: the more often drunk and the more strongly mixed, the more it promotes the health of the mind.

Sapientis viri super mensam celebre dictum est: “Prima,” inquit, “creterra ad sitim pertinet, secunda ad hilaritatem, tertia ad voluptatem, quarta ad insaniam.” Verum enimvero Musarum creterra versa vice quanto crebrior quantoque meracior, tanto propior ad animi sanitatem.

The footnote compares this to a saying of Anarcharsis reported by Diogenes Laertius (1.103):

It was a saying of his that the vine bore three kinds of grapes: the first of pleasure, the next of intoxication, and the third of disgust.

Οὗτος τὴν ἄμπελον εἶπε τρεῖς φέρειν βότρυς· τὸν πρῶτον ἡδονῆς· τὸν δεύτερον μέθης· τὸν τρίτον ἀηδίας.

But there is a more extensive and more amusing version by Eubulus quoted in Athenaeus (2.36.c). Dionysus is speaking:

Because I mix up only three bowls of wine for
sensible people. One is dedicated to good health,
and they drink it first. The second is dedicated
to love and pleasure, and the third to sleep;
wise guests finish it up
and go home. The fourth bowl no longer
belongs to me but to outrage.
The fifth belongs to arguments;
the sixth to wandering drunk through the streets; the seventh to black eyes;
the eighth to the bailiff; the ninth to an ugly black humor;
and the tenth to madness extreme enough to make people throw stones.

τρεῖς γὰρ μόνους κρατῆρας ἐγκεραννύω
τοῖς εὖ φρονοῦσι· τὸν μὲν ὑγιείας ἕνα,
ὃν πρῶτον ἐκπίνουσι, τὸν δὲ δεύτερον |
ἔρωτος ἡδονῆς τε, τὸν τρίτον δ᾿ ὕπνου,
ὃν ἐκπιόντες οἱ σοφοὶ κεκλημένοι
οἴκαδε βαδίζουσ᾿. ὁ δὲ τέταρτος οὐκέτι ἡμέτερός ἐστ᾿, ἀλλ᾿
ὕβρεος· ὁ δὲ πέμπτος βοῆς·
ἕκτος δὲ κώμων· ἕβδομος δ᾿ ὑπωπίων·
<ὁ δ᾿> ὄγδοος κλητῆρος· ὁ δ᾿ ἔνατος χολῆς·
δέκατος δὲ μανίας, ὥστε καὶ βάλλειν ποεῖ

Somewhere in my head there’s a related French proverb or quote but all I can conjure right now is Après bon vin, bon coussin (after good wine, a good pillow).

That was a miserable expedition for them

A fragment of Eubulus (and see Richard Hunter’s book for the best survey) preserved in Athenaeus 1.25:

Where does Homer refer to any Achaean as
eating fish? And all they did with their meat was roast it;
he never has any of them stew something,
not even a little. And none of them laid eyes on a
courtesan; they had to jerk off for ten years.
That was a miserable expedition for them; they only captured
one city, and they left with their assholes enlarged more
than the gates of the town they captured

ἰχθὺν δ᾿ Ὅμηρος ἐσθίοντ᾿ εἴρηκε ποῦ
τίνα τῶν Ἀχαιῶν; κρέα δὲ μόνον ὤπτων, ἐπεὶ
ἕψοντά γ᾿ οὐ πεπόηκεν αὐτῶν οὐδένα,
ἀλλ᾿ οὐδὲ μικρόν. οὐδ᾿ ἑταίραν εἶδέ τις
αὐτῶν, ἑαυτοὺς δ᾿ ἔδεφον ἐνιαυτοὺς δέκα·
πικρὰν στρατείαν δ᾿ εἶδον, οἵτινες πόλιν
μίαν λαβόντες εὐρυπρωκτότεροι πολὺ
τῆς πόλεος ἀπεχώρησαν ἧς εἷλον τότε.

