A CULTURAL HISTORY

OF EDUCATION
VOLUME 1
A Cultural History of Education
General Editor: Gary McCulloch

Volume 1
A Cultural History of Education in Antiquity
Edited by Christian Laes

Volume 2
A Cultural History of Education in the Medieval Age
Edited by Jo Ann H. Moran Cruz

Volume 3
A Cultural History of Education in the Renaissance
Edited by Jeroen J.H. Dekker

Volume 4
A Cultural History of Education in the Age of Enlightenment
Edited by Daniel Tröhler

Volume 5
A Cultural History of Education in the Age of Empire
Edited by Heather Ellis

Volume 6
A Cultural History of Education in the Modern Age
Edited by Judith Harford and Tom O’Donoghue
 A CULTURAL HISTORY
OF EDUCATION

IN ANTIQUITY
VOLUME 1

Edited by Christian Laes

 BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC
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Names: Laes, Christian, editor.
Title: A cultural history of education in antiquity / Christian Laes.
Description: London ; New York : Bloomsbury Academic, 2020. | Series: A
cultural history of education ; volume 1 | Includes bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020030641 | ISBN 9781350035010 (hardback)
Subjects: LCSH: Education, Ancient. | Education–Rome–History. |
Education–Greece–History. | Learning and scholarship–Rome–History. |
Learning and scholarship–Greece–History.
Classification: LCC LA71 .C85 2020 | DDC 370.937–dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020030641

ISBN: HB: 978-1-3500-3501-0

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 CONTENTS

L ist of I llustrations  vii

G eneral E ditor ’ s P reface  viii

Education in Antiquity: Words and Concepts 1

Christian Laes

1 Church, Religion, and Morality 11

Matthew Dillon

2 Knowledge, Media, and Communications 31

Tim Denecker

3 Children and Childhood 47

Anna Lucille Boozer

4 Family, Community, and Sociability 65

Alexis Daveloose

5 Learners and Learning 83

Fanny Dolansky

6 Teachers and Teaching 101

Konrad Vössing
vi CONTENTS

7 Literacies 117
Pauline Ripat

8 Life Histories: On Roman Imperial Biography 135

Keith Bradley

N otes  160
B ibliography  191
L ist of C ontributors  225
I ndex  228
 ILLUSTRATIONS

FIGURES

3.1 Tuna el-Gebel, Tomb of Petosiris, Pronaos, East wall, lowest course
(last quarter of the fourth century bce); an example of using
both a sling and no aids to carry children 52

3.2 Karanis rag doll 55

3.3 Clay toys from Trimithis courtyard C2C 56

3.4 Amheida (Trimithis) school 61

TABLE
2.1 Colloquium 43
 GENERAL EDITOR’S PREFACE

Bloomsbury Cultural History of Education

Education has not always been well recognized as being central to cultural
history. Even the leading British cultural historian, Peter Burke, could omit
education from his own list of the inner circle of neighboring forms of history
and related disciplines, despite its importance in much of his own work.
According to Burke, this inner circle of neighbors included intellectual history,
social history, political history, history of science, history of art, history of
literature, history of the book, history of language, history of religion, classics,
archaeology, and cultural studies.1 Yet education has a strong claim to be
integrally involved in all of these areas. The anthropologist Clifford Geertz
was perhaps more alert to this when he noted in The Interpretation of Cultures
that education was indeed fundamental when attempting to match “assumed
universals” with “postulated underlying necessities.” On a social level, Geertz
continued, this was because “all societies, in order to persist, must reproduce
their membership.” In psychological terms, moreover, “recourse is had to basic
needs like personal growth—hence the ubiquity of educational institutions.”2
Even earlier, Raymond Williams in The Long Revolution pointed out the
“organic relation” between the cultural choices involved in the selection of
educational content and the social choices involved in its practical organization,
and demonstrated how these links could be traced and analyzed historically.3
This six-volume series, the Bloomsbury Cultural History of Education, seeks to
build expansively on these essential insights.
After the Second World War, there were a number of historical texts that
sought to explain educational changes since Greek and Roman times.4 Since
the 1970s, such a broad chronological sweep has become increasingly rare.
GENERAL EDITOR’S PREFACE ix

An international infrastructure for research into the history of education has

grown, with its own societies, journals, and conferences now well established.5
Internationally, for example, the International Standing Conference for the
History of Education (ISCHE) supports an annual conference and a journal,
Paedagogica Historica. There are national societies around the world with their
own conferences and journals, including the USA, the UK, France, Australia,
and many others. However, these have often tended to promote specialist
research in particular areas rather than broad synthesis.
Indeed, this process of increased specialization has tended to be both
horizontal and vertical in nature. Horizontally or laterally, as it were, journal
articles often are only able to engage with relatively narrow aspects or historical
contexts in a detailed manner. They have tended also to be largely confined to
study of the local or national picture, although recent “transnational” research
has provided a significant corrective to this.6 Vertically, they largely eschew a
long-term framework for the field conceptualizing continuity and change since
ancient times. They have also increasingly concentrated on the most recent
periods, the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, rather than on earlier ages.
The current project offers a form of coherence and indeed synthesis in the
history of education. Perspectives based on the cultural history of education
promise to highlight continuity over time and the resilience of practices, values,
and ideas. As one collection of articles based on an international historical
conference has concluded, “there may be remarkable periods of stability for
cultural and educational formations and the role they play in the making
of particular ethno-national-religious communities,” even though there is
also “seemingly inevitable challenge, reform, sometimes regression—always
change.”7 In this respect, the Bloomsbury Cultural History of Education
series offers both a general synthesis of recent international research and an
overall conceptual framework linking together different epochs, to inform and
stimulate further work in the field.
Early work in the cultural history of education arose from a new approach
to the history of education that fought against its traditional preoccupation
with the growth of national systems of modern schooling, while embarking
on a wholesale revision of its key aims and aspirations.8 In a landmark
publication in 1960, Education in the Forming of American Society, Bernard
Bailyn called for a widening of the scope and definition of “education” in
educational history. According to Bailyn, it should be concerned rather
less with the rise of modern schooling and much more with educational
processes as they have occurred in many different kinds of institutions and
milieu, pervading individual lives and collective social experiences. Topics
and problems in a “new” educational history would not be restricted to
“those bearing on schools, teachers and formal instruction,” and it would
consider nothing less than the “process and content of cultural transfer.”9
x GENERAL EDITOR’S PREFACE

Bailyn hoped, indeed, that education itself might be reappraised “not only as
a formal pedagogy but as the entire process by which a culture transmits itself
across the generations.”10
Following the earlier works of R. Freeman Butts,11 it was Lawrence Cremin
who did the most to define and explore the cultural history of education.
Cremin proposed that “education” should not be regarded either as age-related
or as being confined to schools, but that it constitutes, far more broadly, “the
deliberate, systematic, and sustained effort to transmit, evoke, or acquire
knowledge, attitudes, values, skills, or sensibilities, as well as any outcomes
of that effort.”12 This was a set of processes more limited than terms such as
“socialization” or “enculturation” might imply.
Nevertheless, it undoubtedly takes the idea and practice of education, in
Cremin’s words, “beyond schools and colleges to the multiplicity of individuals
and institutions that educate—parents, peers, siblings, and friends, as well as
families, churches, synagogues, libraries, museums, summer camps, benevolent
societies, agricultural fairs, settlement houses, factories, radio stations, and
television networks.”13 Cremin himself embarked on a three-volume history
of American education based on this central premiss.14 The organization of
chapters in the current serial production owes more than a little to Cremin’s
classic design.
Cremin’s approach to the cultural history of education has often been
criticized, both for its practical limitations and for its extensive vision. For some,
he appeared so preoccupied with the many informal educational institutions of
modern society that he allowed too little space to accommodate the growth of
modern schooling.15 For others, such as Harold Silver, the project was itself a
perilous pursuit:
The attraction and importance of extending the history of education into
such fields as the history of the press and the modern media, church activities
and popular culture, are obvious. So are the dangers, with the possibility
of the emergence of an amorphous history which fails to locate discrete
educational institutions in a clear relationship with other processes, and
also fails to establish acceptable and understandable definitions of wider
educational territories.16
Its application to the United States since the late eighteenth century was itself
an ambitious undertaking. In the current volumes, such a project must be
scrutinized against the widest possible canvas of time and space, from ancient
times to the present.
The past generation has witnessed the rise of cultural history in its many
forms and variations.17 At the same time, an extensive literature has developed
the cultural history of education further in a number of areas, including the
emergence of a “new” cultural history of education.18 Lynn Fendler emphasizes
GENERAL EDITOR’S PREFACE xi

language as the “material stuff” of new cultural history and insists that such history
is generally oriented to be critical of “mainstream histories,” but concludes that
“new cultural history opens up many more possibilities for history of education:
more topics, more perspectives, more analytical possibilities, more directions,
and more interdisciplinary collaborations.”19
Key examples of research on the cultural history of education in the past
two decades include that of Harvey Graff and others, who have understood the
history of literacy in terms of its social and cultural practices.20 Peter Burke has
produced a detailed social history of knowledge, including changes in media
and communications, in two volumes.21 Other work has explored religion and
morality in society, with the church as a key defining educative agency alongside
the family, which has also attracted extensive interest.22 Children and childhood
have been the focus of much historical interest since the early work of Philippe
Ariès.23 Teaching and learning have been widely discussed for their longer term
historical characteristics, not only in schools and other formal educational
institutions but throughout life and society.24 The notion of learning lives, or
of learning throughout the life span, also introduces the aspect of individual
agency that can be examined through case studies of life histories.25 In more
global terms, cases of cross-cultural encounters and their consequences have
been documented in depth and detail.26
These key themes are explored in depth in the six volumes of the Bloomsbury
Cultural History of Education series. My warmest thanks go to the volume
editors who have each produced excellent collections of original essays by
leading researchers in this burgeoning field, to the contributors of these essays
that navigate and interpret such broad areas of territory, and to the publishers
for their patience and support as this project has developed.
Gary McCulloch
Brian Simon Professor of History of Education
UCL Institute of Education London
December 2019
xii
 Education in Antiquity:
Words and Concepts
CHRISTIAN LAES

A SUBJECT ALL TOO FAMILIAR?

Right from its publication in 2003, Beryl Rawson’s monograph entitled Children
and Childhood in Roman Italy was meant to become a classic in the field.
Combining exceptional care and sound empathical imagination, the author,
who had been the grande dame of Roman family studies since the 1980s, not
only focused on traditional themes as iconographical representation—birth and
welcoming a child, rearing, ages and stages, education, relationships, death and
burial—she also paid great attention to what she called “public life.” Here,
Rawson elaborated on almost every single element that could have had an
impact on a child’s life and development. Housing, (domestic) religion, the
material context of urban life, festivals and ceremonies, weather and climate,
artistic and architectural elements, traffic, social contacts and encounters with
people not belonging to the household, dress and clothing—all of these elements
are properly discussed in what is one of the longest chapters of the book.1 First-
time readers encountered many aspects of education and the life cycle about
which they probably had never properly thought about before. For example,
Rawson suggests that the children of the poor possibly also profited from
the opportunities and the qualities of the City of Rome; they may even have
identified with its glorious achievements. The close environment of the vicus
contributed more to personal development and socialization than the school
of the ludimagister. Excitement struck the young viewers faced with triumphs,
2 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

extraordinary buildings, statues of Roman heroes, temples with friezes, or

even instructive instruments such as large maps of the empire. Ceremonies
and celebrations often involved children, who featured at the Secular Games
by singing hymns. On occasions such as the Capitoline Games some children
even performed as orators. Rawson even speculates about the effects on the
children’s psyche of watching executions and torture at gladiatoral games or
public executions. I have cited only a few examples.
Some scholars may have thought that Rawson’s approach to education was
too broad. It may indeed cause some unease, as it seems as if the “safe and
traditional” research theme of ancient education suddenly becomes a vast and
almost uncontrolable field. By selecting a “local” approach, Rawson countered
such possible objections. If factors such as climate, architecture, and customs
are essential for understanding a child’s development, the focus inevitably has
to be a regional one. Exactly because of this concern, Rawson deliberately
restricted her focus to Rome and Roman Italy. She was mostly rather careful
about drawing sweeping conclusions for the Roman Empire as a whole.
In this chapter, I demonstrate how Rawson in fact liaised with a research
tradition that had existed for more than four decades in other branches of
history. Her approach was also in line with ancient thoughts on education and
its moral implications. In the next two sections of this chapter, I will focus on
both of these aspects. The last section will then show how the contributors to
this volume have tried to meet both approaches: the more traditional one and
the new history of education, which looks at the phenomenon from a broad
perspective.

A NEW HISTORY OF EDUCATION AND THE

CLASSICAL APPROACH
The cultural history of education has indeed been redefined in its essence by the
late American historian of education Lawrence Cremin. To him, education was
neither age-related nor confined to schools. It rather constituted “the deliberate,
systematic, and sustained effort to transmit, evoke, or acquire knowledge,
attitudes, values, skills, or sensibilities, as well as any outcomes of that effort.”2
In fact, Cremin took the idea and practice of education “beyond schools and
colleges to the multiplicity of individuals and institutions that educate – parents,
peers, siblings, and friends, as well as families, churches, synagogues, libraries,
museums, summer camps, benevolent societies, agricultural fairs, settlement
houses, factories, radio stations, and television networks.”3 Note that in a way
Rawson went even further, by shifting the idea of individuals and institutions
to material contexts such as the city, climate, or the environment. In a way,
her approach came close to what another American historian, Bernard Bailyn,
suggested for studies of education. Bailyn described education as “not only as
EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY: WORDS AND CONCEPTS 3

a formal pedagogy but as the entire process by which a culture transmits itself
across the generations.”4
Many historians from diverse research traditions have further developed
these ideas—so that it is not improper to speak about the emergence of a
“new” cultural history of education. The history of literacy, for example, has
been understood in terms of its social and cultural practices. Peter Burke has
produced a detailed social history of knowledge, including changes in media and
communications.5 Other work has explored religion and morality in society; the
church and the family defined educative agency.6 Children and childhood have
been the focus of much historical interest since the influential though heavily
criticized work by Philippe Ariès.7 The notion of learning lives, or of learning
throughout the life span, also introduces the aspect of individual agency that
can be examined through engaging case studies of life histories.8
How was the topic approached for the study of antiquity? The history of
education has been a favorite object of study for classicists and ancient historians
for a long time. Henri-Irénée Marrou’s monumental Histoire de l’éducation
dans l’Antiquité indeed set the tone for decades of scholarly research since its
first appearance in 1948.9 It could itself already lean on a rich research tradition
of mainly German Altertumswissenschaft. The periodizations and subdivisions
that Marrou made in his ambitious overview can still be found, not only in
publications by classicists, but also in popularizing works and school textbooks.
As such, the following titles will no doubt ring a bell with more than one reader:
Homeric education, archaic Spartan education, pederasty as an educational
institution, Athenian education in the golden age, hellenistic paideia and its
institutions, Greek physical and artistic education, primary schools, secondary
education, and higher education (mainly rhetoric and philosophy). For the
history of Roman education the overview sounds even more familiar: ancient
Roman education and its confrontation with and assimilation of Greek ideals
and practices, primary, secondary, and higher schools, interference of the
Roman state in education, Christianity and the classical educational ideal, and
the first Christian schools.
More than half a century later, there still is no need to fundamentally revise
or rewrite Marrou’s work. Of course, Marrou was very much a child of his
time (his whole oeuvre expresses a warm sympathy for the classical humanistic
ideal of education that reinforces human dignity against totalitarianism), but
his broad and in-depth knowledge of the source material (including epigraphic,
papyrological, and to a lesser extent archeological material) provides a lively
and detailed picture of ancient educational practices, which still remains the
starting point for further studies. Moreover, Marrou has an open eye for
comparisons with contemporary views on childhood: some of his certain
observations are still crucial for a good understanding of both ancient and
present-day childhood.
4 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

However, it should be noted that the works of Marrou and subsequent

followers contain a number of implicit assumptions. Schools and education
are considered a world apart, connections with societal structures and insights
from educational sociology are rarely made. Furthermore, these studies are in
a way very present-centered. The distinction between primary, secondary, and
higher education is basically made because it is common in the educational
system of most European countries. Scholars of ancient education have often
called the grammatically and literary-inspired education unwordly, but again
they did so because modern standards and expectations of schools are different.
Links between ancient schools and the cultural life of the adult population were
hardly examined because in our society school and working life are considered
two separate worlds. The attention for possible state interference and the
issuing of official certificates is also a typical modern preoccupation. Finally, it
can be said that Marrou and followers show a clear preference for generalizing
overviews that cover a long period of time and a broad geographical area. The
question remains to what extent papyrological data from Egypt can simply be
extrapolated to Roman Gaul to cite only one example.10
In the 1960s and 1970s, a number of important overview works were
published for the Roman world. Here, the book by Stanley Bonner especially
needs to be mentioned.11 It is rich in details for the whole of Roman education
but concentrates specifically on the first centuries bce and ce. Compared to
Greek classical and Hellenistic education, the Roman educational system was
indeed dealt with less extensively in Marrou’s survey.
In the last four decades, a new and continuous stream of publications shed
new light on more than one aspect of schools and education in antiquity.
Regional approaches, in particular for Greco-Roman Egypt, not only revealed
a richness of new details but these studies also had important implications for
aspects of ancient education in general.12 A thorough integration of epigraphic,
papyrological, and archeological source material, with a combination of
paleographic data to make up, characterizes studies on literacy in the ancient
world—a field of study par excellence where education goes well into the adult
world.13 In-depth studies of inscriptions have now made available a wide range
of case stories that unravel the social profile of educators in the ancient world.14
Making use of schoolbooks, which were rarely exploited previously, Eleanor
Dickey managed to unravel a surprising wealth of details concerning the daily
lives of both pupils and teachers in the Roman world.15 Yun Lee Too in particular
has tried to gain new insights into power mechanisms and the perpetuation of
social hierarchy by resorting to them.16 Too ambitiously argued for a “new
history of education” that represents a radical break with traditional research.
The edited volume on Education in Greek and Roman Antiquity meant to offer
a new Marrou. The contributions in this book focus primarily on the political,
ideological, and social dimensions of ancient paideia, which are no longer
EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY: WORDS AND CONCEPTS 5

sought exclusively within the school. Laws, customs and habits, traditions,
philosophy, and political praxis also form and educate. Throughout their whole
life course, people are educated. The new history of education cannot therefore
be limited to children: adult men, women, and slaves are integrated in the story.
The questions are new and challenging. What does knowledge mean? How are
knowledge ideals transformed and adapted to new political-historical facts or
ideas? In sum, one can state that this new stream of studies seeks to answer
questions as: “who was taught, under whose instigation, for what purpose, and
with what results for culture and society.”
The ambitious research program by Too arguably comes closest to the views
on education as expressed by Bailyn and Cremlin. But its radical ambition leads
to a certain vagueness and the fear that history of education should in fact be
“about everything,” thereby losing its specific focus. Too’s approach therefore
did not gain many followers, and she herself did not pursue the path. It was in fact
two Scandinavian projects that, on one hand, returned to the idea of education
as the upbringing of children and young people, but on the other hand, took
into account a wide array of approaches on socialization and the new history of
education. These international research networks are Religion and Childhood.
Socialisation in Pre-Modern Europe from the Roman Empire to the Christian
World (2009–12; University of Tampere, led by Katariina Mustakallio) and
Tiny Voices from the Past. New Perspectives on Childhood in Early Europe
(2013–17; University of Oslo, led by Reidar Aasgaard). With the somewhat
sinister subtitle “Unwanted, Disabled and Lost,” the first book volume of the
Finnish project turned its attention toward the unpleasant experiences that
played an essential part in the socialization of children in the ancient world.17
Liminal situations and experiences, as well as extensions toward border regions
and into late ancient material, were also the focus of the Roman Family VI
conference in 2012, the book volume of which saw the light in 2015 under the
auspices of the same Finnish project.18 This book also contains experimental
forms of writing history: an attempt to reconstruct the experience of one day
in a life of a boy and a girl in fifth-century Constantinople (a contribution that
thoroughly takes into account architecture and the city environment in a broad
sense), an empathical and comparative approach toward the experience of
slavery in an early Christian enslaved family, or various chapters that take the
fact of being ill and the (im)possibility of healing as constituent to understand
one’s upbringing and socialization.19 Yet it was the Norwegian project, with
an explicit focus on children’s agency, that developed the insights of the new
history of education to its fullest extent. Here, a collective book volume20 not
only reflected upon the very possibility of writing a history of experiences
from the children’s point of view21 but also inter alia contains various chapters
on haptic or sensory history (the way children touched or experienced their
environment),22 on dress and clothing,23 on religious practices and spaces,24
6 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

on leisure and play,25 or on mishaps, such as accidents or disabilities.26 In a

conscious attempt to write a new history of education for the longue durée,
Jewish evidence from the Roman Empire as well as late ancient and Byzantine
sources were included.27 In sum, this book comes close to the concept and time
span of the present Bloomsbury title. Before explaining why the book you are
now holding in your hands is different from its predecessors, it seems useful
to look at some words and concepts about education as the ancient authors
express them themselves. In other words: to find out whether these authors in
one way or another relate to the very broad approach that characterizes the
“new history of education.”

THE ANCIENTS HAD SOME WORDS FOR IT

In sketching an overview of how Greek and Roman authors named and classified
education, one needs to be conscious of the risk of overemphasizing etymology
and strict distinctions. It is not because some lexicographers from antiquity
were particularly keen on subtly explaining origins of words that most Greek
and Romans were aware of these underlying meanings when they used terms
relating to education.
Little is known about the fourth- or fifth-century grammarian Nonius
Marcellus, but his encyclopedia De compendiosa doctrina is full of antiquarian
wisdom that is of considerable importance to sociocultural historians too. The
following passage, which Nonius Marcellus took from Marcus Terentius Varro
(116–27 bce), a prolific scholar known as the most learned man of the late
Republican and Augustan epoch, testifies of the acknowledgment of different
stages in the education of a Roman child.

Educit enim obstetrix, educat nutrix, instituit paedagogus, docet magister.

(The midwife brings out [the child], the nurse feeds it, the pedagogue
instructs, and the schoolmaster teaches.)
(Nonius Marcellus, De comp. doctr. 718, Lindsay; my translation)
What really interested Nonius Marcellus and Varro, though, were the verbs
edūcere and edŭcare, which despite their different origin, often got conflated.28

Alere et educare hoc distant: alere est victu temporali sustentare; educare
autem ad satietatem perpetuam educere.
(Such is the difference between alere and educare: alere means to provide
somebody with temporary food, educare bringing someone to perpetual
suffiency.)
(Nonius Marcellus, De comp. doctr. 718, Lindsay; my translation)
EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY: WORDS AND CONCEPTS 7

Educare was indeed primarily and etymologically linked with “nurturing”

and in origin had nothing to do with educere (to bring away/to lead forth).29
However, both verbs have often—and indistinctedly—been used to denote “to
bring up/rear,” where most Latin speakers and writers would hardly have been
bothered by the slight difference in pronunciation between the first person
present indicative edūco (from edūcere) and edŭco (from edŭcare), if ever this
distinction was made in everyday speech.30
While the evolution from “to lead forth” to “to bring up” in the case
of edūcere is easy to understand, the link between nurturing and edŭcare is
intriguing from a sociocultural point of view, since the very same evolution
happened in ancient Greek. The verb trephein originally meant “to thicken/to
fatten” and was as such often used for milk, but it evolved into the meaning
of “breastfeed” (a trophos being a wet-nurse) and even into “to instruct/
educate” in the wide sense of the term, since a tropheus often denotes an
educator/pedagogue.31 Here, we observe again the explicit link between
“nurturing” and “educating.” While we witness the same tendency in some
modern languages (the Dutch opvoeding, or education, comes to mind, where
voeden is linguistically related to “to feed”) something more seems to be at
stake with the Greco-Roman authors.32 In his plea for maternal breastfeeding
as enhancing the natural bond between mother and baby, Gellius, drawing
from the Greek sophist Favorinus of Arles, asserts that the milk of socially
inferior women as wet-nurses possibly corrupts the nobility of body and
mind of the newborn (NA 12.1.17–22). In a treatise on the Education of
Children, the Greek pseudo-Plutarch made the same point (Lib. ed. 3d–f).
Male characteristics were not seldom assigned to female wet-nurses, since in
the ancient perception, the wet-nurse was, in fact, an “extension” or “tool”
of the father/master. Furthermore, the education of a boy required that male
characteristics be passed on to him. “Nurturing” involved not only a biological
but also a social dimension. It was up to the father to decide which “tool”
to employ in this process: the mother’s milk, animal milk, or the milk of a
wet-nurse. It should thus not come as a surprise that ancient authors make
explicit connections between the father figure and the wet-nurse, providing
confirmation of the male and authoritarian image of the wet-nurse. It is for
this reason, according to Pliny the Elder, that human males are the only
mammals with breasts that serve no purpose; other male animals simply do
not possess them (Nat. Hist. 11.232). The figure of the male feeder is attested
to in Greek and Roman mythology: Phoenix was as the nurse and educator of
Achilles (Homer, Il. 9. 433–44 and 486–91), and the shepherd Faustulus was
the educator of Romulus and Remus (Varro, RR 2.1.9).
It is again Varro who brings us to another aspect of ancient thoughts on
education, namely oral instruction, implying moral guidance:
8 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

If I dico “say” something that I know to one who does not know it, because I
trado “hand over” to him what he was ignorant of, from this is derived doceo
“I teach,” or else because when we docemus “teach” we dicimus “say,” or
else because those who docentur “are taught” inducuntur “are led on” to that
which they docentur “are taught.” From this fact, that he knows how ducere
“to lead,” is named the one who is dux “guide” or ductor “leader”; from this,
doctor “teacher,” who so inducit “leads on” that he docet “teaches.” From
ducere “to lead,” come docere “to teach,” disciplina “instruction,” discere “to
learn,” by the change of a few letters. From the same original element comes
documenta “instructive examples,” which are said as models for the purpose
of teaching.
(Varro, De lingua Latina 6.62; translated by Roland G. Kent)
For this fragment, it is not really important that most of Varro’s explanations
do not stand etymologically according to modern linguistics. What matters is
his emphasis on guiding/leading the subjects who were to be taught. Moreover,
other than the ancient Greek paideuein (with pais being a word denoting child)
there does not seem to be a specific Latin term that explicitly links education
to children or childhood.33 Ancient Greek and Latin admittedly have in
common a series of terms that link “teaching” with words connoting “speaking/
demonstrating by saying” (didaskein/docere), but more importantly, both
classical languages have a whole set of terms at their disposal that approach
“education” from a much wider spectrum:34 (in)ducere/eisagein, (de)monstrare/
deiknunai, ostendere/deiknunai, tradere/paradidonai, educare/trephein,
instituere/paideuein, instruere, erudire, praecipere, monere/paraggelein. Most of
these words have moral connotations, and even more importantly, they can
also have inanimate subjects. As such, buildings, events, situations, stories, and
images can “teach” and “educate” as well as persons do. It would thus not be
rash to say that the nutshell of the “new history of education” is summarized
in the way that classical and contemporary languages use words for “learning,”
“teaching,” and “educating.”

CONTRIBUTIONS BETWEEN THE TRADITIONAL

APPROACH AND THE NEW HISTORY OF EDUCATION
It is exactly this balance between traditional approaches toward education
and the new history of education that the various contributors to this volume
have attempted. They all broadly deal with the period 500 bce–500 ce, and all
integrate evidence from the Greek and the Roman world, next to pagan and
Christian evidence from late antiquity.35
Religion and mythology were obviously never part of the Greco-Roman
school curriculum, but they were implicitly included in the way they were
EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY: WORDS AND CONCEPTS 9

integrated in stories and literary compositions that were part and parcel of
school life from primary education on. Whether it was really worth studying
and venerating works of poets and philosophers only became an issue in Plato’s
utopian state and then in the real life, in the wake of Judaism, in Christianity in
late antiquity (Chapter 1).
For a broad period of at least one thousand years, there existed a relatively
stereotypical canon of texts to be read, without being imposed by a state
organization. While there seems to have existed a primacy of speech over
the written word, a “commentary culture” of canonical writings was strongly
present in the ancient world. In all, Greek and Latin remained the “languages
of education” par excellence in a world that was essentially multilingual.
Christianity would again take over most of these aspects, whilst separating itself
from the Jewish world (Chapter 2).
Chapter 3, “Children and childhood,” at first sight seems to offer a traditional
overview of early education, going through the various stages of infancy,
early, middle, and late childhood, but it is the inclusion of anthropological
and papyrological evidence that makes this chapter a fascinating read for both
ancient historians and readers with broad interests in education in the long
term.
Chapter 4 is very much in line with the new approaches of the history of
education. It demonstrates how, throughout antiquity, families and their
representation to the wider community remained key components for the
process of socialization. These societal norms, however, left considerable room
for negotiation by individuals, as is shown in three case stories, taken from the
Athenian, the Roman, and the Christian world.
Learning experiences and agency are at the heart of Chapter 5, in which readers
encounter a wide spectrum of aspects of both formal and informal learning:
learning to read and write, calculating and penmanship, next to elements such
as speed and competition, ethics, violence, or corporal punishment and even
etiquette, practical skills, or role models. That education goes much further
than schools is apparent from the section on apprentices and child work.
Chapter 6 on teachers and teaching at first sight looks like the most traditional
one, but it stands out for its emphasis on agency of instructors (both their social
position and their methods and skills) as well as its full engagement with the
subject of Christian teachers in late antiquity.
Adults, much more than children, are at the heart of Chapter 7, since
different kinds of literacies indeed enable us to detect many different social
layers and meanings.
As the final chapter, the contribution by Keith Bradley (Chapter 8) stands out
for is engaging use of life histories, which comes close to the genre of “faction.”
As Bradley puts it, “history’s most fundamental subject is human subject.” It
takes comprehensive research, sensitivity to cultural contexts, and attention to
10 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

the constancy of human nature to explore the multifaceted aspects of what it

takes to be educated into a full-grown adult.
In a way, great books on children and young people in antiquity have
taken up this challenge without explicitly engaging with the new history of
education.36 It is the hope and intention of the editor of this volume that the
combination of “the new and the old” may once again surprise the readership in
their exploration of the fascinating world of education in antiquity.
 CHAPTER ONE

Church, Religion,
and Morality
MATTHEW DILLON

Pre-Christian education in the ancient world was remarkably secular. Imbibing

religious beliefs was not part of formal education in the archaic, classical, or
Hellenistic periods and beyond in the longue durée. Traditional Greek and
Roman pedagogy was not concerned with teaching students about the gods;
rather, the curriculum for non-adult males was much more centered on practical
matters. In ancient Greece, reading, writing, and musicianship were at the core
of an education. Adults further pursued their education from Sophists and from
philosophers such as Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle. In the Roman world, once
more, the education of a boy centered on practicalities, such as memorizing
the Twelve Tables, and oratory. Religious instruction, for want of a better
phrase, did not occur. In both Greece and Rome, knowledge about the gods
came through imbibing literature and hence (in Greece) raised the ire of Plato.
Homer and other poets according to Plato presented the gods in ways that
were sometimes negative. Clement of Alexandria, the Christian apologist, took
up Plato’s themes in the second century ce. Education as a term is sometimes
used extremely widely by modern scholars, who write for example of Spartan
education in the training regime of the agoge, which was purely physical and
did not have any pedagogical content, unless learning to sing the war hymns
of the seventh-century bce poet Tyrtaeus counts. In discussing pedagogy, this
chapter takes as its definition a formal process of education and instruction
involving literacy.
12 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

TEACHING GREEK AND ROMAN RELIGION

In the ancient sources for traditional Greek and Roman education, whether
these are literary or epigraphic, study of religion is never mentioned in the
curriculum. Religion did not need to be taught. Rather, it was imbibed: from
household religion in which children were participants in religious observances
through to various levels of religious engagement; from local and regional
through to Panhellenic festivals and rites. Religious belief and practice was of
such a nature that it did not need detailed theological exegesis. Myths about
gods and heroes could be recast by Greek tragedians into exemplary moral
tales (Sophocles’ Antigone springs to mind), but this was a moral dimension for
adults, not a pedagogy. The description of the gods and demi-gods (heroes) in
the poets, in particular Homer, became known to children through common
folklore or if they were sent to school by learning to write, and to read the
poets. Numerous finds of papyri from Egypt attest to Homer being part of a
schoolboy’s curriculum: in fact, Homer’s Iliad was the favorite teaching text.1
In addition, the public performances of Homer would have made many aware
of his descriptions of the gods. The traditional views of the gods had attracted
the censure of the sixth-century bce philosopher Xenophanes:2

Both Homer and Hesiod have attributed all things to the gods,
As many as are shameful and a reproach amongst mankind,
Thieving and adultery and deceiving each other.
(Xenophanes, Fragment 11, cf. 15–16)
Motivated by similar concerns, Plato (see below) would ban Homer and other
poets who conveyed tales of the gods that were not suitable for inculcating
correct moral behavior, complaining how the Homeric presentation of the gods
affected boys’ and hence men’s attitudes and behavior in a negative sense.

HELLENIC EDUCATION AND THE JEWISH PEOPLE:

2 MACCABEES
The degree to which Hellenic culture embraced a particular religious viewpoint
is clear by the apposition of Hellenic and Jewish culture as presented in the
second book of the Maccabees. Adoption of Hellenic ways, particularly as
epitomized by that sine qua non of Greek culture, the gymnasium, is first raised
as an issue for the Jewish people in the second book of the Maccabees, a late
second-century or early first-century bce biblical narrative written (apparently
originally) in koinê (common) Greek in Alexandria, concerning the successful
Jewish revolt (180–161 bce) led by Judas Maccabaeus against Antiochus IV,
king of the Seleucid Empire, which had conquered the Jewish people (under
Antiochus III). Jason had usurped the position of his brother Onias as High
CHURCH, RELIGION, AND MORALITY 13

Priest and established a gymnasion and ephebeion (for ephebes, young men)
at the very foot of the citadel, enrolled in these the Antiochans in Jerusalem,
and had his young supporters dress in the petasos, a Greek traveling hat.
Hellenization and its paideia (education) reached such a “pitch” that the Jewish
priests neglected the temple and its sacrifices, and when the gong sounded
they hastened to the gymnasium for the distribution of the olive oil used in
exercising—something forbidden by Jewish law. On the other hand, Antiochus
as king forced Hellenism on the Jews, thousands of whom perished as a result
of disobedience.3
The account of the Jewish persecution might be colored by the narrator, but
a clear opposition is set up between Judaism and Hellenism. Hellenism for the
author of 2 Maccabees meant the gymnasion;4 for the Seleucids, in the same
work, it meant veneration of the Greek gods, with Jews forced to participate
in Greek sacrifices and even a procession honoring Dionysus; the Temple was
defiled by pagan sacrifices. This source is hostile to Hellenism and its paideia,
which it juxtaposes with Temple worship and Judaism. The portrait is perhaps
overdrawn in that some Jews did embrace Hellenism and the Greek language,
but the potential pedogogical apposition between Hellenism and Judaism is
clear.

PLATO AND THE CHRISTIAN APOLOGISTS ON HOMER

Plato viewed Homer as an educator in passing on a Homeric way of life
to his readers: Homer was a leader (hegemōn) in pedagogy. He compared
Pythagoras to Homer in the sense that both were leaders in paideia and
that Pythagoras established a particular way of life, the Pythagorean.5 This
commendation of Homer is of course very much at odds with Plato elsewhere.
While he criticizes Homer on the grounds of the stories he sings about the
gods, he in fact narrows Homer’s pedagogical value down to war, strategy,
city government, and the education (paideia) of man. But elsewhere, Plato
disapproves of how Homer and the “other poets” present the gods, because
the representation of the gods in an amoral or immoral manner, and negative
depictions of their behavior, will influence, in a negative way, the behavior of
those reading or hearing Homer.6
The pedagogical emphasis on Homer in the classical schoolboy curriculum
attracted Plato’s censure. In the Republic, he in fact proposes censorship of
Homer and other poets, and would ban any poet—not only Homer—who
writes in a negative sense about the gods.7 Homer, Plato argues, blunders when
he writes that Zeus apportions good and evil fates quite randomly; his narrative
that Zeus and Athena caused Pandaros to break the truce between the Greeks
and the Trojans, and hence continuing the Trojan War, will not be allowed.
Plato continues that if an Aeschylus writes that the gods deliberately implant
14 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

evil on a house they wish to destroy, that will not be accepted. Rather the poet
who writes that evil men receive just punishment from the gods will be allowed
to say so.8 Plato rejects what he obviously considers to be a false theology: that
the gods are careless of the fates of mortals and deliberately decide to destroy
them and cause them suffering. Only when poets write of the gods as moral
and principled will they be allowed to speak and to influence the minds of the
young.9
Having just quoted various Homeric passages about Hades, including
Achilles’ lines about Hades, and the pyschai (souls) of Penelope’s suitors, slain
by Odysseus, as flitting about in Hades like bats, bemoaning their fate and
wailing,10 Plato continues:11
We will beg Homer and all the other poets not to be angered if we were to
draw a line through these passages, not because they are not poetical and
sweet for most people to hear, but in this way in fact being rather poetical,
lest boys and men ought to listen to them for whom it is necessary to be free,
fearing slavery more than death.
(Plato, Rep. 387b)
A few passages after this, Plato argues that mourning should be confined to
women and that men should not lament but bear with resignation the loss of
relatives (a son or brother) and of money. Homer and the poets are therefore
to be begged not to show the children of gods, such as Achilles and Priam, as
lamenting and being distraught. Zeus, too, is not to be portrayed as grieving
or feeling wretched over the fate of Troy or his son Sarpedon. Otherwise,
young men would think it acceptable to grieve and lament “without shame,
or restraint.”12 Similarly, the excessive laughter of the gods in Homer must be
excised,13 in case it is copied or deemed acceptable, behavior not becoming
of a serious man. Tatian (120–180), a Christian author, also criticized the
laughter of the gods in Homer, presumably with this Plato passage in mind, and
listed their immoral behavior.14 This Homeric depiction of the gods, in being
susceptible to human emotions and regret, is not an acceptable role model for
those in Plato’s city.
Stories of the gods arguing or fighting amongst themselves are not to be
admitted into the ideal state and narrated to the young:15
For the young are unable to judge what is allegorical, and what is not, but
whatever beliefs at that age are taken into their consciousness are extremely
difficult to flush out and generally are unchangeable.
(Plato, Rep. 378e)
As the young cannot distinguish between what is allegorical (hyponoia) and
what is not, the first stories that they hear must be ones of virtue.16 Whenever
stories present gods behaving in a manner that is inappropriate and not to be
CHURCH, RELIGION, AND MORALITY 15

emulated, that might lead citizens in the ideal state into unacceptable behavior,
these stories are not to be told. Young people in particular are to be guarded
against those lines of Homer that will inculcate attitudes that will then take
time to eradicate. Education for the Greeks did not cease with childhood; in
fact the whole thrust of the Socratic dialogues is that adults can and must learn,
particularly with respect to moral concepts such as virtue and practices such as
being good citizens and politicians. Homer and the poets are to be silenced, if
necessary through the edition of their works, when negative portrayals of the
gods affect the practices and ideas of the young and those older. It could be
mentioned that in these criticisms of Homer and the other poets, Hesiod—that
other great poet, coupled with Homer by Herodotus—is not mentioned by
name; in fact he is cited with approval in the Republic.17 Presumably the moral
ethos of Hesiod’s poetry, the Works and Days in particular, met with Plato’s
approbation.
God (theos) is good (agathos), so compositions about him—whether in epic,
lyric, or tragic verse—must conform to that standard. Plato prefers poets who
are plain and straight speaking—the imitative poet who arrives at the city will
be met with honor but then sent on his way without performing. While it is the
preference of boys and their paidagogoi, and the great throng of people, to hear
poets and speakers who mix into their tales both good and bad, the poet who
speaks only good is welcome in the city.18 Men and women Guardians of the
state are to receive the same sort of instruction: music and athletic.19 Religion as
such is absent in a specific sense from the Guardians’ education but is implicitly
present in Plato’s circumscription of certain poetic material that is detrimental
to pedagogy.
To those who praise Homer as providing the paideia of all Greece, and
consider that everything in one’s life should be regulated by him, the ideal city
will agree that he is the finest of the tragic poets, but that the only poetry that
can be allowed in the ideal city will be hymns for the gods and encomia for
good men.20 Similarly, in Plato’s Laws, the Spartans say that Homer is their
favorite poet (despite being an Ionian), and Homer’s military knowledge is
praised.21 But Homer, Tyrtaeus, and “the other poets” are censured by Plato
for laying down in their writings wrong precepts about life and its activities,
and are unfavorably compared to the lawgivers such as Solon (Athens) and
Lycurgus (Sparta).22
Moreover, myth in Plato serves specific purposes. Homeric and other
poetic stories are criticized as a negative influence in the Republic and Laws.
The converse of this is that, having expunged unsatisfactory material for a
children’s pedagogy, children will then need myth to edify them and lead them
toward correct behavior. Socrates in Platonic dialogues uses myth to reform
the thinking and hence behavior of others, and it is a similar process at work
in his ideal states: but there traditional narrative is emasculated. So new stories
16 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

are needed. For example, in the well-known myth that appears at the end of
Gorgias, Plato invents a discourse of judgment after death by Aeacus, Minos,
and Rhadamanthus.23 While he does not specifically mention Homer in the
Cratylus and Phaedrus, both dialogues deal with the impossibility of learning
anything from reading what has been written down (see also Plato’s Seventh
Epistle).24 But this is not pedagogy of children, such as Plato wishes to control
in his ideal states, yet dovetails of course with Plato’s concerns about exactly
what children will hear from the poets and how this will affect their attitudes
and behavior.25
In summary, in Plato’s ideal states (the Republic and the Laws) the poets are
not to be allowed to sing stories casting the gods in unfavorable light, as these
infect the minds of the young, and it is difficult to eradicate such ideas. God
(Theos) is perfect, and the young are to hear of the good deeds and thoughts
of the divine. Education in the ideal state of the Laws consists of training boys
in goodness, so that, as men, they are good citizens.26 A particular pedagogy
of literate interaction with notions of godhood is not simply advocated
but prescribed. Plato’s emphasis on countering Homeric and other poetic
constructions of a pedagogically harmful theology of course stems from the
intense exposure of boys to such narratives throughout the Greek world while
being educated.
The Christian apologetic was in some ways similar to that of Plato: when
condemning the vices of the gods, the apologists frequently quote Homer. So,
Clement quotes Homer’s lines on Ares and Aphrodite sleeping together, and
comments:27
Cease, O Homer, your song! It is not beautiful; it teaches adultery.
(Clement, Exhortation to the Heathen 4)
Stoics and Epicureans also took up the cry against traditional myths; this is
mainly known from Cicero,28 but Clement was versed in their writings and
drew upon them.

CLEMENT PAIDAGOGOS
Clement of Alexandria wrote his The Instructor, or Paedagogos (παιδαγωγός)
in about 190–195. As early as the second century ce Christian intellectuals
were arguing in philosophical terms against their pagan counterparts and their
enemies. Christian apologia was concerned in particular with denouncing the
pagan stories of their gods; moreover, Christian education differed radically
and profoundly from Greco-Roman education in that it was explicitly
religious in orientation and nature. Paideia served the purpose of educating
both children and adults in the Christian way of life. This paideia and its
defence drew on the resources of Greek philosophy, and pagan literature
CHURCH, RELIGION, AND MORALITY 17

was pressed into service for a Christian education, with the resulting Greco-
Roman-Christian culture deeply engaging with Greek and Roman non-
Christian literature.
Clement was well versed in the classics, willing to quote, cite, or paraphrase
Greek authors, especially Homer and the Greek philosophers. In his Paidagogos,
he is concerned with an education that equips one with Christian values in
the life of this world (the Greco-Roman pagan one). It is the paidagogos who
instructs:
The paidogogos, being practical (proactive), rather than theoretical, his
objective is therefore to make the soul better, and not to teach intellectualism.
(Clement, Paid. 1.1.1.4)
Children must be taught—but these are not literal, biological children: rather
all Christian believers are children.29 The Paidagogos is revealed to be Jesus, to
which compare Paul’s Ephesians: children are to be raised in the paideia and
admonition of the Lord (6.4: “ἐκτρέφετε αὐτὰ [i.e., τὰ τέκνα] παιδείᾳ καὶ νουθεσίᾳ
Κυρίου”).30 God has taught Christians through the prophets: the Scriptures
provide guidance on how to live.31 Books 2–3 of the Paidagogos instruct the
Christian in the art of living, with detailed advice on what to eat, wear, and do.

SAINT AUGUSTINE: “WE WITH ALL OUR LEARNING,

SIMPLY LOOK ON!”
Saint Augustine of Hippo in Numidia (354–430), like Clement, commenced life as
a pagan, a paidagogos of Latin rhetoric, teaching a liberal education and practicing,
as he himself states, a “false” religion. He expressed consternation that:32
The unlearned are rising up and grasping heaven, but as for us, we with all
our learning, simply look on!
(Augustine, Conf. 8.8)
As he approached conversion, he writes that God was using his stick on his
bones (“propterea et tu baculo disciplinae tuae confringebas ossa mea”):
presumably referring to discipline for children. In his letter to John, Bishop
of Jerusalem from 386 to 417, Augustine raised the issue of men with the
traditional “liberal” education who held the heretical views of Pelagius and
whose doctrine was affected thereby, with Augustine having to admonish them
to correct their errors.33
Greeks and Romans did not hold classes in religion, but a defining
characteristic of Christianity was that it did. Eusebius recounts in his Life
of Constantine that Licinius (emperor of the west, 308–324), as part of his
discrimination against the Christians, prohibited men from being in “the houses
of prayer” when women were present. Women were not to attend instructional
18 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

schools of faith and were not to be taught by bishops: only women were to
teach women. Christians were no longer to meet in churches but to hold their
services in the open air outside the city.34
On this account Licinius enacted a second law, decreeing that men ought not
to appear at the same time as women at the prayers for God, nor that women
should attend the sacred schools of virtue (τὰ σεμνὰ τῆς ἀρετῆς διδασκαλεῖα),
nor that women should receive pious instruction from the bishops, but that
women were to be chosen to teach women.
(Eusebius, Life of Constantine 1.53.1–2)
Eusebius the Christian is, of course, a hostile witness to the anti-Christian
Licinius, whom Constantine defeated and killed. But that Licinius attempted
to humiliate the Christians in this way, and perhaps thought to diminish the
quality of catechumenism by denying bishops the right to educate women about
Christianity, is quite possible.

SAINT PERPETUA AND CHRISTIAN EDUCATION,

THE YEAR 203
Vibia Perpetua of Carthage, imprisoned there on a charge of being Christian,
wrote an account about her imprisonment, trial, and impending execution.35 A
writer claiming to be an eyewitness to her execution in the Carthaginian arena
added at the end of her account a description of her actual death; two different
authors added a chapter each as a preface to her writing. Her account, known
as the Passio of Perpetuae et Felicitatis (her servant and fellow martyr) survives
both in Latin and Greek versions.36 She was twenty-two years old, “well-born,”
and a lactating mother of her newly born son when she was martyred along with
three other catechumens in Carthage in a local persecution in 203 ce: Felicitas
and Revocatus, who were slaves, and Saturninus and Secundulus, whose status
is not recorded but who presumably were free (the latter died in prison before
the executions in the arena).
Perpetua was a catechumen of the Christian faith, instructed by one
Saturus: catechumenism preceded baptism and attendance at the celebration
of the Eucharist.37 She was arrested at the town of Thuburbo Minus, about 50
kilometers west of Carthage. Presumably the house where the instruction was
held had been observed or neighbors alerted the authorities. The background
might well have been Septimius Severus’ legislation forbidding further
conversions to Judaism and Christianity:38 this presumably explains why other
Christians, including church officials, were not persecuted at Carthage.39
Perpetua’s father repeatedly argued with her to turn away from her beliefs,
particularly once she was imprisoned, and he did so again when she was
sentenced to death as a Christian when refusing to sacrifice to the emperor.
CHURCH, RELIGION, AND MORALITY 19

A school of thought argues that she in fact wrote her prison narrative in Greek
rather than Latin;40 if so, it is a further witness to women’s degree of literacy
(see below). The ancient contemporary editors of the autobiography, who preface
her account with some details of her background, describe her as having had a
liberal education (liberaliter instituta/τραφεῖσα πολυτελῶς);41 she argues as if she
were a rhetor and employs philosophical dialectic: she was clearly educated by a
grammaticus and advanced to further study. Under the grammaticus, she would
have learned both Greek and Latin literature, with Homer and Virgil conspicuous
in the curriculum.42
She could read Greek and could also speak it; in one of the dreams that
she recorded, she spoke in Greek to two local Christians: Optatus the bishop
and the priest Aspasius.43 Her biblical knowledge is clear and was presumably
part of her studies as a catechumen. In the first of the four dreams that she
reports she had while in captivity, Saturus and she ascended to heaven on a
narrow bronze ladder, at the foot of which was a great serpent that tried to
terrify people and prevent them from ascending; Perpetua trod on its head as
she ascended. In the side of the ladder were swords, spears, hooks, and knives
to harm those who were not careful. But at the top of the ladder was a white-
haired man milking his flock, surrounded by thousands of white-robed people
in a large garden; the man said “Welcome Child” and gave her a small piece
of cheese. Perpetua took this dream as a sign of their impending martyrdom.
Her biblical allusions are clear and would have been recognized by the
reader: Eve and the snake of Genesis whose head will be bruised by a woman,
the serpent also appearing in Revelations, and Jacob’s ladder, also in Genesis;
Christ in Matthew’s Gospel on entering Heaven through the narrow gate and as
the Good Shepherd in the garden of Heaven. The little piece of cheese she was
given must represent the Eucharist: she ate it and the thousands said, Amen.44
Perpetua’s use of Platonic dialectic is clear when in a dialogue with her
father, in which he argues with her to surrender her beliefs, she utilizes an
analogy from Platonic subsistent forms: she subsists within Christ:45

“Father,” I asked, “Do you see, for example, this vessel lying here, a jug, or
whatever it might be?”
And he said, “I see.”
And I said to him, “Is it possible to call it by any other name?”
And he said, “No.”
“So it is not possible for me to call myself something that I am not: I am a Christian.”
(Passio 3.1–2)
Yet this too is also a Christological formulation: she has become one with the
body of Christ.46
Her literary education, her decision not to renounce her faith but to embrace
martyrdom willingly, but most importantly the decision she took to write an
20 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

account of the period leading up to her death, provides the earliest written text by
a Roman Christian woman, as well as her inauguration of a new hagiographical
genre, of which hers is the only example: martyrdom autobiography. As a
historical record, it is a priceless diary account of how a young woman felt
about her imprisonment and impending execution, of her struggle with her
father who was bitterly opposed, to the very end, to her convictions, and her
feelings for her son who was still breastfeeding until immediately prior to her
death: on March 7 (now her feast-day), 203 ce, in the arena at Carthage.

JULIAN ON CHRISTIANS TEACHING PAGANS

The emperor Julian (r.361–363) had been brought up in the Christian
environment. On becoming emperor, he openly practiced paganism and
attempted to stall the conversion of the empire to Christianity (without
organizing persecutions, which only encouraged martyrdom, as he realized).
Religious tolerance was the order of the day: the Christians, he argued, being
foolish (τοὺς ἀνοήτους) and in need of healing like the insane, were to be
encouraged back to traditional beliefs. Temples were reopened and animal
sacrifice recommenced under his patronage. In fact, his keenness for sacrifices,
and their quantity, attracted censure even from pagans.47
Julian’s Letter 36, titled by modern editors as “Rescript on Christian
Teachers” (written after June 17, 362 ce), took aim at Christian teachers who
thaught non-Christian literature. His prescriptions about Christians teaching
Greek literature, which narrowly preceeded this rescript, are recorded in the
Codex Theodosianus.48 He seems to have promulgated the edict at Ancyra while
traveling to Antioch. In the rescript his rationale is made explicit, while this is
not as clear in the actual edict.
Julian’s argument in his Epistle 36 is quite simple: Christian teachers are
teaching Homer, Hesiod, and other writers but should not do so. The choice
of Homer and Hesiod is of course deliberate. Not only was Homer a mainstay
of a liberal education, and Hesiod to a lesser degree, but these two authors
more than any others, as Herodotus noted nearly 800 years earlier, were the
authors who taught the Greeks about the gods (see above). Now, Julian argues,
Christian teachers declare these authors to be “impious, ignorant, and foolish”
in their beliefs in these gods. Christian teachers receive pay for teaching about
authors they despise: “for the sake of a few drachmae the Christian teachers
will put up with anything at all. Men should not teach what they consider to be
bad.” If teachers consider these authors unsound and disagree with them, then
let them adhere to their own literature:
CHURCH, RELIGION, AND MORALITY 21

Go to the churches of the Galilaeans to give an exegesis of Matthew and

Luke, since you are, after all, acting in obedience to them, when you order
men to depart from the temples.
(Julian, Ep. 36, 423b–d)
After arguing along these lines, he promulgates an edict for “religious and
secular teachers”: any young person who wishes to do so can attend school,
and none would be excluded, so that they might not be turned against the
beliefs of their (non-Christian) ancestors.49 Clearly, he wanted to encourage all
youths to experience a pagan education in the hope that they would convert
from Christianity to paganism, just as he himself had done. But his rescript also
indicates that his approach was also more nuanced than his reference to the
Galileans here might indicate. For Julian asserts that:50
What! Was it not the very gods themselves who revealed all their learning
(παιδεία) to Homer, Hesiod, Demosthenes, Herodotus, Thucydides, Isocrates
and Lysias? Did not these writers consider themselves to be consecrated,
some of them to Hermes, and some of them to the Muses? I consider it to
be ridiculous that men who explain the writings of these authors should
dishonor the gods whom these authors honoured. Yet even though I consider
it ridiculous, I do not say that it is necessary for them to change their views
and then they can teach the young. But I grant them this alternative: either
not to teach what they consider not to be commendable, or, if they do wish
to teach, to first persuade their students that neither Homer nor Hesiod
nor any of these authors whom they explain as and have convicted of being
impious, demented, and mistaken about the gods, are in fact so.
(Julian, Ep. 36, 422d–423c)
Julian makes what to him is a logical case: Christian teachers should teach
Christian literature; pagan teachers, pagan literature. Turning to the actual
delict itself, Julian’s legislation as recorded in Theodosius’ lawcode, the Codex
Theodosianus, stipulated that:
Masters (magistri) of studies, as well as teachers, must in the first instance have
an excellence of character, then after that, of eloquence. Yet since it is not
possible for me to be personally present in every single municipality, I order
that whosoever wishes to teach, is neither suddenly nor rashly to commence
to do so. Rather, he will be approved first by an order of a judgement of the
municipal curia (senate) with the consent and agreement of the best of the
citizens. This decree is then to be referred to me for my approval, so that
such teachers might commence their duties with a certain higher honour due
to our judgement.
(Codex Theodosianus 13.3.5)51
22 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

Here his motivation is less clear than in his letter. Teachers must first be of
sound character and second eloquent. So the moral dimension is given primacy.
No teacher is to start teaching without authorization: rather the local senate
and decurions will approve of who can (and cannot) teach. As Julian cannot be
everywhere, this authority must be delegated. There is no specific mention of
Christians here (unlike in his rescript). But the senate and decurions are acting
on Julian’s behalf and assessing, primarily, the moral compass of a prospective
teacher. With the letter in mind, the decree is aimed at Christians, and this
is how contemporary Christian intellectuals understood it, as seen above. In
another context, Julian wrote to the governor Atarbios, a pagan: Christians
were not to be persecuted, but rather the (pagan) pious (theosebeis) were to be
given preference over them.52
Yet it is interesting to note that this edict might well also encompass the Cynics
(though these are not directly mentioned in his letter, unlike the Christians).
Julian, best described perhaps as a Neoplatonist, directed two of his Orations
against the Cynics—one against them in general (Or. 6) and one against the
Cynic Heraclius (Or. 7: 362 ce). The basis for the disagreement stemmed from
an oration by the Cynic Heraclius, to which Julian had been invited and was
present: he considered that Heraclius attacked his reign and views, and that his
treatment of the gods was impious, and he objected to Heraclius inventing myths
(hence Julian penned Or. 7). Cynics rejected oracles (Julian was doing his best to
revive oracular centers) and criticized traditional religion. Moreover, Cynics were
somewhat equated with Christians; one Christian even dressed as one.53
Christians, and later the pagan Ammianus, criticized the edict; the latter
wrote that the edict should pass into eternal silence.54 Yet other pagans
approved of it and saw that it was a crucial part of Julian’s desire to restore the
traditional rites. Claudius Mamertinus, appointed consul for 362 ce, delivered
a panegyric in Latin to Julian on January 1, 362, when he entered his consular
office:55
You resuscitated the study (studia) of literature, which had become extinct,
and philosophy, which was but a little while ago suspect, stripped of all its
honours, and accused and charged with bias, you have freed from all charges
against it.
(Gratiarum Actio Juliano Augusto 18.23)
Libanius, the pagan Greek rhetorician (314–393) writing after Julian’s death,
praised the emperor for restoring philosophy as if from exile.56 In his funeral
oration for Julian, he praised him for considering learning and religion (θεῶν
ἱερὰ) to be related, and seeing that learning was nearly ruined, and religion
completely so (because of the Christians), he set his attention to restoring
education.57 Libanius was a dedicated pagan: note his Oration 30, a plea to the
emperor Theodosius (r.379–395) for the preservation of the temples.
CHURCH, RELIGION, AND MORALITY 23

At least some rhetores and grammatici did in fact give up teaching rather than
surrender their Christianity. The noteworthy examples are Marcus Victorinus
at Rome and Prohaeresius at Athens. The latter was Julian’s tutor, who received
from him a reassurance that he would be exempt. Some presumably apostasized;
Rendall described them as “trimmers”: amongst them was Hecebolius, who
had been Julian’s (Christian) tutor, apostasized under Julian, and returned
to Christianity when the emperor was killed, much to the disgust of Socrates
Scholasticus.58
Gregory Nazianzenus, a Christian (329–390), in his Fourth Oration (being
his first oration against Julian) in passages 100–123 and in his Fifth Oration,59
penned detailed invectives against Julian’s law, arguing that the Greek language
did not belong solely to its use for the religious activities of the pre-Christian
Greeks and that no one owns the words of the Greek tongue. Does Julian want
to stop Christians from even speaking Greek? He accuses Julian of intending to
establish schools in every town for teaching “idolatrous doctrines.”60 The Greco-
Roman world was now a battleground for disputing the ownership of the Greek
language and its literature. Julian’s prescription intended, in Gregory’s mind,
to take away their Greek heritage from Christians, who would be limited to
biblical and other Christian literature in their churches, with Christian teachers
debarred from schools. Gregory expounded this as creating an intellectual and
cultural ghetto for Christians and depriving them of their Hellenic patrimony.61
Sozomen (400–450) in his Ecclesiastical History, in the sections dealing with
Julian’s attempts to revive paganism, specifically refers to Julian’s pedagogical
measures and to Gregory’s (and church figures such as Basil’s) opposition to
these. Sozomen gave as Julian’s motive that he did not wish the children of
Christians to be trained in Greek authors—for by this they would learn how
to argue and persuade (for the advancement of Christianity). For him, Julian’s
prescription was to take away from Christians the benefits of a traditional liberal
education in terms of dialectic and rhetoric. Socrates Scholasticus (c. 381–
c. 439) of Constantinople, another church historian, interpreted the edict as
denying Christians an education. In the context of Julian’s prohibition on
Christians teaching, he takes issue with the objections of some Christians that
paganism was not conducive to Christian belief.62 Socrates argued that some of
the pagan philosophers recognized one godhead, that the writings of the pagans
could be used as weapons against them (as Clement had shown), and pagan
philosophy teaches the art of reasoning (which divine scripture does not, having
a different, moral purpose: he advises rejection of whatever is evil in pagan
literature but the retention of what is good).63
Similarly, Theodoret condemned Julian for preventing the children of
Christians from learning poetry, rhetoric, and philosophy, and quotes Julian
(from an unidentified work) as arguing, “we are shot with shafts feathered
from our own wing,” which is a quotation from Aristophanes’ Birds (808:
24 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

Τάδ’ οὐχ ὑπ’ ἄλλων, ἀλλὰ τοῖς αὑτῶν πτεροῖς). For Julian, the Christians were
destroying traditional religion by appropriating its literature.64
Just as some pagans disapproved of Julian’s sacrificing zeal, the pagan historian
Ammianus Marcellinus (330–400) was critical of Julian’s edict, indicating
that in both the Christian as well as the pagan mind Julian’s measures against
teachers who did not believe in the gods at the heart of Homer and Hesiod were
aimed specifically against Christians.65 For him, it was inhumane that Christian
rhetoricians and grammarians magistros rhetoricos et grammaticos Latinos
could not teach unless they conducted the “ancestral rites” (ni transissent ad
numinum cultum).66
While Gregory in particular took exception to Julian’s edict, some earlier
Christian writers, who had castigated pre-Christian Greco-Roman literature,
would have agreed with the apostate emperor. Writers such as Clement,
extremely fluent in Greek literature, used it as a quarry of information for
beliefs about the gods, which he discussed and ridiculed, using his learning as a
key conversion strategy.

HYPATIA OF ALEXANDRIA, “SURPASSING

ALL THE PHILOSOPHERS OF HER TIME”
Hypatia was born in 370 or a bit earlier, the daughter of the philosopher-
mathematician Theon of Alexandria.67 She was a teacher of philosophy at
Alexandria, and also a learned mathematician and astronomer. Her father clearly
had her educated and she was highly intelligent. The Suda in its biographical entry
on Hypatia records that she wrote a commentary on Diophantus’ Arithmetica,
a commentary on the Conics of Apollonius, and wrote the Astronomical Canon
(a commentary on Ptolemy’s Syntaxis Mathematica).68
A Neoplatonist following the Plotinus school of Platonism, she was praised
by Synesius of Cyrene (c. 373–c. 414), her student from 393 ce until he left the
city, and later the, Neoplatonic Christian bishop (from 410 ce) of Ptolemais in
Libya, who in a letter written at Athens, where he was visiting, complains that
Athens is simply a shell of its ancient past, and that philosophy has fled from it.
In contrast, he writes:
Today Egypt has received and cherishes the fruitful wisdom of Hypatia.
(Synesius, Letter 136.4)69
Hypatia was a pagan who taught Christians: this was an intellectual development
of fourth-century Alexandria, when many learned Christians decamped to
monasteries, creating a Christian reliance on pagan pedagogues.70
In March 415, during Lent, Hypatia was brutally murdered in Alexandria
by some Christians, led by a monk called Peter, a murder that was soundly
condemned by the Christian historian Socrates and, according to him, the
CHURCH, RELIGION, AND MORALITY 25

Christian population at large. To what extent her education and philosophical

beliefs led to her murder is unclear, but it seems that her rumored part in the
ongoing dissension between the city praefectus Orestes and its bishop Cyril was
what actually led to her death. The main source for Hypatia’s murder is Socrates
of Constantinople’s Ecclesiastical History, in which he strongly censures her
murder.71 Contrastingly, John of Nikiu, a seventh-century Coptic bishop,
reproduces details of Socrates’ narrative but praises Peter and Cyril, describing
Hypatia as “devoted at all times to magic, astrolabes and instruments of music,
and she beguiled many people through (her) Satanic wiles” (the astrolabes and
instruments refer to her scientific studies): he praises Cyril for extinguishing
paganism in Alexandria (which was not the case).72 Damascius (458/462–550)
in his lost Life of Isidorus, drawn on by the Suda, provides little of import,
though his comment that she went throughout the city explaining philosophy
to anyone who wanted to listen is interesting.73
Her murder was a factor of the animosity between Cyril, Bishop of Alexandria,
and the Orestes as praefectus (who was worried about growing ecclesiastical
interference in civil matters, according to Socrates). This dispute erupted into
violence when 500 monks (παραβαλανεῖς), whom Socrates describes as “of fiery
disposition,” came to Alexandria.74 Coming upon Orestes in his chariot, they
called him a θύτην καὶ Ἕλληνα, to which he replied that he had been baptised by
Bishop Atticus at Constantinople. One of the monks, Ammonius, threw a stone at
Orestes’ head and drew blood: Ammonius was captured and tortured so violently
that he died. Both Orestes and Cyril sent an account of the matter to the emperor.
Cyril attempted to make Ammonios into a saint martyr, but the local Christians
rejected this as he had not died in the defence of his faith.75 For their role in the
civil disturbances, the numbers of παραβαλανεῖς were restricted in Alexandria to
500, although within a few years they were allowed to number 600.76
It is at this point that Hypatia appears in Socrates’ narrative; he describes her
as surpassing all the philosophers of her time, and as succeeding to the schools
of Plato and Plotinus, teaching their doctrines and drawing listeners from quite
a distance:77
1. There was a woman of Alexandria by the name of Hypatia; she was the
daughter of the philosopher Théōn. She reached such an extent of paideia
so as to be far superior to all the philosophers of her time. Having become
the head of the philosophical school of Plotinus and Plato, she taught all
matters philosophical to those wishing to learn. On account of this, people
came from everywhere wishing to learn philosophy from her. 2. On account
of her bearing which resulted from her education and her respectful speech,
she met openly with the magistrates. But she did so without ever incurring
shame when she was in the company of men (…) 4. Yet nevertheless she was
destroyed through jealousy around her.
(Socrates 7.15.1–2 and 4)
26 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

Due to her paideia, Hypatia kept company with the city magistrates and
was often seen conversing with Orestes. Because of this, Socrates writes, a
rumor spread amongst the Christians of Alexandria that she was preventing a
reconciliation between Orestes and Cyril. One Peter, a reader (anagnōstēs), led
some of them: they dragged her from her carriage one day (in March, during
Lent), took her to the church Caesarium, stripped her, and then murdered
her.78 Tearing her body to pieces, they took the pieces to a place called Cinarum
and burned them.
What is interesting is that in Socrates’ portrayal, Hypatia is a philosopher but
he does not describe her as a pagan, and her death arises in his account because
as an educated woman she conversed with the magistrates: it was this association
that entangled her in the split between Cyril and Orestes, and led to her brutal
murder. Socrates portrays her murder as politically motivated, outrageous, and
unacceptable, and records that the majority of Alexandrian Christians were
appalled by this.79 The Suda entry likewise condemns her murder, noting the
riotous nature of the Alexandrians and that they also murdered two of their
own bishops, George and Proterius. He places the blame at Cyril’s door: the
latter saw the crowds who thronged at Hypatia’s door due to her philosophy
and was jealous. This overstates the case, but once again, it was not a religious
dispute per se that led to Hypatia’s death.
Yet the context of Cyril’s bishopric cannot be dismissed: he managed to
have the Novatianist Christians expelled, and their churches and property
confiscated, and campaigned against the Jews, leading to their expulsion, and
the looting and then confiscation of their property.80 Cyril had no sympathy
with pagans or their culture, and Hypatia’s teaching to Christians of pagan
philosophy, although an aspect which Socrates does not mention, must have
been part of the murderers’ rationale.
The Suda points to an important detail: Hypatia was not teaching a select
number of students but a considerable number, and as Socrates notes, people
came from a distance to hear her. Amongst her listeners there must have been
many Christians (such as Synesius, see above). The discussion that she had
with city officials, including its most important one, Orestes (a Christian) the
governor, were presumably of a philosophical import. Christians, as they had
in the fourth century, learned the philosophical works of Plato from a non-
Christian—as in this case.
A comment or two on modern historiography is in order, for the modern
(i.e., the eighteenth to twenty-first centuries) perception of Hypatia is far
removed from Socrates’ balanced account. Gibbon embroidered the account
of her murder as part of his general attack on Christianity and exceeded the
narrative of the sources.81 More imaginative still is Charles Kingsley’s 1853
novel Hypatia; as described by one scholar:
CHURCH, RELIGION, AND MORALITY 27

The Alexandrian philosopher has not escaped the attentions of the perverted
clergyman Charles Kingsley, whose novel Hypatia is full of sadistic eroticism
and whose account of the heroine’s death reminds Professor Marrou of the
writings of Pierre Louÿs.
(Rist 1965: 214–15)

“SO MUST A SOUL BE EDUCATED, WHICH IS TO BE

A TEMPLE OF GOD”: JEROME, EPISTLE 107.4
About the same time as Hypatia was meeting her death, a young Christian
girl Paula would have been turning twelve years old and was in the process of
receiving a Christian education as devised by Jerome (347–420), in response to
a letter from Paula’s mother in the year 403. In some ways, Paula’s education
would be atypical as Laeta wished for Jerome’s advice, since she wanted Paula
to be brought up as a virgin dedicated to Christ. Jerome in fact advised Laeta
to send Paula to her maternal grandmother and aunt in Bethlehem, where her
grandmother had founded a nunnery, headed by Paula’s aunt. Paula, destined by
her mother and Jerome’s advice, did in fact later become head of the convent.82
Jerome’s Epistle 107 (about 5,500 words), written in 403, was a response
to her letter (which does not survive). Much of the letter concerns how the
child is to be brought up to be moral and ethical: but to do so, she is to learn
both Greek and Latin, and to memorize the Scriptures by heart. Jerome’s letter
contains numerous references to the Old and New Testaments, indicating that
Laetia could presumably recognize these, and that she herself had a thorough
education: given that Laeta’s father was a pagan, he must have provided her
with a liberal pagan education. Jerome advises Laeta that play and pedagogy be
mixed for the infant Paula, and that she play with letters:
Obtain for her a set of letters, either of boxwood, or ivory, with each called
by its own name. Let her play with these, in order that even as she is playing
she might be learning. (Fiant ei litterae vel buxeae, vel eburneae, et suis
nominibus appellentur. Ludat in eis, ut et lusus eius eruditio sit.)
(Jerome, Epist. 107.4)

As soon as she is old enough to hold a stylus, she must do so and commence
writing. She is to memorize the Scriptures, and it is to become a daily habit that
her mother will hear from the child the flowers of these:
Let it be her daily duty to come to you with the flowers of the Scriptures.
Let her memorise numerous verses in Greek. At the same time, let her learn
also the Latin.
(Jerome, Epist. 107.9)
28 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

The primacy of the Greek text of the Scriptures is interesting—it would be

Jerome, of course, who would translate the Greek and Hebrew Scriptures into
Latin, to become the Latin Vulgate Bible, on which Western Christianity would
rely for 1,500 years. A little after this, he provides the structure for her learning:
Paula is to commence with the psalter (psalterium, Book of Psalms) and move
on to the maxims of Solomon, then onto the Gospels, thence to Acts and the
Epistles, and the prophets of the Old Testament (107.12; 128.3 has the same
advice). Her literary education is entirely confined to Christian scripture, and
there is no mention of any other form of literature. Hers is to be a purely
Christian education. Jerome does not warn against other, pagan, literature:
he simply does not mention this. This particular female child and then young
woman would be able to read and recite scripture, and apply these as of intrinsic
spiritual value to her life, and know both Greek and Latin. As Jerome states:
“So must a soul be educated, which is to be a temple of God” (Sic erudienda est
anima, quae futura est templum Dei) (Epistle 107.4).

JUSTINIAN’S CLOSING OF THE ATHENIAN SCHOOL OF

PHILOSOPHY
Early in his reign, echoing Julian but in the opposite direction, Justinian
as emperor (r.527–565) had prohibited heretics, pagans, and Samaritans
from teaching.83 In the year 529, Justinian decreed that the (Neoplatonic)
philosophical school of Athens were to close.84 There is only one reference to
this abolition, the contemporary John Malalas (491–578); it is mentioned in no
other source:
In the consulship of Decius, the emperor Justinian promulgated an edict
and dispatched it to Athens, prohibiting anyone from teaching philosophy
or interpreting astronomy, nor that in any city dice divination was to be
practised; for in Byzantium, some of those prophesying by dice had uttered
awful blasphemies.
(Malalas, Chronicle 18)85
This decree is clear: philosophy and astronomy were no longer to be taught at
Athens. Nothing is said about philosophical schools elsewhere, and Justinian has
singled out Athens because of its preeminence as a pagan philosophical center.
Philosophy would still be taught throughout the empire, but it would not have
a monolithic epicenter. Moreover, Agathias (532–580), perhaps in fact drawing
on an account written by Damascius, narrates that the seven philosophers of the
Athenian school, two years after the edict, departed the Roman Empire for the
Persian Empire, with Damascius, the head of the school, who had done so much
to revive its fortunes since 515,86 as their leader. They did this as the Persian
CHURCH, RELIGION, AND MORALITY 29

king, Chosroes (reigned from 531) had a reputation as a philosopher. After a

short stay in the Persian Empire, however, the philosophers returned to Greece,
preferring the conditions of the Roman to the Persian Empire.87 Philosophy
would increasingly be in the hands of Christians: no pagan philosophers are
heard of after 600.
A particular section of the Codex Justiniani (1.11.10) has several anti-pagan
measures (that is, against those practicing, in the term used in the Greek codex,
eidōlolatria). These, however, should not be seen primarily as Justinianic, as
many will have been republications of earlier injunctions against paganism.
Pagans who had been baptized but still continued pagan practices were to be
executed (1.11.10 prescript); pagans not yet baptized were to make themselves
known to the local authorities, to be baptized, along with their wives and
children (1.11.10.1). Pagans were not to teach any doctrine, so as not to
corrupt their followers. That pagans were not to receive a municipal salary is
also relevant, in case there were communities paying for pagans to teach (see
also 1.5.18.4; this could be seen as redundant in that all pagans were now to
present themselves for baptism):
Further, we prohibit the teaching (μάθημα) of every doctrine by those inflicted
with the sickness of the Hellenes [i.e. paganism], in order that they might not
in this way pretend to teach (παιδεύειν) those who come to them, in such a
manner as to arouse pity, while what they are actually doing is to destroy
the souls of those they are teaching. Moreover, they are not to receive any
public payment.
(Cod. Iust. 1.11.10.2)
Infant children of pagans were to be immediately baptized; older children of
pagans were to undergo Christian instruction at church, repent, and undergo
baptism (1.11.10.5). Pagans who had undergone baptism but allowed their
wives and children to continue pagan practices were to lose their property and
civic rights (1.11.10.6; also 1.5.18.4).88
Basically, pagans could no longer teach, and they, their wives, and their
children were to convert to Christianity. Houses of pagan philosophers were
to be confiscated, as was their property. Relevant too is that pagan institutions
could no longer receive donations (1.11.9.1; cf. 10.52.11); the Athenian
Neoplatonic school had in particular benefited from such funding until the
year 529. Olympiodorus in his commentary on Plato’s First Alcibiades refers
to the confiscation of (pagan) philosophers’ property, and the existence of
endowments for the philosophical school at Athens.89
Of course, legislation is one thing and enactment another.90 The Athenian
school was definitely closed down, but pagans apparently did keep teaching:
the openly pagan philosopher Olympiodorus taught philosophy at Alexandria
as head of the philosophical school there, without interference from the
30 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

authorities, until at least a little while after 565 ce, with Christian students,
writing (surviving) commentaries on Plato’s Gorgias, Phaedo, and Alcibiades,
and Aristotle’s Categories and Meteorologica. But he marked the end of pagan
philosophical pedagogy: he was the last pagan head, and was succeeded by
a Christian in the teaching of pagan philosophy. There is no evidence for a
specific campaign against pagan philosophers and pagan teachers, except that
they may have been caught up in the anti-pagan measures of 545/6 ce. But the
measures in themselves would have made many pagans in these two categories
convert to Christianity, though the same section of the law also deals with
those who had been baptized but had no Christian convictions. By the seventh
century, the Roman Empire in the east was Christian and its religious concerns
lay with heresies (as they already had for several centuries).

CONCLUSION
The connection between religion and pedagogy commenced when Hesiod
and Homer were first used by pedogogues to instruct Greek schoolchildren.
Christianity added a new depth and dimension: for religion was then taught
in a specific pedagogical process in schools and churches. Julian attempted
to prevent Christians from teaching the pagan classics and did achieve some
immediate success. His death and the return of Christianity as the official
religion led to various decrees, notably by Theodosius about paganism.
Justinian’s legislation proscribed that all pagans were to be baptized and live a
Christian way of life, probably republishing previous edicts. Paideia in Plato’s
works censored learning: Homer was out. Christianity at first employed tales
of Greek mythology to argue against paganism, but pagan literature and
philosophy were the mainstay of a Christian education for boys and to some
extent girls by the fourth century ce. Religion had a powerful tool in the hands
of the Homeric epics in the pre-Christian period, but this was a process by
osmosis of myths and accounts of the gods; in the Christian period, religion
was taught directly as part of a full education. Under either religious system,
the works of the poets and philosophers were venerated and taught—except,
ironically, in Plato’s ideal (pagan) states.
 CHAPTER TWO

Knowledge, Media, and

Communications
TIM DENECKER

Whether it was conceived of as being “imparted” or as being “recollected”

(or “brought back to mind”), knowledge naturally was as crucial a matter in
education in antiquity as it is today. The process of expanding knowledge in a
learner presupposes the transmission of a set of practical or theoretical skills,
which are (a) conceptually organized, (b) materially and formally represented,
and (c) communicatively “encoded” in a particular way. The present chapter
aims to deal with the general subject of ancient education according to these
three sub-domains. In doing so, particular attention will be paid to the place
and role of education within the broader sociocultural context of Greco-Roman
antiquity, from c. 500 bce to c. 500 ce.1

KNOWLEDGE
Humans, young and old, have their limitations as to how much knowledge they
can acquire and especially as to how much they can learn during a given time
span. Furthermore, when one wants to provide a spoken or written account
of a discipline or complex of disciplines, one cannot do so instantaneously
but instead is bound to do this in a “linear” or “serial” way. An inevitable
consequence of this reality is that those in charge of education start making
selections or “canons” of which knowledge is supposed to matter most and to
prescribe a certain sequence in which packages of knowledge (“subjects” or
32 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

“disciplines”) should ideally be acquired. The result of these endeavors are what
we would call curricula: theoretical models for the organization of knowledge.
In the ancient world, this need for the conceptualization of knowledge was
reinforced by what appears to have been a general predilection for repartition in
the intellectual mentality of the time. At least from Plato and Aristotle onwards,
ancient scholars (broadly defined) showed a remarkable preoccupation with
developing taxonomies (namely, with enumerating a discipline’s partes2) and
with making explicit the “minimal differences” between neighboring disciplines
or subdisciplines.3
By their very nature, these curricula were bound to deal with the priority of
some disciplines over others. If they did not do so explicitly, their choice was
in any case reflected in the order of books or chapters in which the respective
disciplines were dealt with. In his nine-volume Disciplinae, which he seems to
have written as one of his latest works, the Roman polymath Varro appears to
have discussed (pedagogical) grammar in Book 1 and thus to have presented
it as the basis for any thorough study of the other fields of learning.4 In the
established selection that seems to date back only to late antiquity, there are
seven artes liberales, namely “free arts” or “disciplines that are befitting of a
freeman.”5 More precisely, the seven artes liberales fall into the “linguistic” or
“discursive” disciplines of grammar, rhetoric, and dialectic (which are together
labeled the trivium), and the “mathematic” disciplines of arithmetic, geometry,
astronomy, and music (together called quadrivium or quadruvium).6 Although
the terminology is late and (evidently) Latin, the notion undoubtedly goes back
to that of the ἐγκύκλιος παιδεία, which is an essential part of the ideal of Greek
educationalists such as Isocrates.7 As was emphasized already by Marrou, the
term ἐγκύκλιος παιδεία should not be interpreted as a precise equivalent to the
modern notion of “encyclopedia” that has been derived from it.8 Rather than
“universal knowledge,” or a reference work purporting to contain it, the ancient
Greek ἐγκύκλιος παιδεία and its Roman heir were taken by Marrou to mean
culture générale, the kind of nonspecialized knowledge in various domains that
allows a “gentleman” to move freely in educated milieus.
A comparable case to that of Varro can be found in the early career of the
Church Father Augustine, who before his conversion worked as a teacher
of grammar and rhetoric, and who undertook to compose a comprehensive
encyclopedia of the liberal arts. Of this unfinished project, three books have
come down to us in some form or another: De grammatica, De rhetorica, and De
dialectica; that is to say, the books on the trivium.9 Among these “discursive” or
“linguistic” disciplines, grammar holds pride of place, and it is often considered
a “propaedeutic” to further studies (this is the case already in Dionysius Thrax).
It should be noted, however, that this role is not an absolute privilege for the
discipline of grammar. Depending on the advocate’s point of view, a similar
role could be assigned to philosophy, rhetoric, or mathematics (think of Plato’s
KNOWLEDGE, MEDIA, AND COMMUNICATIONS 33

adage ἀγεωμέτρητος μὴ εἰσίτω).10 The role of grammar as a propaedeutic lasted

on, and was even reinforced, in the Latin West of late antiquity and the early
Middle Ages. Indeed, Cassiodorus and Isidore of Seville—both of whom are
ofted regarded as the last author of antiquity and/or as the first of the Middle
Ages—expressly single out grammar as the origo et fundamentum liberalium
litterarum (“the origin and foundation of the liberal arts”).11
An important milestone in the history of ancient education in general, and
in the conceptualization of the contents of learning in particular, is the rise and
spread of Christianity.12 This monotheistic and, in many respects, “oriental”
religion brought with it a set of beliefs and values that were fundamentally
different from what had for centuries been “true” for Greeks and Romans.
Although properly Christian schools only began to emerge very late (during the
early Middle Ages in the West), there was a serious conflict between the classical
tradition and the new religion. Because of their perceivedly immoral and, at any
rate, polytheistic contents, many of the traditional school texts (among them,
most importantly, Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey, and their Latin counterpart,
Vergil’s Aeneid) posed a considerable problem for use in Christian educational
contexts. A strategy frequently applied in making the pagan contents of these
school classics serviceable for Christian use was that of allegorization. However,
this strategy could not possibly solve all of the discrepancies between both sets
of values and beliefs. In the Greek Christian world, Basil of Caesarea in his
treatise Πρὸς τοὺς νέους stated that pagan culture had to serve as a propaedeutic
facilitating the access to faith.13 Other strategies frequently adopted by Christian
intellectuals consisted in an outright rejection of the classical tradition, tracing
the classical tradition back to biblical roots, reinterpreting or reframing
problematic aspects of the classical tradition within a biblical framework, or
smoothly combining elements from both traditions.14 Augustine dealt with the
problematic relationship between Christianity and traditional education on
several occasions, but despite what their titles suggest, his works De doctrina
Christiana and De catechizandis rudibus are nothing quite like the systematic
treatment of the subject by Basil of Caesarea.
In view of the role of grammar as both propaedeutic and instrumental
to a serious study of the other disciplines, the question of the “parts” of the
discipline of grammar and of the “tasks” of its teachers deserves some further
consideration.15 The issue of the partes grammaticae is extensively reflected
upon in the grammatical tradition as it has come down to us. Quintilian’s
account of it reads as follows:
Although (to put it in a word) this subject comprises two parts – the study of
correct speech and the interpretation of the poets – there is more of it behind
the scenes than meets the eye. The principles of writing are closely connected
with those of speaking, correct reading is a prerequisite of interpretation,
and judgement is involved in all these.16
34 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

Thus, in Quintilian’s opinion, what the grammaticus is supposed to teach is (a) the
correct use of spoken language, and (b) the correct interpretation of written (in
particular poetic) language. The emphasis on the correctness of spoken language
evidently relates to the higher aim of Quintilian’s treatment of grammar: within
the general framework of the Institutio oratoria, the “grammar handbook” at
the outset of this work provides the basis for the sound formation of the Roman
orator.17 As is well known, once students of rhetoric had acquired a sufficient
mastery of grammar, they could move on with preparatory rhetorical exercises
(Gr. προγυμνάσματα), followed by the fully-fledged rhetorical exercises known
as μελέται in Greek or as controversiae and suasoriae in Latin.18 A somewhat
more detailed account than Quintilian’s is proposed by the fourth-century
grammarian Diomedes, who acknowledges his debt to (a lost passage in) Varro:
As Varro asserts, the tasks of grammar consist of four parts: reading,
interpretation, correction, and judgment. Reading is the artful (first)
interpretation, or the varied pronunciation of every writing, in agreement
with the dignity of the persons, and expressing the state of mind of each of
them. Interpretation is the explanation of obscure senses and issues, or the
investigation by which we resolve the condition of every single aspect by
means of short poetic glosses. Emendation is that by which we put everything
in good order as the locus itself demands, taking into consideration the various
opinions of all commentators, or else it is the re-correction of mistakes that
arise in writing or in speech. Judgment is that by which all of us in particular
evaluate speech that has been pronounced correctly or not quite correctly, or
the evaluation by which we ponder a poem and other writings.19
Since this “grammatical” or “philological” method remained one of the crucial
skillsets that Roman pupils acquired at school, it also provided the basis for the
biblical philology practiced by those authors known as the Church Fathers. This
is true most importantly for the Greek Church Father Origen and for his Latin
one-time epigon Jerome as well as for Augustine.20 In general, one can say that
the strategies for reading and explaining the pagan school classics gradually
gave rise to the various approaches adopted in biblical exegesis.21 It should also
be noted that in all theoretical models such as the ones formulated by Quintilian
and Diomedes, the first step in the approach to a text consists in reading it out
loud correctly (ἀνάγνωσις or [emendata] lectio), which already involves a first
element of interpretation (viz. a correct accentuation and a correct division in
words, word groups, and sentences); from the early Middle Ages onwards, this
practice would continue in the form of lectio divina.22
Furthermore, it can be observed from both Quintilian’s and Diomedes’
accounts that in the school practice of the grammarian, a crucial role was
reserved for linguistic (and stylistic) correctness. In the grammatical or, more
broadly, philological tradition, this linguistic and stylistic correctness was usually
KNOWLEDGE, MEDIA, AND COMMUNICATIONS 35

identified as Ἑλληνισμός or as Latinitas, for Greek and Latin respectively.23 In

close connection with the competition between “analogists” and “anomalists”
in ancient debates on language structure, this norm for a correct use of Greek
and Latin could be based on various criteria, most importantly (in the Latin
terminology proposed by Varro): natura (the nature of language), ratio
(analogy), consuetudo (usage), and auctoritas (the authority of good writers).24
Although this historical connection needs further investigation, it seems
justified to assume that by way of the medieval and early modern traditions of
normative Latin(ate) grammar, ancient reflection on ( Ἑλληνισμός and) Latinitas
have played a role of importance in the development of modern and present-
day discourse on “standard languages.”25

MEDIA
As a part of his attack on pagan philosophy, the Christian Latin author Lactantius
in his Divinae institutiones makes the following statement: “These common
letters [of the alphabet] need to be learnt because of their use in reading, since
in such a great variety of subjects everything cannot be learnt by hearing nor be
contained in memory.”26 While this passage is echoed in the seventh century by
Isidore of Seville, it is reminiscent of, and probably inspired by the expositions
on the matter at issue in Cicero and Augustine.27 Indeed, in the transmission of
information and the acquisition of knowledge, writing and reading play a role
of primary importance. Following Lactantius’ account, one can say that the
support of writing makes up for the limitations of memory.28 While in general
we have to assume the primacy of speech in concrete didactic situations (cf.
below), knowledge is organized and (at least temporarily) “fixed” in writing,
and the written documents that result from this are our foremost sources about
ancient education. It should of course be noted, in this regard, that the general
level of literacy was much lower in antiquity than it is today.29 On the one hand,
this limited availability of literacy gave rise to a high social value being attributed
to it; on the other, the mystery that surrounded it (as well as its intuitiveness
for people who did master it) led to an intensive reflection on the practical and
organizational as well as the symbolic and mystical value of writing.30
In ancient literary sources, we encounter interesting accounts of the ways in
which (young) learners were supposed to learn the alphabet by heart. Valuable
information on didactic aids in this learning process can be found in Jerome’s
Epistula 107, a letter addressed to his female pupil Laeta about the education of
her daughter Paula and, by extension, about the ideal education of a Christian
girl:31
Letters must be made for her, either in boxwood or in ivory, and must be
called by their names. She must play with these, so that even her play teaches
36 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

her something, and not only must she grasp the order of the letters, so that
her recollection of their names grows into a rhyme, but the very order of the
letters should often be disarranged, the final letters mixed with the middle
ones, the middle ones with the first ones, so that she comes to know them not
only by sound, but also by sight.32
As is often the case in Jerome and in other Latin authors concerned with matters
of education, this is advice that goes back to Quintilian,33 who in Institutio
oratoria writes that:
Nor do I rule out the well-known practice of giving ivory letter-shapes to
play with, so as to stimulate little children to learn – or indeed anything else
one can think of to give them more pleasure, and which they enjoy handling,
looking at, or naming.34
In Jerome and even more clearly in Quintilian, it is interesting to observe a
considerable empathy in the child’s mind and an awareness that one should
adapt one’s didactic approach to the child’s capabilities and interests, in
particular when it comes to learning the alphabet.35
Quite naturally, the act of writing presupposes a material bearer. As is well
known, written characters in antiquity could be applied on stone, wood, wax
tablets, papyrus, parchment, pottery, and other (improvised) writing materials.
On these material bearers, the information to be transmitted in the process
of education was organized or represented in a particular way, which in a
number of cases became increasingly systematized and codified. Indeed, the
texts that were used in ancient education should be regarded as “technical
texts” (Fachtexte),36 the material organization of which reflects or reinforces the
conceptual organization of a particular domain of knowledge. From an ancient
perspective, this can be understood as an information-specific application of
the notion of mimesis, while adopting a more recent theory developed by
Zellig Harris,37 this can be considered a case of a “science sublanguage” in
the representation of information.38 Items belonging to the same group can be
represented in lists or tables, possibly distinguishing different subcategories. If
other criteria are lacking, a minimal logic can be introduced in these lists by
means of an alphabetical organization,39 which can follow just the first letter
or the first two letters of the respective words. This organization was evidently
most frequently adopted in the case of dictionaries and glossaries. A columnar
presentation is particularly useful for bi- or multilingual materials, such as school
dialogues in Greek and Latin,40 or Origen’s Bible edition known as the Hexapla,
which presents six Bible versions in as many parallel columns. In a number of
cases, illustrations could also be added. The other way around, the practice of
memorizing information also left its traces in the organization of knowledge.
To hark back to the case of grammar, it has for instance been demonstrated that
KNOWLEDGE, MEDIA, AND COMMUNICATIONS 37

the routine of memorizing gave rise to the stereotyped sequence in which the
eight parts of speech are mostly ordered.41
It should be noted that also with regard to the material bearers for
information, an important role was reserved for the rise of Christianity. Indeed,
it has often been argued that introduction of Christianity played a decisive part
in the shift from scroll to codex. The other way around, the Bible and the
(often collective) reading of it constituted an essential component of Christian
culture, Christians tellingly identifying themselves as (the) “People of the
Book.”42 Whereas reading literary texts in a group and out loud had been a
means of forming élite communities in classical antiquity,43 this was replaced in
late antiquity by reading the Bible and explaining it, mostly in a group and out
loud; with Haines-Eitzen, one can speak of “textual communities.”44
In general, it seems safe to state that ancient education was strongly text-
bound; this seems true not just for the “linguistic” or “discursive” disciplines,
but also for the scholarly disciplines which nowadays we would classify as
“exact” or “natural sciences.” This is particularly clear in the production of
commentaries, which—generally speaking—were originally closely related to
literary, legal, and scientific “source texts” but gradually became more “self-
centered.” In particular, from some time in the fifth century onwards, the
Latin West witnessed a real upsurge in the production of commentaries upon
grammatical works, in particular those of Aelius Donatus. The contrast that
gradually arose between the often rather concise school classics on the one hand
and the sometimes very prolix commentaries on the other can be illustrated by
means of two corresponding passages in Aelius Donatus and his notoriously
verbose commentator Pompeius (who was active in the fifth or sixth century,
most likely in Northern Africa). In §1 of his beginner-level Ars minor, Donatus
comments as follows on the parts of speech: “How many parts of speech are
there? Eight. Which ones? Noun, pronoun, verb, adverb, participle, conjunction,
preposition, interjection.”45 His treatment is somewhat more extensive in §2.1
of the more advanced Ars maior:
There are eight parts of speech: noun, pronoun, verb, adverb, participle,
conjunction, preposition, interjection. Of these two are the principal parts
of speech: noun and verb. The Latins do not count the article, the Greeks
do not count the interjection. Many count more, many count fewer parts of
speech.46
Pompeius (who mostly approached Donatus through the commentaries of his
predecessors Servius and “Sergius”) in his Commentum artis Donati deals with
the same problem in the following way:
The parts of speech are eight in number: in many (grammarians) we find
nine, in many ten, in many eleven; we also find five of them. Others say
38 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

there are two parts of speech; other say there are five parts, others eight,
others nine, others ten, others eleven. Donatus, however, says eight. Indeed,
opinions vary. Many say there are two parts of speech, the noun and the verb,
as among the philosophers also the Aristotelians say; many say five. Those
who say there are five parts of speech omit the pronoun, as they believe it
belongs to the nouns; they omit the adverb and the participle, because they
believe it is part of the verb. So there remain five: noun, verb, preposition,
conjunction, interjection. Others say there are nine, separating articles from
pronouns. Others say there are ten parts of speech, separating articles from
pronouns and interjections from adverbs.47
Although Pompeius takes the repetitiveness and prolixity to an extreme, his
approach is illustrative of the practice of commentary in late antiquity (and
the early Middle Ages): issues concisely singled out by the “primary” author
are extensively problematized, and diverging opinions are integrated in extenso
and, in some cases, duly evaluated as against the authoritative stance of the
primary author. It should furthermore be noted that Pompeius’ commentary, in
spite of—or perhaps rather thanks to—its extreme wordiness, is a particularly
valuable source for the school practice of linguistic education. It has been
argued that his commentary, more than any other text on Latin grammar that
has come down to us, reflects the real-life interaction between the grammaticus
and his pupil(s).48 More exactly, however, we should probably assume with
Kaster that the interaction reflected by the commentary is not so much one
between a teacher and “normal” pupils but, rather, between a senior teacher
and his younger trainee.49
A very interesting type of school text, which is highly familiar even to
present-day language learners, is that of the colloquia or school dialogues
(sometimes rather school “monologues”), which have been transmitted as part
of the so-called Hermeneumata Pseudodositheana. Presumably, these colloquia
were originally conceived as Latin-learning materials for native speakers of
Greek. They were routinely laid out on the material bearer in a columnar
format, juxtaposing the Latin and the Greek text divided into short phrases or
single words.50 These “colloquia of the Hermeneumata Pseudodositheana” have
been critically edited with an extensive commentary as well as made accessible
to a broader audience by Dickey.51 The collection includes the Colloquia
Monacensia-Einsidlensia, the Colloquia Leidense-Stephani, the Colloquia
Stephani, the Colloquium Harleianum, the Colloquium Montepessulanum,
and the Colloquium Celtis. Most of these colloquia have known a complicated
transmission history, and many of them were at some point used “in reverse,” as
Greek-learning materials for native speakers of Latin. A representative extract
from a bilingual colloquium will be quoted below.
KNOWLEDGE, MEDIA, AND COMMUNICATIONS 39