For this is the life of the gods

From Athenaeus’ Deipnosophistae (The Learned Banqueters) 1.8.d:

Ἀντιφάνης δέ φησι·

βίος θεῶν γάρ ἐστιν, ὅταν ἔχῃς ποθὲντἀλλότρια δειπνεῖν, μὴ προσέχων λογίσμασι

Antiphanes (fr. 252) says:For this is the life of the gods—when you have the chance to eat someone else’s food and not worry about the bills.

Is there no hope? Alas! –then bring the jowl

From Alexander Pope’s An Epistle to Cobham, 234-239 in the Twickenham edition:

A salmon’s belly, Helluo, was thy fate:
The doctor call’d, declares all help too late.
Mercy! cries Helluo, mercy on my soul!
Is there no hope? Alas! –then bring the jowl.

Helluo is a very rare Latin word for glutton. The image, whatever the possible contemporary target, has a real background source in a tale from Athenaeus (8.341) of a little known poet named Philoxenus:

The comic poet Macho (64–86 Gow) writes the following about the dithyrambic poet Philoxenus of Cythera:

They say that the dithyrambic poet
Philoxenus was an extraordinary
glutton. So once when he was in Syracuse,
he bought an octopus that was three feet long,
and prepared it and ate almost the entire thing
except for the head. He got a stomach-ache
and was in terrible shape. A doctor
came to visit him, saw that he was doing
very badly, and said: “If you’ve got
any business that needs to be taken care of, do it
right away,
Philoxenus; because you’ll be dead by mid-afternoon.”
He responded: “My affairs are all in order,
doctor,” he said, “and have been settled for a while
With the gods’ help, the dithyrambs I’m leaving
have all grown up and been awarded garlands,
and I’m entrusting them to the care of the Muses I
up with. That Aphrodite and Dionysus are my
my will makes clear. But since
Timotheus’ Charon, the one from his Niobe,
is not allowing me to linger, but is shouting for me to
proceed to the ferry,
and my night-dark fate, which I must heed, is
so that I can run off to the Underworld with
everything that’s mine:
give me the rest of that octopus!”

Bateson, the editor, believes that Pope more likely got his inspiration from John Hales’ Golden Remains:

When Philoxenus the Epicure had fallen desperately sick upon glutting himself on a delicate and costly fish, perceiving he was to die, he calls for the remainder of his fish, and eats it up, and dies a true Martyr to his belly.”

He also – with some qualifying skepticism – offers La Fontaine’s Le Glouton as another possibility. That one feels closer to Pope’s choppy rhythm to me but either way here’s my hasty translation:

À son souper un glouton
Commande que l’on appreste
Pour luy seul un Esturgeon.
Sans en laisser que la teste,
Il soupe ; il creve, on y court :
On luy donne maints clisteres.
On luy dit, pour faire court,
Qu’il mette ordre à ses affaires.
Mes amis, dit le goulu,
M’y voila tout resolu ;
Et puis qu’il faut que le meure,
Sans faire tant de façon,
Qu’on m’apporte tout à l’heure
Le reste de mon poisson.

At his dinner a glutton
orders that there be readied
for himself alone a sturgeon.
Leaving aside only the head,
he dines; Now he’s bursting, help comes running:
They give him several enemas.
They tell him – to cut it short –
That he should put his affairs in order.
My friends, says the glutton,
I’m ready, fully resolute;
And since I must die
don’t make a deal of it
but have someone bring right away
the rest of my fish.

The house therefore came to be referred to as the Trireme

From Athenaeus’ Learned BanquetersDeipnosophistae 2.37:

Timaeus of Tauromenium (FGrH 566 F 149) reports that there is a house in Acragas referred to as the Trireme for the following reason. Some young men were getting drunk inside; and their drunkenness made them so feverishly crazy that they thought they were sailing on a trireme and had run into a terrible storm at sea. They were so out of their minds that they started throwing all the furniture and bedding out of the house, thinking that they were throwing it into the sea because the pilot was telling them that the ship’s cargo needed to be jettisoned on account of the storm. And even though a crowd began to gather and steal the items being thrown out, the young men continued to act crazily. The next day the city’s chief officials came to the house, and a charge was issued against the young men, who were still seasick; when the magistrates questioned them, they responded that a storm had caused them trouble and forced them to jettison their excess cargo into the sea. When the officials expressed astonishment at their lunacy, one of the young men, who seemed in fact to be older than the others, said: “Triton sirs, I was so afraid, that I had thrown myself under the third course of rowing benchs, since that seemed like the lowest part of the ship, and was lying there.” They therefore forgave them for their craziness, ordered them not to consume any more wine, and let them go; and the young men expressing their gratitude . . . “If,” he said, “we escape this rough sea and reach a harbor, we will set up altars in our fatherland to you, along with the other sea-divinities, as manifest Savior gods, since you revealed yourselves to us at a crucial moment.” The house therefore came to be referred to as the Trireme.

Τίμαιος δὲ ὁ Ταυρομενίτης ἐν Ἀκράγαντι οἰκίαν τινά φησι καλεῖσθαι Τριήρη ἐξ αἰτίας τοιαύτης. νεανίσκους τινὰς ἐν αὐτῇ μεθυσκομένους ἐς τοσοῦτον cἐλθεῖν μανίας ἐκθερμανθέντας ὑπὸ τῆς | μέθης ὡς νομίζειν μὲν ἐπὶ τριήρους πλεῖν, χειμάζεσθαι δὲ χαλεπῶς κατὰ τὴν θάλασσαν· καὶ τοσοῦτον ἔκφρονας γενέσθαι ὡς τὰ ἀπὸ τῆς οἰκίας πάντα σκεύη καὶ στρώματα ῥίπτειν ὡς εἰς τὴν θάλασσαν, τὴν ναῦν διὰ τὸν χειμῶνα ἀποφορτίζεσθαι δόξαν αὐτοῖς λέγειν τὸν κυβερνήτην. συναθροιζομένων οὖν πολλῶν καὶ τὰ ῥιπτόμενα διαρπαζόντων οὐδ᾿ ὣς παύεσθαι τῆς μανίας τοὺς νεανίσκους. καὶ τῇ ἐπιούσῃ τῶν ἡμερῶν παραγενομένων τῶν στρατηγῶν ἐπὶ τὴν οἰκίαν ἐγκληθέντες dοἱ | νεανίσκοι ἔτι ναυτιῶντες ἀπεκρίναντο πυνθανομένων τῶν ἀρχόντων ὑπὸ χειμῶνος ἐνοχλούμενοι ἠναγκάσθαι ἀποφορτίσασθαι τῇ θαλάσσῃ τὰ περιττὰ τῶν φορτίων. θαυμαζόντων δὲ τῶν στρατηγῶν τὴν ἔκπληξιν τῶν ἀνδρῶν εἷς τῶν νεανίσκων, καίτοι δοκῶν τῶν ἄλλων πρεσβεύειν κατὰ τὴν ἡλικίαν, “ἐγὼ δ᾿,” ἔφη, “ἄνδρες Τρίτωνες, ὑπὸ τοῦ δέους καταβαλὼν ἐμαυτὸν ὑπὸ τοὺς θαλάμους ὡς ἔνι μάλιστα κατωτάτω ἐκείμην.” συγγνόντες οὖν τῇ αὐτῶν ἐκστάσει ἐπιτιμήσαντες eμὴ πλείονος οἴνου | ἐμφορεῖσθαι ἀφῆκαν. καὶ οἱ χάριν ἔχειν ὁμολογήσαντες <. . .> “ἂν λιμένος,” ἔφη, “τύχωμεν ἀπαλλαγέντες τοσούτου κλύδωνος, Σωτῆρας ὑμᾶς ἐπιφανεῖς μετὰ τῶν θαλασσίων δαιμόνων ἐν τῇ πατρίδι ἱδρυσόμεθα ὡς αἰσίως ἡμῖν ἐπιφανέντας.” ἐντεῦθεν ἡ οἰκία Τριήρης ἐκλήθη.