COMMUNICATIONS
Despite the importance of writing and reading, in most cases we are bound to
assume the primacy of speech over writing in the concrete educational settings
that have taken place throughout antiquity. At the same time, much of the
“spoken” instruction takes the specific form of commenting upon literary
classics: reading school texts line by line or word by word, and elucidating
linguistic issues or historical realia that allow for a full understanding of the text
at hand (cf. the commentary format, discussed above).
In the Greek world, the linguistic constellation of educational situations
seems to have been relatively straightforward. Although the Latin language
and Latin literature from a certain point in time seem to have played a role of
some importance in the Greek world,52 we can safely assume that in the eastern
half of the Roman Empire, Greek continued to be the primary language of
education. For the Latin world, the situation is somewhat more complicated.
Although the Romans originally seem to have known an educational system
that was more or less restricted to a corpus of learning in Latin exclusively,
the Greek educational and literary tradition started to play an important
(“directive”) role from an early point onwards. The result of this was that by
the time of Quintilian (first century ce), it seems to have become normative
for upper-class Roman boys to be educated in Greek before they started to
learn Latin. The relevant testimony in Quintilian’s Institutio oratoria reads as
follows:
I prefer a boy to begin by speaking Greek, because he will imbibe Latin, which
more people speak, whether we will or no; and also because he will need to
be taught Greek learning first, it being the source of ours too. However, I do
not want a fetish to be made of this, so that he spends a long time speaking
and learning nothing but Greek, as is commonly done. This gives rise to
many faults both of pronunciation (owing to the distortion of the mouth
produced by forming foreign sounds) and of language, because the Greek
idioms stick in the mind through continual usage and persist obstinately even
in speaking the other tongue. So Latin ought to follow not far behind, and
soon proceed side by side with Greek. The result will be that, once we begin
to pay equal attention to both languages, neither will get in the way of the
other.53
As can be seen from this passage, Quintilian warns his readers of the risk
of educating Roman boys exclusively in Greek for too long but not against
the risk of starting their education in Greek. It is thus clear that the Roman
educational system—as with so many other compartments of Roman
culture—was essentially bilingual, Latin and Greek. Indeed, a competence
40 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

utraque lingua for a long time remained the ideal for Roman male adults.
In the Roman world, any man of importance (in law and government) was
bound to be fluent in Greek or at least to have enjoyed a thorough training
in the Greek classics (although the range of bilingualism covers a whole array
of degrees, and low-level competence in Greek was presumably widespread
in the less-elevated social echelons). It is probably in the conservative
aristocratic families in the city of Rome that the study and knowledge of
Greek persisted longest,54 but one can also point to the circle of Claudianus
Mamertus in fifth-century Gaul, and to that of Boethius in sixth-century
Italy.55 Although this bilingual education continued to constitute the ideal
situation in principle, in practice it faded away in the Latin world of late
antiquity. Whereas Latin Christianity developed out of its Greek predecessor
and at least for some time continued to use Greek as its “official” liturgical
language, Augustine is often singled out as the first “Church Father” who was
no longer competent in Greek.56 Indeed, Augustine, in a famous passage in
his Confessiones, describes the dislike and even disgust he had felt as a boy
at studying Greek:
Why then did I also hate Greek letters, which sing of similar things? For
Homer, too, was skilled at weaving such little stories and is vain in a most
delightful way. Yet to me as a boy he was bitter. Now I think that Vergil is
just so to Greek boys, when they are forced to learn him in the way that I
[had to learn] Homer. Obviously it is the difficulty, the difficulty of learning
a foreign language at all, that as it were sprinkles gall over all the Greek
delights of their fabulous tellings. For I did not know any of those words and
with cruel fears and punishments it was violently urged upon me to get to
know them.57
In spite of this (relative) ignorance of Greek, Augustine on several occasions
singles out the cultural superiority of Greek, for instance in De civitate Dei 8.2:
“Insofar as literature in Greek is concerned, the language which is considered
brighter than all other languages (…)”58 In addition to “prestige” in general, the
phrase clarior habetur may also involve the notions or perceptions of a brighter
sound and/or a stronger intellegibility or logicality.59 Of course, this more or less
unfounded admiration for Greek is deeply rooted in the linguistic assumption
and translational commonplace that Latin is lexico-semantically “poorer” than
Greek, which can be found in the works of Lucretius, Cicero, and Quintilian.60
Lucretius famously refers to the difficulty of translating Greek science into Latin
“because of the poverty of [our] language and the novelty of the matter,”61 and
the phrase patrii sermonis egestas is his too.62 It is worth pointing out that the
“poverty” of the Latin language was also explicitly posited by Christian Greek
authors, such as Basil of Caesarea and Acacius of Beroea.63
KNOWLEDGE, MEDIA, AND COMMUNICATIONS 41

Although the classical ideal of a bilingual competence involving Latin as

the native language and Greek as the high-prestige acquired language faded
away relatively quickly during late antiquity, it survived in at least two clearly
distinguishable ways. One the one hand, the ideal was—in a way—inverted,
in that many inhabitants of the eastern half of the empire and, later on, in
the Byzantine Empire, felt the need to learn Latin as a high-prestige (or high-
efficiency) second language in addition to their Greek native language. The
purposes for which they could do so included a career in law and (imperial)
administration, in acclamations as well as in commerce or the military.64 In
many of these domains, Latin is well known to have left clear traces on the
“specialized” Greek vocabulary. Furthermore, there was probably an intricate
interplay between literature (belles-lettres) written in Latin and Greek (although
this remains a matter of debate), and for a long time Latin remained very much
present in the Greek world.65
A second type of persistence of the “classical” ideal of bilingual competence
in Latin and Greek consisted in that it was extended even further, by means
of an (idealized) competence in Hebrew, the most important source language
of the Old Testament (with Aramaic as a distant second). Within a biblical-
Christian framework, this trilingual ideal was justified or reinforced by the
inscription in Hebrew, Greek, and Latin on Christ’s cross, as described in the
Gospels of John (19:20) and of Luke (23:38). Moreover, the ideal of at least
understanding the Greek and Hebrew source versions of the Bible was actively
propagated by the Greek Church Father Origen by means of his Hexapla (which
included the Hebrew text; cf. above on its columnar layout) and—much more
intensively—by Jerome, who did not miss an occasion to proclaim himself the
vir trilinguis who thanks to his command of Hebrew allegedly had access to
the Hebraica veritas.66 Jerome’s contemporary Augustine—the two never met
but their epistolary exchange has been preserved67—was initially reluctant to
accept Jerome’s trilingual ideal: it forced Latin Christians to make changes
to the Bible text as it had long been established in the liturgy, and as such
it allegedly raised unease and even protest in the congregations of Northern
Africa. But gradually Augustine started to embrace and to actively promote the
ideal:68 in De civitate Dei 18.43 he refers in praising terms to the translators
of the Septuagint, “men of great learning in both languages” (linguae utriusque
doctissimi)—Greek and Hebrew—but subsequently expresses his even greater
praise for Jerome, “a very learned man (homo doctissimus), skilled in all three
language (omnium trium linguarum peritus), who translated the Bible not from
Greek, but from Hebrew into the Latin language.” However, both in Augustine
and in his successors, the ideal of an active or even a reading competence in
Greek and Hebrew in addition to Latin remained a dead letter. Instead, the
lexical knowledge of Hebrew and other oriental languages that Jerome had
introduced in the Western world crystallized in lexica meant as tools in biblical
42 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

exegesis, such as those included in the Instructiones ad Salonium by Eucherius

of Lyons, the Institutiones by Cassiodorus, and the Etymologiae by Isidore.69
The cultural prestige of Greek in the West had important consequences in
particular for the elaboration of Latin grammatical doctrine, in which Greek
clearly played the role of a model language or a “super-standard.” Greek
grammarians had developed a rather sophisticated model for the description
of their language,70 which included a classification of eight so-called “parts of
speech.”71 In transferring this model from the Greek tradition to the (normative)
description of their own language, Latin grammarians went to great lengths
to identify a number of “characteristically Greek” elements in the language
structure of Latin.72 Some notable instances are those of the “(definite) article,”
the “dual number,” and the “optative mood.”73 In the opposite direction, Latin
grammarians extensively thematized the Latin ablative case, which Greek did
not have.74 Let us look in some more detail at only one of these instances:
the Greek definite article (prenominal [definite] determiner) was lacking in the
language structure of Latin, but in the Latin grammatical tradition it was often
replaced by the demonstrative pronoun hic haec hoc, in particular in order to
render explicit the gender, case, and number in nominal paradigms, clearly for
didactic purposes. Whereas the article was included as one of the eight “parts of
speech” or word classes for Greek, it was substituted for the interjection in Latin
grammar. In this connection, Quintilian observes in Institutio oratoria 1.4.19
that “our language feels no need for articles,” and that “for this reason they are
scattered over the other parts of speech.”75 Likewise, another prominent voice
in the Latin grammatical tradition, Aelius Donatus, notes in Ars minor 1 that
“the Latins do not count the article, the Greeks do not count the interjection.”76
These two statements and the extensive attention that Latin grammarians
devote to this—in fact trivial—difference between Greek and Latin is indicative
of the authority and normativity of Greek and its grammatical tradition in the
description of the Latin language.
For language learners of all times and places, acquiring or assimilating a
second language always also involves assimilating a set of sociocultural attitudes,
assumptions, and aspirations. In this way, ancient linguistic education provides
important clues as to the processes of social and geographical mobility: learning
a second language, especially a high-prestige language that serves as a standard
language in official domains, allows one to move on, geographically and/or on
the social scale. This is probably documented most clearly in the bilingual papyri,
which indeed provide highly relevant information on Latin as a “language of
acculturation” in Greco-Roman Egypt.77
Many representative examples are now easily accessible thanks to Dickey’s
Learning Latin the Ancient Way: Latin Textbooks from the Ancient World, which
is a remarkable “recuperation” of ancient Latin-learning materials for present-
day didactic purposes.78 Whereas several preserved fragments from these
KNOWLEDGE, MEDIA, AND COMMUNICATIONS 43

colloquia or (roughly) “school dialogues” relate closely to the didactic setting

and the duties of the classroom, many of them also evoke the characteristically
Roman life that Greek-speaking pupils could envisage, provided that they did
their best to learn Latin. In other words, these colloquia picture scenes from
the life of a Roman male adult, such as various social obligations, a visit to the
bank or a dinner party, or a discussion in a lawcourt. The following colloquium,
which comes from the Colloquia Monacensia-Einsidlensia, evokes a visit to the
baths. It is important to note that in the presentation adopted by Dickey and
reproduced in Table 2.1, the English translation replaces the Greek version of
the source text.

TABLE 2.1 Colloquium

“Deferte sabana “Take the towels down

ad balneum, to the bath,
striligem, the strigil,
faciale, face-cloth,
pedale, foot-cloth,
ampulam, flask (of oil),
aphronitrum. soap.
Antecedite, Go ahead (of us),
occupate locum.” get a place.”
(…) (…)
“Exspolia te.” “Take off your clothes.”
“Discalcia me, “Take off my shoes,
compone vestimenta, put the clothes together,
cooperi, serva bene; cover (them), watch (them) well;
ne obdormias, don’t doze off,
propter fures.” on account of the thieves.”
“Rape nobis pilam; “Grab a ball for us;
ludamus in sphaeristerio.” let’s play in the ball-court.”
“Exerceri volo “I want to practice
in ceromate. on the wrestling-ground.
Veni, luctemus Come, let’s wrestle
post tempus after a while
uno momento.” for a moment.”
(…) (…)
44 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

TABLE 2.1 Colloquium (Continued)

“Introeamus in cellam primam “Let’s go into the first room,

tepidaria. the tepidarium.
Da balnitori nummos; Give the bath-keeper coins;
recipe reliquum. get the change.
Unge.” Anoint (me).”
“Unxi.” “I have anointed (you).”
“Ungo me.” “I anoint myself.”
“Frica.” “Rub (me).”
“Veni ad sudatorium.” “Come to the sweat-room.”
“Sudas?” “Are you sweating?”
“Sudo; “I am sweating;
lassus sum.” I am exhausted.”
(…) (…)
“Accede ad luterem; “Go over to the basin;
perfunde te.” pour (water) over yourself.”
“Perfudi; “I have poured (it);
resumpsi.” I have put (the basin) up again.”
“Porrige striligem; “Hand me the strigil;
deterge me. rub me down.
Cinge sabana. Wrap the towels around (me).
Terge mihi caput Dry my head
et pedes. and feet.
Da caligulas, Give (me my) shoes,
calcia me. put on my shoes.
Porrige amiclum, Hand (me my) underwear,
pallam, dalmaticam. mantle, Dalmatian tunic.
Colligite vestimenta Gather up the clothes
et omnia nostra. and all our things.
Sequimini ad domum, Follow (me) home,
et emite nobis and buy for us,
a balnea minutalia from the bath-shop, chopped food
et lupinos and lupins
et fabas acetatas.” and beans in vinegar.”
“Bene lavasti, “You bathed well;
bene tibi sit.” may it be well for you.”

Source: Adapted from Dickey 2016: 46–9.

KNOWLEDGE, MEDIA, AND COMMUNICATIONS 45

Several elements can be gathered from this extensive but illustrative quotation:
by studying this colloquium and the Latin vocabulary contained in it, the
pupil—presumably a native speaker of Greek—became acquainted with, or was
reminded of, the typically Roman setting of the baths; their usual infrastructure
and the social habits or “rituals” maintained in them; the activities that it
allowed for; and the various objects that were involved in these activities. But
the pupil was also reminded of, or instructed on, the norms of interaction
between even young male Romans and their slaves, which at least from this
dialogue appear to have been clearly asymmetrical but still familiar. All of these
can be interpreted as elements of acculturation that accompany the process of
language learning. Next to the transmission of knowledge, the internalization
of values and behaviors was clearly as crucial a matter in education in antiquity
as it is today.

CONCLUSION
From the preceding account on knowledge, media, and communications in
ancient education, a number of main traits can be singled out. Probably the
most important ones are: (a) the relative stereotypicity of curricula or “canons”
of learning and the prominent place occupied in these by the discipline of
grammar; (b) the paradoxical relation between the primacy of speech over
writing in the actual didactic settings on the one hand and the centrality of
certain canonical writings in the “commentary culture” of ancient education
on the other; and (c) the close but asymmetrical interaction between Greek and
Latin as “languages of education” in use around the Mediterranean. Although
many changes evidently took place in educational practices between 500 bce and
500 ce, it is noteworthy that these main traits hold good for most or all of the
time covered.
46
 CHAPTER THREE

Children and Childhood

ANNA LUCILLE BOOZER

INTRODUCTION
This chapter explores the learning experiences of children. My focus strays
beyond academic education to dwell upon experiential learning, such as
learning how to communicate, understanding social norms, and beginning
vocational training. In exploring this wide range of educational experiences, I
take an intersectional approach to childhood learning, examining the impact of
age, sex, socio-economic class, and ability on the experiences of childhood and
learning experiences.
The source material for this study derives from the sixth century bce until
the sixth century ce and comes from the Greek and Roman worlds. In order to
gain insights into the longue durée of childhood learning I also draw selectively
from anthropological research and other historical periods. Children continue
to traverse the same developmental phases today as they did in antiquity,
thereby opening up the possibility to use this material to understand the ancient
world more vibrantly.
In terms of structure, this chapter follows the life course, extending from
infancy into later childhood and ending at approximately eighteen years of
age. I follow the age brackets commonly employed for these life stages because
they generally encompass the physical and mental developmental changes
experienced by children in both antiquity and today. Of course, chronological
age is less significant than the individual’s experiences of these physical and
mental changes. We witness this disparity most vividly in the experiences of
disabled children, but they are present in the lives of every individual. Personal
48 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

circumstances, shaped by self, family, and society, informed the rate and mode
of how each child traversed through developmental phases. Moreover, external
appearances shaped social perceptions more than chronological age. The reader
should therefore understand these developmental phases as suggested brackets
rather than as firm categories of childhood educational development.

INFANCY (BIRTH TO AGE 3)

Birth begins a lifetime of learning experiences. Human offspring are born more
helpless than the offspring of other mammals. The first days and months of life
are spent in a completely dependent state. While in this state of dependency,
caregivers helped to transition the infant from life in the womb to life outside
of it. For example, the child was bathed to remove meconium, vernix, and
other bodily fluids associated with childbirth.1 Soranus advised gently rubbing
the newborn’s skin with fine salt to remove the last traces of this coating.2 The
midwife, or other women, removed mucus from the nose, mouth, and ears.
Sometimes these assistants left the umbilical cord attached to the child. It would
dry and fall off of its own accord. Plutarch compared neonates to plants, perhaps
because the umbilical cord looked like a stem.3 Galen recommended swaddling
infants immediately after birth because their bodies were considered pliable,
as if made of wax.4 Current thought suggests that swaddling infants before
six months of age calms the child, reduces the chance of sudden infant death
syndrome (SIDS), and helps them learn to adjust to the myriad new stimuli they
experience in life outside of the womb.5
From Hippocrates to late antiquity infants were defined as a different
category of persons from older children or adults. The literature often ascribed
negative characteristics to them, such as being incomplete, weak, and ugly.6
For example, Aristotle and Plato considered newborns to be physically week as
well as mentally and morally lacking.7 Many writers linked young children to
other people who were categorized as inferior, such as the elderly, the disabled,
the mentally unstable, drunks, women, and dwarfs.8 For many centuries, such
views informed infant care practices, such as swaddling, massage, and feeding,
in order to shape these malleable bodies in positive ways as the child grows
older.9
Occasionally sources from the Greek and Roman worlds remarked on the
more positive qualities of infants, such as soft, sweet-smelling skin, charming
smiles, and babbling.10 Egyptians were thought to be particularly fond of
children.11 This understanding may have been based upon the great attention
given to children in both domestic and civic life. For example, various religious
festivals, such as the Harpokrateia, focused on children and involved special
foods prepared in their honor.12 Whether because parents were in Egypt or
because they were ordinary people rather than philosophers, the papyri
CHILDREN AND CHILDHOOD 49

suggest that they dwelled on the positive qualities more often than the negative
associations that philosophers wrote about. This evidence is important for our
understanding of childhood education because parents engaging with their
children in positive ways—emotionally and physically—helps them to socialize
and adjust to life outside of the womb.
The first learning experience for most children was breastfeeding. When
placed on the mother’s body immediately after birth children are capable of
pushing themselves up to the breast and beginning to feed. The smell of the
mother’s first milk, known as colostrum, smells similar to amniotic fluid in
order to attract the infant’s instincts. Breastfeeding, however, is not nearly as
straightforward as it seems. Some infants have mouths that are not well suited to
suckling, at least at first, and need to be fed by a spoon or cup. In other instances,
the mother’s milk does not come in as planned, which causes problems with
regular feedings. In this instance, outside help in the form of a wet nurse was
required. Moreover, vitamin D deficiencies are not infrequent among breastfed
babies in contemporary society, which in turn can lead to rickets.13
Although breastfeeding was the norm in antiquity, we hear little about
mothers feeding their own children. No one felt the need to record such
information since contracts for biological mothers were irrelevant. We learn
about breastfeeding primarily in reference to professional wet nurses, who were
used either because they were preferred to the biological mother or because they
were necessary due to the death or absence of the biological mother. Wet nurses
might also be necessary if the mother had problems producing milk or refused
to feed her child for fear of it spoiling her beauty.14 These wet nurses could be
slaves, hired help, or family members. Choosing an appropriate wet nurse was
not simply about providing the child with nourishment. It was believed that
breast milk transferred moral character as well as mental and physical health
to the child.15 The emotional relationship between the wet nurse and the child
also should not be underestimated. The close physical contact and tenderness
involved in nursing helped to forge bonds between the child and the person
feeding it.16 In Roman Egypt, wet nurses were required to follow a specific diet
and to abstain from sex; a new pregnancy would disrupt the flow of breastmilk.17
Elsewhere in the Roman world we find evidence that some enslaved wet nurses
were rewarded with freedom in recognition of their service.18
Although infants are completely dependent in this phase of childhood, they
still progress in their learning. Their sensory organs and ability to examine
life outside of the womb increase rapidly. Their eyes begin to be able to focus
and apprehend images with increasing clarity. They learn how to make facial
expressions, such as smiling and making eye contact, between six and twelve
weeks of life. By six months, most infants have accommodated themselves to the
sights, sounds, and smells outside of the womb. They also demonstrate fewer
signs of colic, which is thought to be a form of distress experienced during the
transitional months immediately after birth.
50 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

The introduction of solid foods, which usually takes place at about six
months of age in contemporary Western culture, begins the infant’s transition to
increased independence. Soranus advocated for the slow introduction of adult
human food.19 Cereal-based gruels and porridge were common first foods.20
Honey, which figures strongly in the treatment of children in early childhood,
was recommended as a supplement to transition foods during the weaning
process.21 Infant weaning leaves a physical imprint upon the human body so
it is possible to corroborate Soranus’ advice archeologically. By using stable
nitrogen and carbon isotope analysis of the remains of skeletons, fauna, and
flora in the Dakhleh Oasis, scholars concluded that the weaning process would
have begun at about six months of age by gradually introducing millet-fed goat
or cow milk.22 Infants continued to breastfeed as they learned how to consume
food, gradually tapering off either by self-initiation or by the adult refusing to
continue to feed them. By the age of two or three an infant was fully weaned.23
Teething usually begins at the age of six or seven months, which coincides
with the onset of weaning. Teething can lead to gum ulcerations, which
can quickly degenerate and lead to death, a problem that Roman medical
practitioners were well aware of.24 Lacerations to the mouth were usually
treated with honey, which acts as a mild cleaner.25 Teething continues
throughout the first two years of life as the child also learns how to
manipulate and consume solid foods. After the age of two, many children can
eat somewhat independently.
Children develop the ability to talk later than they develop hand gestures and
other physical ways of communicating their wants and needs. Infants can use
sign language to express themselves from approximately seven to nine months
of age. By approximately eighteen months of age, most toddlers can say about
twenty words. By the age of two, children can combine two words into simple
sentences, even if these sentences are grammatically incorrect. The ability to
express themselves, verbally and physically, expands rapidly between the ages
of two and three for most children.
Many children living in hot climates must have been naked during their
youngest years, forgoing both clothing and diapers. There is no evidence for the
Roman use of diapers.26 The lack of a diaper would make it easier to clean up
after the child and to toilet train them. Children lacking absorbent, comfortable
diapers come to associate urination and defecation with discomfort as they
grow older, which accelerates the toilet training process.27 Close attention to
facial and physical gestures, even prior to the act of evacuating the bowels,
enables adults to intervene and place the child in an appropriate place to relieve
themselves. Children gradually learned the signs of their own need to relieve
themselves as well as the appropriate place to do it. Although we do not know
when or how children were toilet trained, it was probably earlier than among
most modern children in the Western world. In some contemporary areas of
CHILDREN AND CHILDHOOD 51

the world that forgo diapers, it is common for children to be toilet trained well
before the age of two.28 Many children of these cultures only use appropriate
places for bowel movements by the age of one. Latin terminology differentiates
between a pisspot for men (matella), a pisspot for women (scaphium), and a
chamber pot for defecation (lasanum) that could be used by both men and
women. There is no special term used for a chamber pot for children. The
extant material remains of Roman toilets and chamber pots also do not
illuminate toilet training for children. This difficulty may be due to the use of
shared chamber pots rather than the differentiated ones that the Latin terms
suggest. For example, chamber pots from the civil town at Carentum dating
to the second century ce were usually very large, high, and conical oval vessels
with a round base and wide, flat, oval rims. The rim tended to be thicker on the
outside. This chamber pot form can be found in Italy and in the provinces of the
Roman Empire. These pots could hold around 11 liters of waste, but stains on
the interior suggest that they usually held only 1–2 liters. The large size of the
chamber pot suggests that it was probably used by several people, such as the
members of a family or household.29
When first born, babies are unable to hold up their own head, roll over, or
otherwise control their movements. In these early stages, children had to be
carried. A sling would have kept an infant close to the mother’s body while
enabling her to keep up with necessary tasks around the house. Long strips
of fabric are used in many cultures today to bind infants to their mother’s
body. Such forms of “baby-wearing” are also becoming more popular in the
Western world as they provide comfort to newborns and mobility to mothers.
Mothers also may have simply carried their child in their arms without any
additional aids. We find both of these carrying options illustrated in the Tomb
of Petosiris, which dates to the Ptolemaic period in Egypt (Figure 3.1).30 In
Roman art, children are usually shown held in the arms of their mother without
any aids. For example, Trajan’s column, scene XCI (113 ce, Rome, in situ
in Trajan’s forum), and Marcus Cornelius Statius’ biographical sarcophagus
(Paris Louvre Museum, Inv. No. Ma. 659; c. 150 ce, presumably from Ostia
Antica).
Children slowly gain the ability to roll over and hold up their own necks;
usually between the ages of four and six months. After this development,
most babies learn how to crawl between seven and ten months of age.31 Some
children develop alternative forms of locomotion; scooting on the bottom, log
rolling, or using a hand behind and a foot in front for balance. Although such
children may forgo crawling, it should not be understood as a developmental
issue. Unless there are other disabilities present, these children will walk at
a similar age to those who follow more conventional crawling methods of
movement. We know little about the transitions between crawling and walking
in the ancient world, which would reduce the need to carry a child at all
52 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

FIGURE 3.1 Tuna el-Gebel, Tomb of Petosiris, Pronaos, East wall, lowest course
(last quarter of the fourth century bce); an example of using both a sling and no aids to
carry children.

times.32 Most children are able to take their first steps between nine and twelve
months of age and are walking by the time they are fourteen or fifteen months
old. Despite a child being able to walk, they tire quickly and are not as stable
as older children, so their mobility could only be depended upon at home or
close to home.
Among children there are some special cases to consider that could occur
at any phase of life: adopted and fostered children as well as disabled ones.
These special cases impacted childhood learning differently. Some couples had
no surviving male children or were infertile. In such cases, adoption could be
carried out under Roman law. Adoption in the Greco-Roman world benefited
the adopter as much as the adoptee and could occur at any age, including
adulthood.33 In the event of an adoption at infancy, or during childhood, the
adopter raised and bequeathed his property to the child upon death. This setup
CHILDREN AND CHILDHOOD 53

safeguarded the paternal property. The earliest surviving contract for adoption
comes from the first half of the fourth century ce:
We, Heracles and his wife Isarion, on the one part agree that we have given
away to you, Horion, for adoption our son Patermouthis, aged about two
years, and I, Horion, on the other part, that I have him as my genuine
son (gnesion huion), so that the rights proceeding from succession to my
inheritance shall be maintained.34
Further on in this document, the adopting parent, Horion, pledged to raise
the child, to provide food, clothing, and an education as well as to make the
adopted child a lawful heir.35 Prior to placement in a long-term home these
children may have been developmentally challenged due to neglect. Following
the adoption or fosterage of a child, the educational path of the child typically
mirrored that of the biological offspring within their intersectional social group.
Less-formal forms of acquiring children were also available. Foundling
children, who were rescued from the rubbish upon which they were exposed,
were considered to be slaves and were called copriairetos (Ägypt. Urkunden
aus den k. Mus. zu Berlin. Bickerman E, 1104 [10 ce]. BGU 4 1104). Some
individuals likely raised such children as their own, however, rather than submit
the child to a life of servitude. For example, we learn of a boy foundling, named
Heraclas, who died while being nursed.36 It seems that Heracles would have
been raised as if he were a biological child had he lived.
Disabled children, unlike adopted or fostered children, followed different
educational paths during all phases of childhood and beyond. It is unclear
how we should understand ancient views of what constitutes a disability, even
though we know the Greek and Latin terms for disabilities such as blindness
and deafness. The concept of disability is socially determined.37 As with other
socially determined differences, such as sexuality, we lack sufficient source
material to understand the full scope of what mental and physical abilities
might be considered compromised in antiquity. We can get around this issue
somewhat by assuming that the types of disabilities occurring at birth today
probably also existed in antiquity, even if in somewhat different frequencies.
Disabilities acquired later in life due to accidents or ailments may have occurred
at greater frequencies than today due to the prevalence of physical labor,
working around livestock, and reduced hygiene in antiquity. The prevalence
of acquired disabilities may have normalized disabilities in social settings and
especially among family members.
Special educational paths began in infancy when parents first discovered their
child’s disability. Their awareness of a child’s special needs may have occurred
at birth or it may have arisen over time. When the disability was discovered
later in life, the child had a greater likelihood of familial acceptance than when
it was apparent at birth. Parents, especially mothers, may have felt responsible
54 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

for their child’s disability when it was discovered. In antiquity, many accounts
suggest that the maternal imagination was a cause for the so-called repugnant
appearance or reduced abilities of their child.38 In Christian eras, the view of
parental and maternal responsibility became even more pronounced as there
were various church restrictions on the timing of intercourse.39 It is uncertain
how far these religious prohibitions shaped everyday life and perceptions. Some
disabled children, or children unwanted for other reasons, were disposed of in
unknowable numbers. Romans were more explicit about the need to dispose
of disabled children than Greeks.40 While Romans accepted the disposal of
disabled children, this practice was circumscribed; a child born with a clear
disability (termed Infantizid in German) was much more likely to be disposed of
than a child whose disability only became apparent after they had been accepted
into the family (termed Pädizid in German).41

EARLY CHILDHOOD (AGES 3–8)

Early childhood was a phase of active learning about future household roles.
Children watch their parents’ daily activities, rituals, and dress. In the process
of this active observation, they learn the associated embedded social values
and norms of social behavior. Families pass along memories through quotidian
activities, such as preparing food and learning the family trade as well as
through names, genealogy, and religious rites.42 The objects of dress themselves,
as well as how they are worn, conveyed aspects of identity such as marital
status, gender, age, role, class, and ethnicity to others. Although today we may
not be able to unwind all of the meaning behind specific objects, ancient peoples
could do so and ancient children learned how to do so. Although objects and
the world around them introduce children to their own culture, gender roles,
and class, children are also inventive and subversive.43 Habitual and repetitive
learning tasks may have begun as imitation and play, but they also lead children
toward developing their own identities and ideas as they progress to adulthood.
Play serves an important role in childhood development. Although there
do seem to be purpose-built toys in the ancient world, archeologists must be
careful about labeling objects as “toys.”44 Children often play with the everyday
objects that surround them rather than using objects in their intended ways.45
On the other hand, some toys may not have been created to serve as dolls
but, instead, as votive objects or fertility figurines.46 In order to make the
distinction between an object created for child-play and one created for adults,
we need to analyze the physical features of the object, have an understanding
of the archeological context, and use the guidance of comparative material.
An ongoing, multidisciplinary project led by Véronique Dasen called Locus
Ludi promises to make significant advances in this arena through its holistic
exploration of toys and games from 800 bce to 500 ce.47
CHILDREN AND CHILDHOOD 55

On the basis of these three criteria, several objects from Karanis (Egypt)
might be interpreted as purpose-built toys, such as a wooden horse on wheels
(Accession Number 0000.00.3312), a miniature comb (Accession Number
0000.00.3162), and a rag doll (Accession Number 0000.01.0133) (Figure 3.2).
In addition to these purpose-built toys, children and family members might
also fashion simple toys out of everyday objects and materials. Mud served
as an available medium for children to appropriate for making toys (Figure
3.3). Other objects, such as baskets and blankets, can be used short term for
play before being returned to their primary functions. Some toys imitated adult
activities.48 Others imitated animals and humans. Although human figurines
have long been interpreted as useful for child socialization, children have their
own agency and often undermine social norms in their play, either intentionally
or not.49 Toys could, therefore, cover a wide range of materials, representations,
and degrees of formality.

FIGURE 3.2 Karanis rag doll.

56 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

FIGURE 3.3 Clay toys from Trimithis courtyard C2C.

When children are very young, they remain near to home and are supervised
by watchful family members. Excavations in a courtyard space (C2) at Trimithis
(Egypt) revealed cooking implements and clay figurines in close proximity to
one another (Figure 3.3).50 This distribution of objects suggests that children
may have played near their mother and older siblings while mothers carried out
other household tasks.
Children, and especially boys, are usually portrayed in art as very physically
active in early childhood. In a study of children’s sarcophagi across the Roman
Empire, Janet Huskinson demonstrates that boys are usually shown outside,
playing with balls, sticks, hoops, and nuts, and doing other physical games.
Their tunics are in disarray to underscore active movements. Girls are usually
shown to be indoors rather than in free space, and their clothing is more orderly
than those of the boys but less so than the clothing of adults.51 This emphasis
upon clothing is meaningful since gendered clothing shapes movement and
behavior in cultures with pronounced gender norms, such as the Roman world.52
Clothing norms would have made active movement among girls more difficult
than among boys from an early age. Although children could subvert this coded
message, it may also have been reinforced in other arenas. Disabled children
could have joined in with these typical activities unless they were extremely
physically hindered from doing so. Children usually adapt instinctively to the
various ability levels of other children.

MIDDLE CHILDHOOD (AGES 9–11)

During middle childhood, children became much more physically and mentally
independent and they became increasingly significant contributors to the
household. Childhood was not a privileged time in the ancient world.53 In
many preindustrial societies, children begin helping with chores by about the
CHILDREN AND CHILDHOOD 57

age of three.54 More strenuous tasks were gradually introduced as the child
grew older and became more capable of completing them. Well before the
age of ten, many children had become significant contributors to household
production.
Children’s bodies grow rapidly in middle childhood, but they rarely
demonstrate the dramatic changes and sex-based differences found in puberty.
Most radical visual changes are guided by gender norms. For example, female
circumcision is a common rite of passage from girl to woman in contemporary
Egypt and Sudan and is usually conducted in middle childhood.55 We have no
evidence for or against female circumcision in Roman Egypt and so there is
ongoing debate about its use. None of the relevant medical papyri mention
female circumcision or how to manage any of the complications that most
certainly would have arisen if such surgeries took place, and yet the longue durée
evidence suggest that it is a possibility.56 Gendered clothing and accessories
would have signaled physical differences between male and female children.
During middle childhood, children tend to explore space outside of the
home more regularly.57 They develop a sense of direction and knowledge about
how to return home. In small Egyptian villages today, children work and play
with one another while they move about, supervised by all of the adults in turn
rather than only by their own parent. It is unknown if there were special rules of
decorum regarding play between male and female children or between children
of different backgrounds. After infancy, children probably spent much of their
day without substantial adult supervision, so any rules that existed could easily
have been broken.
Children would have experienced space differently from adults.58 Height
is the most obvious difference, which would have structured what children
could see and access around them. For example, some scholars have looked
at both the form and placement of writing and drawing in public spaces at
Pompeii to argue that children produced them.59 Within the home, children
are often useful for certain tasks due to their small stature. I have argued that
children may have been sent to gather materials out of the small storage spaces
underneath the stairs in Trimithis House B2 because it would be easy for
them to use the trap doors and maneuver within confined spaces.60 In more
recent periods, children have been used to clean chimneys, wells, and cisterns
because of their small stature.61 Their short height also would have limited
what children could see within the home. Domestic religious rituals, which
focused upon wall niches high up on the wall, would have been less visible
to young children than to adults unless adults picked them up or held ritual
objects in front of them.
Given the multicultural cities and the mobility of even rural populations in
antiquity, many children would have been exposed to at least one language
different from that of their parents. Some children may have grown up bilingual.
58 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

Exposure to other languages was also possible, particularly in cities such as

Alexandria, which was a home to people from all over the Mediterranean.62
Unfortunately, linguistic ability is invisible in the archeological record because
written evidence does not approximate spoken language abilities.
Parents may have become concerned by the people with whom their children
spent time as they grew older. We learn of such worries from a third-century ce
letter from Eusebius to his friend Apollonius:
I take heart because you are looking after my lord son Sabinus. Being a child
(paida), it is necessary for him not to be led into undisciplined ways (ataxia),
and regarding this I believe that Epagathus will receive orders from you to
stay by him. And if those women, Adora and her crew, persist in their same
wantonness, let them be restrained by your severity, my lord, and by that of
my lady daughter Ptolemaïs.63
The father, Eusebius, worries about his son growing up around bad influences
and asks a male friend to keep an eye on him. The aim is for Sabinus to grow
up with good discipline so that he is well prepared for his adult life. Part of
childhood education involved learning how to select appropriate peers.

LATE CHILDHOOD (AGES 12–18)

The timing of the transition from adolescence to adulthood depended upon
the individual. Physical and social changes occur at different ages and rates for
each person. Since many of these physical changes usually occur in the early
teenage years, beginning around age twelve or thirteen in antiquity, this period
is considered to be late childhood. Of course, the external physical changes
that mark late childhood are usually more socially significant than a specific
chronological age.64
During late childhood, differences between the sexes become more physically
pronounced. Girls develop breasts, grow body hair, and experience the onset of
menstruation (menarche) as they develop into adulthood. The age at menarche
was much older in antiquity than it is in contemporary Western societies.65 The
age at menarche depends upon genetics, nutrition, and body fat percentage.
In many cultures there was a delay of one to two years between the onset of
menarche and the conception of the first child. Since women first began to
marry at the age of thirteen in the ancient world, and many more married in
their late teens, menarche might be estimated to occur for most girls between
the ages of twelve and fifteen.66
Menarche and menstruation were rarely recorded in any medium and so
we know little about this life experience or how women learned to manage
menstruation. Dominic Montserrat, a papyrologist, once suggested that
Romano-Egyptian women confined themselves to under-stairs cupboard areas
CHILDREN AND CHILDHOOD 59

for the duration of their menstruation.67 The archeological examples of these

areas are too small, difficult to access, and choked with storage items to allow
for such a practice. Furthermore, it was impractical and unnecessary for women
to isolate themselves for the duration of their menstruation.68 Although women
today have many options for dealing with menstruation, the limited options of
antiquity should not be viewed as a crippling burden. Women could easily use
cloth to catch their menstrual flow and continue with their daily tasks. These
cloths could be washed and reused each month. This method of dealing with
menses was the norm in the Western world until the mid-twentieth century.
Within developing countries today, access to feminine hygiene supplies and
cleaning facilities might be limited among poor segments of the population,
which can have a debilitating impact upon women and perceptions of them in
society.69 We can imagine equally difficult situations among poor women living
in antiquity who did not have access to adequate supplies and cleaning facilities.
Among boys, changes in voice, growth of body and facial hair, genital
changes, and increased growth were among the most notable physical changes.
These changes were often accentuated by an adjustment in clothing, hairstyle,
and personal maintenance. For example, the mallokouria ceremony occurred in
late childhood and was marked by a feast and gifts in the Hellenophonic world.
Since a clean-shaven appearance was common among adult men in Roman
Egypt, learning a shaving routine would have been another notable change in
life patterns for young men.70 These physical changes were accompanied by
legal changes. When boys reached the age of fourteen, they were registered
for the poll-tax, which served a public index of their transition to adulthood.
Upon the examination of the credentials of the young man and his parents,
some young men also might be enrolled in a privileged group of society, which
would separate him from some of his childhood friends, while introducing him
to new ones.71 This separation into a refined peerage would shape social values
and behaviors.
As children’s physical bodies grew into youths’, so too did their expectations
and responsibilities. In the Roman world, rapid physical movements were
associated with slaves, who walked quickly to fulfill their master’s orders.72 As
a child became an adult, they learned to slow down their bodily movement in
public space in order to avoid misperceptions. While learning and emulating
adult ideals, children also began to prepare more actively for their later lives.
This preparation might involve education, apprenticeships, or less formal
training in adult tasks. Education and socialization prepared children for their
different roles in adult life, whether in the form of wealth, friends and relations,
practical skills, or literacy and numeracy.73 Most of the preparatory stages took
place in the home; either their own home or someone else’s.
Literacy was important for upward mobility into officialdom, administration,
and even religious offices. Literacy covers a broad spectrum and a range of
60 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

abilities among individuals labeled as “literate” or “illiterate”; some can read

a few words, while others can read but not write. For this reason, estimates of
literacy in the ancient world are not met with wide agreement among specialists.
Some suggest that 1 to 5 percent of the populace was literate, while others argue
for a wider range of literate individuals. To make matters even more complex,
there were many scripts in operation in places such as Roman Egypt, which
signaled social and status distinctions. The ability to read and write in Coptic,
for example, was not equivalent to the ability to read and write in Greek.74
Education differed greatly among children. Among the general population,
few children were formally educated and literate. The higher levels of education
were clustered in major cities such as Alexandria, with its concentration of
museums and libraries. The gymnasium was a center of athletic and military
training for local youths and for the upper class to socialize and engage in
intellectual activities. Gymnasia can be found anywhere that the Greeks, or
those aspiring to be Greek, achieved sufficient numbers. Only citizens and
Greeks among the noncitizens could enter the gymnasia. Under the Ptolemies
there had been gymnasia even in villages, so long as there were enough Greeks
to sustain them. It seems that Augustus abolished the village gymnasia.75
The Greeks at all times used private tutors or sent their children to private
schools under a teacher. Education comprised rhetoric, law, and philosophy,
which would prepare young men for a career in law and politics.76 Homer’s
writings were the basis of a good education, but a remarkable range of Greek
literature was known, read, and studied.77 Amheida, in Egypt’s Dakhleh Oasis,
provides archeological evidence of a school (Figure 3.4). This school was linked
to House B1, an elite house with figurative wall paintings that depict scenes
from classical Greek mythology. The school walls were covered with dipinti,
some of which relate to Homer. One room was narrow and long with a thronos
located at one end where the teacher would have stood. Presumably the students
were the children living in House B1. Neighboring children may have joined
the B1 children in the classroom. It was common practice for families to share
the services and costs of a private tutor.78 Boys from less-wealthy families might
attend a communal school until the age of twelve or thirteen, at which point
they began apprenticeships or began to work full-time on the family farm or in
the family business.79
Not every child was educated in order to read and write. These children
received a different form of training and, if they were fortunate, left home
for an apprenticeship or on-the-job training. Vocational training occurred in
many arenas, including among military personnel and military engineers as
well as physicians.80 Many of apprentices who learned a craft moved into their
master’s home for the duration of their training. The household offering the
apprenticeship was not necessarily of a higher status.81 In turn, the child’s parents
might take an apprentice into their own household at this same time.82 Girls
CHILDREN AND CHILDHOOD 61

FIGURE 3.4 Amheida (Trimithis) school.

who were sent out for apprenticeships tended to have been trained mainly in
weaving.83 Usually these apprentices, regardless of gender, were from the lower
social strata. Farmers and artisans sent their own children to other peasants
or artisans to help them out or let them learn a trade, while they themselves
hosted other families’ children in their household.84 Live-in apprentices would
stay in their master’s home, be fed and clothed, and be treated like a member
of the family. After a few years, apprentices would return to their childhood
home with the new skills they had acquired. Van Minnen argues that there are
few freeborn females among apprentices because “parents of freeborn females
of marriageable age preferred to keep them at home, to keep them from losing
their virginity.”85 Although freeborn women typically learned a trade at home,
van Minnen’s suggestion seems to be unlikely because people in Roman Egypt
were not preoccupied with virginity and they sometimes contracted girls to do
labor for remuneration.86 In addition to these learning exchanges, there were
forms of indentured servitude in the ancient world. These experiences served
primarily to benefit the financial situation of the family, but the child would
learn on the job.87 Regardless of the reason, the experience of leaving home may
have been traumatic. Mortality rates being high, the child might return home
to find one or both parents gone. It was also difficult to grow accustomed to
different household routines, foods, and traditions.
Some families did not have the economic or social conditions required for
education or apprenticeships. These children would learn about future vocations
62 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

by shadowing adults, such as their own parents, relatives, or neighbors. Women,

in particular, often took this route because most women focused their working
adult life upon the home and assisting their husband in his vocation. For these
children, the transition from childhood to adult independence would have been
blurred. They would have had gradual increases in responsibilities alongside
changes in their physical bodies. Together, this suite of physical, legal, and
experiential change prepared adolescents for the next phase of the life course:
adulthood.
The experiential differences between abled and disabled children in late
childhood depended upon the type and severity of the disability, the gender,
and the socio-economic class of the child. For example, deaf-mute children were
unable to learn by the standard schooling methods of antiquity, which relied
heavily on listening, repetition, and oratory. They were usually considered to be
mentally retarded and unable to learn either in a school or in practical skills.88
Blind children suffered a similar fate. Mentally challenged children who were
able to initiate a formal education later stalled when their disability became
evident.
The significant barriers to disabled children achieving a school-based
education in antiquity disappeared to a large extent within vocational education.
Disabled boys usually learned the family trade as much as their disability would
allow. This education helped them to contribute to the household as well as
provide them with some degree of independence. Meanwhile, deaf slaves of
any gender were considered to be more discrete than ones who could hear.89
This category of slave may have experienced educational benefits due to the
desirability of this particular disability; amplified vocational skills further
enhanced their desirability. Surely the greater prevalence of acquired disability
in antiquity served to normalize congenital disabilities for individuals in many
of these vocational pursuits. With the advent of Christianity, disability was
viewed as part of God’s plan in church doctrine. It is uncertain to what degree
this influenced daily practice, but it is possible that disabled boys were more
accepted in their transition into adulthood than in non-Christian societies.
Disabled girls would also learn traditional female roles, but the impact of
their disability upon their life beyond childhood was surely greater than it was
for boys. Women were always more dependent upon their male counterparts
throughout the life course and therefore disabled girls could expect lesser
degrees of independence even upon gaining some of the skills expected of their
sex. Marriage prospects were reduced or became unavailable, which left these
girls completely dependent upon male relatives for the rest of their lives.90
CHILDREN AND CHILDHOOD 63

CONCLUSIONS
This chapter depends upon a common anthropological grounding for the
learning experiences of children in a longue durée of history. I have relied upon
source material from polytheistic sixth-century Greece through to Christian late
antiquity as well as comparative material drawn from recent anthropological
sources. The results of combining together these diverse source materials suggest
that we think about disparities in education along three different vectors for
antiquity: social class, sex, and ability.
First, social class shaped the educational path of children in fundamental
ways. The wealthiest had access to formal schooling with a tutor or in a group
classroom setting, while most children learned a trade through their own family
or an apprenticeship. Poor children were subject to a form of indentured
servitude or worse scenarios of educational poverty.
Second, sex shaped the learning opportunities available to children. This
gendered differentiation became accentuated over the course of the child’s
lifetime and according to the social class of the family. Girls increasingly learned
to perform traditional household roles, while boys were more formally educated
in schools or in family trades. While not all gendered boundaries were fixed,
they did shape the common day-to-day educational training of these children.
Third, disability had a profound impact upon the educational pathways of
children. As with other facets of a child’s identity, disability must be understood
intersectionally. The educational paths of elite boys were hindered more by
visual and auditory impairments than those of boys pursuing a vocational
education or working as servants or slaves. Formal schooling was impossible for
most disabled boys due to the techniques used in antiquity. Girls, of all social
categories, were likely to be more impacted than were boys in later childhood
because their marriage prospects were impacted by their disability.
The subject of childhood education is therefore intrinsically linked to
families and the larger social milieu as well as to the specific conditions of each
individual child. Familial wealth and support in cases of disability, for example,
made an enormous difference upon the educational path of a child. This
exploration of childhood education illustrates in microcosm the importance of
intersectional approaches to social questions as well as the strength of longue
durée approaches to social history.
64
 CHAPTER FOUR

Family, Community,
and Sociability
ALEXIS DAVELOOSE

INTRODUCTION
As is shown throughout this volume, education in antiquity was a wide-ranging
phenomenon, covering multiple aspects of social and political life. Education
can also be seen as a particular form of socialization, aimed at reproducing
sociocultural values and maintaining the societal status quo. More than the
mere transmission of useful knowledge, education also prepares children for
their later role as a citizen and active agent in society.1 This chapter investigates
an informal aspect of this “socialization” rather than a set curriculum or the
explicit acknowledgment of knowledge transmission. Here we consider the
internalization of “social and cultural processes and structures so that [children]
could take up their roles as adults,” something that was accomplished largely
by “observing and responding to, whether consciously or unconsciously, the
physicality of their surroundings.”2 A significant amount of this “observing”
involved actions of parents and other kin, both within the household and in
the public sphere. Family members prepared children for their future roles
as citizens and agents of the family, a preparation that was crucial for family
continuity and the prestige of the parents. The process of socialization had an
important political role because these children would be responsible for the
future success of the city or state. Education and socialization are, therefore,
often seen as a matter of political importance, even though state interference is
usually very limited.3
66 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

Every society or culture has its own idea of the goals and methods of
socialization, even if these are usually implicit rather than explicit. There are
invariably models for the representation of the process of socialization and
the behavior of the socialized and the socializer in this context. Given the
important role that socialization plays in societal and cultural reproduction,
and the public nature of the process itself, this should not come as a surprise.4
However, this does not mean that there is no variation in the processes of
socialization or that those involved have no agency in the matter. Ideals of
socialization, like any other social construct, can be, and have been, contested.
Teresa Morgan phrased it as follows: “Throughout Antiquity, education
formed part of the many-sided negotiation between the family and household
and the wider society.”5 The same can be said about socialization in general.
In this chapter, I will explore instances in which we may detect competing
models of socialization and their representations. This examination will rest
on three case studies, spread out over ancient civilization, each representing
not only a different time period and cultural region, but also different
kinds of tensions between varying ideas of socialization and its attributed
importance for society and citizenship. Each case study will open with a
brief presentation of the dominant model of civic socialization in the target
culture. It will then consider evidence of engagement with and variation from
this model.
Some disclaimers are in order at the start of such an ambitious chapter, of
course. Firstly, socialization has been shown to be a long-term process, starting
at the stages of infancy and, in theory, lasting until well into adulthood, or
even until death itself.6 Moreover, definitions of “childhood” vary drastically
in each society. In classical Athens, boys became legal adults at the age of
eighteen, whereas Roman boys usually ceased to be minors at the age of
fourteen, symbolized by the adoption of the toga virilis.7 The period of late
teens will be used here as the demarcation of “childhood,” in an explicitly social
rather than legal sense. Secondly, though it was very occasionally argued that
boys and girls ought to receive the same kind of education—most famously by
Plato8—the upbringing of daughters generally focused on their future role as
manager of the household. The socialization of girls was, therefore, markedly
less public than that of boys, and was not aimed at creating politically active
citizens.9 In consequence, this chapter will limit itself to the study of sons.
Moreover, given the nature of the evidence available and the focus on an
active public life, these sons are usually those of the elite. Whereas non-elites
seem to have been more concerned with practical skills and “correct” behavior
in their immediate social milieu,10 elites valued suitable public display above
all; a preference driven, in large part, by fierce competition among (aspiring)
elites.11 Suffice to say there is much more to be said about socialization than
can be covered in this chapter.
FAMILY, COMMUNITY, AND SOCIABILITY 67

CLASSICAL ATHENS (FIFTH TO FOURTH

CENTURIES bce): DEBATES IN THE PUBLIC SPHERE
ABOUT EDUCATION AND SOCIALIZATION
Socialization in classical Athens is an interesting case, as it involves some of the
key values of democracy and equality of citizens. The Athenian debates centered
mainly on “education” rather than “socialization.” However, the education
proposed by philosophers such as Plato had a strong socializing component and
was largely a reaction to the lack of formal educational institutes, necessitating
a strong reliance on informal socialization to create future citizens.12 As pointed
out earlier in this volume, this lack of what we would define as “mandatory
education” and “schools” is a crucial aspect of ancient society. Despite the
strongly institutional character of classical Athens, it too lacked formal
educational systems. Leaving aside the vast public cost it would have generated,
the ideological argument against compulsory and standardized education seems
to have been a sense that it would infringe upon personal freedoms and quash
differences of opinion. The creation of a like-minded herd of citizens was seen as
detrimental to the well-being of democracy.13 The state, according to this line of
thought, ought to intervene in the private life of its citizens as little as possible,
offering the tools for public participation rather than enforcing it. This is not to
say that institutions played no important part in Athenian socialization, on the
contrary, they were seen as central to this process. This is best illustrated by the
passage in Plato’s Apology describing the discussion between Socrates and his
accuser Meletus during the former’s trial in 399 bce.14 Socrates wants to show
that Meletus has, as opposed to him, no good idea as to how to educate the
youth and is, therefore, himself guilty of corrupting them through negligence.
Socrates asks Meletus who is responsible for improving the youth, to which
Meletus replies with what is essentially a description of the Athenian political
system: he mentions the laws, jurors, council members, and the assembly, all
vital elements of the political machine that was democratic Athens. Socrates
asserts that this educational system is fundamentally flawed and that education
by so many people—namely common folk who are not experts in the matter—
inevitably leads to corruption.15
Despite this passionate argument of Socrates, which shaped Plato’s
conceptions of education as well, it seems that Athenians would largely have
agreed with Meletus. Education and socialization was seen as a matter of
practice and experience, though the parents of more well-off children could also
employ private teachers. Children were to witness the polis in action, to see how
citizens interacted with each other and with the vital institutions of democracy.
In this sense, those who participated in the system became “teachers” of future
citizens. This informal process was seen as crucial to the functioning, and the
reproduction, of democracy. It enabled a form of “civic education,” as Ober
68 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

phrases it, instilling a sense of public morality, civic virtue, and normative ethics,
by observing and playing the political game and internalizing its rules. The
focus was on cooperative values and the common good, which were articulated
as particularly virtuous.16 This explicitly political aspect of socialization was
supplemented by participation in other civic institutions, such as the gymnasium
and later the ephebeia (see below). The monumental landscape of the city and
honorary decrees and statues served to express an image of idealized civic
behavior.17 Semi-private activities such as symposia or drinking parties were
also seen as playing an important role in the transfer of societal values and
the creation of citizens.18 Shared training in fighting and athletics were also
considered key components of socialization as well, as they “cultivated in
the young such values as trust, obedience, co-operation, and loyalty.” These
values were seen as crucial to the Athenian civic ethic and were also taught at
home from a very early age.19 Finally, participation in public religious rites and
festivals were a crucial part of socialization and also served to strengthen the
bonds between the different members and communities of Athens. Plato also
stressed the utmost importance of religious practice.20 The dominant model
of socialization stated that this participation in the public and political life of
Athens was adequate for the creation of suitable citizens.
This overview gives the impression that the family and the household played
no significant role in the socialization of future citizens. This is a consequence of
the public discourse expressed in our sources, which focuses on institutions and
the body politic. In reality, family members and more “private” activities played
a key role in socialization, and this involvement of the family would also be one
of the main points of criticism toward this system.21 The symposium, which was
held in private houses, has already been mentioned, just as the expectation that
certain key values were expected to be taught at home. Fathers played a crucial
part in the socialization of their sons. A father was supposed to guide his son
in the public sphere and show him exactly how the political machine worked.
Throughout Xenophon’s Economics the kurios (head of the household) appears
as an educator and it becomes clear that the household was the basis for the
reproduction of the political model.22 This should not come as a surprise, as the
household, or oikos, was generally seen as the basis of the polis23 and vice versa,
the polis was often conceptualized as a large household.24
This strong entanglement of oikos and polis was particularly expressed in
civic religion.25 Several public festivals, such as the Panathenaia (procession
with participants divided into age groups), the Thesmophoria (family cycle
and motherhood), the Hieros Gamos (marriage), the Genesia (deceased family
members), the Brauronia (puberty of girls), and the Apatouria (puberty of boys
and process toward citizenship), celebrated aspects of family life while expressing
broader societal values.26 What is typically described as “family religion”—for
example, the cults of particular deities such as Zeus Herkeios and Zeus Ktesios,
FAMILY, COMMUNITY, AND SOCIABILITY 69

ancestor cults, and the use of apotropaic herms—were actually elements

strongly embedded in civic religion and indicative of a religious continuum,
with important socializing effects.27 There were also several rituals and rites of
passage that connected the oikos to its broader social environment and played a
key role in socialization. Two of the most important being the introduction of
young children into the phratry—local communities based on an ancient notion
of kinship—during the festival of the Apaturia and the registration of sons as
full citizens on the attainment of their majority before their fellow demesmen.28
In both instances, the father played a crucial role as the person who initiated
these ceremonies and status changes.
This informal and partly private way of socializing children generated
criticism, however. The aforementioned lack of a formal system of education
served as the catalyst for several proposals for a reformed state with such a
system at its core. Xenophon (Memorabilia, The Education of Cyrus), Plato
(Republic, Laws), Isocrates (Areopagiticus), and Aristotle (Politics) all devised
an educational system intended to inculcate children with a correct notion of
“the good” and what was “right,” crucial values for righteous citizens.29 For this
was the main problem with the Athenian practice, as well as that of most Greek
city-states, for these authors: no one was really in charge of education and those
that had a significant effect on it were by no means “experts” in the matter, but
“simple” fathers and citizens elected to office by lot. For Plato, this could only
lead to a badly prepared youth and corruption of the mind.30 This opinion was
only strengthened by a certain development during the fifth and fourth centuries
bce toward a clearer separation between the public and private spheres. Oikoi
were becoming increasingly isolated from the broader community, with the
connecting function of the demes and phratries diminishing. This resulted in less
and less public control over household practice and, therefore, socialization.31
In the next paragraph, I will investigate Plato’s objections to the “democratic”
model of socialization. This not only shows how such dominant models could
be openly contested but also how contestation could shape the evolution of
these models.
Virtually all Athenian philosophers saw education as a crucial element in
their ideal state. Plato famously outlined an ideal educational system in Politics
and especially in Laws; indeed, the entire seventh book of the latter work was
dedicated to this matter.32 This system divided children into age groups and
provided suitable subjects for each group, starting with different kinds of play,
progressing to gymnastics and music by the age of six, and then to literature,
lyre playing, and arithmetic, starting from age ten. Moreover, this curriculum
should be the same for boys and girls, and all children were obligated to attend
these classes as children all belonged to the polis. Festivals and rituals were a
crucial part of this program. This curriculum went well beyond our modern
notion of education and was, above all, an ethical and philosophical regimen
70 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

designed to shape children into political beings with a correct sense of what was
“right.” Precisely because of its paramount importance, education could not be
entrusted to just anyone but should be kept firmly in the hands of “experts.” This
did not include sophists or private teachers, who just repeated given knowledge
or even adjusted their lessons to please the crowd. Rather, philosophically
inspired men should be in charge of preparing future citizens. This meant that
the role of family was to be considerably reduced as, in Plato’s eyes, most family
members were no “experts” at all. Socialization was to be removed from the
private sphere and formalized in public institutions. After rejecting the family
as a social unit in the Republic, he acknowledged that it would be impossible to
completely abolish the private household and reinstated it in his Laws,33 albeit
in an explicitly non-private manner.34 This Platonic family was highly regulated
and strictly served the needs of the state, or as Lacey puts it: “the kyrios of each
family was in a sense only an agent of the state with the responsibility of using
his family to secure the ends of the state.”35 The most significant of these “ends”
was the procurement of a well-equipped generation of citizens.
As mentioned earlier, Plato was not the only one to offer criticism of
the “democratic” system of socialization or to offer an alternative to it.
Not only were similar opinions common among the intellectual elite, they
also appear to have thoroughly penetrated the public debate regarding the
organization of society. Between the end of the fifth and the middle of the
fourth century bce, Athenian democracy experienced several institutional
reforms intended to adapt the system to new challenges and to address
criticism.36 These reforms directly affected education as the ephebeia—
military training of eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds—was reformed in the
330s bce and became both compulsory and increasingly more concerned
with matters of civic education. Even though it is highly uncertain how far-
reaching this educational dimension of the ephebeia was, a system more akin
to that of Plato was now in place.37 This was seemingly not the direct result
of any specific intellectual challenge but rather the cumulative outcome of
ongoing debates, in literature, theatre, and rhetoric. As Ober has shown,
conflicting ideas about the city and society were articulated in these media,
with proponents of democracy taking criticism seriously and formulating
responses.38 The debates stimulated by writers such as Plato were far from
esoteric intellectual exercises but partly reflected, and definitely engaged
with, opinions held more broadly in Athenian society.
To bring this case study to a close, it should be pointed out that there
was never any educational system similar to our modern-day one installed
in Athens. It also seems that the compulsory nature of the renewed ephebeia
had largely disappeared by the beginning of the third century bce when
participation declined sharply.39 In the end, it was still the family and the
democratic way of doing politics that dominated socialization of the young,
FAMILY, COMMUNITY, AND SOCIABILITY 71

although philosophical debates did seem to have spurred attempts to create a

more explicitly educational institution.

REPUBLICAN ROME (SECOND CENTURY bce):

DISCOURSE MANIPULATION FOR PERSONAL GAIN
In the later second century bce Rome experienced a period of political turmoil.
The rise of the Gracchi and their subsequent murders offer dramatic evidence
of the chronic social and political tensions that beset the city at this time. In this
period, and for centuries to come, there existed a clear model of socialization,
one expressed more explicitly than was the case in classical Athens. This ideal
centered on the bond between father and son, and the continuity that was to
stem from this. The son was seen as the successor to the father in the most
literal sense: he had to copy the father’s behavior during his lifetime and after,
thereby reminding the public of his father’s life. Baroin describes the desired
result as follows: “remembering one’s father also means resembling him, even
being identical to him and replacing him.”40 The son would in time assume
the identity of the father and become his image.41 This process was based on
emulation: the father ought to be an exemplary figure for his son, a model
of virtue and morality. This example was to be built up through the father’s
own behavior and through the sharing of famous exempla, moralizing legends
of Rome’s finest characters.42 Sons were expected to literally follow in their
father’s footsteps: elite fathers were to participate actively in public life and
preferably also exercise some sort of office or public function. Sons witnessed
their fathers navigate the public sphere and play the social and political game
that constituted it. In this way, they learned by watching someone doing and
at a later stage they put these lessons in to practice. In this way, elite boys
were also introduced to the vital networks underlying Roman politics, slowly
establishing crucial bonds of amicitia.43
This system relied heavily on the private sphere and individual initiative, there
were no institutions safeguarding education or socialization. Even institutions
with an informal socializing aspect, such as the Athenian gymnasium, were
lacking in Rome. Preparing a youth for public and political life was seen as the
prerogative, as well as the moral duty, of the father rather than a matter of state
responsibility. Romans praised this individual effort as it ensured the freedom of
the aristocracy and enabled the aforementioned ideal of father–son continuity.
Moreover, such a system allowed upcoming politicians to claim the prestige of
their ancestors as their own. Indicative of this attitude is Cicero’s famous passage
about Scipio Aemilianus, who praises the Roman system—or lack thereof—of
education, stating that: “Now in the first place our people have never wished to
have any system of education for the free-born youth which is either definitely
fixed by law, or officially established, or uniform in all cases.”44 An important
72 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

consequence of this informal system and the lack of easily accessible education
outside of it was that the elite had disproportionate access to proper training.
We see here a system designed and supported by the elite in order to reproduce
themselves.45 This elite ideology could also bring immense pressure to bear on
its subjects: men of illustrious fathers or forefathers were obligated to at least
equal their deeds in order to not lose any prestige.46
Private initiative and means were therefore paramount in Rome. This applied
to other aspects of socialization as well: the mother and other kin also played
a crucial part in upbringing as role models and there were also the Hellenistic-
styled banquets, during which educational songs about illustrious ancestors were
sung, stimulating emulation and socialization equally.47 By navigating through
these networks, children experienced the private and public domains of Rome
in all their intricacies. This internalized key values as well as the rules for playing
the aristocratic game. Children were taught to “believe that they would become
adults who were proud of being Roman, who would continue the family line,
and who would themselves become role models for future generations of Roman
citizens.”48 This process started at a very early age, intensifying as children grew
older and were introduced to the outside world by their father. Socialization
of Roman children was, therefore, definitely not solely a matter for fathers, but
the dominant model did display it as such: it was crucial to have an exemplary
father and to imitate him correctly—or if one had a morally corrupt father, to
not imitate him.49 This idea was later expressed by Pliny the Younger. Pliny
claimed that it is honorable to follow in the footsteps of righteous ancestors
and that it was the task of the father to guide his son as the latter pays close
attention to the actions of the former;50 a very similar sentiment was expressed
later by Aulus Gellius,51 who died after 180 ce. Even if it was a simplification
of social realities, this model of socialization was evidently very persistent and
dominated the republican and early imperial periods.
The simplification inherent in this model can be illustrated by a consideration
of the Gracchi. Tiberius and his younger brother Gaius were members of the
gens Sempronia, a noble Roman lineage. Their father was Tiberius Sempronius
Gracchus, who was the son and grandson of consuls and was a consul himself
in 177 and 163 bce. Moreover, he was also elected censor in 169 bce, the
most prestigious office at the time. Tiberius the Elder died relatively young,
however, before the socialization of his sons was completed. His death later
became the subject of a popular tradition; it was said that two snakes appeared
before Gracchus and his wife Cornelia, and that Gracchus decided to kill the
snakes, thereby sacrificing himself in order to save her life. Because of his
impressive political career and his display of great virtus, Gracchus was seen as
an exemplary Roman and worthy of imitation.52
Given the dominant model of socialization it seems obvious that the Gracchi
would have cultivated the bond with their father as they departed upon
FAMILY, COMMUNITY, AND SOCIABILITY 73

their political career. However, this was barely the case: literary sources only
mention two instances of Gaius referring to his father in public.53 Aside from the
likely emotional hardship, the early death of their father offered the brothers
a practical problem, as it was no longer possible to follow their father into the
political arena. Stressing the paternal bond and a certain genetic continuity of
character was still possible, of course, but the lack of a more tangible political
link still put up limits to the potential of this representation. At the same time,
the Gracchi had an even more prestigious ancestor: Scipio Africanus. Their
mother was the daughter of Africanus, and her marriage with Tiberius the Elder
can be seen as the result of a political friendship between these two men.54 The
Gracchi’s maternal grandfather was one of the most illustrious Romans of all
time, who, despite political troubles in his old age, had solidified his reputation
during the Second Punic War. This made it possible, yet highly unusual for the
time, to construct a public discourse of representation centered on the link of
the Gracchi with Scipio Africanus via their mother. Because this genealogical
function of Cornelia was far from evident, making this link required an
elaboration of her public image.
By the time the Gracchi became politically active—Tiberius was elected
tribune of the plebs in 133 bce—Cornelia had become a rather exceptional
woman by Roman standards. She had, unusually, acquired both a prominent
public presence and a public recognition of her exemplary characteristics. This
recognition seems to have centered on her role as a surrogate “father” to her
sons, after her husband had died. Normally, male relatives were called upon to
assist with the socialization of the sons of widows, but Cornelia had famously
decided to do this herself and was clearly portrayed as responsible for her sons’
education.55 It seems very likely that she did, in fact, receive some help from
close relatives, but as far as the ancient authors are concerned, the Gracchi
ended up as successful politicians thanks to the prowess and wisdom of their
mother. Plutarch states how the exceptional qualities of the Gracchi were mostly
due to nurture rather than nature.56 Others praised Cornelia’s rhetorical talent
and her erudition.57 She was also known for hiring famous Greek philosophers
and rhetoricians to educate her sons.58 By “out-sourcing” part of her sons’
education, she prevented herself from seeming overeducated and, therefore,
too deviant from the gendered expectations of a Roman mother.59 In short,
through careful consideration of her public image and manipulation of societal
norms, she became the ultimate Roman matrona, so much so that she could
single-handedly compensate for the lack of a paternal figure.60
Cornelia became the ideal link between the Gracchi and Scipio Africanus.
This connecting function would be confirmed after her death, not only in the
continued descriptions of her attribution to the socialization of her sons but also
in the statue that was dedicated to her in the porticus of Q. Caecilius Metellus
Macedonicus, probably around 110 bce.61 The accompanying inscription is
74 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

of great interest here: CORNELIA AFRICANI F GRACCHORUM.62 This

translates to: Cornelia, daughter of Africanus and (mother) of the Gracchi.
There is no explicit mention of mater and the “GRACCHORUM” could also
imply her marriage to Tiberius the Elder. However, given her public image—
which consistently linked her to Tiberius and Gaius—and the use of the plural
genitive, it seems most likely that it is her motherhood that is highlighted. This
was also Pliny the Elder’s interpretation of the inscription.63 This inscription
perfectly encapsulates her connecting role: Cornelia, who is situated between
Scipio Africanus as his daughter and the Gracchi as their mother. The Gracchi
would appear to have very consciously promoted this image of Cornelia,
although the evidence for Tiberius’ role in this propagation is rather scant. Dio
Cassius mentions how Tiberius was the first to politically exploit his relation
with Cornelia and he describes how Tiberius showed both her and his children
during a contio, in order to move the crowd.64 There is, however, no trace
of such a display in the description of this contio made in Appian, Gellius,
and Plutarch.65 This shows how difficult these traditions are to interpret, as
these historical characters have been transformed over time and endowed with
legendary characteristics. As the Gracchi became exemplary Romans in later
imagery, it was only logical that both of them would show filial pietas toward
their equally exemplary mother in hindsight. Either way, it seems clear that
Gaius especially was intensely linked with his mother and more than likely
cultivated this tie himself. Plutarch writes about a speech Gaius gave at the
Forum, referring to his mother and her exemplary behavior.66 At the same time,
he stressed his pietas as a son toward her. There is another instance of Gaius
mentioning his mother while mourning his murdered brother.67 Elsewhere
Gaius is said to have stressed his birth out of his mother explicitly, disregarding
his brother.68
Based on the afterlife of the Gracchi in Roman literary sources, we can say
that this representation existing of traditional paternal and more exceptional
maternal elements was highly successful. Cornelia’s image as the perfect Roman
matrona was solidified; even writers who disliked the Gracchi’s popular style
of politics, such as Cicero, upheld their reputation as good Roman citizens.69
This also meant that the brothers’ connection with Scipio Africanus was
publicly acknowledged, even if Cornelia had assumed the dominant role in this
genealogical discourse. In this sense, the Gracchi’s political actions are especially
relevant here, as claiming a tie and even similitudo with a particular ancestor
meant recalling their personality and behavior. Whereas Scipio Africanus
became a symbol of the illustrious Roman elite of the past, the Gracchi famously
subverted the political system and went against traditional elite interests, largely
embodied by the Senate, and the mos maiorum. Therefore, they did not simply
copy Scipio’s public behavior in an attempt to capitalize on this connection but
adapted his legacy to their own situation and political ambitions. Discourses
FAMILY, COMMUNITY, AND SOCIABILITY 75

of kinship and ancestry proved flexible enough to facilitate this kind of

manipulation a feature typical of the Roman family.
Despite the convincing and penetrating discourse of socialization through
the father, it was possible to manipulate this discourse by gearing it toward
one’s own situation, giving those involved crucial agency. Such modifications
were often necessary, as an untimely death, such as that of Tiberius Gracchus
the Elder, was by no means a rare event. Due to the high mortality typical
of premodern civilizations, Saller estimated that between 28 and 37 percent
of children would have lost their father before reaching legal adulthood, and
between 49 and 61 percent by the time they married, on average around twenty-
five years old.70 In many cases the ideal socialization process must have been
disrupted. Preferably, fatherless children would then rely on other male kin as
their socializers, but this was often not possible as relatively few such candidate
guardians would still have been alive, especially if the child in question was born
to an older father.71 Within the fiercely competitive arena of Roman politics,
therefore, flexible constructs of family ties and representation, such as those
made by the Gracchi, were not only interesting if a non-agnatic family member
was very prestigious but were quite often also necessary in order to cope with
the stress of ancient demographic regimes.

LATE ANTIQUE NORTH AFRICA (c. 400 ce):

CONFLICTING VALUE SETS AND SOCIALIZATION
Our last case study brings us to the border area between present-day Algeria
and Tunisia, and to Saint Augustine, bishop of Hippo. In terms of socialization
we may perceive broad sociocultural continuities between this period and that
of the Gracchi: most notably in the persistent lack of systematic education.
There is, however, one major difference between the two periods: the advent
and increasing institutionalization of Christianity. As this new faith shaped
views of religion, social behavior, and the relation between the worldly and the
divine, it is to be expected that there were major consequences for socialization
and education as well. Based on the writings of Saint Augustine and John
Chrysostom, it seems that there was a renewed sense of the need to shape the
young in accordance with a certain ideal. Surprisingly, the methods proffered
by these two authors very much resemble those seen in the model dominant in
late Republican an early-Imperial Rome, albeit adjusted to a Christian climate.
In this period also, suitable education was seen as a crucial component of
society. Likewise it was believed that socialization ought to begin at a very
early age and be guided by morally suitable role models.72 Beginning with the
more formal aspects of education, but with important socializing implications,
we can see Augustine’s system as essentially appropriating the long-standing
and successful scheme of paideia.73 This is most clearly expressed in his On the
76 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

Christian Doctrine, which essentially reconciles newer Christian thought with

traditional views on education. His interest in education can be explained not
only by the societal importance generally accorded to it but also by Augustine’s
past as a professor in rhetoric. Crucially, Augustine saw himself not only as a
bishop but also as the educationalist of his environment.74 In his educational
vision, the study of classic literature was still important as he considered their
content and even their grammatical analysis to contain key moral lessons. This
literary curriculum was to be supplemented with explicitly Christian texts,
mainly biblical ones, which Augustine promoted as an equally valuable source
of knowledge and morality.75 Considering both categories of texts as morally
relevant appeared to be no contradiction for deeply religious Christian writers,
as long as they were interpreted within an explicitly Christian framework.
Augustine was, therefore, certainly not the only Christian writer to adopt such
an attitude toward the classics.76
Augustine also wanted to transform paideia into something less competitive
and self-conscious, shifting its focus toward a more unacademic and spiritual
understanding of the Bible. In one sense, this was a considerable departure
from the dominant pagan tradition of rhetoric.77 Generally speaking,
however, the main framework of paideia stood firm in Augustine’s view,
even if some of its content had to be modified to fit a Christian outlook. The
continued importance of paideia in Augustine’s thought should not surprise
us, as Augustine himself was the product of this kind of training.78 In his
worldview, though certain elements of paideia ought to be harmonized with
Christian teachings, it was quite inconceivable for an intellectual to not have
enjoyed a version of this education. When Augustine looked at his intellectual
contemporaries, including those of the Christian faith, he saw equally educated
men, all fluent in the sociocultural language of paideia.79 There were some
Christian writers who went as far as denying the cultural value of paideia and
advocating its abolishment, but for Augustine this notion was ludicrous.80 On
a more practical level, some form of classical education remained crucial as
the current elite, including prominent Christian thinkers, was formed in this
mould and also legitimized by it.81
If we turn to socialization within the family setting, we see a similar pattern
of continuity. Just as in the days of the Republic, the household, particularly the
father, played a crucial role in socializing boys. With the increasing influence of
Christianity the father’s role was, however, to be slightly adjusted. He was now
to be, first and foremost, a Christian role model.82 Fathers should still introduce
their sons to the public sphere, but they ought not to take their children to the
contemptuous gladiatorial games, theatre shows, and pagan festivals.83 Augustine
considered the religious experience of children to be very important, but this
should, of course, be limited to the correct Christian rites and celebrations.
Pagan rituals were to be avoided at all costs and accompanying children to
FAMILY, COMMUNITY, AND SOCIABILITY 77

mass and other explicitly Christian gatherings was of the utmost importance.
In this sense, religious education still took place largely at home.84 In general
terms late antiquity saw significant changes in sexual morality, this is especially
evident in the socializing frameworks proffered by writers such as Augustine and
Chrysostom. Both prostitution and same-sex relations, commonly assimilated,
became heinous activities and should be openly condemned by parents.85
Augustine (On the Good of Marriage) was also to provide the predominant
view on Christian marriage, as the focal point of family life, centered on sexual
exclusivity and a sacred bond that should not be wilfully terminated.86 Sexual
desire in general became more problematic, even within a Christian marriage,
and was therefore to be regulated.87 Parents ought to embody these ideals, both
as individuals and as a married couple.
Exempla remained a crucial part of socialization, but fathers now had to tell
stories of Christians displaying righteous behavior rather than narrating Rome’s
pagan past. Chrysostom stressed the importance of such stories and saw a crucial
educational role for the father in general, remarking that “every man takes the
greatest pains to train his son in the arts and literature and speech.”88 The rest
of the household and more distant kin were also expected to behave exemplary,
but fathers were seen as the person responsible for the creation of the true
Christians of the future—or for the failure to do so. A crucial element in this
continued importance of the household was the persistent lack of a Christian
educational alternative that could stand on its own. Despite efforts such as those
of Augustine or Chrysostom, there was no systematic or compulsory education,
which made sure the family remained a crucial venue for the socialization, and
religious education, of children.89
This educational and socializing model seems very dominant in our sources
and is articulated in a similar form by other Christian writers as well. However,
this dominant character is a distortion of reality, caused by the strongly
Christian nature of our surviving evidence. We see here a form of “intellectual”
Christianity, which does not so much reflect actual social practice. Firstly,
the more traditional model of paideia remained incredibly dominant, even if
Christian texts were increasingly incorporated into this framework. Secondly,
there was great continuity in the lives and socialization of children, who were
still mainly valued for their role in the physical continuity and economic
stability of the family, as well as their effect on the well-being and status of their
parents. Conversely, Christian writers first and foremost saw children as the
innocent Christians of the future.90 This discrepancy between ideal and reality
can be demonstrated by Augustine himself, who was very much the product of
such tensions between traditional civic and ideal Christian values. He famously
devoted much attention to his relationship with his mother, who was a
Christian, in his Confessions. Despite her being a very dominant and sometimes
even oppressing presence in his life, his mother clearly moulded Augustine for
78 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

the world he would come to know.91 He had a much more troubled relationship
with his father, who was a pagan. This man socialized Augustine in a manner
very much according to the predominant Roman model outlined in the second
case study: he went to great lengths to ensure that the young Augustine could
be educated in paideia, which was considered a particularly rewarding way for
social mobility; he took him to the baths and the theatre; and he introduced his
son to his social network and even proudly announced Augustine reaching his
puberty.92 By his early adulthood, Augustine had already reacted against many
of these traditional elements,93 and he would later say about his father that he
“saw in me only hollow things.”94 Not only did Augustine grow to dislike the
upbringing provided by his father but he also seems to have resented his father
for forming an obstacle to his Christian faith, whereas his mother encouraged
him in this respect. As a result, Augustine only mentions his father’s death in
passing.95
Augustine’s letters and sermons also show that similar tensions existed in
wider society. Rebillard has analyzed these texts explicitly in the context of
a community with much sociocultural continuity, a community that had not
seen the watershed that is usually attributed to the institutionalization of
Christianity.96 This meant that there were very few changes in the everyday
experiences of children and, therefore, also in their socialization. Drawing
on Augustine’s corpus a few concrete examples of these tensions can be
adduced here. In Sermon 361, Augustine discusses a certain controversy about
the celebration of the Parentalia, a festival commemorating the dead. Some
Christians had argued that this festival was in accordance with scripture, as
the book of Tobit (4.17) reads: “Break your bread and pour out your wine
on the tombs of the just, but do not hand it over to the unjust.” Augustine
dismisses this claim, stating that the “bread and wine” in this passage should
be interpreted allegorically, as the body and blood of Christ rather than literal
sacrifices. He denounces the practice as obviously pagan.97 In another sermon,
he rejects the popular claim that, as opposed to the exemplary clerics, laypeople
did not have to abstain from watching the spectacles.98 For Augustine, everyone
had to be an exemplary Christian, at all times. A final example focuses on the
possible tensions between being a family member and a member of the church.
Augustine describes a man on his sickbed who refuses to tie on an amulet offered
by a nurse as a last resort to stave off death.99 The amulet is only implicitly
represented as a pagan custom, making it more attractive to Christians. The
nurse’s argument for this deviant behavior is that the dying man should try
anything to get better, as his role as a husband and father is more important
than the purity of his faith. His refusal of course meant that Christianity takes
precedence over anything else, even family roles.100 The story itself may well
be fictitious but the message is clear and has implications for how one should
behave in the household and toward family members. Rebillard concluded that
FAMILY, COMMUNITY, AND SOCIABILITY 79

all this “deviant” behavior of many Christians was not a case of heretic actions,
a lack of faith, or the absence of Christian alternatives to pagan rites but rather
the conflict of competing value sets. One is held by people such as Augustine
and is highly hierarchical: Christian faith and a dogmatic interpretation of
Christian behavior should always trump other considerations. For most people,
however, this Christian code of conduct was just one of several behavioral
modes, activated situationally depending on the specific context and needs,
only rarely generating internal conflict.
It was this latter value set that most of all determined actual socialization.
The traditional exempla of Roman pagans remained incredibly popular
and influential within Christian households, despite the fierce criticism of
Augustine.101 Concerning the important role of the father, we can see that the
attitude toward paternal influence displayed by Augustine was representative of
a topos in Christian writings; several authors reflect on the difficult relationship
with their father, which was usually felt as stifling.102 Given the persistently
crucial role of fathers for socialization and the discrepancy Christian writers
sensed between traditional socialization and ideal Christian values, it was
a logical consequence that fathers were mainly blamed for this deviance of
idealized norms. Fathers were usually seen as a hindrance to the conversion
of households, as they were more concerned with traditional civic and family
norms than religious reflection, favoring traditional considerations rather than
ideal Christian behavior.103 Other authors saw the household as an important
place for conversion but also as places of religious tension, usually because
of “backward” fathers.104 This was especially problematic, given that social
networks and structures such as the household were still crucial for conversion
in the early church.105 This led to a fully developed theme in Christian literature,
focusing on the biological family as an obstacle to a virtuous life: “In narrative
terms, the repudiation of the parent’s or husband’s moral authority carried the
important message that the pieties of civic life were no longer binding.”106
It was exactly these “pieties of civic life” that seemed to have been the focus
of most fathers. They were mainly concerned with family continuity, both in a
social and economic sense, and the prestige of the family within civic networks.107
This meant that securing (grand)children, maintaining solid management of
household resources, and cultivating networks of patronage were crucial.108
A passage of Chrysostom is indicative here, in which he complains about the
lack of gifts to the church and the poor by parents, who valued the economic
continuity of their family more than these spiritual pursuits. Chrysostom relates
how these parents deny such obligations on the grounds that “they are married
and have children and the care of the household.”109 There are instances of
fathers denying their sons’ wishes for an ascetic lifestyle, which would most
likely have led to childlessness and the end of the family line.110 Given the
importance of civic culture, as outlined in the previous case studies, it becomes
80 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

quite obvious why pagan festivals and social obligations toward pagans remained
so crucial, even when the fathers themselves identified as Christians. With
familial considerations in mind, fathers generally still introduced their children
to the games, civic festivals, banquets, and traditional networks.111 Christian
writers generally favored mothers over fathers as their more private role made
them far less prone to exposing their children to these “pagan” elements;
the strong religious component of a mother’s socializing role was, therefore,
not compromised by the pressures of public display and status preservation.
Whereas the private and public roles of men forced them to carefully navigate
these sometimes conflicting social rules, women were protected by the privacy
of their home.112 The ideal household as outlined by writers such as Augustine
and Chrysostom turns out to be just that; a distorted version of the “real”
household, intended to be normative rather than descriptive in nature. In
reality, continuity seemed to have been the key word, from the decoration on
the walls to the moralistic teachings of parents.113
Christian writers and the church itself did react to this undesirable behavior
of fathers by trying to increase their influence over the private sphere. A
crucial part of these efforts were the Christian ideals articulated in sermons
by clerics such as Augustine. There were also household manuals, guidelines
on how to organize and conduct the household. These were often based on
Hellenistic-styled texts that were “Christianized” to fit in with the new ideals.114
Chrysostom wrote the On Vainglory or How to Raise your Children in this vein.
It is uncertain whether such texts really influenced more than a select group
of intellectual elites, yet their existence does testify to deliberate attempts to
disseminate monastic ideals.115
The church also tried removing the process of socialization from the household
altogether. Broadly speaking, this was attempted in three ways. Firstly, the
church and the developing monastic communities were conceptualized as a
parallel family. The implication was that this new spiritual household, with
clerics as paternal figures, was to take precedence over the traditional one.116
Secondly, Christian writers increasingly encouraged parents to send their
children to monastic communities for education or even to embark upon life
as a cleric. This education would be akin to Augustine’s model, outlined above,
but would be even more explicitly Christian in nature. This initiative does seem
to have had an effect, as some children entered monastic communities at a very
early age.117 Thirdly, in addition to the educational schemes of writers such as
Augustine, a more formalized Christian program was slowly developed. This
still relied on the classical paideia to some degree but was more Christian in its
foundations and offered a more or less uniform and intellectually established
alternative.118 Initially, such initiatives had only a limited effect but they would
form the foundation for a more far-reaching impact over the following centuries.
For now, the household and the parents remained the most important factors in
FAMILY, COMMUNITY, AND SOCIABILITY 81

socialization, which in consequence often took a path very similar to that seen
in previous centuries.119
In conclusion, it would seem that the influence of Christianity over
socialization was rather limited.120 For most people, both socialization and
education proceeded as they had for several centuries, albeit often influenced
by typical Christian values. Only for a relatively small group did Christian
ideals of socialization have the world-changing impact that many people still
associate with the institutionalization of Christianity. Most people successfully
navigated typically Christian and more traditional categories and expectations,
with Christian ideals often taking the backseat in settings that were not explicitly
Christian in nature. This did not mean that these people were not Christians
or were bad Christians, but rather that continuity in norms of social conduct
demanded a more balanced approach to one’s role within the community. The
sharp conflict between Christians and pagans that has been assumed for a long time
is actually a fifth-century construct, one that sought to portray Christianity as the
victor over paganism. In reality, the dividing line between typically Christian and
pagan customs and beliefs was much less obvious and all-encompassing.121 Even
radical changes in sexual morality, as outlined by Augustine, were formulated
and expressed in a typically pre-Christian way.122 This dynamic relation fed the
discussions about socialization and the role of the family in this process, discussions
enabled by the great importance all parties attributed to socialization and by the
lack of a formal educational program with a socializing function. When all is said
and done, conflicting value sets within Christian societies are responsible for both
the continuity and the tensions we may observe in the evidence.

CONCLUSION
This chapter has attempted to show that, despite the existence of dominant
models and discourses for socialization, there was still considerable agency
and room for public discussion. The debate in Athens over education and
socialization is a prime example of the latter instance. Individuals could also
adjust societal norms according to their own context and interests, as the
Gracchi did, and defy authoritative figures in favor of their long-standing social
customs, like many Christians in Augustine’s community. Given the general
importance accorded to socialization by all of the societies reviewed here there
are certain limits to this flexibility, and those who strayed too far from this
demarcated playing field ran the risk of being punished in the public arena. This
mainly applied to elites, as public representation was crucial to their success
in life. But for non-elites, too, a certain conformity to the rules of their social
milieu was important if they were to function properly within these groups.
Mainly because of the persistent and pervasive lack of formalized and
compulsory education in antiquity, processes of socialization such as those
82 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

described above were crucial elements in society. While only a select group had
access to actual teachers and more than training in a specific trade, the ideology
of citizenship and the embeddedness of the household within the community
made it possible for virtually every citizen to become a suitable social actor.
The way in which this result was achieved varied wildly, but in general we may
say that the family and its representation to the wider community were key
components in all examined societies. Moreover, people were very conscious
of this fact, which led to intense debates over the nature of this relationship as
well as considerations of how one might use it to one’s advantage.
 CHAPTER FIVE

Learners and Learning

FANNY DOLANSKY

INTRODUCTION
Toward the end of the first century ce, the parents of eleven-year-old Quintus
Sulpicius Maximus set up a large marble altar in his honor on the Via Salaria in
Rome. The altar features a full-length statue of Maximus holding a scroll in his
left hand and wearing a toga to denote Roman citizenship. His stance reflects
that of a budding orator poised to declaim. A Latin inscription below the
statue niche commemorates Maximus’ achievements in a poetry competition;
the text of the Greek poem he improvised for the occasion flanks his image.
Maximus was one of fifty-two poets who performed at the emperor Domitian’s
Capitoline festival in 94 ce. Many fellow competitors were adults yet Maximus
distinguished himself because of his young age, though ultimately he earned
acclaim for his intellect and talent.1
The monument reflects several themes addressed in this chapter, including
parental encouragement of formal schooling; the centrality of poetry in ancient
education, particularly epic; and the competitive ethos that characterized
education and other childhood and early adolescent pursuits. Not surprisingly,
in celebrating the fruits of Maximus’ labors, the monument does not reveal
certain darker aspects of the learning process such as the violence, actual or
impending, that seems to have been pervasive in ancient education and a
feature of apprenticeships and child labor as well. Similarly, Maximus’ epitaph
does not indicate why his parents chose formal education rather than learning
a trade that might lead more readily to a stable income. His parents, whose
names suggest they were former slaves and their son a first-generation freeborn
84 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

citizen, express their shared pride in the successful outcomes of his education.
Presumably they wanted him to have the opportunities that they had not had
and regarded education as a means of achieving this. However, Maximus, like
other young Romans, would have also learned much about the world around
him and his place in it outside of formal settings, from the lessons imparted by
parents, other adults, agemates, and older children that would have carried him
beyond his formative years.
This chapter examines occasions for learning formally and informally
through direct and indirect modes of instruction. The first, more substantial
section concentrates on learning within structured settings with a considerable
focus on schools, followed by apprenticeships and work environments in which
children labored alongside adults. The second section turns to less formal
activities and encounters. Day-to-day interactions within the home and beyond
afforded opportunities to model behavior, learn cultural norms and social
etiquette, and acquire essential skills. Children also learned much through play
and leisure activities, during which adult influences on learning often must have
been limited or even nonexistent.
The topic treated here is very broad and could be approached from many
angles, thus this chapter makes no claims to be exhaustive. In treading territory
familiar to students of Greek and Roman education and the study of children
and childhood generally, my contribution seeks to draw out new information
by focusing on different concerns from previous studies. I rely primarily on
Roman evidence that spans the middle Republic to the early fifth century ce,
but include some earlier Greek examples for comparison and to enrich the
discussion. Nearly all textual evidence from the ancient world approaches
children and their activities from a fairly narrow adult perspective since so
many sources, especially literary, are elite males. It is, therefore, impossible to
avoid the contributions of adults—parents, teachers, and servile caregivers—to
the learning process. Yet there are also instances where children can be seen
learning from one another and glimpses of peer culture and perhaps even peer
pressure emerge, though the evidence has inevitably been filtered through an
adult lens.2

LEARNING IN STRUCTURED SETTINGS

Formal education and schools
Children’s education was traditionally the purview of fathers, particularly
among the upper classes. According to Quintilian, fathers who were keen to see
sons reach their full potential, by which he meant develop into accomplished
orators, should focus on education from their sons’ earliest days.3 It is no surprise
to glean from Cicero’s letters arrangements for his son Marcus’ studies from the
LEARNERS AND LEARNING 85

time the boy was nearly six, as well as for his nephew Quintus when he was
somewhat older. Cicero never discusses his daughter Tullia’s education, possibly
because his correspondence mostly postdates her marriage, yet his praise of her
eloquence and intelligence may offer indirect evidence of his attention to her
studies during childhood.4 Mothers are also known to have taken an interest in
their sons’ education and were commended for this, such as Cornelia, mother
of the Gracchi, and Iulia Procilla, Agricola’s mother.5 Augustus’ mother and
stepfather are said to have spoken daily with his teachers and slave attendants
about his studies, activities, and companions.6 Surely parental interest in
children’s affairs varied among individuals and perhaps also between the sexes,
yet the value generally placed on formal education by the freeborn is readily
apparent and must have been obvious to children to some degree.
The first stage of formal education aimed at acquiring foundations in reading
and writing and often began around the age of seven.7 Among the upper classes,
the preference was to employ a tutor at home, while the less affluent sent their
sons and occasionally their daughters to schools. Students of different ages and
abilities frequently learned together in the same space, and advancement to
the next stage seems to have been determined by abilities rather than age. The
second stage, called grammaticē, typically lasted several years until boys were in
their early teens and concentrated on the study of literature, primarily poetry,
under the direction of a grammaticus. Poetry was used to teach grammar and
linguistics, even history and geography. Upper-class girls generally studied
privately with grammatici rather than attend public schools, and some continued
their studies at this stage even once married in their teens. Some boys of modest
means were able to complete studies in grammaticē, as seems to be the case for
Maximus with whom this chapter began, though his aspirations (or his parents’)
appear to have been loftier. It seems unlikely, though, that Maximus would
have become the orator his portrait suggests he desired to be since rhetorical
training, which comprised the final stage of formal education, was typically
reserved for upper-class boys. This was the pinnacle of their studies when they
learned to compose and deliver speeches of the sort they hoped one day to give
in the law courts or Senate.
Educationalists’ recommendations and especially school exercises preserved
on papyri and wooden tablets allow us to glimpse learners “in action” as they
acquired essential skills, as well as certain aspects of the learning process during
the first two phases of formal education in particular. The notion that boys
(the focus of most authors) needed direction as they embarked on their studies
emerges from Latin sources that expound on the methods used for teaching
children to write, expressing views similar to classical Greek sources before
them.8 Quintilian advises carving the letters of the alphabet into a wooden
tablet so there are fixed outlines for the child to follow rather than on a wax
tablet where the stilus could easily go astray.9 He encourages an adult to guide
86 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

the child’s hand along the grooves initially, then, after a period of tracing the
outlines together with increased speed and frequency, the child will have gained
the ability to do so independently. Seneca likewise sees the need to direct the
child’s early attempts by holding his fingers and guiding them along the outlines
of letters; later, the boy should be instructed to imitate a copy and reproduce
that model’s penmanship.10 Three centuries later, Jerome endorsed these
methods when he counseled Laeta on educating her daughter Paula.11
School exercises reflect varying levels of writing proficiency from those
just learning to form letters to advanced students who could write with ease.
Cribiore identifies four different school hands from the exercises: (1) the “zero-
grade hand” of a beginning student who struggles to differentiate between
letters and shape them correctly; (2) the “alphabetic hand” of a learner who
could write the alphabet accurately and without hesitation, but lacks hand-eye
coordination and writes slowly; (3) the “evolving hand” of a student who is used
to writing daily and does so moderately and fluently; and (4) the “rapid hand”
of an advanced student whose writing is fluid and well developed, sometimes
indistinguishable from a teacher’s.12 Students first learned to combine letters
into syllables and practised writing (as well as reciting) syllabic sets inscribed on
teachers’ models. Some may have worked at mastering these before proceeding
to copy maxims and sayings, of which verses from Greek poets were popular,
especially Homer, Euripides, and Menander. It appears the two practices could
occur at the same time, though, rather than in sequence, since some exercises
contain both syllabic sets and maxims; this suggests students were copying
material likely without comprehending it, for a student just learning to form
syllables surely could not yet read entire sentences.13
Occasionally school exercises offer an opportunity to compare the skill
levels of different students through the presence of more than one student’s
handwriting in the same exercise, as a papyrus fragment from the second to
first century bce illustrates.14 The exercise contains two columns of texts, each
written by a different student. The student who copied the first, which includes
Iliad 10.305–6, displays an alphabetic hand that reflects problems of alignment
and letter size. In contrast, the student who copied the second column, which
contains verses from the chorus of a lost play by Aeschylus and a prose passage
concerning the underworld, had an evolving hand, whose letters Cribiore finds
“larger and more careful” presumably than his classmate’s.15
Sometimes an individual student’s progress can be tracked, as is the case
within a notebook, which consisted of several tablets bundled together that
belonged to a single pupil. Seven wax tablets from Palmyra form a third-century
ce notebook that contains a teacher’s model of a line from Hesiod’s Works and
Days alongside the student’s copy of the text, plus fourteen lines of Babrius’
fables seemingly copied by the student alone as there are a number of spelling
and metrical errors as well as omissions and additions.16 The student, who has
LEARNERS AND LEARNING 87

an evolving hand, seems keen to imitate the teacher’s attractive script, but as
he attempts to carefully reproduce the model’s penmanship, he disregards the
ruled lines on the tablet. Elsewhere in the notebook the student’s handwriting
is described as “quicker and more cursive,” suggesting some progression of his
skills.
Desiring to emulate a teacher’s handwriting was applauded since one of the
defining characteristics of teachers’ penmanship was beauty. John Chrysostom
remarks that “teachers write letters with great beauty for children so that
they may imitate them, even if in an inferior way.”17 Learning to write and
especially to write well is marked by an element of competition: the teacher
sets a lofty standard by producing not merely legible but beautiful letters
that those learning to write cannot yet reproduce with comparable facility.
The value placed on beautiful penmanship was reinforced as students copied
hexameter lines urging them to create “beautiful letters in a straight line.”18
Contests rewarded penmanship as a poem in the Palatine Anthology (6.308)
attests, commemorating Connaros’ victory in the boys’ competition on account
of his handsome script. An additional element of competition is apparent in
the stress placed on the speed with which students were encouraged to write.
Quintilian comments on the importance of writing well and quickly (cura bene
ac velociter scribendi), and explains that “a sluggish pen delays our thoughts.”19
He insists that cultivating these skills in childhood will reap benefits later
in life, particularly when writing private letters to friends. Perhaps this was
Cicero’s aim in involving his son Marcus in his correspondence with Atticus,
his close friend. While it was not unusual for Cicero to indicate that Marcus
and sometimes Tullia extended good wishes to Atticus, three letters from April
of 59 bce suggest the then six-year-old Marcus may have had more direct
involvement in the contents. One letter concludes with the Greek phrase, “little
Cicero salutes Titus the Athenian”; another closes in Greek with “Cicero the
philosopher salutes Titus the politician”; while a final missive sends greetings
from Cicero’s wife Terentia and “Cicero the most aristocratic boy,” added in
Greek.20 Marcus may have prompted his father to include these sentiments or
perhaps appended the subscriptions himself, as Wiedemann has suggested.21
At every stage, Roman education had strong ethical aims since the ultimate
objective was to produce a young adult who displayed moral excellence—
in short, a “most aristocratic boy,” as young Marcus characterized himself.
Materials chosen were designed to achieve moral as well as practical goals from
the beginning. Maxims for copying needed to convey moral lessons so “the
impression made on the unformed mind will be good for the character.”22 This is
likewise the case for fables, another staple of early education.23 Many sententiae
or gnōmai (maxims) contained messages that were unproblematic and even
edifying. “Love justice and do not be greedy for anything,” one recommends,
while another admonishes, “Bad habits distort one’s nature.”24 However, some
88 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

were overtly negative, particularly those concerning women and marriage, such
that the beautiful letters students were encouraged to create were not necessarily
matched by similar content. Sayings about women tend to characterize them as
untrustworthy, dangerous, evil, and uncontrollable, and equate marriage with
disaster or death. As Morgan notes, the students who copied these sayings were
most likely below marriageable age and would have come into contact regularly
with both female relatives and marriageable women;25 yet the view they were
presented with in an educational context was of woman as wife and exclusively
from the perspective of a husband, prospective or actual. Such sayings helped
shape young male students’ attitudes and expectations by offering a decidedly
narrow and negative view of women and marriage.
The ethical focus persisted in the content chosen for developing reading skills,
which likewise helped craft a worldview particular to the freeborn and citizen
males specifically. Educationalists such as Quintilian and Plutarch, writing in the
late first and early second century ce respectively, believed children’s minds were
soft like wax and easily molded, thus what was impressed upon them in their
earliest years was of great importance. Quintilian strongly approved of starting
with Homer and Virgil for reading and proclaimed, “let the mind be uplifted
by the sublimity of the heroic poems, and inspired and filled with the highest
principles by the greatness of their theme.”26 Plutarch’s essay How the Young
Man Should Study Poetry is replete with examples of how the Homeric epics
can instruct boys in virtue, teaching them to manage their emotions, to discern
truth from lies, and to speak and conduct themselves well.27 Homer’s primacy
in ancient education had long been established and continued throughout
antiquity. Virgil’s preeminence among Latin authors followed with the Aeneid,
although prior to its publication various poets enjoyed a prominent place in the
school curriculum. Livius Andronicus’ Latin version of the Odyssey, composed
in Saturnian verses, was still used in schools when Horace was a youth,28 while
Ennius’ Annales, an epic written in hexameters, earned him the title Homerus
alter and the privileged position of sculpting generations of young Romans
alongside the Greek bard.29
Epic poetry was considered a repository of exempla central to fashioning
Roman identity and the development of Roman boys into citizen men. A key
part of this was the poems’ emphasis on virtus (manliness) with illustrations
throughout of conduct befitting the leaders of a nation. Keith maintains that
instruction in epic poetry “played an early role in shaping the elite Roman male’s
understanding of the world he was socially destined to govern, and it naturalised
and legitimated social hierarchies of class, nationality, and gender.”30 In the
case of the Aeneid specifically, Bradley insists that virtus comprised qualities
essential for battle: courage, bravery, valor—in essence, “martial manliness.”31
He also notes that many young characters in the poem die on the threshold of
adulthood. Their early deaths may have resonated with boys studying the poem
LEARNERS AND LEARNING 89

who were not much younger than these tragic heroes and would soon embark
on futures that included political apprenticeships and perhaps their first taste of
military action as well.
The epics celebrated the competitive spirit but also glorified the violence
of combat. In schools, competition and violence were both embedded in the
learning process and the ethos of ancient education, evident in the content
taught and the techniques used to teach it.32 When Quintilian reminisces about
his own schooldays, it is telling that he fondly recalls a contest in which boys had
to declaim in order of ability with the best students always going first and the
performances openly critiqued.33 His recollection is colored by military language
as he refers to the participants as victors and vanquished, each student’s desire to
lead the class (ducere classem), and suggests the pain of losing motivated boys to
drive off its disgrace (dolor victum ad depellendam ignominiam concitabat). For
contemporary schoolboys, the competition inherent in group learning is among
the benefits Quintilian cites for learning at school rather than at home. He
insists a boy will profit from hearing classmates praised and rebuked daily, for
“such praise will incite him to emulation, [and] he will think it a disgrace to be
outdone by his contemporaries.”34 He also endorses having school companions,
since a boy will first want to imitate his companions, then surpass them (quos
imitari primum, mox vincere velis).35
Whether such rivalries within the classroom led to physical contests outside
of it is not known, but surely the potential existed given the culture of ancient
schooling, which embraced competition and violence at every stage.36 From
children’s earliest studies they were presented with both violent content and
threats of punishment. Maxims urged pupils to pay attention lest they be beaten,
and inculcated the notion that corporal punishment was an essential part of
the educational process, for “he who is not thrashed cannot be educated.”37
Fables for copying and learning how to craft arguments were filled with tales
of injustice, betrayal, and violent redress.38 The mock legal cases of rhetorical
exercises often featured material far less edifying than the epics: poisonings,
maimings, rapes, and murders.
Yet it was not only that boys were regularly exposed to violence in what
they studied but also that the entire learning process was conditioned by threats
of punishment, which often seem to have materialized. Bloomer characterizes
the ancient school as “a world of violence, potential, mediated, and actual.”39
Much of this stems from teachers’ attitudes and behavior, as the literary
stereotype of the irascible schoolteacher who routinely punishes verbally and
physically appears to have had considerable basis in reality.40 Legally a teacher
was permitted to punish a child for the sake of correction,41 although no
permanent injury was to be inflicted, by which jurists presumably meant visible
injuries rather than the psychological scars that likely would have resulted from
corporal punishment. Educationalists, however, recognized the consequences
90 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

of such trauma and staunchly disapproved of corporal punishment for

freeborn children. They maintained that violence could be counterproductive
as children who were beaten became withdrawn and fearful of their studies
from pain and shame; instead, praise and reproof are cited as more effective
means of leading children to honorable pursuits and away from dishonorable
ones.42 Yet parents did not necessarily object to teachers’ harsh treatment; in
fact, sometimes they may have sought teachers’ help in “correcting” behavior
deemed problematic, as a comic sketch of the third century bce suggests. In
Herodas’ third mime titled “The Teacher,” Cottalus is brought to his teacher
by his mother for a thorough beating to dissuade him from dissolute ways.
Although the teacher administers the beating, Cottalus’ mother determines how
long it will last and she is dissatisfied when the teacher stops.43 Augustine claims
being beaten at school was a regular occurrence condoned and even mocked by
his parents and other boys.44 While Bloomer rightly cautions against assuming
“strict autobiographical accuracy,”45 there is enough evidence aside from the
Confessions to suggest there was some truth in Augustine’s complaints even if
he embellished for rhetorical or theological purposes.46
At school, both learning and punishment took place before audiences.
Students recited and declaimed in front of a group, receiving encouragement
or criticism as classmates watched and listened. This is dramatized in ancient
colloquia, which feature many school scenes. These texts, dating from the first
three centuries ce, consist of bilingual Latin and Greek dialogues and narratives
about everyday activities, and were designed for elementary language learning.47
In one, a boy who might be labeled a “model student” due to his exemplary
behavior, reports on his recitation before the teacher and the class. While he
waits patiently for those ahead of him to recite, he pays attention to their
pronunciation and the teacher’s, declaring that “it is from this that we progress.
(…) Self-confidence arises from this, as does progress.”48 The colloquia attempt
to instill in learners behavior they should exhibit and avoid, and also reinforce
certain practices as normative, including corporal punishment. Another student
narrator comments matter-of-factly that, “If someone [has recited] badly, he is
punished.”49 The nature of such punishments is made explicit elsewhere when
a teacher tells a student that he deserves to be flogged for his poor penmanship;
though he decides not to punish him, the threat still looms.50
Presumably punishment in the presence of others, such as the critique
of school work, could be humiliating and degrading, especially if slave
attendants, in addition to fellow students, were among the onlookers
witnessing a future citizen being struck. While those watching were implicated
to some extent simply by being present, sometimes it seems fellow students
were forced to take an active role in administering a punishment and to
be more than bystanders. In Herodas’ sketch (ll. 59–62), the teacher orders
three of Cottalus’ friends to hold him down during the beating. The boys
LEARNERS AND LEARNING 91

have no choice but to comply and facilitate their classmate’s punishment.

Although the sketch was intended to be humorous, the action portrayed is
plausible, even if somewhat exaggerated, given the considerable authority
afforded to teachers and general acceptance of their methods of instruction
and correction.
Despite long-standing beliefs from Aristotle to Augustine that learning was
a painful process,51 there are indications that some students rejected this ethos
and showed their discontent in various ways. Booth compiled ancient examples
of student misconduct including discussing subjects during class unrelated to
their lessons, making rhymes up about the teacher, and hissing and jeering at
one another.52 Students also skipped classes, as one of the colloquia indicates;
Herodas’ third mime (ll. 37–8) alludes to this as well with the charge that
Cottalus did not know the location of his teacher’s house where presumably his
lessons were held. The model student encountered earlier comments that there
are “difficult dispositions with regard to the hard work of literary study.”53 He
does not elaborate on how these “difficult dispositions” could manifest and, of
course, does not impugn the teacher’s methods, but it is not hard to believe the
two were related.
Apprenticeships and child labour
For many children, formal education was out of reach on account of juridical
status, socio-economic circumstances, or a combination of factors, and their
opportunities for structured learning were largely confined to apprenticeships,
paid and unpaid work. Although jurists set no monetary value on the services
of slaves under the age of five,54 some were already at work at an even younger
age. Outside of apprenticeships, there is little evidence for how slave children
learned their jobs, yet funerary commemorations especially suggest many were
very accomplished, so they must have received some dedicated training in order
to hone their skills. In some instances, formal arrangements could be made so
that a slave learned their position, as was the case for an ornatrix (hairdresser
or stylist), who could receive two months of instruction by a magister.55 Many
young slaves, if not most, probably learned what was required by shadowing
experienced slaves who taught them about their posts.
Certainly, there were economic incentives for educating and training
slaves, since educated and well-trained slaves were assets for the skilled jobs
they performed and could garner higher prices at sale. Some owners assumed
responsibility for slaves’ education themselves, though details regarding what
this entailed are lacking. Plutarch reports that the elder Cato preferred to
buy slaves still young enough for him to raise and train.56 Crassus directed his
sizeable slave staff’s education and Atticus oversaw his slaves’ training.57 The
attention of these men to their slaves’ education is presented as admirable but
exceptional, since many were not interested in educating slaves themselves and
92 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

entrusted this to others. Martial (10.62) records young slave boys attending
lessons with the ludi magister (elementary teacher) and others studying under
teachers of accounting and stenography. The imperial household and some
large private households had special in-house training establishments called
paedagogia where male slaves, who were primarily prepubescent and adolescent
boys, were trained. The younger Pliny mentions a paedagogium in one of his
houses,58 while inscriptions from Rome attest to paedagogia associated with the
imperial household. Bodel calls these “elaborately organised institutions” that
featured a hierarchy of instructors and administrative staff consisting of slaves
and freedmen.59 Here slaves learned the fundamentals of dining-room service,
though training may have been more extensive since attendance at dinners
sometimes involved reading, taking notes, and reporting on financial accounts,
which required a high degree of literacy and practical knowledge of arithmetic.
From his recent study of the graffiti in the Palatine paedagogium, Keegan
concludes from the orthography and graphic variations in the writing that the
building’s inhabitants possessed a range of educational levels.60 The majority of
the graffiti correspond to instruction in the rudiments, but 10 percent reflect a
higher grade of instruction since they employ a type of cursive writing used in
writing documents.
Sources generally provide little insight into the education or training of young
slaves and children of the lower classes, but apprenticeships are an exception.
Documentary, legal, and literary sources offer valuable glimpses of the process
of acquiring specialized skills and enable some appreciation for apprentices’
experiences to emerge. Most apprenticeship contracts from Egypt outline
arrangements for training freeborn boys, slave boys and girls in textile work,
though apprenticeships in shorthand, music, construction, copper smithing, and
nail making are also attested for boys.61 Apprenticeships tended to begin at age
twelve or thirteen, and last from about six months to six years. Most contracts
state that the apprentice will be taught by a teacher or master and must follow
his instructions, but there is nothing about the training itself. Yet the contracts
do contain various details about working conditions and expectations that shed
some light on what these learners might have experienced. Work days could be
rather long, as some contracts for weaving apprenticeships stipulate work from
sunrise to sunset. A late second-century ce contract from Oxyrhynchus specifies
this for a boy apprenticed to a master weaver for five years.62 A reference in
the text to the boy “doing everything that he is ordered by the said teacher like
other such apprentices” suggests a group of apprentices were employed at the
same time so the boy was not learning in isolation.
The weaving contracts do not indicate coercive measures for behavior such as
idleness and absences due to illness or truancy, which is noteworthy. Financial
rather than physical penalties are provided as negative incentives to induce the
apprentice to perform his duties to the fullest: days missed must be made up at
LEARNERS AND LEARNING 93

the end of the contract and wages for those days forfeited. An apprenticeship
contract from 155 ce for a shorthand writer includes similar provisions.63
The slave Chaerammon, who is apprenticed for two years, is expected to
remain with his teacher afterwards for as long as he is absent from work. An
interesting feature of this contract is the relationship established between the
teacher’s compensation and the apprentice’s instruction, for the boy’s master,
Panechotes, makes the teacher’s salary contingent upon the boy’s acquisition of
certain skills, thus encouraging the teacher to set learning goals. After paying an
initial instalment, Panechotes stipulates that the teacher will receive the second
instalment when the boy has learned all the tachygraphic signs by heart and the
final instalment at the end of the period “when the boy can write and read from
prose of all kinds without fault.”
These contracts are prescriptive documents written with the interests of the
adults who entered into these agreements in mind. Some refer to obedience to the
instructor, but there is no mention of corporal punishment for insubordination,
poor workmanship, or other misdemeanors. Yet, as Laes cautions, this does not
mean harsh treatment did not occur.64 After all, violence and intimidation were
regular features of schools despite the majority of students being freeborn and
some from influential families, while apprentices were often slaves, freed or
freeborn poor, thus just as vulnerable to harsh treatment during their training,
if not more so. The Digest is instructive in this regard through the example of a
shoemaker who struck his freeborn pupil in the neck with a last because the boy
had not properly executed what he was taught and he lost an eye as a result.65
Julian ruled there was no action for insult (iniuria) because the shoemaker hit
“not with the intent of causing an injury, but for the purpose of admonishing
and teaching him” (my translation). Ulpian, however, felt charges could be
brought under the lex Aquilia and cited Paul in support who maintained that
excessive brutality by a teacher was cause for assigning fault. An anecdote from
the mid-second century ce by Lucian also lends the impression that violence in
apprenticeships was not unusual.66 After Lucian had completed some formal
education, because finances were limited his father decided he should acquire a
trade and apprenticed him to an uncle who was a sculptor and stonemason. On
his first day, he struck a marble slab too hard with his chisel and broke it. His
uncle beat him with a stick and Lucian ran home crying to his mother. Similar
recourse is reported in the Digest, in which jurists determined that apprentices
who ran away to their mothers were not deemed fugitives if they did so merely
to escape an instructor’s punishment.67 A unique piece of evidence from a much
earlier era shows that allegations of mistreatment and consequent appeals by
apprentices to their mothers had a long history. A fourth-century bce letter
found in a well in the Athenian Agora offers brief but evocative testimony. It is
written by a boy named Lesis who claims he is being mistreated in the foundry
where he apprentices. He implores his mother and a man named Xenokles to
94 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

come to his masters and make new arrangements, and decries his situation: “I
have been handed over to a man thoroughly wicked; I am perishing from being
whipped; I am tied up; I am treated like dirt!”68
Yet just as the experiences of individual learners in schools varied, so too did
the experiences of apprentices. Laes examines a number of epitaphs concerning
apprentices and their mentors that suggest close relationships.69 An epitaph for
thirteen-year-old Florentius is “from his master who loved him more than [if] he
had been his own son.”70 Some apprentices express gratitude and pride toward
their deceased mentors, a rather different situation from what Lucian and Lesis
present. In Tarraco, for example, three apprentices of the goldsmith Iulius
Statutus composed a lengthy commemoration for him and vowed to honor his
memory.71 Statutus made them his heirs and out of respect they intended to
keep his name on the workshop they had inherited. Since apprentices sometimes
lived with their mentors or spent many hours with them daily, they had far
more interaction than pupils and schoolteachers, who were only together a
few hours each day. As a result, there was also greater potential for apprentices
to be influenced by their mentors and to learn more than practical skills from
them. Statutus’ apprentices celebrated his happy demeanor, “zest for life and
a sense of discipline.” Others no doubt also deemed their mentors worthy of
admiration and emulation.

OPPORTUNITIES FOR INFORMAL LEARNING

Young Romans did not spend all of their time in the structured environments
of schools, apprenticeships, and work. A considerable amount of learning
took place outside formal settings through interactions with parents and other
relatives, caregivers, siblings, and agemates. Though fictional rather than
historical texts, the colloquia document many activities a school-aged boy might
participate in during a typical day besides attending school, from morning
routines of washing and dressing to social visits with friends and excursions to
the baths. In detailing these activities, the colloquia suggest the sorts of cultural
practices a freeborn boy of some means ought to engage in and the attitudes
and behavior he should exhibit. While the protagonists of these narratives are
freeborn boys, the cultural norms and social graces they display would have
been expected of girls of similar status and perhaps also of less affluent peers
and freed counterparts. The “model student” encountered earlier and the
“ordinary” boys from other colloquia demonstrate behavior that was prized
and probably resulted from informal learning experiences. The boys in these
stock scenes kiss and greet their parents soon after waking, and greet teachers
and fellow students upon arrival at school. If they encounter acquaintances in
the street or visitors to their home, they greet them too. When friends are ill,
they pay them a visit. They walk rather than run. When they are at their finest,
LEARNERS AND LEARNING 95

they are polite, respectful, patient, and conscientious future citizens who obey
parents and teachers and command slaves with authority.72 These aspects of
etiquette and cultural practice are the initial focus of this section. Discussion
of the behavior and attitudes which sources believed children should exhibit
follows. Such opportunities for learning predominantly concern interactions
between adults and children in which children learned from those older and
more experienced. Play and leisure, however, provided contexts in which
children primarily interacted with and learned from one another.

Etiquette and social graces

Adults and children commonly greeted and showed affection for one another
with a kiss.73 Cicero, for example, closes a letter to Atticus with the request
that he give his young daughter Attica a kiss along with Cicero’s good wishes.74
Elsewhere, he portrays Lucius Paullus kissing and embracing his young daughter
Tertia when he arrives home.75 Perhaps the most evocative image comes from
Lucretius who remarks that, when a man dies, among the pleasures he will
henceforth be deprived of is having his children race to be the first to win kisses
from him.76 Children presumably learned the importance of greeting adults
and exchanging kisses both by observing others and receiving such gestures
themselves. Plutarch, however, indicates that this routine exchange could be
a learning opportunity.77 He comments that “most people in bestowing an
affectionate kiss on little children not only take hold of the children by the ears
but bid the children to do the same by them, thus insinuating in a playful way
that they must love most those who confer benefit through the ears.”
Plutarch’s focus on the ears points to the importance listening was
understood to play in children’s cognitive development and acquisition of
cultural norms. Since young minds were thought to be malleable, sources
express concern about what children were exposed to visually and aurally.
The emphasis on what children heard and how they learned to speak is not
surprising given that Roman society was such an oral culture. Cicero and
Quintilian were especially interested in how a future orator was shaped by
those he heard in early childhood, though their remarks could pertain to
freeborn children more generally. Cicero notes the influence that both parents
could have on a child’s developing speech.78 He pays considerable attention to
mothers, citing women celebrated for their eloquence such as Cornelia, mother
of the Gracchi, and Laelia, Gaius Laelius’ daughter. He highlights what he
perceives to be a direct connection between a child’s speech and a parent’s by
attributing Laelia’s eloquent speech to modeling her father’s, and implies that
Laelia’s daughters and granddaughters likewise spoke impressively because of
her. Quintilian similarly stresses the value of both parents speaking well, but
concentrates even more on the impact of servile childminders and companions
on the budding orator.79 He insists the nurse speak properly because she is the
96 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

first person the child will hear and imitate; if he becomes accustomed to a style
of speech disapproved of, he will have to unlearn it when he is older. The same
standard applies to the slave boys the child is raised with, while paedagogi
should be well educated, which presumably included having good diction and
pronunciation.
Because children were so impressionable and readily modeled themselves on
others, adults needed to take care lest they overhear foul language.80 Quintilian
enumerates the corrupting sights and sounds children are exposed to at dinner
parties: mistresses, young male lovers, obscene songs, and “things shameful
to mention” (pudenda dictu).81 He holds parents accountable for allowing
children to see and hear things they learn without knowing are bad. Such adult
content helps degrade freeborn children’s morality, as does the willingness of
parents to let them speak impertinently in a fashion Quintilian claims would be
objectionable even for young slave favorites (deliciae) who were often prized for
their impudence.82 As a result, freeborn children become licentious and lax in
their speech and morals. Freeborn children were expected to exhibit modestia
(restraint) in speech and behavior, while slave children were encouraged to
display licentia (license) and audacia (boldness), and deliciae in particular
were esteemed for their bold and witty remarks, among other conversational
skills.83 Yet any conduct associated with slaves was to be avoided by freeborn
youngsters who needed to learn how to speak and act consistent with their
status. According to a treatise on child-rearing attributed to Plutarch, teaching
children to speak truthfully was “a most sacred duty, for lying is fit for slaves
only and deserves to be hated of all men, and even in decent slaves it is not to
be condoned” (De lib. educ. 11c). Freeborn children were similarly discouraged
from running because hurrying was a slave’s trait. The model child of the
Colloquium Stephani (9A) proudly declares that he ascended the staircase to
school “step by step, unhurriedly, as was proper.”84 As Laurence proposes, one
aspect of becoming more adult was slowing one’s bodily movement in public
space, thus children needed to be dissuaded from their natural inclination to
move quickly and learn instead to adopt a slower pace.85
Effective and appropriate communication also included learning how to
address other to avoid offense and to be tactful and courteous (Plut. De lib.
educ. 10a). Knowing when to exercise moderation or restraint and when to
keep silent were likewise important. Seneca highly esteemed having control over
one’s speech (modestia verborum), which meant refraining from obscenities and
insults. Mencacci suggests Seneca perceived this as “a gift that must be acquired
very gradually” and not a quality often observed in young people who are prone
to spontaneity, frankness, and even aggression in their verbal interactions.86
Children are encouraged to learn “give and take” in verbal interactions with
peers and not to be entirely unyielding in discussions when winning might
prove injurious to another.87 Related to this is the value of learning when
LEARNERS AND LEARNING 97

not to speak. The treatise on child-rearing devotes considerable attention to

“controlling the tongue” (tēs glōttēs kratein) and offers several cautionary tales
about intemperate speech. Its author maintains that “timely silence is a wise
thing, and better than any speech.”88 Plutarch also focuses on this subject in his
essay On Listening to Lectures and contends that it is from skilled educators
that children learn to hear much and speak little.89
Consumption of food and drink, like speech, necessitated learning proper
protocols, such as exercising moderation and self-control. This needed to be
taught, not simply assimilated through observation, then monitored. Careful
instruction in dining etiquette for boys and girls was mainly entrusted to servile
caregivers. Augustine describes how an old female slave sought to teach his
mother and her sisters abstemious habits regarding drinking when they were
girls.90 By preventing them from drinking water outside mealtimes, she aimed to
temper their “youthful greed” and control their actual thirst so that their desire
for drinking water initially but ultimately wine would diminish when they grew
older.91 Learning customs such as taking meat with the right hand and bread
with the left, “do not come by chance, but require oversight and attention,”
Plutarch maintains.92 He asserts that paedagogoi were responsible for teaching
such things and relates an anecdote about the Cynic philosopher Diogenes who
reprimanded a pedagogue for failing to instill appropriate behavior in his charge
when he saw the boy eating sweetmeats.93 One needed to learn how to eat and
drink politely in the company of others, which Plutarch explains, drawing on
Aristophanes, meant not laughing like a clown, gulping down food, or crossing
one leg over the other.94 Further, with paedagogoi instructing them, children
should learn to touch salt-fish with only one finger, but fresh fish, bread, and
meat with two, and to adopt correct posture when seated. Others likewise
reflected on the importance of proper comportment at meals and the need for
thorough instruction in dining protocols. Clement of Alexandria, for instance,
offers an extensive list of injunctions in his Paedagogus, and though not directed
at children specifically, their applicability is obvious, as Bradley has shown.95
Role models and practical skills
Demonstrating conduct appropriate to a situation depended in large part on the
qualities one possessed, many of which were thought to be innate yet requiring
cultivation during childhood.96 Somewhat paradoxically, sources advocate
presenting children with suitable role models then seem to assume they will
simply adopt admired traits without any concerted efforts to foster these. The
treatise on child-rearing exemplifies this approach, contending that “fathers
ought above all by not misbehaving, and by doing as they ought to do, to make
themselves a manifest example to their children so that the latter, by looking
at their fathers’ lives as at a mirror, may be deterred from disgraceful deeds
and words.”97 It was widely held that children could become imprints (typoi)
98 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

of their parents (Artem. 1.29) and quasi-parental figures.98 Seneca strongly

articulates this view to his mother Helvia, who was raising her granddaughter
Novatilla since the girl had lost her parents to exile and death.99 Helvia needed
to order and shape the girl’s character because “instruction that is stamped
upon the plastic years leaves a deeper mark.” She should be an exemplum to her
granddaughter in conversation and habits, with the assumption that Novatilla
would model herself accordingly.
In contrast, there appears to have been greater understanding that children
needed dedicated instruction in order to acquire practical skills, which varied
by gender. Some particularly conscientious parents took it upon themselves
to impart these rather than leave the task to servile caregivers. The elder Cato
reputedly taught his son to hurl a javelin, fight in armor, ride a horse, box, and
swim as well as to read.100 Augustus’ grandsons learned from him how to read
and take notes, and he expected them to model their handwriting on his.101
With his daughter and granddaughters, however, the emphasis seems to have
been more on attaining certain virtues than acquiring practical skills; even his
insistence that they learn to work wool accords with his monitoring of their
speech and activities to ensure they always behaved beyond reproach. Centuries
later, Jerome similarly encouraged young Christian girls to learn wool-working
as a sign of feminine virtue and indicates in one letter that the girl’s pedagoga
would instruct her.102

Play, leisure, and peer culture

In the course of play and leisure, children learned from one another and
often without adults present to influence them. These unstructured activities
provided opportunities to develop social skills as well as many practical ones
that could be beneficial in adulthood. Games with nuts, knucklebones, and
dice, which children of both sexes and different statuses played, helped with
dexterity, arithmetic calculations, and risk assessment. Toner suggests these
and other activities also “offered children lessons in emotional management,
showing them the techniques they could employ to be resilient and robust in a
competitive milieu.”103 Many imaginative games involved imitating adult roles
and responsibilities. Leadership positions such as kings, judges, and generals
were appealing as well as those associated with physical prowess such as soldiers
and gladiators. Status differentiation was a distinctive feature of boys’ games,
as Wiedemann noted, with winners and losers, leaders and followers;104 this
persisted under Christianity as children played at “bishops” and “monks and
demons,” which had a clear ethical dimension.105
Stories about the childhoods of leading male figures from Greek and Roman
history highlight the prominence of competition in boys’ play, which sometimes
also entailed another aspect familiar from children’s experiences in school,
apprenticeships, and work: violence.106 Through play and leisure, children
LEARNERS AND LEARNING 99

sometimes experienced aggressive or combative behavior directly and witnessed

or perpetrated cruelty and violence toward animals and fellow human beings.107
Young Alcibiades, for instance, unapologetically bit his adversary during a
wrestling match.108 Geta and Caracalla routinely quarrelled over quail and cock
fights, which were bloody contests.109 Plutarch records the third-century bce
philosopher Bion’s reproof over boys throwing stones at frogs for amusement
and registers his own dismay when boys in Rome tormented an elephant
by sticking their styluses into its trunk.110 Left largely unsupervised at play,
children sometimes engaged in problematic behavior, as an anecdote about the
younger Cato illustrates.111 While boys were playing at court proceedings, one
boy described as handsome was “condemned” and led off by an older boy to
“prison,” where he was shut up inside a chamber as other boys stood guard
outside. Once summoned to help, Cato pushed them aside and took the young
boy home in anger with the others following.
This story is suggestive regarding the dynamics that could ensue when a
group played together without adult supervision, especially when there were
differences in age and perhaps strength and ability accordingly. It is not
surprising to find one boy emerging as dominant and others deferring to him
until Cato intervenes and usurps his place as leader. Augustine’s reflections
on his childhood provide further insights into children’s behavior and ancient
peer culture. He recalls how he used to steal from his parents’ storeroom so
he would have items to trade with other boys “who charged me to join in
their playing, which they enjoyed just as much as I did.”112 Because he was so
intent on winning, he resorted to cheating, yet decried such behavior in his
peers and argued with them fiercely. Though he may not have always liked the
competitiveness of his group’s activities, he and his peers were learning skills for
the future by assessing the risks involved in behaving deceitfully and in defending
their honor. The importance of the group is clear when Augustine describes
how he and his friends stole pears from an orchard simply to be destructive. He
presents himself not as the leader influencing others but as one eager to belong
and be a part of something bigger. He insists that, “had I been alone I would
not have done it (I remember thinking so at the time) (…). What I loved about
it was participating with others in doing what I did (…) my pleasure was not
in the pears, it was in the actual crime that a fellowship of sinners committed
together.”113 Vuolanto rightly detects “peer pressure” in this incident as the
teenage Augustine sought camaraderie and acceptance from his peers.114
Jerome, a near contemporary, raises concerns about the negative influences
of peers on young Christian girls and interactions between freeborn girls and
their young female attendants. Girls could be problematic because of their
wantonness (lascivia), for they secretly share what they have learned and corrupt
by gossiping.115 They are portrayed as both potential learners and teachers,
which is likewise the case in his letter about Paula. There he insists that girls
100 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

(presumably freeborn peers and prospective friends) and attendants (pedisequae)

be kept from secular society “lest they render their evil knowledge worse by
teaching it to her.”116 He is even more exercised regarding slave companions
and the possibility that close relationships could develop, as such peer culture
among girls of different statuses and moral worth was threatening.117 Thus Paula
should not have a favorite maidservant she might whisper to regularly or even
an agemate for a companion but an older, more experienced virgin instead.118

CONCLUSIONS
Childhood and early adolescence involved continual learning both in the
structured settings of schools, apprenticeships, and workplaces, and outside
these formal contexts through interactions with parents, caregivers, peers, and
others at home and at play. In these varied learning environments, children
were intent on the present yet also kept an eye on the future, preparing for what
lay ahead. Their world was not static but ever-changing, just as they themselves
were. Though parents were considered the builders (fabri) of their children and
responsible for laying sturdy foundations,119 many others also contributed to
the development of their children. Relatives, educators, and servile caregivers
aided in teaching practical skills and proper conduct, while agemates and
older children imparted valuable lessons in the course of leisure and play and
sometimes in the context of master-slave relationships as well. The experiences
of learners must have varied considerably depending on age, gender, juridical
and socio-economic status, but certain features of the learning process appear
to have been fairly consistent regardless of such differences, including the
competitive nature of formal education and the presence of violence, actual
and impending, in schools, apprenticeships, and even at play. Daily activities
offered opportunities to model appropriate behavior, learn cultural norms and
social etiquette, and acquire essential skills, all of which could carry children
well beyond their formative years.
 CHAPTER SIX

Teachers and Teaching

KONRAD VÖSSING

TERMS AND DEFINITIONS

*
In ancient Greek, as in many other languages, the term for a teacher is an
agent noun (nomen agentis) derived from the action of teaching: didaskalos
(from didaskalein, “to teach”) is the earliest attested (fifth century bce) and most
frequently employed term; somewhat rarer is kathegetês (from kathêgeisthai, “to
instruct”). Neither word defined teaching in terms of standards or circumstantial
details (such as whether it took place in a school or a private home) or in relation
to the subject of the teaching. It is, however, characteristic of the initially very low
degree of institutionality of antique schools that the word for the school house
was a simple genitive: didaskalou or didaskalôn: the teacher’s or, in the plural, the
teachers’ (place).1 The term didaskalos has a broad spectrum of meaning, which
can be narrowed down by adding a specific field or level of learning (for example,
chamai-didaskalos—“low teacher,” namely an elementary teacher, also called
grammato-didaskalos). The formal Latin equivalent of kathegetês is praeceptor,
that of didaskalos is a derivative of docere (to teach): doctor.2 But in Latin, the
semantic field had a stronger flavor of the abstract sense of doctrina, very likely
due to the fact that many doctrines were, in fact, Greek imports. That was why
doctor did not denote the teacher of elementary skills; and in late antiquity it was
possible to differentiate between doctores and magistri (see below) in the sense
of teachers of (elevated) rhetoric and (elemental) grammatical skills respectively.3
The general Latin term for (any type of) teacher carried a strong connotation
of the instructor’s hierarchic position relative to his students: magister,

*
The English translation was kindly done by Imogen Herrad.
102 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

“master,” is derived from magis, “more.” The students were collectively called
a ludus—a term that would later on confuse even the Romans themselves,
because ludus also referred to a game.4 It is probable that both meanings go
back to ludus in the sense of “collective exercise,” which was frequently used
in military contexts.5 The ludi magister shared his title of magister with a large
number of other “leaders” of private and public collective activities, and also
for magister in the sense of “teacher” there are various qualifiers.6 The term
paidagôgos emphasizes a different aspect, and one which does not actually
have anything to do with teaching. The paidagôgos (paedagogus) was the slave
who “led” (agôgein) the boys (paides) to school, his job being both to protect
and to observe them.7 The pedagogue would accompany his charges all day
long (family finances allowing) and as such he would also perform educational
tasks.8 He was still around in late antiquity, where he might assist in lessons
by supervising the boys’ homework;9 but there was hardly an overlap between
the roles of paedagogus and magister.10 One might, however, praise a teacher
by referring to him as a “pedagogue” in order to highlight his qualities as
an educator; the emperor Julian did this when he immortalized his teacher
Mardonius in writing.11
Alternatively, a master might be named not for what he did but what he
knew, namely his subject. In Greek, there was the grammatistês, who taught
the most important primary school content: the reading and writing of letters
(grammata, Latin litterae) and words. His title also referenced the place where
he did this, the grammateion (in Latin ludus litterarius). Both he and his Latin
equivalent, the litterator, had originally also taught higher (“literary”) skills—a
fact remembered during the imperial period by men of letters with a bent for
archaic word usages.12
Individual fields of science began to be differentiated in Greek thought from
Aristotle onwards (see “Skills, stages, and dynamics”), and it consequently
became customary to name a master for his specialization. Within the realm
of literary subjects—which was all the overwhelming majority of learners ever
studied—there were two specialists: the grammatikos (originally the term for
the scholarly expert on philological matters, later mainly the term for the
teacher) and the teacher of oratory (rhetor, which could also designate the mere
practitian, namely a public speaker).
As Greek culture and education marched triumphant through the
Mediterranean, famously taking captive their military conquerors, the Romans,13
both terms were adopted in the late second century as grammaticus and rhetor,
respectively. Roman “grammar” included both grammatical and content
analysis and the study (sometimes also the memorizing) of texts by the great
poets, chiefly Homer and, in Latin, Virgil; this included the teaching of correct
linguistic usage as well as stylistic and literary abilities. “Rhetoric” used prose
texts to teach budding orators the basics of their art before they transitioned
TEACHERS AND TEACHING 103

to practice speeches (declamationes), which was why a teacher of rhetoric was

also called a declamator. This reference to the practical application of the art
solely for training purposes (specifically in a ludus) set the declamator apart
from the orator, who practiced it in earnest in the Forum.14 He was more often
called a rhetor (specified by the language he taught: rhetor Graecus or rhetor
Latinus). The Greek origin of the term meant that the discipline of rhetoric
tended to be dominated by theoretical aspects of thought and technique. In
the Greek world (where Latin oratory was only rarely taught) the separation of
theory and practice had been less marked from the start. Rhetôr here could also
refer to a speaker in a political assembly;15 a teacher of rhetoric might be called
a sophistês, a term that had been in use ever since the age of Sophism (from
the late fifth century bc onwards) for practitioners of public speech as well as
for those who taught the art of speaking (and other accomplishments). In late
antiquity a sophistês in the latter sense, if he was the director of a larger school
of rhetoric, would have several rhêtores working under him.16 In the Latin west
these were probably called subdoctores.17
So a teacher might be named for what he did, for the subject he taught, or the
locality where he worked. The Latin term schola (which of course we still use
today) is first attested to in the early first century bce.18 In Greek, the term scholê
meant leisure, namely the learned disputes and talks heard or performed at
leisure; the term came to include the participants.19 Over time—probably only
after it had been reimported via Latin—scholê evolved into scholeion, a word
for the place where teaching happened.20 In Rome, the term schola appears to
have been employed in order to emphasize the elevated level of education to be
had there, compared with the more elementary teaching in the ludus litterarius.
Schola came to characterize a whole new domain and in turn gave rise to yet
another word: scholasticus (Greek scholastikós), which denoted both a student
in advanced education and the graduate of a schola, especially an advocate,21 as
well as the teacher, the “school man.”22
Many aspects of the definition for “teacher” go back to Latin and Greek
terms. By contrast, two important restrictions for this chapter do not. Those
who taught others in an informal, nonprofessional manner and/or only taught
part-time (compared with their other activities or commitments) would still
have been called teachers—just as one would in many modern languages today.
But this chapter will not talk about such teachers and their subjects. It will
also not look at any instructors who were active in peripheral areas of ancient
knowledge transfer. Such might be exceptional in terms of their specialization
(such as teachers of music or dance, shorthand, or geometry, to name three
disciplines that were remote from the mainstream of ancient education) or
because they taught only a tiny minority of the already small elite willing and
able to pay for higher education, even though what they taught fitted in well
enough with the mainstream and the logic of the educational ideal (for example,
104 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

philosophy, which might follow as an optional extra after the usual course of
education, which culminated with rhetoric).

WHO’S WHO
The many different types of instructor and their greatly varying levels of
reputation (see “Skills, stages, and dynamics”) meant that teachers were drawn
from all social strata (see “Social function and position”). As long as a candidate
had the required grasp of the language (Latin or Greek) and of his subject,
there were no fixed ethnic or regional restrictions either, and barring occasional
exceptions (see “Criticism and conflict”), the same was true for a teacher’s
religious background. Both the instructors and their pupils in the public primary
schools and beyond were, as a rule, male. But there was no general, ideological
bar to women and girls being educated at home,23 so a woman could be a scholar
(including a philosopher) and in some rare cases even a private tutor.24
The very first teachers recognizable as such are anonymous figures in so-
called school scenes on vase paintings.25 Not until much later do the sources tell
us about identifiable individuals. For a long time all we have are mythological
echoes of the real-life instructors who must have existed but who left no
other traces. There are innumerable ancient depictions of the centaur Chiron
instructing Achilles and many other heroes in how to play the cithara—as well
as the three Rs.26
The first educators whose names we know lived during the Hellenistic
period, by which time the teaching profession had begun to enjoy a better
reputation (see “Social function and position”). They taught at advanced levels.
At Rome the first actual school, operating at elementary level, was as far as we
know not opened until the later third century bce.27 It was run by a teacher of
unfree origin, as were many of its successors.28 We have earlier evidence for
private tutors and even some names: Suetonius Tranquillus (De grammaticis
1.2) says that the poets Livius Andronicus and Ennius (he refers to them as
“semi-Greeks”) had been “the earliest teachers” (antiquissimi doctorum) of
grammar. However, when they read, interpreted, and translated poetry—the
central tasks of grammatical instruction (see “Methods”)—they certainly did so
not in schools but (in the later third century bc) in their patrons’ houses.
Suetonius’ book, De Grammaticis et Rhetoribus,29 is part of a larger work,
De viris illustribus (On Famous Men), and the oldest extant collection of short
biographies of Latin teachers and literary men. Of their Greek precursors—
Hellenistic lives of scholars—almost none have survived. But these were not
treatises about the profession of teaching and those active in it: they were
interested in the famous men who practised the (then) new arts and sciences
as they had evolved since the day of Aristotle, who thronged the great libraries
that graced the cities of the Hellenistic kings.30 These libraries were not places
TEACHERS AND TEACHING 105

of systematic teaching but of practice and scholarly research.31 However, the

directors of the famous Library of Ptolemaic Alexandria were often also the
tutors of the royal princes. Most of what we know about them comes from
papyri such as P.Oxy. 1241 and from the Suda. Under Ptolemy II, Callimachus
catalogued all the scrolls in the library. His Pinakes was an annotated list,
organized by genres and in alphabetical order: it included all authors and works
of literary significance.32
The Roman emperors who succeeded the Hellenistic kings to some extent
emulated their predecessors by providing support for education and by taking
over some of the Hellenistic libraries. But the concept of the royal library
as a place of the systematic collection both of scientific knowledge and its
practitioners did not survive. And we know of no other work on “famous
intellectuals” apart from the one by Suetonius mentioned above. When Jerome
penned his De viris illustribus (limited to Christian men of learning) in 393, he
named Suetonius as his inspiration (praef. 1).
One exception is a praise poem on the teachers of ancient Burdigala
(modern Bordeaux), written some time between 389 and 393 by an Aquitanian
rhetorician, high official and royal tutor, Decimus Magnus Ausonius: the
Commemoratio professorum Burdigalensium.33
In 396 Eunapius of Sardes, a pagan philosopher, historiographer, and
teacher of rhetoric, put together twenty-four biographies of philosophers and
teachers of rhetoric (this is usually referred to as Vitae sophistarum); some of
them were his contemporaries and all had a Greek background.34 In terms of
style he modeled himself on Philostratus’ collection of fifty-nine lives of famous
philosophers and rhetoricians from the Greek classical and the Roman imperial
periods (confusingly also known as Vitae sophistarum), which had been
published in 242/243.35
Apart from works that look specifically at those compendia, modern scholars
have approached the prosopography of ancient teachers from a variety of special
interests: looking at a particular geographical region,36 for a particular social
background,37 or for a particular type of source, such as epigraphy.38 The group
we know least about are the elementary teachers. This is hardly surpising: they
(or their families) were only rarely able to afford costly commemoration such
as inscriptions, and there are few literary testimonies about them. Even their
names are largely forgotten. Representation—by themselves or by others—was
expensive, and so it makes sense that elementary teachers are rarely mentioned
in ancient inscriptions or in literary accounts, and that for this reason only
a few of their names have come down to us. One exceptional group are the
tutors of boys who would grow up to become emperors. The Historia Augusta,
which was composed around the year 400 and is regarded by scholars as
not altogether trustworthy, has information about the primary educators of
a number of emperors it presents as exemplary.39 A more reliable source are
106 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

autobiographical testimonies, such as those by the emperor Julian (see above

in “Terms and definitions” on Mardonios). We know a great deal more of both
the names and the lives of grammarians,40 and we are even better informed
about orators. Some enjoyed long and successful careers, knew the powerful
people of their day, and produced literary works—in short, left behind so much
information about all or at least some stages of their lives that we could write
biographies of them. This is particularly true of Libanius, the famous teacher
of rhetoric in Antioch in the late fourth century ce41 and—to a somewhat lesser
degree—of Fronto (see below) as well as of Ausonius of Burdigala, mentioned
above. He was tutor and educator (probably from 365 onwards) of Gratian,
eldest son of the emperor Valentinian I, and is one of the best attested of all
the royal tutors. The earliest we know of was Marcus Fabius Quintilianus.42
He was engaged by the emperor Domitian in the early 90s to educate the sons
of Domitian’s cousin, as the emperor planned to adopt the boys. A famous
relationship between a teacher of rhetoric and his royal pupil was that of
Marcus Cornelius Fronto and young Marcus Aurelius (from 138 onwards),
heir presumptive of the emperor Antoninus Pius. We even have some of the
correspondence between teacher and pupil.43

SKILLS, STAGES, AND DYNAMICS

It is almost impossible to make general statements about teaching in antiquity,
given that the period covers a whole millennium and that the profession was
very diverse and influenced by a large number of different factors. Where I
shall make generalizations it is important to distinguish between dynamics that
affected the content and subjects taught on the one hand, and the social role
or status of the teacher(s) on the other (we will deal with the latter in “Social
function and position”). It is important to bear in mind that there could be a
considerable difference between the prestige enjoyed by a subject and by its
teacher—a fact already noted and commented on in antiquity.44 If a subject
became more respectable or more valued, this did not mean that the men
teaching it automatically profited in terms of their own status. They frequently
remained dependent on their pupils’ families. The separation of schooling from
the power and control of those social classes or families able to afford it was a
very slow and incomplete process. Even so, there were significant developments
in three discrete fields. The first is the evolution of subjects that were thought
of as both immutable and accepted in terms of their conception and character;
this was bolstered by an increasingly long tradition that created a consensus of
what constituted an “educated” man. While this consensus was in the interest
of the social strata who could afford this type of education, it also restricted
the individual. The second field was a visible public interest in the practice of
education which translated into support for individual teachers, and in some
TEACHERS AND TEACHING 107

cases could even lead to their salaries being paid for from the public purse.
The third field was the reservation of important sections of public space for
teaching, which imparted to it not only universal visibility but also made school
a regular part of public life (including adult life).
But these fields remained bound by three lines that were never crossed. First,
until the very end of antiquity at least half, and probably more than half, of all
pupils who would pursue some advanced and higher form of education (and
thus go beyond elementary schooling) were educated at home. Their teachers,
while professionals, thus always remained domestic servants in terms of their
status. Second, the overwhelming majority of teachers never enjoyed a public
salary; they continued to depend on private tuition fees. And third, cities in the
Roman Empire never gave over their public space to any institution that might
turn into a counterweight. Public space was only given to prominent teachers
on an individual basis. Other, less successful, masters had to find their own
spaces and do their teaching there. Because of these limitations, it was never
possible for a broad-based dynamic of institutionalization to develop (“broad-
based” does not mean the general population but only that small percentage for
whom an advanced education was relevant and affordable).
The first of these three developments began during the Hellenistic period
with the emergence of a number of “techniques” (technai) that led to a certain
professionalization of their practitioners.45 The same applied to the literary
subjects, which were all that the majority of pupils studied,46 and consequently
all that the majority of teachers taught. But over time a new ideal developed, one
probably rooted in the philosophy of the Middle Academy: the idea of a so-called
enkyklios paideia (“circular education,” see Chapter 3, in this volume). This was
based on the idea of an internal connection between a number of “subjects”
(eventually there would be seven: grammar, dialectic, rhetoric, geometry,
arithmetic, astronomy, and musical theory) and on its propaedeutic role for
philosophy.47 The combination of these arts (technai, Lat. artes, see Seneca,
Epist. 88.23) soon came to be regarded as a universally accepted educational
objective, which however was not put into practice. Only teachers of grammar
and rhetoric managed to gain a foothold in standard teaching for elite pupils.48
The concept of science as “encyclopedic” (which, unlike its modern reception
and continuation, was thought of in terms of a canon of subjects) structured the
great libraries in the royal cities of the Hellenistic kingdoms,49 but it did not
structure the lessons of schoolteachers.50
What did have an impact on Roman lessons was the triumph of prestigious
Greek education, which despite—or even because of—the East’s political
weakness led to the import of Greek language teachers and their subjects to
Italy (including the paedagogus as attendant, see “Terms and definitions”); thus
securing the livelihoods of purveyors of Greek education, initially in Italy and
later across the entire Roman world.
108 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

This new (school-based) form of socialization began to compete with the

traditional sort (which had been dominated by the personal authority of male
family members),51 such as the tirocinium fori (apprenticeship in the Forum), an
informal phase of education during which a young man came in close contact
with, and was mentored by, important politicians and orators;52 it gained
acceptance eventually, despite considerable resistance. While the teaching
of language and literature by grammatici had become established by the late
second century,53 much resistance focused on teachers of rhetoric. In 93 bce
an edict of the Roman censors famously targeted the Latin orator Plotius
Gallus and all of the so-called rhetores Latini, who were accused of having
introduced a novum genus disciplinae (new type of instruction) that violated the
mos maiorum (ancestral morals).54 This referred to instruction in school, which
kept young people occupied all day long and enabled them (or at least those
who could afford it) to practice political rhetoric at Rome—purely by means
of this “technical” training. But this development proved to be unstoppable.
Grammar and rhetoric became the twin bases of elite youth education in
the Roman West, just as they had been in the Greek East;55 until the end of
antiquity schools would be dominated by grammarians and rhetoricians. Their
field of activity divided into three basic levels and domains, each of which was
associated with one type of master: the elementary teacher, the grammarian,
and the rhetorician.56 However, actual instruction was not structured according
to this tripartite model; and of course there were no state-controlled entrance
exams or regulations. Elementary teachers in their “curb-side schools” (held
in contempt by the elites, see “Criticism and conflict”) taught the children of
“ordinary people” or, in small communities, the sons of the town councilors.57 If
there was no resident rhetorician, the grammar teacher could cover rhetoric as
well, albeit at a less-elevated level. This was why ambitious parents preferred to
send their children to the larger towns, where there were masters who operated
at higher levels of specialization and quality (also at higher levels of payment).
There were also students who attended lectures of a grammarian and a rhetor at
the same time.58 If this procedure strikes us today as irregular, it is only because
of our own expectations that education should be regulated by the state; in fact
the system was self-regulated on the basis of a stable consensus within the elites
(see “Social function and position”) about what was desirable in terms of the
quality and prestige of the respective levels of education.
The largely unquestioned acceptance of traditional teaching content was
the prerequisite for the second development outlined above. Here, too, the
situation in the Roman world was merely a continuation of how things had
been done by the Greeks: higher education and its practitioners were actively
supported both by municipal communities and by the reigning sovereign: this
was a means of publicly demonstrating the high esteem in which they were
held. An example for communal support is the financing of Greek gymnasia.
TEACHERS AND TEACHING 109

A king’s support might be public beneficience, euergesia.59 But even in its later,
imperial, form euergesia did not mean that an emperor would assume substantial
financial responsibility for a large number of teachers. There was no interest or
perceived necessity to provide for the qualifications of civil servants, let alone
for educating the general public (specifically, alphabetization). The strongest
motivation for educating members of the elites came from within those classes
themselves, even in non-Roman cultures (self-Romanization).
The metropolis contented itself with providing the motive (and then the
regulations) for municipal measures and only occasionally direct financial
support in high-profile cases. The first emperor to do so appears to have been
Vespasian, who set up two professorships (cathedrae, or “chairs”) of rhetoric
at Rome from imperial funds; the first incumbent was Quintilian, mentioned
above; chairs for grammarians followed.60 In the second century ce chairs were
established in Athens and in the fourth century ce in Constantinople.61 We also
know of imperial allowances paid to individual teachers.62 These salaries did
not replace the usual tuition fees (merces/misthos) paid by each student,63 the
amount of which was determined by supply and demand, and teachers who
received such allowances from the public purse could ask for particularly high
fees. So while the number of those who benefited from a higher education
was small to begin with, the circle of such public beneficiaries was even more
exclusive. Individual towns might be tempted to make themselves more attractive
by hiring famous teachers,64 but there was always the risk that they might not be
able to recover their tax losses. This is the background against which we should
consider imperial endorsements for tax exemptions for instructors but also
restrictions on such exemptions by the emperor Antoninus Pius. It was the task
of the town councilors to select a suitable candidate.65 The third development
outlined above resulted from the first two. Prestigious instruction regularly took
place in central spaces of the towns and cities of the Roman Empire (albeit in an
assortment of very different types of buildings), in this sense, they were “public
schools” (scholae publicae).66
The educated public even took an active part in lessons of rhetoric, where
the masters performed practice speeches (declamationes) and were then
emulated by their pupils. Those who profited from this form of “advertising”
were individiual teachers, not educational institutions. Each teacher had to fight
for his own success. This did not change until late antiquity: near the ancient
city center of Alexandria (by the hill of Kom el-Dikka), archeologists have only
recently discovered a complex of twenty adjoining auditoria (thêatra), each
equipped with rising rows of seats for some forty listeners; and with lecterns
and centrally placed cathedrae for the teachers. They obviously served as
venues for higher education, and they were in use from around 500 ce until
the seventh century. Their location and the similarity of the design makes
it likely that these auditoria were part of an institution,67 apparently of the
110 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

same type as the one established by a law of the emperor Theodosius II in the
forum of Constantinople.68 Theodosius arranged for all of the teachers (mostly
grammarians and rhetoricians, but there was also a philosopher as well as two
lawyers) to be publicly funded and to have an absolute monopoly on education:
this, then, was a sort of university.69 For Christian higher education there was
only the school at Edessa (it moved to Nisibis in 489), which combined secular
and spiritual studies and had a firm educational structure supervised by the
local authorities. The unusual degree of organization (including corporate’
organization of the academic staff and of the pupils) was due to the school’s
special situation: Edessa and Nisibis were located within the Aramaic cultural
milieu and Nisibis was under Persian rule.70 This is evidenced by the statutes
of the late fifth century, which also set the curriculum and the structure of
lessons. While this institutionalization would later be the norm at the medieval
universities, it was unusual in antiquity.

SOCIAL FUNCTION AND POSITION

The first schoolmasters in the Greek world whose exclusive task was formalized
teaching (see “Terms and definitions”) worked privately and under some
form of obligation to their “employer” (as waged or slave labor). They were
elementary teachers, and their prestige was low. But from the third century bce
onwards there were wealthy citizens who paid for lessons in a gymnasion as part
of discharging their obligations toward the community. Even Hellenistic kings
took this chance to demonstrate their committment to Greek civic values.71
When private persons provided the funds, the polis authorities could undertake
or oversee the hiring of the teachers.72 The fixed salary that came with these
posts significantly elevated the schoolmaster’s social standing—although we
should not forget that the majority of teachers never enjoyed such privileges
(see “Skills, stages, and dynamics”).
In Rome, Julius Caesar and the members of the Triumvirate emulated
to some extent the philanthropism of Hellenistic monarchs; they showed
their munificence (liberalitas) by privileging some instructors or groups of
instructors.73 Details of their edicts make clear that at this time teachers in the
Roman world often did not enjoy citizenship and might have been of servile
origin. From Vespasian onwards we can see the policy of granting immunities
to teachers and fixing salaries for a lucky few (“Skills, stages, and dynamics”),
not only at Rome but also in the provinces. From the early second century
onwards “many places” in Italy already had their own publicly remunerated
teachers of grammar and rhetoric,74 whose status had by now improved
considerably.
These are, however, merely the elite few among ancient teaching professionals
(we have no evidence at all that there was ever more than one municipal teacher
TEACHERS AND TEACHING 111

per discipline). Even so, this group increased over time, because some provincial
towns (cf. Juvenal’s satirical exaggeration in 15.111s.) grew keen to improve
their reputations by hiring eminent instructors; some even had to be reined in
by the metropolis (see “Skills, stages, and dynamics”).
As a result the social status of teachers improved significantly compared
with the late Republic. The enhanced reputation enjoyed by education and
its professional practitioners was reflected not only in the self-representation
of instructors,75 but also in the opinions held by elites; teachers gained
additional capacities from it (see “Skills, stages, and dynamics”) and even
those working at the elementary level profited. Although there would still
be instructors of servile origin in late antiquity,76 a teacher’s reputation no
longer rested on their social origin but on their ability to teach literary forms
of communication. From the second century onwards, when traditional
social markers such as a person’s age and their family’s political performance
became less important, these literary abilities could open doors to higher social
strata.77 From the second and third centuries onwards the son of a provincial
town councilor (decurio) could quite honorably turn his hand to teaching
grammar or rhetoric.78 In Cyprian, who would become bishop of Carthage
(248–258 ce), we even have a representative of the Carthaginian upper class
who was highly regarded as a rhetor.79 Remuneration, which had struck the
old elites as so repulsive because it made the teacher a dependent wage earner,
successively lost its negative character because by now all civil service posts
were salaried. In 298 ce the emperor Constantius Chlorus encouraged the
rhetorician Eumenius, who had risen to the rank of magister sacrae memoriae
(the emperor’s chief adviser on legal matters and foreign relations), to take on
a professorship in Autun for a second time. He did this by doubling Eumenius’
annual stipend and by telling the scholar that this “honorable” occupation
(professio), instead of being detrimental to his dignitas, in fact increased it
(Panegyrici Latini 9.14.4), thus showing his efforts not to let a return to
the teaching profession appear as an instance of downward status mobility.
Although the teaching profession had steadily gained in prestige during the
imperial period, it was not a real career option for the aristocracy or for
men from imperial circles; but by the fourth and fifth centuries successful
orators (such as Eumenius or Aelius Donatus at Rome) could rise to join the
lower ranks of the Senate or even hold high imperial offices.80 The constant
state of (potential or actual) confrontation between instructor and pupils
might be mitigated by the master’s disciplinary powers (see “Methods”), even
though these could never quite compensate for a teacher’s dependency on
his charges’ parents—both in terms of their approval and their willingness to
pay his fees. All of this continued to jeopardize instructors’ reputation (for
ridicule of teachers, see “Criticism and conflict”).
112 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

METHODS
Ancient teaching methods were virtually unchanged for several centuries, an
exceptionally long period. This is true even for elementary education, which
we can reconstruct from the so-called school papyri.81 One constant element
was corporal punishment,82 which came to define (also probably to caricature,
see “Criticism and conflict”) the image of the schoolmaster and, to some extent,
the grammarian. It is difficult for us to know how accurate these portraits of
ancient teachers really were; all the more as they contrast sharply with extant
(self-)representations of the ideal teacher. We also have appeals to masters to
motivate their pupils by optimistic, understanding, and nonviolent means.83
Grammar, which consisted of reading and commenting on the poets,84
was taught in the main by the teacher reading out (praelegere) and dictating
(dictare) the verses (Horace, Epist. 2.1.70) and speaking his explanations and/
or questions to each. Pupils would copy down both verses and comments; they
frequently also learnt the text by heart. It was usually only teachers who owned
books of commentaries and literary texts.85 Important aspects from history or
natural history, or even matters connected with the mathematical “arts” (see
“Skills, stages, and dynamics”), were only touched upon when a grammarian
would give factual explanations to aid the understanding of a given literary text.
The grammaticus also explained word and sentence structure, as well as the
rules of linguistic correctness. For the latter, he would employ an established
classification system of errors and of its licenses.86 The rhetorician—or perhaps
already the grammarian—would introduce pupils to preliminary rhetorical
exercises (progymnasmata) and simple rhetorical forms.
Lessons of rhetoric were divided into a theoretical part and another, more
practical part. These did not run subsequently but concurrently. The theoretical
part was based on different works of specialist rhetorical literature such as
Cicero’s De inventione. In addition, pupils interpreted (and memorized) famous
speeches and rhetorically relevant prose texts, for example, from works of
ancient historiography. The objectives of the practical training were the so-called
declamations (see “Terms and definitions”), practice orations based on historical
or fictitious situations.87 The teacher would first explain the different types in
theory before demonstrating the art in practice (often in public).88 In view of
the strong focus on practical application in the schools of rhetoric, the “law
court-type” oration (genus iudiciale), in which the speaker not only presented a
fictitious case and legal situation but also had to take sides with one of the two
parties (controversia), was doubtlessly the most intensely practiced type. But the
“advisory type” (genus deliberativum) also mattered; here the student had to
counsel a particular person how to act in a particular situation (suasoria). The
third genre (known already to Aristotle, Rhet. 1.3.3) was the “representational
type,” which included eulogies. The crowning glory of lessons of oratory were
TEACHERS AND TEACHING 113

the students’ declamations, in which they had to prove their ability in front of
classmates and teachers, and frequently also in front of a critical public.89

CRITICISM AND CONFLICT

We know about the successes of ancient teachers (their triumphs in teaching
or literary communication, or support lent them by famous patrons, such as a
former pupil) from biographical notes or perhaps their own extant works. Much
harder to find out about are concrete instances of criticism and conflict. At least
we have a few works—Suetonius’ De grammaticis et rhretoribus and the Vitae
sophistarum of Philostratus and Eunapius respectively (see “Who’s who”)—that
include not just teachers’ success stories (although these make up the bulk of the
work). We also have some, rare, cases where other sources, such as letters by
Fronto or Libanius, tells us about real instances of conflict (although such letters
tend to be biased in favor of one of the parties). Most of the trouble is about
competitors, sometimes about students or municipal authorities (such as cases
where a teacher had to sue for his pay); very rarely it is about religion, namely
Christianity. Christian wariness about the teaching profession does occur,90
although not very often (apologists such as Tertullian and Tatian were especially
vociferous).91 Some Christian converts felt they had to give up teaching (as did
Cyprian). But we also know of Christian instructors in traditional schools, even
before Constantine,92 who did not come to that conclusion. Such cases are even
more numerous in the fourth century,93 although we also continue to read of
derogatory remarks made, in retrospect, by new Christians after conversion
about the profession and the teachings of rhetoricians.94 But we can see just how
common it was, even in the fourth century, for teachers to be Christians, from
the edict on teaching introduced by the repaganizing emperor Julian.95 The
edict, which has been preserved in a later law from the year 362 (Codex Theod.
13.3.5), names the most important criterion in the selection of grammarians or
rhetoricians: their character (mores), which the law specifies must be examined
under imperial supervision. An explanatory letter from the emperor spells out
what he meant by this: their creed.96 Christian teachers were instructed to close
their schools: they who despised the world of the gods must surely also hate
the “classics” of ancient literature, the edict states, and so had no right to teach
them. Julian appears to have believed that a “proper” education could return
Christian students to the pagan fold. As a result of the new legislation, some
Christian teachers had to give up their schools;97 but Julian’s death and the
subsequent rescinding of his edict (Codex Theod. 13.3.6) prevented its having
any wider effects.
A very different thing are the many statements that demonstrate the poor
regard in which teachers were frequently held by society—even though this
went hand in hand with the recognition of their necessity. One result of this
114 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

tension were satirical depictions of various aspects of the teaching profession.

The income—and, consequently, the prestige—of elementary instructors
remained low throughout antiquity. The fact that access to the teaching
profession was completely unregulated meant that quality control was left
to the public who witnessed lessons taking place; as a result, instructors
were exposed to public ridicule, such as when they appeared incompetent,98
or a nuisance, like the schoolmaster who at the crack of dawn had to fight
for the attention of his charges with shouts and blows (Martial 9.68). Most
instructors depended on the goodwill and the payment practices of their
“customers,”99 which were by no means ideal.100 Juvenal’s seventh Satire is an
example where apparent compassion with poor instructors (including masters
of rhetoric) actually serves as a vehicle for underlying, condescending ridicule.
A further negative aspect was the persistent state of (potential as well as actual)
confrontation between a schoolmaster and his pupils.101 If a master resorted
to corporal punishment (see “Methods”) he risked becoming a laughing stock:
taking his students “in hand” meant that he lost his (dignified) distance—often
enough without any lasting success.102 Depictions of teachers show not only a
grand man sublimely holding forth103 but also a donkey in a toga, clutching a
whip and lording it over his pupils.104 The “rod” (ferula) was the signifier of
both elementary teachers and grammarians;105 not so much a badge of honor
as a mark of social shame. In addition, his close physical contact with the
students made it possible to humorously suspect the schoolmaster of sexual
exploitation, although in fact not only the vigilant paedagogi but also the
master’s own existential dependency on his reputation (cf. CIL 10.3969)
offered some protection against this. The reason behind this motif, borrowed
from the satirical tradition, seems not to be the existence of large numbers
of suspicious cases but the vulnerability of most instructors, especially those
of unfree or foreign origin.106 A different type of conflict resulted from the
fact that education continued to be a highly relevant presence in the lives of
all adults who were interested in literature and rhetoric. This ensured large
audiences for the lectures of grammarians and rhetoricians, but it also exposed
them to the criticism of those who wanted to outdo a professional teacher
in his own field. Some thought the schoolmaster’s education was merely a
superficial veneer,107 while others believed his intellectual horizons were too
narrow because he focused only on school. The latter accusation was often
leveled at rhetoricians, and especially during the early imperial period a
favorite cliché was the charge that their declamations bore no resemblance
to real life.108 But a closer look shows that—apart from the fact that the
declamations, even without the cases being readily transferable to judicial
practice, were an important training of communication—these critics of the
“decline” of rhetoric pursued a number of diverging objectives (cf. the works
on this subject by Quintilian and Tacitus) and did not in fact propagate an
TEACHERS AND TEACHING 115

alternative curriculum.109 All were agreed, however, that the rhetorician’s

teachings were deplorably narrow. This is the context for Seneca’s ironic
witticism, “Non vitae sed scholae discimus” (We learn not for life, but for
school)110 as well as for the emergence (in the first century ce) of scholasticus
as a synonym for a idiculous “unworldliness” or “naïveté”; the term, used
ironically, had evolved into the bumbling, bookish personage of that name in
the late antique collection of jokes, the Philogelos.111
A common factor to all of this criticism is that, however sharp and hurtful
it could be, what was under attack was the schoolmaster type rather than any
concrete individual. The ideal of literary education also retained its validity
and did not come under attack. Even emperors such as Marcus Aurelius or
Julian, who had “converted” to philosophy as adolescents, could merely nudge
the system in their preferred direction—and very likely wanted no more.112
Fundamental criticism came from some branches of Cynic philosophy113 and
some Christians (see above); but neither had a great effect. In the Latin West
the basic elite consensus over the right type of education only ended when
Barbarians set up their own kingdoms in the territory of what had been the
empire. Here, the old values were regarded as part of (vanquished) Roman
rule. When the Vandal king Geiseric broke with Rome in the year 455, public
schools disappeared from the forum in Carthage.114 In the late 520s, when
Theoderic’s daughter Amalasuntha as regent for her son Athalaric wanted
to bring the Ostrogoths closer to the (by then Eastern) Roman Empire and
attempted to secure a traditional education for her son, parts of the Ostrogothic
elite intervened.115 They did not want their future king to tremble before the
contents and the discipline of a classical school. For the first time a conflict over
a sovereign’s lessons was associated with a fundamental disagreement over the
right kind of education for him.
116
 CHAPTER SEVEN

Literacies
PAULINE RIPAT

INTRODUCTION
Literacy occupies a critical place in current concepts of autonomy and power,
since gaining literacy brings the potential to promote social justice, mitigate
gender inequality, and increase economic opportunities.1 For these reasons,
issues surrounding literacy have been of keen interest in a variety of academic
disciplines that study the dynamics of human interaction and cultural expression.
Classical studies are no exception. The histories of both the ancient Greek and
Roman worlds saw the development and use of writing—Greek in the eighth
century bce, Latin starting in the eighth century bce in Latium, and by the early
sixth in the city of Rome itself.2 Ancient literacies have contributed greatly to
our current understanding of their societies. What is more, new evidentiary
finds have continually caused scholars to shift and refine their perspectives
on ancient literacies and are likely to continue to do so.3 But studies to date
demonstrate that the knowledge of letters does not have a single, unchanging
significance across time and space: literacy influenced the dynamics and
structures of ancient Greek and Roman society differently depending on the
time and place.
The aim of the following is not to provide a chronological, much less
exhaustive, study of the development of the written word in the ancient Greek
and Roman worlds, nor to offer a clean tabulation of its various functions.4 It
has often been recognized that the discussion of literacy in the heterogeneous
world of Greek and Roman antiquity resists this kind of generalizing narrative.
The goal is instead to discuss the various approaches that have been taken to
the subject and to highlight the complexities and paradoxes of the potential,
118 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

the functions, and the physical and intellectual locations of the written word
in Greek and Roman antiquity. It has been demonstrated that literacy is
most productively investigated in relation to other cultural concepts or social
dynamics.5 Discussion here is therefore gathered under four broad headings:
“Literacy and technology,” which addresses the means of framing inquiries
about literacy; “Writing and power,” which considers how the act of writing
could exercise power or render rewards quite beyond the communication of the
precise content of the words themselves; “Writing, memory, and messaging,”
which discusses how the meanings of written words and related symbols were
linked to the media and physical context of their presentation; and “Literacies,”
which treats the various different types of literacy and the relationships among
them.

LITERACY AND TECHNOLOGY

For students of literacy in Greek and Roman antiquity, 1989 was an important
year: it saw the monumental Ancient Literacy published, a work that aimed to
outline the contours of the development and use of literacy in the Greek and
Roman worlds over the same long expanse of time considered in the present
volume.6 Its author noted immediately that finding a functional definition of
“literacy” was difficult for the study of any society. What is the minimum bar
of literacy? The ability to write or to read a simple sentence? The ability to
write one’s own name? Such definitions of “literate” would prove particularly
unilluminating in the study of ancient society, for which the tools often used
by students of contemporary societies, such as interviews, surveys, or statistics,
are simply not available. Nonetheless, through scrutiny of extant evidence it
was possible in 1989 to advance the general conclusions that mass literacy was
not achieved anywhere in the ancient Greek and Roman worlds;7 that it was
not achievable because the social, economic, and technological preconditions
that support mass literacy did not sufficiently obtain in antiquity; and that
the percentage of the literate population was generally not greater than about
10 percent and perhaps was even lower in some of the provinces and rural areas
(although some central urban locations might have achieved 30 percent at some
points).8
Ancient Literacy was ubiquitously recognized as valuable, but nonetheless
it lit a fuse that resulted in an explosion of criticism from scholars whose
researches intersected with individual times and places covered in the book’s
survey.9 These demonstrated how much more could be said about literacy
in antiquity and how differently.10 It seems that in many locations literacy
permeated levels deeper than Ancient Literacy allowed: the preconditions
necessary for wider spread literacy were apparently not quite so absent after
all.11 Even so, few would argue for ubiquitous literacy even in those places.
LITERACIES 119

Why not? It is at this point that it is necessary to differentiate between how we

think about literacy in the present and how we might approach literacy most
productively in the ancient past. For us, literacy is implicitly associated with
individual potential and self-actualization: illiteracy is a function of barriers
that, in just societies, ought to be removed. The relationship between literacy
and power is relevant to antiquity too, but in the study of the ancient past, the
best way of thinking of literacy, the use of alphabetic symbols to communicate,
is less as a prerequisite for social justice and more as a technology—though not
a “neutral” technology.12
Thinking about literacy as a technology has several benefits. First, it alters
the basic assumptions from which investigative questions must stem and so
shifts the inquiry from negative to positive: “Why not (gain literacy)?” becomes
“Why (choose to become literate)?” The adoption of any given technology is
not inevitable. Potential users must recognize benefits significant enough to
expend the time, and possibly expense, necessary to attain command of the
technology in question, to master it at a particular level, or to customize it for
their own purposes.13 In eighth- and seventh-century Rome, Etruscan and (to a
lesser extent) Greek inscriptions appear in the physical record; the first extant
inscription in Latin in the city, the famous Lapis Niger (Black Stone) found in
the Forum, dates at least a century later.14 The Romans do not appear to have
developed “an expanded literate culture” for another four hundred years of
their existence. Why not? Thomas Habinek suggests that “one answer might
be, because that’s how long it took for the Romans to require classification of
their status and identify as Romans.”15 As this example suggests, technologies
parade as practical aids, but command of them can serve as means to achieve
less concrete goals such as the feeling of membership in a community or
enhanced social prestige—and yet any given technology is rarely the only
means of achieving such goals, both practical and abstract. In short, it is not
the case that every member of a given community with access to a specific
technology will adopt it. Let the example of Petaus, son of Petaus, a village
scribe (komogrammateus) from second-century Roman Egypt, suffice here to
demonstrate this point.16 Though able to sign his own name to documents,
Petaus’ ability to write more than this was limited; evidence of his attempts to
master the official formula consisting of his name, his title, and the statement
“I have submitted this” by writing it out a dozen times (with varying degrees
of success) exists on a papyrus. But he did not require greater skills than this to
perform his responsibilities successfully.
Thinking about literacy as a technology therefore helps us understand the
evidence. Not everyone in a community with access to a technology needs to
master it personally in order to benefit from its use. To return to the example
just given, at work, Petaus had a literate staff; his brother Theon, more fluent in
the use of letters than Petaus, performed the written tasks involved in running
120 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

the family business. Many scholars have noted that the interesting thing about
ancient society is not that there were so many literate or so many illiterate
people, but rather that writing could figure so prominently in ancient cultural
productions, social relations, legal contexts, economic transactions, and physical
spaces when not everyone was literate: those who claimed to “write slowly” or
who did not write at all, and perhaps who could read little or not at all, appear
to have participated quite seamlessly in a letter-filled society.17
Unevenly shared skills in literacy can bring awareness to the high degree of
trust that marked some social interactions and to the lower degree of trust in
others, dynamics to which we might otherwise have been oblivious. “How did
illiterates manage in a world pervaded by the written word?” asked Greg Woolf.
“By and large, with the help of literates.”18 This aid is particularly evident in the
papyrological evidence from Egypt, in which, for instance, those adept at letters
regularly and explicitly signed documents on behalf of those who were unable
to do so for themselves.19 Visual evidence of the presumably unremarkable
nature of this kind of help may exist: in a Pompeian wall painting showing a
scene from the Forum, one figure may be helping another read a public notice.20
As Woolf has noted further, we cannot know if those without skills in literacy
found this deficit difficult, since they have left no direct evidence of their
feelings on the matter. But writing was not necessarily a default requirement
even in formal interactions among individuals. What appears to be a general
and persistent preference for orally delivered assurances and testimony may
suggest that written counterparts were often used in those situations where
personal familiarity and trust was lacking.21
Finally, thinking of literacy as an optional technology allows us to expand
our investigative focus to consider how ancient society as a heterogeneous
whole interacted with letters instead of focusing solely on a thin segment that
we might assume were literate, or literate enough for our ill-defined standards.22
By the same token, it cautions us against the assumption that writing was
necessary for intelligent thought or that it was considered the “premier” form
of communication, ideas that would lead us to devalue the importance of
nonliterary activities and forms of communication.23 The danger that we might
otherwise do this is real; it speaks to the history of the discipline of classical
studies itself, for which the written word has long been the beating heart.
Although the study of ancient Greece and Rome now includes the perspectives
of archeology and art history, and can be informed by theories from a multitude
of other disciplines, the pride of place traditionally given to ancient literature
in investigations of the Greco-Roman world cannot be overstated, and it is true
that ancient writing continues to provide us with fundamental perspectives on
ancient thought and practices that could not be delivered by other kinds of
evidence.
LITERACIES 121

But we must be wary of assuming that the written word had the special
revelatory import for the ancients that it has for those studying them. It is
admittedly easy to find evidence of high value placed on writing throughout
antiquity. One could point, for instance, to the inclusion of the first letters
of the alphabet on eighth- and seventh-century Athenian vases, which may
indicate a proud desire for individuals to be associated with written letters from
a very early stage;24 evidence of the Greek and Latin alphabet scratched on
Pompeian walls almost a millennium later suggest the same eagerness to mark
space with the system that symbolized writing itself.25 “Letters are useful for
household management and for learning and for the performance of many civic
activities,” observes Aristotle.26 Diodorus Siculus later agreed and pointed out
further that writing allowed the living to know the thoughts of those distant in
time and space.27 There was recognized value in knowing these things. Seneca
the Younger, who would soon be forced to commit suicide by his former pupil
Nero, sagely encouraged his friend Paulinus to exchange the cultivation of
powerful contemporaries for the reading of the books that would allow him
to consort with long-dead Greek philosophers: they would expand his mind,
not seek his head.28 The efficacy of a Greek curse tablet, probably from a grave
in Megara, depends upon the corpse of a man named Pasianax being both able
and unable to read its content (“Whenever you, Pasianax, read this letter, but
neither will you, Pasianax, read this letter”).29 The cheated-on wife of a farm
manager in Apuleius’ second-century novel takes her revenge by destroying
things of critical value to him: the grain in the silo, their child, herself—and his
records.30
And yet such expressions of like-mindedness between us and them about the
importance of writing risks unduly influencing our interpretation of artifacts. It
has been demonstrated, for example, that the large number of seal-boxes found
in Roman Britain do not, as might have been thought, point to the frequent
sending of personal letters but to the desire to secure valuables in bags.31
Such assumptions may also encourage us to underestimate the importance
of unwritten forms of communication or symbolic behavior. What students
of antiquity now read in silent and contemplative isolation, such as Homer’s
epics, the ancients often experienced as oral performances in company;32 no
less important to the Romans than an intoned prayer formula would have been
the accompanying ritual of encircling self or space;33 secret seduction could
be undertaken wordlessly through the throwing and catching of an apple.34
Writing was not needed or even desired in some situations, and writing did not
provide blanket improvements to all interactions. Voice, gesture, and objects
were equally media of communication, and were surely even preferred in more
contexts than we know. This awareness ought to make us cautious of giving the
force of truth to assumptions we have made based on the presence or absence of
writing. For example, magical paraphernalia thrown into the fountain of Anna
122 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

Perenna in late antique Rome contain little writing, though extensive writing
is evident on magical devices elsewhere. The finds at Anna Perenna cannot be
posited, however, as evidence of failing levels of literacy, since they may merely
reflect a preference for objects and actions over written words.35

WRITING AND POWER

Relationships between the written word and the exercise of power exist, but
the direction in which power is exercised through writing, and to what end or
effect, depends upon other factors such as the practical nature of the alphabet
itself, social values and strategies, and the political demeanor of the community
in question.
As we have already seen, it is not necessarily the case that the inability to
read and write was a clear or significant situation of disempowerment in Greek
and Roman antiquity. Greek and Latin alphabets were phonetic, meaning
that the individual symbols of the letters represented individual sounds. The
ability to “crack the code” was not restricted to those who received specialized
training in the writing system as it was in the case of, for example, nonphonetic
Egyptian hieroglyphs. In fact, the flexibility of the Greek and Latin alphabets is
demonstrated by its use to represent non-Greek languages on archaic Athenian
pottery;36 the eventual and popular use of a slightly adapted Greek alphabet
to visually represent the Egyptian language (this use is called Coptic);37 the
use of the Greek alphabet by some second- and third-century North African
magicians to represent Latin and vice versa;38 and the ability to discern a Latin
accent in the Greek words used on yet another curse tablet from fourth-century
ce Rome.39 Remarkably, educational materials meant to aid ancient students
acquire Latin as a second language survive.40 Yet formal education was not
required to gain literacy in Greek and Latin, nor was education itself restricted
to males or to the freeborn and the wealthy, the demographics we normally
identify as the usual locations of power.41 Girls and slaves both male and female
might be specifically taught to read and write, at home or even by an external
teacher, depending upon the ambitions and wishes of their families or owners.
“Sositheus, my delightful young reader, has died,” Cicero gloomily informs
his friend Atticus; “I’m very upset as I write this.”42 Literate slave women
might even be commemorated in written inscriptions, as was Antonia Caenis,
the ex-slave and secretary of Antonia the Younger, and the less well-known
Euphrosyne, who received the tombstone inscription, “dutiful, educated by the
nine muses, a philosopher. She lived 20 years.”43 Though few works by women
are extant, women of prominent families might not only have literary opinions
but even be poets themselves.44 At the other end of the social spectrum, the
written prescriptions of midwives could find their way into male doctors’
treatises.45
LITERACIES 123

This lack of overt attempts to restrict the development of literacy, however,

should not suggest that the inculcation of knowledge was free of normative
messages that reinforced social hierarchy and difference. Ann Ellis Hanson
notes that, although evidence of literate women married to illiterate men exists
from Greco-Roman Egypt, literate men were more likely to marry illiterate
women than vice versa.46 Consider, too, the exercises to be read and copied by
young students of the Roman world in the second century ce and beyond, which
implicitly encouraged absorption of stereotypical qualities of slaves (“Get up,
boy; why are you lazing around?”) and the comportment appropriate to one’s
station as a freeborn member of society (“It is important for a freeborn boy to
be clean when he goes to school”).47 In the second century ce, Herodes Atticus’
purchase of twenty-four slaves whom he named for each letter of the alphabet so
that his son, who was experiencing learning difficulties, could literally exercise
command of the letters, provides an even less nuanced example of how social
difference might be reflected in the acquisition of literacy.48
On the other hand, the positive potential latent in education is recognized in
its association with economic and, to some degree, social mobility. The ex-slaves
invited to Trimalchio’s for dinner in Petronius’ first-century ce novel, themselves
all quite well-to-do, have plans to get their own sons educated: “there’s bread in
that,” says one.49 Two hundred years earlier, a wife in Ptolemaic Egypt had written
to her husband or son expressing delight that he was learning to write in Demotic,
because “you will teach the slave boys in the establishment of Phalou (…) the
enema doctor, and you will have a means of support for old age.”50 If general
trends are to be identified, it is that literacy was a desirable skill for those who
aspired to upward mobility.51 As this might suggest further, literacy came to be
an expected characteristic of the socially elevated and economically affluent. Such
people might regularly procure literate slaves or have them educated to perform as
farm managers, readers, secretaries, or business agents, but this use of slaves’ skills
was consistent with the ideal use of slaves’ skills. At other times, slaves did what
masters could always do for themselves but were choosing not to.52
Language, both spoken and written, can be understood as a means of
expressing power. This is particularly true in those situations where the
politically powerful and the politically subjected speak different languages. The
symbolic use of Latin to make manifest who was in control is best demonstrated
by Livy’s account of Lucius Aemilius Paullus’ actions in 167 bce upon the
defeat of the Macedonian king Perseus.53 Having summoned the leaders of
the ostensibly still free communities together, he told them in Latin how their
political organizations would now run and had his praetor, Gnaeus Octavius,
translate his words into Greek. This same desire to prioritize symbolic action
over practical efficiency appears in the milestones that marked the roads that
crisscrossed the empire. The vast majority of these were inscribed in Latin,
even in the eastern empire where the spoken languages were mostly Greek,
124 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

Syriac, and Aramaic. It was less important that the information contained on
the milestone be understood by those living in the area of the roads than it
was that the information be conveyed in the language of the center of the
empire.54 But, for their part, local communities might reject Latin and instead
inscribe public information in their own languages, and thus even the calendar,
a quintessential Roman device, appears in Gaul in Celtic,55 and preference for
local or mother tongues might even receive official benediction; the Roman
jurist Ulpian asserts, for example, that legal bequests of property (fideicommissa)
may be left in any language, such as Punic or Celtic, not just in Latin or Greek.56
The language of writing was one means of noting (or contesting) the
location of power; control of the materials upon which words were written
was one means of enacting it. Religious behavior provides one locus, since
political structures were reflected in religious structures. Priests for cults
introduced into Athens in democratic times, for example, were selected by
lot, mirroring the method by which magistrates were selected.57 In contrast,
in the Roman world, critical religious writings were accessible only to
designated priests drawn from political families and who acted on direction
from the leading magistrates and the Senate.58 In public life in democratic
Athens, public lists, under the control of the community, mediated “public
disgrace as well as honour” by inscribing names for general scrutiny.59 The
treatment of official documents may provide a parallel situation in which
the handling of written information supported the political status quo.
Writing made record-keeping possible, and enthusiasm for keeping archives
is evident in the physical and literary records. Some notable examples of
consulting archived information exist; for instance, Pliny the Younger, upon
reading a monumental inscription that recounted the honors voted by the
Senate to Claudius’ freedman Pallas some years earlier, irately dug up the
senatorial decree to confirm this perceived travesty.60 Despite Pliny’s ability
to locate the senate’s decision efficiently, record-keeping in both Greek and
Roman antiquity is noted to have often been haphazard. Documents that
were preserved were difficult to find and perhaps partly for this reason were
rarely consulted.61 But this casual attitude toward systemization could have
in some situations served imperial purposes rather well. As Christopher
Kelly has noted, it is not always desirable for autocratic governments to
keep accurate and easily accessible records of decisions and rules to which
they might be held liable.62 The discernment of strategy in what may seem
like administrative laziness has been echoed more recently in attempts to
explain Roman imperial disinclination to advertise in monumental writing
the efficiency of the network of Roman roadways: it would be foolish to let
the enemies of the Roman imperium know how easily they could use this tool
against the Romans.63 In some situations, the most effective manipulation of
written documents was inaction.
LITERACIES 125

The opposite was also true: ostentatious destruction of written documents

could be used to send effective messages about the nature of power.64 The first
emperor Augustus’ gathering and burning of over 2,000 documents containing
unofficial, and so illicit, prophetic writings advertised him as the ultimate
religious authority in the Roman state.65 A paternalistic air might conceal the
concern that the location of religious power could be destabilized by the popular
circulation of rival religious writings. This strategy is evident in an edict from
the Prefect of Egypt in 199 ce:
Since I met many people who thought that they had been deceived by forms
of divination, I at once came to consider it necessary to declare here to all
that they were banned from this precarious meddling, so that no danger
should attend their folly. So, let no one pretend to know that which is
beyond human understanding through oracles or writings bestowed under
the influence of the divine.66
But paternalistic care was not the only characteristic the destruction of
documents could demonstrate. Upon taking up his position as emperor, a
young and still popular Caligula destroyed the documents that contained the
identities of informers against his close relatives, an act which both symbolized
and enacted his clemency.67 When he produced these same documents some
years later, they were physical proof of his tyrannical hypocrisy and served as
warning of the ambivalent power of committing opinions and signing one’s
name to materials of ambiguous permanence.68
The impermanent permanence of the very materials for writing in fact
present yet other way that writing could function as a tool of power. Not only
could documents be preserved, destroyed, lost, or published, but the words on
the documents themselves could be manipulated. New script could overwrite
the erased original, and a forgery could gain authority through the authenticity
promised by seals and signatures.69 Famously, Octavian retrieved his rival Mark
Antony’s last will and testament from the Vestal Virgins (with whom Antony
had deposited it for safe-keeping) and shifted the loyalty of the Roman people
to himself by publishing its objectionable contents—or what purported to be
its objectionable contents. The question of whether Octavian falsified the more
compromising elements of Antony’s will—the parts in which he declared his
lover Cleopatra’s offspring legitimate and expressed his wish to be buried next to
her in Alexandria—has long hung over this episode of Roman history.70 Indeed,
the inability to have one’s cake and eat it too when it came to the reliability
of written documents is perhaps best revealed in the palpable anxiety Romans
displayed over the knowledge that wills could be forged.71 During the infiltration
(or adoption) of the Bacchanalian rites into Italy in the second century bce, the
perpetrators (or celebrants) were described by Livy as engaging in all manner of
duplicitous criminality: they were murderers, they were adulterers, they were
126 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

the givers of false evidence and the forgers of wills.72 One’s treatment of the
written word could be used as a shorthand for the tenor of one’s moral qualities.
The written word was equally a tool of individual empowerment. As we have
already seen, writing could be used to express cultural pride, and skills in literacy
could ease upward mobility and increase economic potential. In the context of
religion, writings could challenge established hierarchy. But reading and writing
was also one way to express membership in a larger community or personal
identity; the written word could be used in acts of religious piety, for example, to
demonstrate inclusion in a religious community.73 Pilgrims and dedicators of votive
offerings were often careful to include both the name of the deity and their own
names in their inscriptions, a coupling that symbolically asserted the individual’s
membership in the cult. The words of the gods delivered to communities by
oracles might be inscribed in public places as evidence of the god’s presence and
attentions.74 In later antiquity, Christians increasingly bestowed the position of
lector (reader) upon children and young men—some of whom evidently could not
read—to read the scriptures aloud and bless offerings, and so to make manifest
their “right to share in the spiritual community” equally with adults.75
On a more practical level, writing could be used to mediate and maintain
personal and professional relationships. The personal letter allowed for
communication over great distances and (no less important) in a way that could
exclude everyone but the correspondents from the conversation. This potential
appears to have been exploited from the written letter’s earliest times, to judge
by the inclusion in Homer’s Iliad, itself a production of oral tradition, of an
episode in which Bellerophon acts as the carrier of a folded tablet that ordered
his doom through the “dreadful signs” written upon it.76 More benign uses of
written correspondence included letters between family members and friends,
the contents of which may sometimes strike the modern reader as very familiar
(“I have sent you (…) two pairs of sandals and two pairs of underpants” reads a
letter to a soldier stationed at Vindolanda in Britain77), or as interesting insight
into familial resentments (a first-century letter from Egypt: “Hikane to Isidorus,
her son, greetings (…) Was it for this that I carried you for ten months and
nursed you for three years, so that you would be incapable of remembering me
by letter?”78), or as evidence of attitudes that make clear the distance between
us and them (a first-century bce letter from Egypt from a husband to his wife:
“If you have the baby before I return if it is a boy, let it live; if it is a girl,
expose it”79). But others make clear that letter-writing was not the only means
of gaining information about a friend or family member, and that writing did
not increase a source’s credibility (a second-century letter from Egypt: “Soeris
to her daughter Aline, greetings (…) Why are you writing to me ‘I am sick’? I
was told that you are not ill: you make me so awfully worried”80), or otherwise
demonstrate the limited power of the written letter to convince in a vacuum of
other persuasions (a second-century ce letter from a soldier, found in Egypt:
LITERACIES 127

“I hope to (…) be transferred to a cohort. But around here nothing happens

without money. And letters of recommendation are of no use unless you can
help yourself”81).
The written word also might feature as a means of participating in the
activities of citizenship, although it must be stressed that even here participation
did not require personal literacy: in civic functions, writing served broadly
inclusive rather than exclusive aims. This is true even in activities whose point
was exclusion. Take, for example, the extreme case of ostracism, the expulsion
from the Athenian community of an individual who had received the most
“votes” in the form of his name written on pottery sherds. An apocryphal
story told at a much later date by Plutarch presents Aristides, a candidate for
ostracism, being asked by an illiterate Athenian to help him write “Aristides”
on his ostracon.82 This would suggest that everyone wrote his own vote and
might indicate further that illiterates were unable to participate fully in the
decision-making activities of the polis. But the epigraphical evidence for
ostraca suggests a limited number of hands (about fourteen) wrote the names
of candidates for ostracism, though votes would have been submitted on the
order of hundreds of times this number: even the literate were unlikely to have
been inscribing their own ostracon.83 Elsewhere, writing could both symbolize
and render meaningful inclusion in the political community. In the imperial
period, for example, the ideal emperor was one who received written petitions
from his subjects and responded to them primarily through the medium of
writing; subjects submitted their requests and problems to him, and he resolved
them with thoughtful strokes of his (or his secretary’s) pen.84 So potent was this
impression that it is still visible in a third-century Chinese description of the
Roman state: “When the king goes out for a walk, he always orders a man to
follow him holding a leather bag. Anyone who has something to say throws his
or her petition into the bag. When he returns to the palace, he examines them
and determines which are reasonable.”85
Any discussion of the function of writing in civic life must include
consideration of the publication of laws, decrees, and decisions taken by the
community. Sometimes laws were inscribed on monumentalizing stone or
bronze tablets; other times, they were written on whitened boards and set
up in public places.86 The “fixing” of law in writing has the effect of making
its application less tied to the arbitrary whims of those judging, it seemed to
Aristotle87—but few would be able to read the laws themselves. And so, was
the publication of law in public view an action that gave power to the people
or curtailed it? Historians of Greece and Rome have generally leaned toward
the former explanation, since not everyone needed to be able to read the laws
for the law to be known or consulted.88 Furthermore, publication was clearly
intended to ensure widespread awareness. Statements to the effect that an
edict should be presented in “clear and easily legible writing” in order that
128 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

“no one may be unaware” of the mandate with no concession made for the
inability to read imply that illiteracy was no excuse for ignorance of the law.89
Poor publication, on the other hand, was an explanation for ignorance, as is
demonstrated by Suetonius’ report that only under duress did Caligula publish
the unpopular new tax laws he was laying like so many traps, but even then he
published them in tiny letters in a narrow space where visibility and therefore
the ability to make copies was limited.90
Yet, in some places and times, maybe many, laws did not need to be written
down to be considered valid. Rosalind Thomas notes that “unwritten laws”
continued to be in effect alongside written laws in Archaic Greece through the
late fifth century,91 and it was Spartan resistance to written law that caused
Aristotle to speak in writing’s favor. Furthermore, the inscription of laws on
monuments of stone or bronze did not make them more legible than they would
be if written on a roll and kept somewhere for public consultation, as Woolf has
observed in the case of inscribed laws in Roman municipalities.92 And sometimes
the laws that were inscribed seem to be somewhat curious choices, such as
the rules for getting rid of harmful ghosts that were published in the Greek
communities of Selinus in the fifth century bce and Cyrene a century and a half
later.93 It is likely that monumentalizing laws or other decisions taken by the
community might serve more subtle purposes than simply blanket publication.
A law or decision might be inscribed in stone in a situation in which no accepted
unwritten law obtained, for example; or the publication of laws in a Roman
municipality, a symbol of harmony between Rome and the city, might have
been intended by the municipality to remind Rome of its responsibilities and to
preserve good relations in the future too.94 Thinking in these more expansive
ways about the function of monumentalizing laws can perhaps explain the
publication of rules for getting rid of problematic ghosts: the act of publicly
inscribing them assumes the existence of communal consensus about the source
of problems the community was experiencing, although other causes might
have been suggested—the inscription may have served to erase the memory of
any dissent on this point.

WRITING, MEMORY, MESSAGING

The relationship between writing and memory—and memory as a form of
messaging—is far from straightforward. This is not least because writing has
been subjected to the same range of mutually contradictory prophecies and
biased conclusions as any other technology. There were some who saw it as
a fearsome thing that would spell the end of deep memory. This worry is
discernible in Plato’s Phaedrus, where writing is disdained by the Egyptian
god Thamus as “a device (pharmakon) not for memory, but for reminding,”
a critical difference that Thamus fears few would discern and so become
LITERACIES 129

forgetful.95 Several hundred years later, Julius Caesar echoed this connection
between writing and poor memory while describing the importance of oral
tradition among the Druids, perhaps suggesting implicitly that literate Romans’
mnemonic ability suffered by comparison.96 For the poets of archaic Greece, the
flow of repeated song, not static words on stone, perpetuated memory.97 On the
opposite end of the spectrum, some evidence might suggest that writing became
the premier preserver of memory. Horace boasts that, with his poetry, he has
created a monument—a conveyor of memory—more lasting than bronze, a
statement whose prophetic nature is ensured by the manuscript tradition.98 Pliny
the Younger is elated by the knowledge that his friend Tacitus is planning to
include details about Pliny’s uncle’s death in his Histories: his uncle’s “immortal
glory” is assured.99 However, writing did nothing to undermine the importance
of memory in antiquity, nor was it the only means of recollection. There is
nonetheless much to be said about the connections among writing, memory,
and cognition.
Of writing’s role in the creation of both personal and collective memory,
orality often figures in the discussion; the assumption that follows upon the
fears expressed by Plato might be that writing would either replicate or displace
the spoken word in the production of memory. But it seems instead that the
importance of orality was not lessened by writing, and writing was rarely, if
ever, meant to record words precisely as they were spoken—though written
words might be used to convey earnest approximations of words once spoken,
as Thucydides (1.22) famously avowed. Writing and speaking, therefore, might
work together but not redundantly to exercise and create memory. But vision
has recently come to be recognized as another critical mnemonic dynamic.100
The function of the visual in the preservation of private and public memory can
hardly be overstated. One has only to think of Roman deployment of imagines,
waxen images of famous ancestors that were displayed in the atria of houses
or donned by actors for family funerals. On a more private level, individuals
might employ portraits, jewelry, and personal objects to recall lost loved
ones.101 If we are to appreciate the place of the written word in the creation of
memory, then, it is important to consider its relationship with material objects
and their physical contexts. Buildings, for example, were a prime context for
the monumental writing. Even now, every tourist to Rome knows that Marcus
Agrippa was responsible for the building of the original Pantheon thanks to
the brief inscription across the front of its porch; the role Hadrian played in
its renovations is memorialized wordlessly in the temple’s famous dome and
oculus. Damnatio memoriae, the erasure of a person’s memory on public
monuments, involved both the empty space where a name once existed and the
literal defacement of the person’s image.102
The monumental inscription of Augustus’ autobiographical Res Gestae
(Things Done) provides another worthy example of the interplay between
130 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

writing, objects, and memory for somewhat different reasons, as it demonstrates

how meaning can change with a change in physical context. Unlike Marcus
Agrippa’s inscription, the Res Gestae was comparatively long, and we know
about it only from copies that were set up in three small cities in the eastern
province of Galatia. Augustus had desired his autobiography of acts to be
inscribed upon bronze tablets outside his mausoleum.103 There, they would
present to the diligent reader Augustan history as Augustus wished it to enter
collective memory. Given the amount of text and the difficulty of reading that
much text outdoors and off shiny metal, suboptimal conditions for careful
reading, it might be better to speak not of readers but of viewers. At the most
basic level, the viewer would know that Augustus did a lot of things (one need
not read the inscription to know this, as it would be evident in its length); that
they were important things that deserved to be recollected for all time (as would
be communicated by the bronze upon which they were inscribed);104 and that
they were Augustus’ things (given the proximity of the words to Augustus’ final
resting place). But as Suna Güven has demonstrated, the copies of the Res Gestae
could convey different meanings to their different viewers in these small towns
of Galatia, where the inscriptions were variously set up in Greek at Apollonia
on a statue base showing the imperial family, in Latin at Pisidia in the vicinity of
triumphal arches depicting the subjection of the local population, and in both
Latin and Greek on the walls of the local temple of Augustus himself at Ankara.
Together with their locations, the inscriptions formed a “visual rhetoric” to
create local memory of past relations with Rome to inform both the present and
the future. All of these impressions are lost when the inscribed text is removed to
edited paper editions; the words were never meant to be read in this vacuum.105
Less famous people were also memorialized in monumental inscriptions.
Although not all tombs were marked with inscriptions, when they were, the
memory of the deceased could be encouraged through the conjoined messaging
of words, visuals, and context. Though it is possible that few of the living
stopped to contemplate the content carefully,106 attempts to perpetuate memory
were earnest in the deployment of the mnemonic devices of oral culture, such
as the use of poetic language.107 Nonmetrical formulaic phrases and traditional
adjectives describing moral qualities might equally serve this purpose: “I
was called, while alive, Aurelia Philematium, a woman chaste and modest,
unsoiled by the common crowd, faithful to her husband.”108 The particularly
vindictive deceased might use the medium of the tombstone to immortalize the
maliciousness of those who are blamed for their deaths. “Here are inscribed
the marks of eternal shame of Acte, a freedwoman, a treacherous, tricky, hard-
hearted poisoner,” complained one dead man. “Manumitted for free, she went
off with an adulterer, cheated her patron and took away his slaves, a maid and
a boy, as he lay in bed, leaving him an old, lonely, despoiled man, broken-
hearted.”109 It is placement of these inscriptions upon tombstones that makes
LITERACIES 131

clear the intended force of these words as sentiments to be remembered; they

could not be transferred to the context of a private letter and maintain their
same immortalizing power.
Other examples demonstrate that the physical entity upon which words were
written were generally supposed to work together to create meaning for the
reader. The connection between writing and object are in some cases obvious by
virtue of their self-referential nature. “Mantiklos set me up for the far-shooting,
silver-bowed (god), out of the tithe,” reads the inscription on a small bronze
statue of a male.110 In other cases, the connection between meaning and context
is implicit. According to Herodotus, Histiaeus encouraged the Ionian revolt by
tattooing the head of a trusted slave with his subversive message and waiting
for his hair to grow back before sending him to his correspondent Aristagoras
with one instruction: he was to ask Aristagoras to shave his head.111 Aristagoras
could hardly fail to recognize that the words he read upon it were to be taken
as top secret. Similarly, some of the lead projectiles found at Perugia, where
Mark Antony’s brother Lucius and his wife Fulvia were besieged by Octavian,
were inscribed with verbal slings too, such as “Lucius Antony the bald, Fulvia,
show us your ass.”112 But the sense that the content should correspond to the
medium is evident even in literary works. Famously, Catullus condemns the
quality of Volusius’ attempts at history by prophesying their use as wrappings
for fish; less famous but equally telling is Cicero’s instruction to Atticus to have
his philosophical treatise copied out onto macrocollum, visually impressive
papyrus of wide width, before presenting it to his guests for contemplation.113
As Robert McCutcheon notes, “Cicero wished the polish and the sophistication
of his philosophical argument to be mirrored by the aesthetics of their physical
form.”114
Context also provided the information necessary to appreciate the
meaning of abbreviations. Many of the abbreviations regularly employed in
monumental inscriptions, including tombstones, did not rely upon readers’
ability to understand phonetic symbols but instead upon readers’ familiarity
with cultural dispositions and habits whose meaning abbreviations could
represent in particular contexts. For example, HMHNS, the string of letters
that often appeared on Roman tombs, stands for hoc monumentum heredem
non sequitur, “this tomb does not pass to the heir,” while PF indicated the
formulaic pia fidelis, “loyal and faithful,” and a backwards letter “C” indicated
that the deceased was the ex-slave of a woman.115 Similarly, instruments of
domestic daily use might be inscribed with shorthand and abbreviations whose
decipherment required previous knowledge of the contexts and meanings of
such symbols. Woolf notes that these represent “shared cultural conventions
about how to produce short, precise, and meaningful texts, legible to
strangers.”116 In such contexts, the illiterate Roman had the advantage over the
best modern student of Latin.
132 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

LITERACIES
If literacy is the ability to decipher symbols to render meaning, awareness
of the importance of context to make meaning and the use of abbreviations
demonstrate that we should speak not of literacy in Greek and Roman
antiquity, but of literacies. The range of different literacies detectable in Greek
and Roman antiquity may be gathered into three overlapping categories. First,
there was literacy in particular languages. The focus here on comprehension
of written Greek and Latin misrepresents the wide variety of languages spoken
and written in the Greek and Roman worlds:117 illiteracy in Greek or Latin
did not necessarily suggest illiteracy in another or other languages. One
may note, for example, that tens of thousands of Safaitic graffiti exist in the
Syro-Arabian desert, dating to the first through fourth centuries ce, and that
Greek, Aramaic, and Hebrew were used for the same purposes on documents
emanating from first-century Masada. Some of those identified as illiterate in
Greek documents from Egypt could write in Demotic.118 Caesar noted that
the Druids preferred to transmit their traditions orally, but when they had
to write something down, they would use Greek letters.119 Recognition of
the importance of Demotic in Ptolemaic Egypt is reduced not by the amount
of surviving evidence but by the small number of scholars who can read it.
Something similar could be said for modern appreciation of the importance
of Oscan, Etruscan, Iberian, and Syriac in antiquity.120 The ancient world
was multilingual and multiliterate, and it is often the limitations of modern
scholarship that suppress this impression.
Next, different literacies may be detected in the use of different symbols to
encode different meanings. Symbols could represent ideas rather than words
per se, much less the phonetic elements of words; the use of abbreviations
teeters on this edge. Numeracies, skills critical to all engaging in economic
transactions and gaming, should be mentioned here in their own right, and
also because letters were used to represent numbers in both Greek and
Roman traditions.121 Furthermore, in some situations images could be used
interchangeably with words to convey the same range of meaning. Here,
the image of the erotic, aggressive, and apotropaic phallus should perhaps
take pride of place. Mentula, a coarse Latin word for phallus, might be
used on amulets in the same way an image of the same would;122 one of
the slingshots from Perugia is inscribed on three sides with an inscription
that reads altogether “relax, sit on Octavian’s [phallic image]”;123 a graffito
from a Herculaneum wall reads “Hold gently [phallic image].”124 These three
examples of the word or image denoting the phallus attest to the concept’s
range of meaning, and point to the fact that, in terms of communicating
information, an image really could be worth a thousand (written) words.
Other uses of symbols to exceed the power of phonetic words are evident
LITERACIES 133

in magical writings and inscriptions in which, for example, the palindrome

“ablanathanalba” was very popular. In one recipe in the Greek Magical
Papyri that was perhaps meant to reduce fever (XCI 1–14), the palindrome is
arranged visually in a waning triangular formation, in which each successive
line reproduces the word with an additional letter removed from its front
and back. In this way, the palindrome itself mirrors the waning effect it was
intended to bring.125
Finally, we come to the many different contexts in which decoding of
all types would be deployed, including specialized vocabulary, shorthand,
or other means of meaningful reference. It might be possible to speak of
different kinds of literacy, for example, “military literacy,” “administrative
literacy,” or “literary literacy.” It might also be possible to speak of different
levels of literacy based upon the ability to read a particular script. Hermeros,
a fictional character in Petronius’ Satyricon, claims to know weights and
measures and how to read “lapidary letters,” the block capitals used on
monumental inscriptions, thereby implying that he could not read the cursive
Latin used in other contexts.126 The limits of Hermeros’ abilities were probably
shared by many real people—Greek also might be presented “monumentally”
or in more casual documentary script—and John Bodel suggests that errors
marring some public inscriptions may stem from a misreading by stonecutters
of a draft done in handwriting they could not fully understand.127 But
it is probably best to exercise caution in using such examples to estimate
levels of literacy, since cursive and documentary scripts can be difficult to
decipher even now by those who read Latin and Greek fluently when they
are presented in the clear letters of an edited text. Roger Tomlin provides an
instructive example in his re-reading of a lead tablet from Bath. Originally
read some hundred years prior as a fourth-century letter between Christians,
it turns out to be a curse tablet against a thief: the original editor had read
the tablet upside-down.128 And as Alan Bowman has noted, what looks like
bad handwriting to us may not have been bad handwriting at all and is, in
any case, not evidence of poor comprehension on the part of the writer.129
Furthermore, as Nicholas Horsfall has pointed out, those who are said “not
to know letters” in documentary evidence may have in fact known letters,
but they might have been reticent about writing in formal circumstances if
writing was not for them a daily activity, or when legal terminology was used,
or when the stakes were high.130
Recently, scholars have been less interested in drawing sharp lines between
literacies than in noting the many connections between writing in different
contexts.131 Domestic record-keeping surely influenced the way public
records were kept;132 the acrostics and word-play evident on “low culture”
game boards are reflected in “high culture” literary productions;133 graffiti on
the public and private walls of the ancient town include literary references,
134 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

and literary productions could in turn self-consciously invoke the context

of graffiti;134 soldiers might compose poetry in the North African desert;135
the verses of Homer might be transformed into a mobile form of popular
prophecy.136 Education or even simple familiarity with one kind of literacy
appears to have made possible access to others, and different languages and
alphabets could be used by different people to perform similar tasks.137 Lines
drawn between literacies must necessarily be superficial and so misleading;
on the contrary, the recognition that literacies are interconnected better
demonstrates the subtle and ubiquitous nature of the written word in Greek
and Roman antiquity.

CONCLUSION
The landscape of literacy in Greek and Roman antiquity was in all ways fluid.
Literacies were interconnected and functioned on practical and symbolic levels.
These literacies provided individuals with the opportunity for communication
with others, of self-expression, and of self-identification; they provided
communities with one means of establishing shared memory and the impression
of consensus. The written word presented another means of exercising influence,
of identifying and contesting the location of authority. Content alone did not
invest written words with meaning; equally important is the interplay between
words, the medium upon which they were inscribed, and the context in which
they were deployed. In some situations, nonphonetic codes might function in
ways similar to written words or even surpass them in their range of meaning.
For all of these reasons, quantification of how many people “were literate” in
antiquity is impossible, and indeed, even undesirable: such a pursuit would
necessarily detract from the astonishing range of contexts and functions that
made written symbols meaningful to their readers and historically significant
to us.
 CHAPTER EIGHT

Life Histories: On Roman

Imperial Biography
KEITH BRADLEY

INTRODUCTION: THE BIOGRAPHICAL VACUUM

The emperor Caligula was mad. There is evidence to prove it. Or at least there is
evidence to prove that men in Roman antiquity believed him to have been mad.
The material is relatively abundant and varied, coming from contemporaries
who had personal knowledge of the emperor—Seneca and Philo—and later
figures engaged in serious commentary on what to them was recent history:
Josephus, Tacitus, Suetonius. Each authority’s statements can be discounted as
adversely disposed and subjective: Seneca because of personal misfortune, Philo
and Josephus because of Caligula’s hostility to the imperial Jewish population,
Tacitus and Suetonius as dupes of their sources. But the evidence as a whole
is consistent. The Greek and Latin terms employed—mania, furor, insania,
dementia, terms that have a long history in classical medical writings—are terms
that unequivocally signify some kind of mental derangement.1
The nature and history of the derangement, however, are beyond knowledge.
The evidence is too imprecise to permit any certain understanding of the onset
and course of the impediment, and while many attempts at diagnosis have been
made, all fail both from the insufficiency of information available and from the
assumption that a solution must be found in modern Western medical terms.
The succinct statement that Caligula “possessed savage lucidity and a kind of
frantic energy” is safe but hardly consequential. It follows that recovery of how
the condition affected Caligula’s day-to-day life, his personal relationships, and
the decisions he made as Rome’s emperor is an impossible task. A biographical
136 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

vacuum opens up: Caligula’s state of mind cannot be known, which means that
a true biography of him cannot be written.2
By “true biography” I mean a work such as Richard Ellmann’s biography
of Oscar Wilde, which, due to the availability of documentary evidence of a
sort unknown to ancient historians, allows for a thoroughly detailed account
of Wilde’s everyday life from birth to death, together with a sensitive study,
through analysis of his poetry, plays, and essays, of the evolution of Wilde’s
views on art and esthetics. Not merely a record therefore of the life lived
but also an intellectual biography and, through its careful examination of
Wilde’s constant struggles with his religious and sexual identity, a penetrating
psychological study as well. Biography based on this example emerges as a
literary form in which the personality and individuality of a historical subject
can be comprehensively portrayed.3
The remit of this contribution is to address the issues involved in writing
life histories of figures from Roman antiquity. Given the enormity of the
subject, I concentrate on the lives of Roman emperors such as Caligula and
the limitations involved, and through references to modern biographies
of figures from later periods of history I suggest, by implication, how life
histories of emperors might meaningfully be written. In so doing I pay
special attention to childhood as a formative phase in emperors’ lives, as
seems appropriate for a contribution to a study of the history of education in
antiquity, and I leaven my discussion throughout with references to Rome’s
singular imperial biographer Suetonius. To conclude, I offer a controversial
proposal concerning a unique reconstruction of one particular Roman
emperor’s life.4
*****
My point about Caligula is best understood from a comparative perspective. The
American poet Robert Lowell had a lifelong history of mental illness that has
been set out in detail by a biographer who is a practicing psychiatrist and brings
to her project a specialist’s expertise and empathetic understanding. The illness
concerned was bipolar disease, as a huge volume of Lowell’s extant medical
records shows. And since the biographer had at her disposal a huge volume of
other documents, Lowell’s personal notebooks and correspondence with family
members and friends, a comprehensive, multidimensional biography results,
which allows the reader to see how Lowell’s illness controlled his adult life: how
he lived with the constant fear of madness and coped with recurrent episodes
of mania and depression, how his familial and other personal relationships
were impacted, and how closely bound up his illness was with the creativity
that brought him lasting literary distinction. The life of the Bostonian patrician
and quintessential New Englander is accessible to a degree of complexity
unimaginable for Caligula.5
LIFE HISTORIES: ON ROMAN IMPERIAL BIOGRAPHY 137

Nor is this a case due solely to the subject’s relative modernity. In the
nineteenth century, England’s peasant poet John Clare may also have suffered
from bipolar disease, but the materials from which his biography has recently
been written are insufficient to allow a definitive medical statement. They are,
however, voluminous enough to permit understanding of his decline in midlife,
his gradual descent into depression and delusion, and his eventual confinement
to mental institutions. And because both a mass of correspondence and an
autobiography have survived, the course of Clare’s life can also be charted in
great detail: his impoverished rural origins, his astonishing emergence as a poet
of sudden but ephemeral celebrity, his perpetual struggle to avoid poverty, his
personal and professional relationships, the onset of his “madness”—all this
is recoverable to an extent again unattainable for Caligula. The key factor is
documentation. Ancient historians have at their disposal nothing comparable,
for instance, to Clare’s own account of his escape from a mental asylum in Essex
and his return, on foot, to his home in Northamptonshire, which exposes both
the means by which he survived the journey and his delusory belief that he was
married simultaneously to two women, one of whom was never his wife and
was long since dead.6
This does not mean that Caligula lacks biographers. Their books, however,
bear little resemblance to the three modern works to which I have just referred.
Typically they begin with a list of facts from the end of Augustus’ reign and the
reign of Tiberius, the period of Caligula’s early life, with the few objectively
known details of his childhood inserted at appropriate chronological points.
They continue with accounts of events that occurred, or may have occurred,
through the course of Caligula’s lifetime—no matter whether the events
involved Caligula himself or not—but their biographical significance, what the
events meant for Caligula’s development as a person, is largely unstated or else,
as in this example, expressed in conditional and unverifiable terms:
The first six months of Caligula’s reign was [sic] a period of near-euphoria.
But it exacted an exhausting toll on the young emperor. The strain of being
at the centre of power and attention, and the adulation of the masses, would
have made enormous demands on his nerves and stamina, coming after a
life spent almost totally out of the public view. Hardly was the summer over
[sc. 37], when he fell seriously ill.7
What “near-euphoria,” or “toll,” or “strain,” or “enormous demands,” it might
be asked, and why “would have”?
In turn, such books assume when Caligula’s reign is described that the stories
of his unusual behavior in the source-tradition are inherently fallacious and
must be rationalized according to their authors’ understanding of the rational.
Caligula’s absurd directive to his troops to pick up seashells on the French
138 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

coast is accordingly attributed not to mental instability but to a desire to

instill in his soldiers military discipline; and his intention to make a favorite
horse a Roman consul and his building of a bridge of ships across the Bay of
Naples are construed not as aberrations but as elements of a conscious policy
to humiliate the Roman aristocracy. Such constructs—often ingenious—
are preferred over the evidence of men close to Caligula’s lifetime. Little is
offered about Caligula as a human subject or about the social conditions and
cultural realities in which his life was lived.8
Biographies of other emperors, Tiberius, Claudius, Vespasian, follow the same
colorless format of cataloguing attestable or hypothesized events, uninformed
by any awareness of biographical theory. The result is that what I have termed
in relation to Caligula a biographical vacuum is everywhere apparent. Their
justification might be that inadequate source material allows nothing more than
to offer what is frequently called political biography, which means discussion
largely of relations between emperor and Senate with putative patterns of
senatorial behavior inferred from prosopography; but even this is subject to
a limitation scarcely ever acknowledged: most of the Senate’s 600 members,
in Caligula’s reign or at any other time in the early imperial era, cannot be
identified, which renders suspect the foundation of the political biography as
commonly understood. The Senate in any case never constituted a monolithic
bloc. Nor do later emperors necessarily fare better. A biography of Constantine
draws a distinction between the unfathomable psychology of the emperor’s
experience of conversion and the important consequences to which it led,
so that the biographical vacuum is considered historically irrelevant; yet the
emperor is simultaneously credited with a deceitful and duplicitous political
comportment taken to be universally characteristic of all politicians, as if the
distinctiveness of the world in which Constantine lived, its political disposition
included, requires no consideration.9
What do I mean by this? I take as an illustration a section of the outstanding
biography by Donald R. Howard of Geoffrey Chaucer, a figure from an era
almost equally remote as that of Caligula, and one that has at its core a similarly
limited amount of hard evidence from which to work. The section concerned
is a description of a journey Chaucer made in the winter of 1372 to 1373 from
England to Italy on court business. It begins with a straightforward statement
on the route across the Continent taken by Chaucer and the party with whom
he traveled as far as the Alps. The physical hardships confronted in crossing
the mountains and their psychological consequences are then enumerated: the
severity of the weather, which necessitated dense layers of protective clothing,
the difficulties of the terrain and absence of maps, which meant reliance on
guides, the travelers’ inability to proceed at anything more than a snail’s
pace, the dangers of attack from brigands, of losing their way, of dying from
exposure, all of which are contrasted with the modern reality: “What we
LIFE HISTORIES: ON ROMAN IMPERIAL BIOGRAPHY 139

do in two comfortable hours by plane took a laborious month for medieval

travelers.” Next, and more subtly, the medieval mental picture of the journey
is explained, not a downward expedition as the reader might anticipate but the
exact opposite: for, given a cosmography that placed the Garden of Eden at
the top of the world, Asia immediately below and Europe and Africa side by
side farther below still, an initially surprising result obtains: “when Chaucer
traveled from England to Italy, he would have supposed himself moving up: up
toward Rome, toward Jerusalem at the center of the earth, and beyond that (…)
up the mainland of Asia toward the Earthly Paradise.” Lastly, Howard moves
to environmental factors, making astute observations on the medieval lack of
time zones and national boundaries, evoking the travelers’ response to changing
landscapes and the “exquisite delight” taken in safely finding food and shelter,
and against this backdrop a final, cosmic image of Chaucer himself is presented,
descending from the harsh mountains to the temperate spring-like lowlands,
free from all the perils of the previous weeks. The effect is to captivate, and to
convince, completely:
Coming then into this wintertime oasis, having seen from the mountaintops
the valleys and houses and towns below as a soaring bird might see them,
Chaucer found that here, near Turin, trees and shrubbery to a surprising
extent remain green in winter. There were not just evergreens with needles
but trees and shrubs like the holly familiar to Englishmen, strange and lovely
nondeciduous plants along the wayside that he could stoop to touch and
admire, and ask their names of his Genoese companions, plants having lush
red berries and crisp pointed leaves, and here and there even winter flowers
of bright yellow and winter roses of white. He would have looked back
at the forbidding snowcapped promontories his party had just negotiated:
they seemed distant and inscrutable, a world of ice suspended in the sky. Of
the geology behind such a landscape, medieval man knew nothing; it was
because of “untamed” nature, the decay of the world attendant on the Fall
of Man, that man’s place on the Island of the Earth was so far less hospitable
than the Garden of Eden had been, and this hostile world could be tamed
and inhabited only by human ingenuity, by the arts of civilization.10
I know of no conventional Roman imperial biography that meets this standard
of imaginative explanatory excellence, that evokes mentality and opens up
psychological insight with so much success, or that appreciates the advantages
of historical particularity that biography affords. In the summer of 43 the
emperor Claudius made a similar journey to that of Chaucer, but this time from
Italy to Britain, following a route that may have taken him by sea from Ostia,
Rome’s port, to Massilia (Marseilles) and then by road and river to Gesoriacum
(Boulogne), before crossing the Channel into Kent and Essex and culminating
at Camulodunum (Colchester). It was a journey that allowed Claudius to claim
140 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

personal participation in Rome’s conquest of a new province. It was also,

however, a journey to the end of the earth, since to Romans, Rome was the
center of the world—a fact symbolized by the Golden Milestone that Augustus
years before had set up in the Roman Forum—and a journey too into the
virtually unknown, given that in Claudius’ day knowledge of the geography of
Britain was no more than rudimentary. Some years earlier, in 39–40, Caligula
had traveled from Italy to northern Europe intent on invading Britain but,
notoriously, to no effect. Standard biographies of both emperors have little
to offer on the magnitude of such undertakings, and unlike Howard’s book
they do little to communicate the realities of lived historical experience or to
bring the past to life. They are far from alone. Consider the clinical style of this
account in a biography of Vespasian of Roman legionary movements in the
Jewish War led by Titus that had begun under Nero.11 It assumes that numerals
are sufficient by themselves to refer to Rome’s legions and that no description
of terrain, or any kind of geographical embellishment, is necessary:
Titus’ campaign began shakily. V and X were despatched by Emmaus and
Jericho, while Titus himself led XII and XV, with the Syrian auxiliaries
and allied contingents, through Samaria and Gophna to Gabath Saul,
5.5 kilometres from Jerusalem. After a reconnoitre in which he was almost
cut off at the Psephinus Tower, Titus advanced two legions, XII and XV, to
Scopus; V was stationed 500 metres behind it, and X on the Mount of Olives,
1 kilometre from the city on the east and beyond the Brook Kedron. The
besieged checked their quarrels and cut up X, which Titus had to rescue.12

*****
It is an irony, of course, that in the prime specimen of Roman imperial
biography from antiquity there is much that does evoke lived historical
experience. The purpose of Suetonius’ Caesares, a serious work still too often
dismissed as trivializing and sensationalist, remains debatable in view of the
absence of any programmatic statement of authorial intent. (Presumably there
was one immediately before the lost early sections of the Julius.) Nevertheless,
I continue to believe that a standard of evaluation formed from expectations of
imperial performance dominant in the early second century underlies Suetonius’
choice and organization of subject matter in the biographies, the project as a
whole constituting a history written by a courtier of Trajan and Hadrian of
the rise of autocracy at Rome with Julius Caesar and the exercise of absolute
power by Caesar’s first-century successors.13 It must in any case be accepted
that the rubrics into which Suetonius arranges his material reflect contemporary
sociocultural values and matters of importance in assessing how an emperor’s
life was lived. There is a strong interest, moreover, in the character of the
biographical subjects. Caesar is said to have been naturally lenient in avenging
LIFE HISTORIES: ON ROMAN IMPERIAL BIOGRAPHY 141

wrongs.14 Claudius was naturally bloodthirsty.15 Nero was monstrously cruel,

comparable in character to his boon companion Otho.16 Vespasian was thought
to have been naturally covetous—although Suetonius gave him the benefit of
the doubt.17 Further, a concern with the subject’s interior vita allows emotional
and at times psychological details to emerge, fusing character with personality.18
The vignette of Caesar hesitating to cross the Rubicon is a prime example, his
decision impelled by a supernatural apparition and sealed with an unforgettable
aphorism (iacta alea esto19). That of Nero’s panic and vacillation in the crisis of
68 is another.20 Nor is there any shortage of simply striking details. Weeping
soldiers kiss the hands and feet of Otho’s corpse, moved by an unexpectedly
noble suicide.21 Vespasian, foiled by misfortune, tries at the last minute to
forestall the execution of his enemy Helvidius Priscus.22 Domitian, practicing his
archery skills, selects a slave for target practice and attempts to land his arrows
between the wretched man’s outstretched fingers.23 Suetonius fully understood
biography’s capacity to bring the past, in all its particularity, to life.24
It is not too much to say that in this he anticipated the belief of the much
later pioneer of “new biography” Lytton Strachey that biography should be
governed by a careful selection of relevant material, psychological inference,
and the lively animation of his subjects through the interplay of imagination
and literary artistry.25 Strachey’s goal was to create verbal portraits of credible
human beings with a painter’s verisimilitude, a goal realized both in Eminent
Victorians and in the later images of Queen Victoria and those close to her:
Prince Albert above all, but also a succession of prime ministers: Melbourne,
Peel, Gladstone, Disraeli.26 Academic womb-to-tomb chronographers of
Roman emperors cannot perhaps be held to the same esthetic standards as those
Strachey achieved; but modern examples of biography from other historical
fields such as those to which I have earlier referred prove that at a minimum
accessible communication is possible and sheer impenetrability avoidable.

FILLING THE VACUUM

Does this mean that all attempts to understand the lives of Roman emperors are
doomed to fail? No, although the degree of success will depend on the originality
of insight brought to bear. One successful example is the brilliant biography of
Nero by Edward Champlin, which aims to reveal the emperor as in every sense
a theatrical ruler who consciously set out to present himself to Rome and the
Romans as a showman and stage actor, a figure whose every performance was
an act of obsessive self-justification and validation, and who deliberately sought
and achieved mass popularity in everything that he did. This is done by viewing
the events of Nero’s reign from Nero’s perspective and by setting the events
in their cultural context—with particular attention to the ubiquitous presence
in Roman society of myths and legends that provided a language, Champlin
142 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

argues, for Nero to communicate explanations to mass audiences of the many

crimes he was thought to have committed. By pursuing all the ramifications of
the Apolline, Solar, and Herculean imagery so prevalent in the source tradition,
Suetonius’ biography of Nero included, Champlin shows how the emperor
created an Augustus-inspired image of himself as a superhuman “Roi-Soleil”
his subjects would easily recognize and appreciate, suggesting moreover that
Nero’s ideological and esthetic experimentation became more and more self-
conscious over time. It is a strategy more appealing than that of positing in
Nero’s biography an historical explanation of the end of the Julio-Claudian
dynasty and one that can lead to riveting effects. The description of Nero’s
coronation in the Roman Forum in 66 of the Parthian Tiridates, incorporating
elements of a Roman triumphal celebration, is a fine illustration:
When Nero entered with the senators and the guard, he ascended the
Rostra and sat in his chair of state, looking back down the Forum in an east-
southeasterly direction. That is, as Tiridates approached him through the
ranks of soldiers, the rising sun would have hit Nero full on the face, in all his
triumphal splendor. The prince then addressed the emperor from the ground,
looking up to him on the Rostra: “I have come to you, my god, worshipping
you as I do Mithra.” The important point—something Nero would know
as an initiate, whether others did or not—is that for Zoroastrians the sun
was the eye of Mithra, and Mithra was often so closely associated with the
sun as to be identified with it: “the Sun whom they call Mithres,” as Strabo
puts it. Moreover, when Zoroastrians prayed in the open air, they turned
towards the sun, since their religion bound them to pray facing fire. Thus,
when Tiridates stood in the open Roman Forum facing the sunlit emperor,
and worshipping him as he did Mithra, he was in essence worshipping the
sun. An ex-praetor translated his words and proclaimed them to the crowd.
At this stage in Rome’s history, very few of those present would have known
who Mithra was, but there is a good likelihood that the interpreter relayed
Tiridates’ words as “I have come to you, my god, worshipping you as I do the
Sun.” For Nero, the marriage of a Roman triumph and Parthian ceremony
culminated in a splendid theatrical affirmation of his role as the new god of
the sun.27

*****
Champlin’s method permits him to fill the biographical vacuum. Another means
to the same end is to consider the childhood and education of the Roman
emperor at issue, topics that together with ancestry were notably of consistent
interest as rubrics to Suetonius.28 It is axiomatic indeed in Suetonius’ lives that
heredity had an impact on his subjects’ character. Tiberius continued his family’s
reputation for Claudian arrogance.29 Nero’s cruelty could be traced to one
LIFE HISTORIES: ON ROMAN IMPERIAL BIOGRAPHY 143

particular predecessor.30 The corruption of Vitellius followed a long-standing

family tradition.31 A question to pursue therefore is that of how Caligula, or
any emperor, came to be the person he was in adulthood, an answer to which
should logically mean considering whatever is known of his childhood and
upbringing—or of the way in which, in the broadest sense, he was formed.
To Romans childhood (pueritia) was a distinctly perceptible stage of life, and
Suetonius’ childhood rubrics imply that early experiences played a key role in
the shaping of adult personality. For boys the stage was marked off formally
from adulthood by a coming of age ceremony, to which first marriage, often
at a very young age by modern Western standards, was a counterpart for girls.
To understand the patterns of culture controlling the process of preparation for
adulthood is all-important.
A model might be sought in Jonathan Bate’s Soul of the Age, a book with
the provocative subtitle, A Biography of the Mind of William Shakespeare.
Documentation for Shakespeare’s life is as minimal as, if not worse than, for
many Roman emperors, which is what makes the book attractive as a potential
Roman guide. Bate’s procedure is to paint from the corpus of Shakespeare’s
plays and poems a picture of the world in which their author lived, recreating
life experience by historically contextualizing what little is factually known
about Shakespeare through clues provided by the literary corpus. (He avoids in
so doing “the deadening march of chronological sequence that is biography’s
besetting vice.”) The threads of the sociocultural context woven include
contemporary medical information, with special attention to the plague and
syphilis; demographic factors, including conventional ages of marriage;
Elizabethan educational institutions, with examination of curriculum and
the types of books children read in schools; literary and theatrical history—
the general availability and range of books, the importance and character of
acting companies; contemporary legal practices and court records; European
geography and geopolitics; and leading contemporary currents of thought.
What is inferred about the biographical subject from this rich panorama is often
audaciously and admittedly speculative. But the factual substrate is nonetheless
vividly brought to life. A passage on Shakespeare as a boy setting off for Stratford
Grammar School gives an apt illustration:
The hour at which he crept, willingly or unwillingly, would have been a few
minutes before six o’clock on summer mornings. Seven o’clock in winter
darkness. Turning left out of the family home and glove-making workshop
on Henley Street, right at the market cross, past the pillory at the top of Sheep
Street, along Chapel Street and in behind the half-timbered almshouses that
still stand on Church Street. Educated for free in the King’s New School, by
courtesy of his father’s position on the town council. Up a stone staircase
behind the Gild Chapel, where the images had been washed over with lime.
144 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

Into the big schoolroom. The carved bosses on its chamfered beams show
painted roses and hearts—the red rose of Lancaster with a white heart of
York, symbolizing the Tudor reconciliation of the ancient grudge of two
royal households.
With the help of a passage from The Merry Wives of Windsor, Bate then shows
how the boy learned Latin:
The cases, the numbers, the genders, the articles (…). Rote learning in
the style of catechism. What is lapis? A stone. And what is “a stone”? No,
not “a pebble”—you are not required to think—“a stone” is lapis. Double
translation, backward and forward between English and Latin, day in, day
out. A clever boy survives such a regime by sniggering: hog for hoc, fuck-
ative for vocative, whore for horum, root and case as not only technical terms
in grammar but also slang for, respectively, the male and female parts.32
This is rather better as an evocation of the past, defeating aridity and anachronism,
than the fruitless discussions in many Roman biographies of Quellenforschung.
Admittedly, Roman emperors have not left bodies of literature that can be
comparably scrutinized, and Bate’s methodology is perhaps best suited for
Roman literary figures: Apuleius, or perhaps even Suetonius. (Wider vistas
might open up for late antiquity.) Nonetheless, the era of Suetonius’ subjects
is sufficiently recoverable to allow basic biographical details to be explicated
from a wide range of perspectives, and items from Suetonius’ lives can prove
enlightening if not summarily dismissed as politically irrelevant.33
In an important historiographical essay on Caligula, Zvi Yavetz observed:
“One does not have to be a trained psychologist in order to establish the fact that
a hard pressed childhood is bound to leave its mark on the adult. And Caligula’s
childhood and adolescence were anything but normal.” He continued:
His experience as a baby in a mutinous army camp; the shock that the early
death of his father must have caused him; the stress he must have gone
through, while living under the tutelage of two formidable grandmothers,
especially Livia, whom he called “a Ulysses in petticoats”; the banishment of
his ambitious mother and the murder of his older brothers Nero and Drusus;
and last but not least, his undying efforts to survive the whims and atrocities
of an ageing and vengeful Tiberius on Capri. All those could have caused his
development into a man of whom it was said that “no one had ever been a
better slave or a worse master.”34
If these remarks are valuable for associating Caligula’s childhood experiences
with his adult manifestations of mental illness, their cogency is nevertheless
offset by the assumption that what constituted a “normal” childhood and
adolescence for an upper-class Roman boy in first-century Rome is identical
LIFE HISTORIES: ON ROMAN IMPERIAL BIOGRAPHY 145

with what their author took to be normal in his late twentieth-century world. It
is an assumption that needs to be validated if the “must haves” of the quotation
are to have any cogency. For several reasons I think that this cannot be done.
First, in the demographically challenged world of Rome it was not unusual for
sons to lose their fathers at an early age. On Richard Saller’s calculations (revised
by Walter Scheidel), one quarter to one third of all Roman children had lost their
fathers by age fifteen, a staggering statistic by the standards of modern developed
countries. Many paternal deaths occurred when children were at very tender
ages. Suetonius records—the material is anecdotal but illustrative regardless—
that of the Julio-Claudian emperors, most lost their fathers when children:
Augustus at age four, Tiberius (apparently) at age nine, Claudius in infancy, and
Nero at age three.35 (The opening words of Iul. 1.1 are: annum agens sextum
decimum patrem amisit.) Caligula was seven when his father died, admittedly in
extraordinary circumstances. I know no way to measure the personal effects on
the individual children concerned.36 But the experience of growing up fatherless
was far more “normal” in Roman antiquity than in today’s Western world, the
ideological importance of the father in Roman culture notwithstanding. Noting
that paternal death was not “devastatingly rare,” Mark Golden has located the
experience “in the mid-range of life’s tragedies” in antiquity at large.37 In Rome,
however, mental illness does not seem to have been a widespread consequence,
and by law and custom mechanisms for safeguarding the interests of bereft
children were provided (mechanisms through tutores, for instance). The degree
of “stress” experienced may consequently be queried.
Secondly, the unpredictability of death and the tendency for men to marry at
a relatively late age guaranteed that upper-class Roman children were exposed
throughout childhood to extensive familial bonds in which step-relationships,
partial blood relationships, and relationships by marriage were ubiquitous.
The upper-class Roman family could be and often was a remarkably diffuse
and complex organism, as the stemma of the Julio-Claudians and later that
of the Antonine emperors illustrate well enough. At the same time, children
might find themselves deposited in households not those of their parents and
brought up with other children in a type of communal setting. Details from
Suetonius are once more instructive. M. Salvius Otho, grandfather of the
emperor Otho, grew up in the household of Livia.38 Vespasian was brought
up at Cosa in the care of his paternal grandmother Tertulla, to whom he
remained deeply attached in later life even though his mother was alive and
well.39 Titus spent his childhood at the Claudian court, sharing teachers with
Britannicus, of whom he was a close friend.40 The court of Augustus was at
various times filled with children, not only those of the emperor himself, his
daughter Julia and his adopted sons Gaius and Lucius, but also those of various
foreign kings such as the eight sons of Herod the Great who were sent to
Rome to be educated.41
146 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

Thirdly, and crucially, as grand-scale slave-owners, upper-class Romans

delegated many of the practical tasks of childrearing to men and women in
their domestic entourages, which meant that the world of their children was
populated from infancy onwards by a multiplicity of servile non-kin as well as
kin members, a pattern that extended further once children were old enough
to begin their formal education. The resulting relationships between children
and their non-kin attendants could attain an importance that endured over time
and may in some cases have softened the disruptions caused among kin by harsh
demographic patterns. Suetonius knew of a nutrix who had breastfed the infant
Tiberius during his parents’ travails of the revolutionary era (Tib. 6.1); and he
records that both Nero and Domitian owed their final resting places to women
who had nursed them as infants many years before: Egloge and Alexandria,
together with his mistress Acte, placed Nero’s ashes in the tomb of the Domitii
Ahenobarbi on the Pincio, and Phyllis secretly placed Domitian’s ashes in the
Flavian family temple in Rome after cremating the body in her villa on the Via
Latina—mixing them indeed with the ashes of Titus’ daughter Julia whom she
had also tended.42 Nero as a child had been placed in the care of two pedagogues
in a paternal aunt’s household when his mother Agrippina was in exile.43
There is no need to deny that disruptions may have had an impact.44 The
problem is a lack of evidence to allow adequate assessment. I know of no
Roman situation like that of A.E. Housman described by Peter Parker, when
following the receipt of a letter from his father on his twelfth birthday in 1871
Housman learned of his mother’s death from breast cancer:
Housman had been brought up as a devout Christian, but the loss of his
mother began a process which led him to reject Christianity altogether and
become a convinced atheist at the age of twenty-one. The process is known,
in part, from his sister’s correspondence: “Kate recalled that their mother’s
death ‘roused within him an early resentment against nature’s relentless
ways of destruction’, although the children never discussed their loss among
themselves. ‘Death—that cuts short both joys and sorrows—became an
obsession with him, very evident in after life, but there in boyhood,’ Kate
wrote.”45
But the patterns I have sketched suggest a social context for Caligula’s
childhood far different from that taken as normal by Yavetz. The case history
of a later emperor, dependent on evidence of exceptionally high quality, offers
confirmation.
In the first book of Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations, a work that permits a
rare insight into an emperor’s mind, some seventeen individuals are identified
from whom Marcus learned ethically beneficial lessons. Several more are
mentioned by family relationship alone: sister, brother, wife. They were met
at various stages of Marcus’ life, including in some instances his childhood.
LIFE HISTORIES: ON ROMAN IMPERIAL BIOGRAPHY 147

Something therefore of special value can be seen of an upper-class Roman

child’s upbringing over time. Composed toward the end of Marcus’ life, the
book is unique in showing how a Roman emperor remembered his earliest years
and illustrates the diversity of informal personal influences upon an emperor’s
life from childhood to maturity that may be considered paradigmatic. The
personnel involved comprise both kin and non-kin.46
Four family members are recalled, father and mother predictably, and two
figures from a previous generation. Since he was yet another example of a
child who lost his father early in life (at the age of three), Marcus remembered
little of his father Annius Verus other than his “modesty and manliness.”47
His grandfather, also named Annius Verus, receives as much though still brief
recognition as a man of “kindly disposition and sweetness of temper (Med. 1.1).”
Likewise acknowledged is a figure Marcus calls his grandfather’s father. That is,
Catilius Severus, who appears to have been the stepfather of Marcus’ maternal
grandmother, a technically distant relative whose connection arose from the
habit of serial marriage common in aristocratic Roman society. Marcus associates
with him the importance of being educated at home by good teachers (Med. 1.4).
His mother, Domitia Lucilla, who rather untypically did not remarry after her
husband’s death, receives the most attention of all, being remembered for the
lessons of piety, generosity, and living a harmless and simple life free from the
habits of the wealthy (Med. 1.3). The group is relatively small, a mere fraction
of Marcus’ full family, the composition of which evolved over time as his record
implicitly indicates. But that is the point. Relationships among family members
were constantly changing and becoming ever more diffuse and numerous due to
demographic constraints and the intrusion of social conventions.48
The group’s members are likely to have had more than an ethical impact
alone on the young Marcus. Under arrangements made by Hadrian in 138,
he became at the age of seventeen the adoptive son of Antoninus Pius, who
was Hadrian’s choice as his immediate successor; Marcus speaks of him in the
Meditations in almost panegyrical terms.49 He will long have known in 138
that Annius Verus, his grandfather, who was also his adoptive father after
his true father’s death, had achieved the exceptional honor of holding three
consulships, that Catilius Severus had held the consulship the year before
he was born (in 121), and that his own father had died while holding the
praetorship. Exposure to the tradition of achieving public distinction was
unavoidable during his formative years, and reinforcement presumably came
from observation of the careers of members of the family circle not mentioned
in the Meditations, the most conspicuous of whom was Hadrian himself,
in whose reign Marcus came to maturity and who in 138 became the heir
apparent’s adoptive grandfather.
Three non-kin figures are singled out from Marcus’ early years. One is an
anonymous tropheus, who evidently performed the traditional role of the
148 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

nutritor or paedagogus (Med. 1.5). He will have been a slave or freedman in his
grandfather’s or mother’s household, supervising Marcus’ social deportment
in the early boyhood years. He was preceded as a child-minder by a trophós, a
wet nurse, whose duties conventionally lasted for the first two or three years
of her charge’s life. The woman’s name is unknown, but she too will have
been of servile origin, a member almost certainly of his father’s or mother’s
familia. Marcus seems to have remembered her no more than dimly, but
remember her he did (Med. 5.4). The teachers Diognetus and Alexander left
stronger impressions. The former is credited with having introduced Marcus
to philosophy and admonished him against the temptations of superstition
(Med. 1.6). The latter, a grammaticus, is appreciated for excellent instruction
in civilized and tactfully constructed speech (Med. 1.10). Both were probably
freedmen, of lesser rank than that enjoyed by Marcus’ much later instructors,
the grand senator M. Cornelius Fronto and the Stoics Apollonius of Chalcedon
and Junius Rusticus (Med. 1.7, 8, 11). It was as if the status of teachers rose
according to the level and intensity of instruction the aristocratic pupil’s
advancing years required, as once more Suetonius’ attention to the eminent
indicates—men such as Apollodorus of Pergamum, Augustus’ instructor in
declamation, Theodorus of Gadara, Tiberius’ rhetoric teacher, Livy, who
encouraged Claudius to write history, and Seneca, famously the teacher of
Nero.50 In this case, however, those of low rank were important enough to
find their way into Marcus’ spiritual autobiography.51
More teachers are known from other sources: the litterator Euphorio, the
comoedus Geminus, and the musicus and geometer Andro, all elementary
instructors; the Greek and Latin grammatici Alexander, Trosius Aper, Pollio,
and Tuticius Proculus; and the teachers of oratory Aninius Macer, Caninius
Celer, and Herodes Atticus.52 If these men had less effect on Marcus’ ethical
development, the same upward movement in status among them seems apparent
as his studies intensified over time.53
The instructional pattern observable in Marcus’ history follows closely the
ideal template set out by Quintilian in his classic exposition of the educational
goal of slowly molding the upper-class Roman boy into an accomplished and
morally perfected adult orator. The process began in infancy with the regime of
carefully selected nurses—tellers of tales and singers of songs—and pedagogues
responsible for basic instruction in reading and writing.54 It continued with the
literary curriculum of the grammaticus and ended with oratorical training from
the rhetor. The ages at which the boy progressed from one stage to the next
did not have to be rigidly defined: individual abilities were what mattered, and
Quintilian even allowed that the teachings of grammaticus and rhetor could
overlap. It was at roughly ages seven and thirteen, however, that the major shifts
occurred, and it is these ages that should be assumed for Marcus. Quintilian
very much favored the idea that when the boy was ready for the grammaticus
LIFE HISTORIES: ON ROMAN IMPERIAL BIOGRAPHY 149

he should attend a public school and engage with fellow pupils rather than be
taught by private tutors. But this was not the case with Marcus.
Quintilian has much to say about the value of music, geometry, and acting
for the training of the boy at the stage of grammatice, which suggests that
Marcus’ elementary teachers were carefully chosen.55 He recognized the
independence of the sentient being who had to be shaped into conformity with
his ideal—although evidence of misbehavior hardly amounts to the “agency” or
“resistance” of children posited by modern theorists—the purpose being to instill
in every pupil habits of competition and mastery that equipped him for the role
of leadership in the civic community to be played when adulthood was reached.
(One of the early modes of instruction was to memorize maxims conveying
homespun truths of the sort seen in the sentences of Publilius Syrus; Augustus
frequently drew on their proverbial wisdom.56) Especially in the teenage years,
through rhetorical assignments that relied heavily on improvisation, he learned
the varied arts of exercising authority that a future political and military leader
was required to display—Hadrian’s idiosyncratic speeches to his troops in
North Africa are a case in point—and an authority simultaneously to be wielded
over free and slave alike in the miniature state of the household he would in due
course rule. In both aspects, education imbued the boy with norms of conduct
replicating the traditional patriarchal structures of Roman society and culture
from one generation to the next. The late Colloquia of the Hermeneumata
Pseudodositheana strikingly capture these habits of command. Rome’s ruling
class, not an hereditary aristocracy but a body constantly changing its sources
of recruitment, never seems to have wavered in its commitment to traditional
methods of instruction for its members and their sons. Quintilian, originally
from Spain, embodies the process by which Roman educational ideas and ideals
were exported to Rome’s provinces, assimilated and reproduced at the local
level, and eventually brought back to the center of the empire.57
The fortuitous survival of correspondence between Marcus and Cornelius
Fronto, spanning the years from Marcus’ late teens to early adulthood, supplies
more evidence still of Marcus’ education, and is again material of a kind
unavailable for other Roman emperors. Its contents are both academic and
personal, suggesting on the surface a harmlessly affectionate friendship between
pupil and teacher, but to a penetrating gaze a disturbing erotic bond between
a younger and an older man of the kind that obsessed Quintilian.58 Whether
the letters are truly love letters is a matter of judgment. There is no ambiguity,
however, about the rhetorical and literary exercises assigned by Fronto to
Marcus to which they refer. They also confirm the close relationship between
Marcus and his mother.
Altogether, therefore, Marcus’ case history provides an exemplary illustration
of the system of upper-class Roman childrearing that relied upon the labor
and contributions of a wide circle of men and women of varying social ranks,
150 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

experiences, and capacities. It may be taken as axiomatic for the upbringing

of other boys who were to become emperors for whom the evidence is more
sporadic or, as in Caligula’s case, completely lacking. For although Suetonius
reports that Caligula had decidedly strong literary opinions—he could quote
Virgil and lampoon Seneca—and while he commends Caligula’s oratorical skills,
no details have survived at all of the servants and teachers whose instruction
led to their acquisition.59 In his middle teens Caligula was exposed to the grand
familia of his great-grandmother Livia, which with its multiplicity of slaves and
former slaves catered to every material need, and included personnel of the
child-minding type to whom he will have been entrusted in his early years.
But only at an indirect level can his preparation for adulthood be perceived.
Nonetheless, this is an improvement on nothing at all. The biographical vacuum
can be partially filled by recovery of the specific sociocultural conditions under
which Roman boys who eventually became emperors spent their early years;
and there is, of course, an additional, less formal, element of which to take
account. The political history of the first century of the principate is rife with
incidents of murder and assassination, including the disposal of children, as
examples from the Caesares once more illustrate.60 Caligula will have come
to understand that ever-present death was not always due to natural causes.
Intrigue, violence, conspiracy, suspicion, vindictiveness—these were the
order of the day, from which no one coming to maturity could be immune
or indifferent: “From his familiars at the court of his grandmother Antonia
(oriental princes were among them), from the entourage of the old magician on
the island, what lesson was Caligula to learn save craft, servility, and the future
licence of illimitable power?”61
*****
Ultimately, then, it is from the way in which contemporaries perceived madness
that Caligula’s derangement has to be understood, not from the anachronistic
inference that it was all the product of a troubled childhood. Two sets of evidence
are pertinent: one from Celsus, a well-informed first-century witness, the other
from Justinian’s Digest, in which long-standing assumptions are present.
Celsus described, not without ambiguity, three types of mental illness. He is
the first extant classical author to do so in detail, drawing in all likelihood on
Hellenistic medical writings now lost. The first type, marked by attacks of fever,
has the general heading of phrenesis, the likely equivalent of phrenitis. There are
several categories. A short-term form is associated with delirium and nonsensical
speech and a long-term form (dementia) with delusions. Other variations include
what seem to be either depression or hyperactivity, with symptoms such as
ranting speech and violent behavior, both impulsive and purposive. Secondly,
there is a long-lasting type not associated with fever, a form of depressive illness
due to black bile. And thirdly, a most protracted type again associated both with
LIFE HISTORIES: ON ROMAN IMPERIAL BIOGRAPHY 151

delusions that could lead to either depression or hyperactivity and, alternatively,

with a kind of cognitive disorder. All designations, however, were based on
the presupposition of humoral theory, together with the belief that madness,
variously termed insania, dementia, or furor, manifested physical symptoms,
was affected by seasonal and meteorological factors, and could be expected
especially in post-adolescent maturity.62
For Celsus, phrenetics were prone to actions characterized by audacia and
insomnia.63 Caligula might be thought therefore to belong to this category,
given the general record of his actions and inclinations that were remembered
as extraordinary: Suetonius gives the particular detail that he suffered from
sleeplessness and night-time delusions.64 However, Suetonius also attributed to
mental illness the contrasting defects (vitia) of Caligula’s overconfidence and
excessive fearfulness, which is of interest since Celsus noted a rare form of
delirium that he thought was induced by fear.65 Little more than this can be
said—there is no indication that Caligula was treated with any of the therapies,
torture included, Celsus recommended for the mentally ill—but it is enough
to see that his contemporaries could believe that he was indeed mentally ill.
Suetonius’ remark that Caligula himself was aware of his disability is equally
notable.66
Secondly, items from the Digest show that the distinction between genuine
mental illness and aberrant behavior was sometimes blurred, and that madness
could accordingly be understood not so much as a clinical state as a departure
from prevailing sociocultural norms. The best illustration is that of slaves
characterized by Roman jurists as truants or fugitives or as having engaged
in other activities regarded as criminal. The law stigmatized such slaves as
at least verging on insanity, but in so doing it assumed the primacy of slave-
owners’ interests over the motivations that led slaves to act as they did.67 If,
however, account is taken of slave agency—for adult parties a valid concept—
actions regarded as symptomatic of madness properly emerge as evidence of
servile resistance, a fact of Roman life perceptible in many forms. Suetonius
associates Asiaticus, the fugitive re-enslaved libertus of Vitellius, with the faults
of contumacia and furacitas that perfectly exemplify the institutional prejudice
that made objective understanding of servile behavior and its underlying causes
impossible.68
I conclude therefore that the considerable evidence that Caligula was
considered mad in antiquity should not be dismissed as tendentious, inaccurate,
or in need of rationalization, but that for purposes of biographical (and historical)
reconstruction it must be set within its intellectual and cultural context. (Seneca,
it is worth recalling, the fullest contemporary witness, composed a play called
Hercules Furens a decade or so after Caligula’s assassination.) The advantage
this brings is that unverifiable modern conspiracy theories of how a tradition of
Caligulan madness came into being can be discarded, especially the notion that
152 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

it was Suetonius, no less, who by himself invented the idea that Caligula was
mentally ill. For that claim to have any merit every item of vocabulary in the
Caesares pertaining to mental health would have to be shown to be deficient
and a motive on the author’s part for excoriating Caligula demonstrated,
requirements that self-evidently cannot be met. To contemporaries conditioned
by strict codes of conduct and cultural comportment, actions that shattered all
constraints and violated the codes were in and of themselves acts of insanity. So,
for example, when Caligula was seen in public kissing the actor Mnester, he was
seen to be flouting every canon of imperial respectability: it was not a matter
merely of an inappropriate same-sex entanglement, or of a socially transgressive
encounter with an ex-slave, but behavior that slighted the protocols of the kiss
of greeting that upper-class Romans began to learn as children in the company
of their nurses and pedagogues. In Suetonius’ day, the kiss of greeting between
emperor and senators had long been an item of imperial etiquette, and it was
a feature of regular interest to an author sensitive to social formalities of every
kind. Caligula habitually refused the normal exchange, offering only his hand or
foot for the kiss.69 It is no surprise consequently that Suetonius could associate
the kissing of Mnester with insanity.70

A BIOGRAPHICAL CLAIM
If privileging a rich sociocultural texture over anachronistic rationalization
is important, limits to imperial biographical recovery still remain. As the
exceptional example of Marcus Aurelius confirms, the besetting difficulty is
the absence of firsthand documentation of the kind available to biographers
of more recent historical figures. I proceed therefore to my radical proposal,
beginning with a celebrated passage of E.M. Forster’s Aspects of the Novel from
1927 in which the following distinction is drawn between the historian and the
historical novelist:
The historian deals with actions, and with the characters of men only so far
as he can deduce them from their actions. He is quite as much concerned
with character as the novelist, but he can only know of its existence when it
shows on the surface. If Queen Victoria had not said, “We are not amused,”
her neighbours at table would not have known she was not amused, and
her ennui could never have been announced to the public. She might have
frowned, so that they would have deduced her state from that—looks and
gestures are also historical evidence. But if she remained impassive—what
would anyone know? The hidden life is, by definition, hidden. The hidden
life that appears in external signs is hidden no longer, has entered the realm
of action. And it is the function of the novelist to reveal the hidden life at its
LIFE HISTORIES: ON ROMAN IMPERIAL BIOGRAPHY 153

source: to tell us more about Queen Victoria than could be known, and thus
to produce a character who is not the Queen Victoria of history.71
I am aware that the superiority of knowledge in the depiction of character
Forster claimed for the novelist is inherently controversial in view of the
element of subjectivity involved. Also, the results of a historian’s deduction of
character from action are not necessarily as objective as Forster’s words imply.
Nonetheless, the distinction is useful for my purpose. I do not wish to suggest
that any historical novel about a Roman emperor will succeed as biography
and capture personality by definition. Yet there is one example in my view that
achieves this outcome, namely Marguerite Yourcenar’s Mémoires d’Hadrien of
1951, a work that in its attention to both Hadrian’s hidden and his external
life might have been composed almost with Forster’s presumptions in mind.
This is especially true of the presumption of the constancy over time of human
nature.72
Whether Mémoires is indeed a novel is a matter of debate. Yourcenar
understood the inevitability of describing it this way. But she distinguished
it from her other masterpiece, the genuine historical novel L’Œuvre au Noir,
whose chief protagonist, unlike Hadrian, is a complete fiction, and sometimes
alternatively referred to Mémoires as a historical biography. Ultimately the
book is sui generis. In form it is an epistolary novel, but a novel containing one
letter only. Hadrian, sick and close to death in his villa at Tivoli, addresses the
young man he has selected one day to succeed him, the future emperor Marcus
Aurelius, who is said (accurately) to be seventeen years old. The year is 138. It is
not specified as such, however, because in her pursuit of historical authenticity
Yourcenar avoided dating forms that were not properly Roman. Instead,
Hadrian dates the year of his letter “from the foundation of the city.” His birth
in 76 and death in 138 of the Christian era are matters of fact, but as Yourcenar
said, “ceci ne répond pas à grand-chose pour Hadrien, qui connaissait très mal
les chrétiens, qui n’a eu des rapports très vagues avec eux que tout à fait vers la
fin et qui sentait vivre au VIIIe siècle de l’ère romaine.”73 Her reasoning is clear,
but it would scarcely occur to modern imperial biographers to follow it. The
letter opens in the month of May and continues until the following July, shortly
before Hadrian’s death at the age of sixty-two, which in real terms occurred on
July 10th at Baiae on the Bay of Naples.74
The letter is divided into six long sections that have as titles Latin phrases
Yourcenar took from classical sources. It opens with a set of personal reflections
that contrast the physical and sensual pleasures of Hadrian’s early adulthood
with the infirmities of old age. Abruptly, however, Hadrian changes course and
decides to tell Marcus his full life story as a means of giving him instruction for
the future. The letter thus becomes an autobiography. Hadrian describes his
Spanish family background and birth, continues with his boyhood and education,
154 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

the early stages of his public career, his accession and accomplishments as
emperor, before finally returning to the present and the anticipation of his life’s
end. It is a confessional narrative throughout, reminiscent indeed (though not
imitative) of Marcus’ Meditations. Hadrian’s personal voice is heard and his
inner thoughts are exposed. The work exemplifies accordingly Virginia Woolf’s
proposition that the biographer’s concern to explore “that inner life of thought
and emotion which meanders darkly and obscurely through the hidden channels
of the soul” requires the novelist’s imagination.75 Three key episodes of intense
emotional experience dominate the narrative. First, Hadrian’s accession, with
the high anxiety induced by the hope of achieving supreme power, when it
is never quite certain until Trajan is dead that Hadrian will actually succeed
him. Second, the mysterious death of the youth Antinous, for whom Hadrian
in midlife conceives a grand passion and whose loss causes him to collapse
into despair. Third, a war against the rebellious Jews of Palestine late in his
reign, which brings deep disappointment after many years spent in promoting
throughout the empire ideals of universal peace. In no sense a biography of
coarse idealization, Yourcenar believed that her work had a tragic trajectory.76
In the Carnets de notes de “Mémoires d’Hadrien” that accompanied editions
of Mémoires from 1953 onwards, Yourcenar stated her goal in writing the book
as follows: “Refaire du dedans ce que les archéologues du XIXe siècle ont fait du
dehors.”77 Elsewhere she acknowledged that there was a certain audacity to the
enterprise, given that the thoughts she attributed to Hadrian could not be proven
to be genuine; but the object regardless was to have portrayed Hadrian in all
his complexity and singularity, with the facial wrinkles of Roman veristic art as
her guide.78 She believed, almost religiously, that the external record contained
significant details from which the interior life could be successfully recovered—
“il y a toujours ce moment unique où un détail quelconque accroche, et nous
fait sentir le personnage tel qu’il a dû être”79—so that what she portrayed was
not fiction in any ordinary sense. In effect she both followed the deductive
procedure of Forster’s historian, if with an assurance far exceeding the normal
canons of historical practice, and put into practice what A.D. Momigliano
later identified as the historical biographer’s task “of inferring from external
details the mental state of the individual about whom he is writing.”80 As I
have intimated, academic biographers of Roman emperors seldom meet this
challenge, not withstanding the precedent of Suetonius, of whom as it happens
Yourcenar thought highly as a portraitist.81
The goal was to be accomplished by what Yourcenar called in the Carnets
“Les règles du jeu”: comprehensive research, sensitivity to cultural context, and
attention to the constancy of human nature.82 (They might be taken to be the
foundation of any serious historical inquiry.) She was skeptical, however, of
historians as such, and in her criticisms of their practices she implied a preference
for the biographical. Rigid ideological preconceptions or theories she found
LIFE HISTORIES: ON ROMAN IMPERIAL BIOGRAPHY 155

rebarbative.83 They “hardened” and “purged” the past, falsely systematizing and
distorting it. It was a mistake for moderns to align historical facts on a Marxist
or structuralist axis; and to dispose events in order to show the progress of
capitalism or technology was to emaciate the past. The earlier Christianizing
history of Bossuet had been equally misdirected.
Yourcenar gave an especially full statement of her views in a lecture
entitled “L’Écrivain devant l’Histoire” in Paris in February 1954, in which she
explained that, while not an academic historian, she had responded in writing
Mémoires to what she perceived as a contemporary alienation from the past
largely attributable to the catastrophic events of the 1930s and 1940s.84 As
in the Carnets, she gave primacy to knowledge of the historical sources and
scholarly publications, supplemented now, however, by travel to the regions of
historical concern. Historical truth, she thought, was approachable if ultimately
inaccessible: facts had to be distinguished from plausibilities, but confidence in
the latter was difficult as far as the inner lives of historical actors were concerned.
In the absence of definitive evidence, it would never be known whether Hadrian
had forged Trajan’s will to allow him to claim the emperorship, as there was
reason to believe, or whether Plotina had influenced Trajan to choose Hadrian
as his successor. And even if new evidence were found, as the product of either
a friend or an enemy it would be unreliable, while a confession from Hadrian
himself could never be expected: “Nous sommes là dans une domaine où pour
de bonnes raisons nous ne saurons jamais la vérité parce que trop de gens
avaient intérêt à la cacher.”85 There was much therefore that could be a matter
of hypothesis alone—Hadrian’s state of mind while serving in Trajan’s Dacian
Wars or his real feelings for Sabina.
There were nevertheless other steps that could be taken. All contemporary
ideas had to be set aside and the past understood on its own terms, one strategy
in Hadrian’s case being to have read everything that Hadrian himself had
read. This had allowed Yourcenar to absorb the moral and intellectual ethos
in which he had lived, and to think of his life as he himself had thought of it.
A “system of equivalences” had then to be established, by which Yourcenar
meant uncovering the ways in which human emotions, unchanging across time,
expressed themselves in specific historical contexts. In the case, for instance,
of a tyrant, a unique individual had to be portrayed, but a tyrant always and
inevitably displayed in one form or another a violence and greed that were
timeless aspects of the human condition. The final task was to decide how best
to communicate what was learned. How could historical figures be made to
speak? The idioms and tones of the past were irrecoverable, those of the present
unsuitable. Compromise was consequently necessary, minimizing offence to
the past but permitting awareness of both its cultural distinctiveness and the
constancy of the human condition. Accordingly, she had made Hadrian speak in
the first person not as a novelist’s fantasy but in the hope that he would express
156 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

himself authentically. Equally, she had wanted to present a human life in all its
fluidity, before it became petrified in a historical system, and she had chosen
a subject whose world had something in its “structures mentales” in common
with the contemporary world: “un monde dans lequel l’homme jouit des
bénéfices d’une longue culture, a derrière lui un passé et croit avoir un avenir,
croit à la possibilité de reformer certaines choses, de maintenir certaines autres,
peut voyager de pays à pays, peut se faire une idée globale de l’humanité.”
Her Hadrian was to be an intermediary between the past and the present—
his intellectual disposition resembled that of moderns in certain matters of
moment—and hoping to have added to knowledge of the human condition she
had tried to create a neo-humanist history that privileged above all what she
called “l’éternelle fluctuation des choses humaines.”86
Mémoires has been, and will always be, subject to positivist criticism. Factual
errors were made, and Yourcenar admitted that some details were altered and
others invented even as she strove for overall historical authenticity. Issues of
transference also arise: the charge has often been leveled against her—denial
was vigorous—that Hadrian is Yourcenar herself, as for example the skeptical
views on history she attributed to him suggest: “Les historiens nous proposent
du passé des systèmes trop complets, des séries de causes et d’effets trop exacts
et trop clairs pour avoir jamais été entièrement vrais; ils réarrangent cette docile
matière morte, et je sais que même à Plutarque échappera toujours Alexandre.”87
Nonetheless, there is much in Mémoires in which any ancient historian might
recognize a past vividly and convincingly brought to life through the illusion
Yourcenar creates of providing through an autobiographical document access
to Hadrian’s mind. I quote here just one relevant passage, in which Hadrian
recalls his education as a child and what it meant to him, and ask whether
anything comparably effective is to be found in conventional scholarship:
Je serai jusqu’au bout reconnaissant à Scaurus de m’avoir mis jeune à l’étude
du grec. J’étais enfant encore lorsque j’essayai pour la première fois de tracer
du stylet ces caractères d’un alphabet inconnu: mon grand dépaysement
commençait, et mes grands voyages, et le sentiment d’un choix délibéré et
aussi involontaire que l’amour. J’ai aimé cette langue pour sa flexibilité de
corps bien en forme, sa richesse de vocabulaire où s’atteste à chaque mot le
contact direct et varié des réalités, et parce que presque tout ce que les hommes
ont dit de mieux a été dit en grec (…). Des tyrans ioniens aux démagogues
d’Athènes, de la pure austérité d’un Agésilaus aux excès d’un Denys ou d’un
Démétrius, de la trahison de Démarate à la fidélité de Philopoemen, tout
ce que chacun de nous peut tenter pour nuire à ses semblables ou pour les
servir a, au moins une fois, été fait par un Grec. Il en va de même de nos
choix personnels: du cynicisme à l’idéalisme, du scepticisme de Pyrrhon aux
rêves sacrés de Pythagore, nos refus ou nos acquiescements ont eu lieu déjà;
LIFE HISTORIES: ON ROMAN IMPERIAL BIOGRAPHY 157

nos vices et nos vertus ont des modèles grecs. Rien n’égale la beauté d’une
inscription latine votive ou funéraire: ces quelques mots gravés sur la pierre
résument avec une majesté impersonnelle tout ce que le monde a besoin de
savoir de nous. C’est en latin que j’ai administré l’empire; mon épitaphe sera
incisée en latin sur les murs de mon mausolée au bord du Tibre, mais c’est en
grec que j’aurai pensé et vécu.88
The success of such a passage is due not only to Yourcenar’s thorough familiarity
with historical sources—evident in the Note included in her book from the
outset and expanded in later editions—but also from the application of what she
termed “magie sympathique,” the capacity, in thought, to enter the historical
subject’s mind. This might be construed as the special gift of the poet Yourcenar
was, particularly since she regarded Mémoires as a poetic work: “Mon désir (…)
était de profiter de nos connaissances historiques d’aujourd’hui pour tenter,
mutatis mutandis, l’équivalent de certaines grandes reconstructions poétiques
de l’histoire faites par des poètes du passé; pour trouver en somme, s’il se
pouvait, la poésie humaine de l’histoire, que nous risquons d’ensevelir de nos
jours sous nos fac-similés et nos fiches.”89 And from this perspective, it is of more
than passing interest that André Maurois, writing in counterpoint to Forster in
Aspects de la biographie of 1928, asserted that at its best biography could acquire
“une valeur poétique” comparable to poetry’s “transformation de la nature en
chose belle,” in which, as also in music, recurrent motifs were detectable in the
biographical enterprise. Hadrian’s introspection during his fléchissements and
the manner in which he periodically returns to his preoccupation with the body
might qualify as such motifs. It should, in any case, be no accident that Aspects de
la biographie is a book still to be seen in Yourcenar’s library at Petite Plaisance,
her home in Maine, together with Strachey’s Eminent Victorians and Queen
Victoria. Whether she had read Virginia Woolf’s essays on Strachey’s “new
biography” I do not know. But her brief encounter with Woolf in Bloomsbury
in 1937 when preparing her translation of The Waves and the extraordinarily
high estimation she came to have of Woolf as a novelist are suggestive. Notably,
to speak of the poetic quality of Mémoires recalls Aristotle’s famous distinction
between poet and historian in the Poetics:
It is not the poet’s function to relate actual events, but the kinds of things
that might occur and are possible in terms of probability or necessity. The
difference between the historian and the poet is not that between using
verse or prose; Herodotus’ work could be versified and would be just as
much a kind of history in verse as in prose. No, the difference is this:
that the one relates actual events, the other the kinds of things that might
occur. Consequently, poetry is more philosophical and more elevated than
history, since poetry relates more of the universal, while history relates
particulars.90
158 A CULTURAL HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN ANTIQUITY

This, it seems, permitted the poet-novelist to transcend the limitations of

the objective but inherently deficient historical substrate of her biographical
project and to evoke an inner world of the probable or the necessary—her
plausibilities—from a firm belief in a universal human nature. It also allowed
her to avoid the limitations of academic biography.91

CONCLUSION
History’s most fundamental subject is the human subject. In Roman history,
however, the potential for recovering the life history of most human subjects
is minimal. Emperors are exceptional because their prominence meant that
a relatively large amount of information was preserved about them; but as I
have indicated throughout this chapter it hardly ever meets the demands of
true biography. For lesser mortals, even those from Rome’s upper orders,
the potential quickly diminishes further. The public career of Tacitus’ father-
in-law Agricola is sympathetically conveyed in a rare example of Latin
biography from the imperial age. Yet for all its importance the work tells little
of Agricola’s personal life and passes over his childhood years very briefly.
The early loss of his father, due to Caligula’s vindictiveness, is recorded but
its impact is left unstated.92 His mother’s devotion is celebrated—she rescued
him from the lures of philosophy and supervised his education at Massilia—
though in the leanest of terms.93 He was taught perhaps in public schools
rather than by private tutors, as Quintilian would have preferred, but this is
only a guess.
A wealth of personal information survives in the thousands of commemorative
career inscriptions characteristic of the first two centuries of the Roman imperial
era, the product as I see them of the Roman drive to defeat death through
the recording of lifetime accomplishments. They do much to illustrate the
sequences of military positions and administrative offices held by innumerable
members of the senatorial and equestrian orders, and they are invaluable
for understanding the governance of the Roman Empire and tracing familial
connections in the governing ranks. Prosopography as a method of historical
inquiry depends heavily upon them. They do little, however, to expose the
individuality of the men concerned, even when the statues that sometimes
accompanied the texts remain accessible, and predominantly, of course, it is
men who are commemorated. The personal accomplishments of women,
those of the imperial family included, are scarcely seen at all. One cultural
impediment involved is that for men and women alike formulaic conventions
of presentation conspire to conceal personhood.94
Rome’s ruling classes comprised no more than a small fraction of the overall
imperial population. Thousands upon thousands of people from the middling
LIFE HISTORIES: ON ROMAN IMPERIAL BIOGRAPHY 159

and lower ranks are identifiable—soldiers, artisans, shopkeepers, tradespeople,

merchants, entertainers, laborers—and sometimes, when commemorated
and portrayed on funerary monuments, their familial and other personal
connections are detectable as well. Yet it is only glimpses of their lives that
are visible. The fragments of evidence that remain frustrate and tantalize. I
say “glimpses” deliberately, because sometimes it is visual rather than written
sources that induce exasperation. Images of lower-class men and women at
work were featured long ago in M.I. Rostovtzeff’s The Social and Economic
History of Rome: a swineherd with his pigs on a stele from Bologna, a shepherd
with a flock of sheep on a monument from Mainz, a woman selling slippers
in a fresco from Pompeii, the clothes traders of the Igel monument, a navvy
unloading a wine amphora on the Torlonia relief, a cobbler on a stele from
Rheims, a shipbuilder on a relief from Ravenna.95 Much more visual evidence
has been gathered in the interim to suggest that for the vast majority of Rome’s
subjects their chief and constant preoccupation was to secure their daily bread.
However, illuminating though this evidence is, it is obviously inadequate in
what it reveals of individual lives lived over time. Ultimately, it is the overall life
course, the general pattern of how men, women, and children lived their lives
in the aggregate, that is perceptible. The practice of ancient history is severely
challenged as a result. In facing this challenge, future Roman historians, imperial
biographers above all, might benefit from exercising the historical imagination
more boldly, in the manner not only of Marguerite Yourcenar but of others
such as A.N. Wilson, who has spoken of imagination’s “absolute centrality (…)
as a key to perception.”96 After all, Yourcenar’s magie sympathique was not the
preserve of a literary artist alone: it looks back to the Verstehen of Wilhelm
Dilthey and anticipates the “empathetic imagination” of Keith Hopkins. One
conclusion, however, will remain: as far as antiquity was concerned, Caligula
was mad.97

ABBREVIATIONS
EM = Marguerite Yourcenar (1991), Essais et mémoires, Paris: Gallimard.
ER = Patrick de Rosbo (1972), Entretiens radiophoniques avec Marguerite
Yourcenar, Paris: Mercure de France.
HZ = Marguerite Yourcenar (2004), D’Hadrien à Zénon. Correspondance
1951–1956, Paris: Gallimard.
OR = Marguerite Yourcenar (1981), Œuvres romanesques, Paris: Gallimard.
PV = Marguerite Yourcenar (2002), Portrait d’une voix: Vingt-trois entretiens
(1952–1987), Paris: Gallimard.
VF = Marguerite Yourcenar (2007), “Une Volonté sans fléchissement.”
Correspondance 1957–1960, Paris: Gallimard.
YO = Marguerite Yourcenar (1980), Les Yeux ouverts. Entretiens avec Matthieu
Galey, Paris: Éditions du Centurion.
 NOTES

Preface
1. Burke 2019.
2. Geertz 1973: 42.
3. Williams 1961: 145.
4. See, for example, Boyd 1947; Bowen 1972.
5. McCulloch 2011.
6. See, for example, Goodman, McCulloch, and Richardson 2009; McCulloch,
Goodson, and Gonzalez-Delgado 2020.
7. Giorgetti, Campbell, and Arslan 2017: 1.
8. See also McCulloch 2019.
9. Bailyn 1960: 53.
10. Ibid.: 14.
11. For example, Butts 1947, 1953.
12. Cremin 1976: 27.
13. Ibid.: 29.
14. Cremin 1970, 1980, 1988.
15. Church, Katz, and Silver 1989: 419–20; Veysey 1990: 285; see also Cohen 1998.
16. Silver 1983: xxiv.
17. See, for example, Burke 1997, 2019.
18. For example, Cohen 1999; Popkewitz, Peyrera, and Franklin 2001; Fendler
2019.
19. Fendler 2019: 15.
20. Graff 1995.
21. Burke 2000, 2011.
22. For example, O’Neill 2014.
23. Ariès [1960] 1973; see, for example, Foyster and Marten 2010.
24. See, for example, in relation to learners and learning, McCulloch and Woodin
2010; on teachers and teaching, see Tyack and Cuban 1995.
25. For example, Godfrey et al. 2017.
26. See, for example, Said 1993; Davidann and Gilbert 2019.
NOTES 161

Introduction
1. Rawson 2003: 269–335.
2. Cremin 1976: 29.
3. Ibid.: 27.
4. Bailyn 1960: 14.
5. Burke 2004, 2016.
6. Stone 1977.
7. Ariès [1960] 1973.
8. Pollock 1983.
9. Marrou [1948] 1965.
10. See Vössing 1997: 9–10 for a critical evaluation of Marrou’s approach and Too
2001: 6–10 on Marrou’s “nostalgic approach.”
11. Bonner 1977.
12. On culture and education in the African provinces, see Vössing 1997. For Greco-
Roman Egypt, see Cribiore 1996, 2001; Morgan 1998.
13. Harris 1989; Bowman and Woolf 1994; Johnson and Parker 2009.
14. On midwives, see Laes 2010 (Latin inscriptions), 2011 (Greek inscriptions). On
nurses, see Crespo Ortiz de Zárate 2005, 2006. On pedagogues, see Laes 2009a
(Latin), 2009b (Greek). On schoolmasters, see Laes 2007.
15. Dickey 2012–15, 2017.
16. Too 2000, 2001.
17. Mustakallio and Laes 2011.
18. Laes, Mustakallio, and Vuolanto 2015.
19. Respectively Aasgaard 2015; Brooten 2015; Harper 2015; and Holman 2015.
20. Laes and Vuolanto 2017.
21. Vuolanto 2017; Aasgaard 2017.
22. Laurence 2017; Laes 2017; Huntley 2017.
23. Harlow 2017.
24. Mackey 2017.
25. Dolansky 2017; Toner 2017b.
26. Graumann 2017; Solevåg 2017.
27. For the Jewish evidence, see Sivan 2017, 2018; for the late ancient and Byzantine
evidence, see Caseau 2017; Cojocaru 2017.
28. The “learned controversy” between Nurus 1960, Tonsor and Beach 1960, and
Whatmough 1960, in which these scholars not seldom resort to humor or invective
to make their point against their adversaries, is nowadays almost comic to read.
29. Just to quote some examples: Plautus, Men. 98: “nam illic homo homines non
alit verum educat” (Menaechmus being most royal in offering meals and food);
Plautus, Men. 905: “meo cibo et sumptu educatust” (Menaechmus about his well-
fed parasite); Quintilian, Inst. Or. 3.7.5: “Romulum (…) educatum (…) a lupa”
(about Romulus and the she-wolf).
30. The authoritative Lewis and Short, A Latin Dictionary, s.v. “1. edūco: II b.” “to
bring up, rear, a child (usually with reference to bodily nurture and support, while
2. educo usually refers to the mind, but the distinction is not strictly observed)”: s.v.
“2. Edŭco” “to bring up a child physically or mentally, to rear, to educate.”
31. Hofmann 1949: 373; Sacco 1980.
32. I repeat the views on “differential equations” for the case of wet nurses, as expressed
in Laes 2011a: 73–7. See also the thought-provoking article by Dupont 2002.
33. Perdicoyianni-Paleologou 1992, 2003 offers a thorough analysis on Greek terms for
educating. See also Golden 1990: 12–22.
162 NOTES

34. I used the lists from the rich studies by Hus 1965, 1971.
35. For an excellent volume dealing with education in late antiquity, both in Rome and
the periphery, focusing on tradition and innovation, see Agosti, Bianconi 2019,
with Lizzi Testa 2019.
36. I only mention, next to the works mentioned above: Golden 1990; Garland 1990;
and Bradley 1991b.

Chapter 1
1. Cribiore 2012: esp. 329.
2. Cf. also Herodotus, Hist. 2.53; Athenagoras, A Plea For the Christians 17–18;
Clement, Exhortation to the Heathen 2; Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 1.26.65;
Augustine, City of God 4.26.
3. 2 Macc. 4.8–15, cf. 6.9. See esp. Himmelfarb 1998; Stewart 2017.
4. Himmelfarb 1998: 24–5.
5. Plato, Rep. 600a–c; a: ἡγεμὼν παιδείας; 600c.
6. For Homer’s pedagogical value, see Rep. 599d. For the paideia of Plato, see Freeman
1922: 227–36 (largely a discussion of Plato’s Republic); Lodge 1947. Many
discussions do not mention Plato’s pedogogical censure of Homer; see Domanski
2007; Patterson 2013.
7. Cf. Plato, Ion 531d–532b.
8. Plato, Laws 379d–380c.
9. Cf. Plato, Euthyphro 5a–11b (esp. 8e): Socrates argues that Euthyphro’s belief in the
stories of gods engaging in “inappropriate” behavior is incompatible with his other
beliefs about the gods.
10. Hom. Il. 23.103, Od. 24.6–9.
11. The Christian author Theophilus, in To Autolycus 2.38, quotes parts of the same
Homeric passages as Plato, obviously following the latter.
12. Plato, Rep. 387d–389d.
13. Homer, Il. 1.599, Od. 8.326.
14. Address of Tatian to the Greeks 8, cf. 9.
15. See Kamtekar 1988: 348–9.
16. Plato, Rep. 378e: arête.
17. Plato, Rep. 377b. Hesiod is censured along with Homer at 377d (“Hesiod, Homer,
and the other poets related (…) false stories”); cf. Kamtekar 1988: 348; Naddaff
2002: 29–30.
18. Plato, Rep. 379a–b, 397d–398b.
19. Plato, Rep. 452a–456b; quotation at 452a.
20. Plato, Rep. 606e–607a. For Plato’s dispensing with Homer, see Schofield 2000:
214–17; Cavarero 2002 (esp. 47–9).
21. Ionian, see Plato, Laws 680c–d; on military knowledge, see 707a.
22. Plato, Laws 858e. Religion and paideia in the Laws is fairly neglected (see, for
example, Russon 2013).
23. Plato, Gorgias 523a–524e. Plato takes as his departure point, and specifically
mentions, Homer’s account of the three divine brothers splitting sovereignty of the
earth between them: Homer, Il. 15.185–93.
24. On writing as pedagogically useless, see Hooper 2010: 845–7; Kohan 2013.
25. For the uses Plato makes of his invented myths, see esp. Hooper 2010.
26. Plato, Laws 644a.
27. Clement, Exhortation to the Heathen 4.
NOTES 163

28. For example, On the Nature of the Gods 1.8, 1.42, 1.44, 2.70.
29. Clement, Paid. 1.5; cf. Mt. 18.3.
30. On Jesus, see Clement, Paid. 1.7; on Paul, see Eph. 6.4.
31. Clement, Paid. 1.11, 2.1.
32. On false religion, see Confessions 4.1.1–4.2.1.
33. On the stick, see Conf. 6.9; on admonition, see Conf. 41.1–2.
34. The decree is not discussed by many scholars dealing with Licinius’ persecutions,
see, for example, Gregoire 1938; Tabbernee 1997; Montgomery 2000.
35. For Perpetua and her prison diary, see, amongst others, Harris and Gifford 1890;
Shaw 1993; McKechnie 1994; Butler 2006; Osiek and MacDonald 2006: 45–8;
Heffernan 2011; Bagetto 2012; Bremmer and Formisano 2012; Kitzler 2015.
36. For an edition of the Greek and Latin versions of her work, see Heffernan 2011:
104–24 (Latin), 445–55 (Greek), giving variant readings for both, and 125–35
(English translation of the Latin text).
37. For catechumens, see Passio 2.1; for Saturus, see Passio 4.5; for catachumenism
preceding baptism, see Tertullian, Bapt. 6.7.20; for Perpetua receiving baptism
prior to her execution, see Passio 3.5.
38. Historia Augusta Sept. Sev. 17.1. Barnes (1968: 40–1) argues that this legislation
is ahistorical; cf. Davies (1954) on Septimius’ persecutions. Sulpicius Severus,
Hist. Sacra 2.32 and Eusebius, Hist. Eccles. 6.1.1, 6.2.2, write of persecutions of
Christians in general.
39. While Perpetua was condemned for maintaining that she was a Christian, other
known Christians at Carthage were not executed when she was, as her account
indicates.
40. Questions of authorship and dating (much discussed) need not detain here, but see
Harris and Gifford (1890) who produced the editio princeps of a Greek copy found
in Library of the Convent of the Holy Sepulchre, Jerusalem, in 1899, who argued
for the primacy of the Greek text in dating; Kitzler (2015: 23–9) argues for the
Latin text as earlier; see also Butler 2006: 5–49.
41. Passio 2.
42. McKecknie 1994: 280–1; Heffernan 2011: 150–1.
43. Passio 13.4.
44. Passio 4: Gen. 3.13, 28.10–17; Mt. 7.13–14; Rev. 12.3. See McKechnie 1994:
289–90; Butler 2006: 61–9; Heffernan 2011: 168, 264–5.
45. Passio 3.1–2. See McKechnie 1994: 282–3; Bagetto 2012: 259–60; Gonzalez 2013:
497–500. Educated women did read Plato (Plutarch, Mor. 138a–146a). Cf. 6.1–5:
she affirms she is a Christian before the magistrate.
46. Gal. 2.20, Col. 1.24, as noted by Heffernan 2011: 153–4.
47. Religious tolerance, see Themistius, Or. 5.63b–c, 69b; Christians as demented,
see Julian, Ep. 36, 424a; temples reopened, see Ammianus Marcellinus 22.5.2; cf.
Julian, Ep. 36, 423c on the difficulties of being a pagan in the previous decades;
pagan censure, see Ammianus Marcellinus 22.12.6.
48. Codex Theodosianus 13.3.5 (see also 1–4). See for his edict, amongst numerous
publications: Rendall 1879: 203–6 (still quite useful, especially compared with
more modern summary treatments); Gardner 1895: 238–41; Hardy 1968 (for a
favorable interpretation of Julian’s law); Bowersock 1978: 83–5 (84: “Julian knew
perfectly well what he was doing. Within little more than a generation the educated
élite of the empire would be pagan”); Farkas 2005: 187–8, 190; Watts 2006a:
68–76; Elm 2012: 139–43; Cribiore 2013; McLynn 2014 (does not deliver the
promised “new interpretation” [120]); Teitler 2017: 99–105.
164 NOTES

49. Julian, Ep. 36 424a.

50. Cf. Julian’s comments to the Cynics: Julian, Or. 7.236–237c.
51. Codex Theodosianus 13.3.5. See also the Codex Iustiniani 10.53.7.
52. Julian, Ep. 83 376c–d.
53. On Christians and Cynics equated, see Aristides, Or. 402d. On Julian and the Cynics,
see Hardy 1968: 142; Bowersock 1978: 81–2; Marcone 2012; Hilton 2018: 203–5
(overstating the influence of Cynicism on Julian).
54. Ammianus Marcellinus 22.10.7: perenni silentio; see the Christian Ambrose, Or.
72.4.
55. See Hardy 1968: 142; Blockley 1972.
56. Libanius, Or. 1.118.
57. Libanius, Or. 18.156–7.
58. See Rendall 1879: 215; Teitler 2017: 67. On Prohaeresius, see Eunapius, Lives
of the Sophists and Philosophers 483; Gratiarum Actio Juliano Augusto 18;
Jerome, Chron. 362; Julian wrote amicably to him, see Ep. 14; see esp. Watts
2006a: 48–78; see also McLynn 2014: 131–3; on Victorinus, see Augustine,
Conf. 8.2, 8.5; McLynn 2014: 130–1; on Hecebolius, see Socrates, Hist. 3.1 and
3.13.
59. Elm (2012: 433–77), who notes (433) that the opening lines of the Fifth Oration
combine Hom. Od. 22.5–6 and Proverbs 3.11–12: Gregory was willing to illustrate
his classical and Christian heritage to score points off Julian.
60. Gregory Nazianzenus, Or. 4.111.
61. For Gregory’s arguments, see Cribiore 2013: 231–2.
62. Sozomen 5.18; Socrates, Hist. 3.16.1.
63. Cf. Farkas 2005: 187–8.
64. See Theodoret 3.4; also Zonaras 13.12.
65. Contra Cribiore 2013: 234–5.
66. Ammianus Marcellinus 22.10.7 and 25.4.20.
67. There are numerous works on Hypatia; leaving aside those to do with her scientific
achievements, a selection is: esp. Rist 1965; Waithe 1987; Watts 2006a, 2006b,
2017. Biographies in the English language commence with the short pro-Hypatia
thirty-six page tract of John Toland (1720), with many invented details (this
was to become a feature of all portrayals in popular media), which was directly
answered by Thomas Lewis (1721), coming to the defence of Cyril. The next
biography was that of Dzielska (1995: see esp. 90–5), but it has an unsatisfactory
treatment of the sources and implausible interpretations. Various novels and
quasi-academic works followed. Amongst the several less scholarly biographies,
Deakin 2007 can be consulted. Watts 2017 provides the first academic treatment
in English.
68. For her works, see the detailed discussion of Waithe 1987: 174–92.
69. Synesius, Letter 136.4. He expresses a similar sentiment in Letter 4. He in fact wrote
several letters to her (10, 15, 16, 33, 81, 124, 154).
70. See Watts 2006a: 169–71. He notes that the intellectual arguments between fourth-
century pagan intellectuals came to be settled by their Christian successors.
71. Socrates, Hist. 7.15, see also 14.
72. John of Nikiu, Chronicle 84.87–103. For the translation, see Charles 1916 (John of
Nikiu’s work survives only in an Ethiopian translation of an Arabic translation of
the Coptic original). For John of Nikiu: Haas 1997: 312–13.
73. Damascius, Fragment 43A (Athanassiadi 1999). See Dzielska 1995: 50–7; Watts
2006b, 2017: 63–5.
NOTES 165

74. For Cyril’s role in the episode (and his contribution to campaigns against the
Novatianist Christians, the Nestorians, and Jews, all in Alexandria), see Russell
2000: 6–9.
75. Socrates, Hist. 7.14.
76. Codex Theodosianus 16.2.42, 16.2.43; Codex Iustiniani 1.2.4.
77. See also Suda, s.v.v. “Hypatia” and “Theon”; Panella 1984.
78. The method of murdering her in the church, according to Socrates, was with ostraka
(ὀστράκοις ἀνεῖλον). This is sometimes translated as shells or oyster-shells (hence
Gibbon’s imaginary description of the flesh being stripped from her bones with
shells), but here it is more likely to be the more usual time-honored meaning of shards
of pottery or roof-tiles, which probably means she was stoned to death with them.
79. For Orestes and Hypatia, note esp. Watts 2006a: 197–8.
80. Socrates, Hist. 7.
81. Gibbon 1776–89: ch. 47.
82. For a discussion, see Scourfield 1984: 432–623, and briefly, Katz 2007. Cf. the
shorter Letter 128 to Gaudentius about educating his daughter Pacatula which is
similar in content and advice. At about the same time, in the east, John Chrysostom’s
(349–407) Address on Vainglory and the Right Way for Parents to Bring Up Their
Children does not encompass a literary education at all.
83. Codex Iustiniani 1.5.18.4, cf. 1.11.10.2.
84. On closing the Athenian Neoplatonist school, see Downey 1959; Cameron 1969;
Blumenthal 1978; Watts 2004 (at 172–4 connects the closing of the schools in Athens
with the prohibition on dice divination in Constantinople, but this juxtaposition is
only the result of the clumsy summary evident elsewhere in the epitome in which
Malalas survives); Watts 2006a: 111–12.
85. Malalas, Chronicle 18. That there are no other source, for example, Blumenthal
1978: 369; Watts 2004: 168. Watts examines the history of the Neoplatonic school
at Athens up to the date of the decree: 168–71, and for the accuracy of this notice
in Malalas: 172–3.
86. Watts 2004: 169–71.
87. Agathias, Hist. 2.20.3–4.
88. For the anti-pagan (that is anti-eidōlolatria provisions of the Codex Iustiniani 1.11.9
and 10) and a probable date of between 529–534 ce for these, see Watts 2004: 179;
cf. Cameron 1969: 8. On Olympiodoros, see Cameron 1969: 9–10.
89. Olympiodoros, Plato First Alkibiades 141.1–3.
90. See Cameron 1969: 9.

Chapter 2
1. For general studies on education in antiquity, see Gwynn 1926; Smith 1969;
Jaeger [1947] 1973; Bonner 1977; Morgan 1998; Cribiore 2001; Christes, Klein,
and Lüth 2006; Frede 2012; and Bloomer 2015a, among others. However, the
essential study on this subject remains Marrou [1948] 1965. Worth mentioning is
also Riché’s Éducation et culture dans l’Occident barbare: VIe–VIIIe siècles ([1962]
1972), which was expressly conceived as a continuation of Marrou’s work, focusing
on the “barbaric” West from the sixth to the eighth century. On the somewhat
more narrowly defined, but often overlapping domain of ancient scholarship, cf.
Dickey 2007; Matthaios, Montanari and Rengakos 2011; Montanari, Matthaios,
and Rengakos 2015; and Zetzel 2018.
166 NOTES

2. On can think, for instance, of the “three parts” of philosophy: logic, physics, and
ethics (cf., for example, Marrou [1948] 1965: 312).
3. See, for example, Copeland and Sluiter 2009: 3–14.
4. Zetzel 2018: 31.
5. See, for example, Quintilian 1.10.15; Christes 2006 provides a valuable starting
point on this subject. However, we already find antecedents in earlier authors, for
instance in Seneca, who comments as follows upon the etymology of the “liberal
arts” (Epistulae ad Lucilium 88.1–3): “Quare liberalia studia dicta sint, vides: quia
homine libero digna sunt. Ceterum unum studium vere liberale est, quod liberum
facit.”
6. Cf. Boethius, De institutione arithmetica 1.1. One can note with Vössing 2002 that
despite a lack of educational state policy there existed a remarkable uniformity
throughout the empire in this respect.
7. See, for example, Benoit 1984; Lombard 1990; Poulakos and Depew 2004.
8. Marrou [1948] 1965: 266.
9. On Augustine’s attitude toward and use of “the disciplines,” cf. Pollmann and
Vessey 2005.
10. On philosophy, see, for example, Hadot 2006; on mathematics, see Marrou [1948]
1965: 316.
11. Cassiodorus does so in Institutiones praef. 4, Isidore of Seville in Etymologiae 1.5.1.
Cf. Irvine 1994; Denecker and Swiggers forthcoming.
12. The literature on the problematic, but also productive relationship between
“classical” education on the one hand and the Christian religion on the other is
extensive; see Haarhoff 1920; Jaeger 1961; Erdt 1976 (a case study of Paulinus of
Nola); Vegge 2006 (focusing on the apostle Paul); Gemeinhardt 2007; Chin 2008;
Gerth 2013; Hauge and Pitts 2016; and Larsen and Rubenson 2018, among others.
13. See, for example, Holtz forthccoming.
14. Denecker 2017: 7.
15. Cf. Zetzel 2018: 18–19; and, in a broader sociocultural perspective, Kaster 1988:
9–95.
16. Quintilian, Inst. Or. 1.4.2–3; translation by Donald A. Russell; my emphasis.
17. Bk. 1, §§ 4–8; cf. the German translation and detailed commentary by Ax 2005.
18. Marrou [1948] 1965: 302–4.
19. Diomedes, Grammatici Latini [edited by Heinrich Keil, hereafter GL] 1: 426.21–31.
20. On the Greek Church Father Origen, see Neuschäfer 1987; for Jerome, see Graves
2007; and for Augustine, see Schirner 2015.
21. See, for example, Pollmann 2009.
22. See, for example, Irvine 1994.
23. See, for example, Smiley 1906; Díaz y Díaz 1951; Desbordes 1991.
24. For the evolutions in the conceptualization and designation of these issues, see
primarily Siebenborn 1976, and Law 1990 for a case study in Augustine’s Ars
grammatica.
25. See, for example, Clackson 2015.
26. Lactantius, Divinae institutiones 3.25.9, quoted in Denecker 2017: 343–4.
27. Isidore of Seville, Etymologiae 1.3.2: “Usus litterarum repertus propter memoriam
rerum. Nam ne oblivione fugiant, litteris alligantur. In tanta enim rerum varietate nec
disci audiendo poterant omnia, nec memoria contineri. Litterae autem dictae quasi
legiterae, quod iter legentibus praestent, vel quod in legendo iterentur.” However,
Cicero and Augustine put more emphasis on the broader communicative function
NOTES 167

of writing, while Cicero adds the dimension of recording past events, which is not
quite the same as transmitting and acquiring knowledge. Cicero, De republica 3.2.3:
“A simili etiam mente vocis qui videbantur infiniti soni paucis notis inventis sunt
omnes signati et expressi, quibus et conloquia cum absentibus et indicia voluntatum
et monumenta rerum praeteritarum tenerentur.” Augustine, De ordine 2.12.35:
“Sed audiri absentium verba non poterant; ergo illa ratio peperit litteras notatis
omnibus oris ac linguae sonis atque discretis.”
28. For a study of the connection between literacy and memory in ancient thought, cf.
Small 1997.
29. On this subject, cf. Ripat, in this volume.
30. On literacy and its ramifications in Greek and Roman antiquity, cf. Harris 1989;
Thomas 1992; Robb 1994; Bowman and Woolf 1994; Morgan 1998; and
Johnson and Parker 2009. Desbordes 1990 offers an investigation of (linguistic
and philosophical) reflection on writing in the Latin tradition, while Achard [1991]
2006 provides a broader account of “communication” in ancient Rome.
31. Note that for ancient standards, such an advanced education for girls or women was
rather exceptional; on “learned women” in antiquity, see Hemelrijk 1999. See also
Dillon, in this volume, p. 25–27.
32. Jerome, Epist. 107.4; translation after Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers 2/6.
33. On Quintilian’s educational ideals, cf. Smail 1938, among many others.
34. Quintilian, Inst. Or. 1.1.26; translation by Donald A. Russell.
35. On the presence of play in ancient schools, see Laes 2019c.
36. On ancient “technical texts” or Fachtexte, see, for example, Meißner 1999; Fögen
2005, 2009; and—with particular reference to grammatical texts—Ax 2005.
37. For example, Harris 1988.
38. See also Riggsby 2019, forthcoming.
39. Daly 1967.
40. Dickey 2015; and cf. below.
41. Law 1996.
42. Jeffrey 1996; Grafton and Williams 2006.
43. Johnson 2010.
44. Haines-Eitzen 2009.
45. Holtz 1981: 585; my translation: “Partes orationis quot sunt? Octo. Quae?
Nomen, pronomen, verbum, adverbium, participium, coniunctio, praepositio,
interiectio.”
46. Quoted in Holtz 1981: 613; my translation: “Partes orationis sunt octo, nomen,
pronomen, verbum, adverbium, participium, coniunctio, praepositio, interiectio. Ex
his duae sunt principales partes orationis, nomen et verbum. Latini articulum non
adnumerant, Graeci interiectionem. Multi plures, multi pauciores partes orationis
putant.”
47. Pompeius, Commentum artis Donati, in GL 5.134; my translation.
48. Holtz 1981: 236: “En fait le commentaire de l’Ars Donati qui nous est parvenu sous
le nom de Pompée est le seul texte de l’Antiquité romaine qui nous fasse entendre
les paroles mêmes du maître en présence de ses élèves. Entre ces paroles et leur
mise par écrit il y a tout au plus l’écran de la sténographie. Cette particularité rend
illisible le commentaire de Pompée en tant que texte écrit. Pour saisir la valeur de ce
cours, il faut le lire à haute voix, avec ses redites, ses hésitations, ses à-peu-près, ses
vulgarismes.”
49. Kaster 1988.
50. Dickey 2015.
168 NOTES

51. For an extensive commentary, see Dickey 2012–15; for an accessible presentation,
see Dickey 2016, 2017.
52. Cf. Rochette 1997.
53. Quintilian, Inst. Or. 1.1.12–14; translated by Donald E. Russell.
54. Marrou [1948] 1965: 384.
55. Courcelle 1948: 255; Riché 1972: 83; cf. Denecker 2017: 11.
56. Marrou [1938] 1958; Dekkers 1953: 216; Marti 1974: 20–5.
57. Augustine, Conf. 1.14.23; translation in Chadwick 1991: 15–17.
58. “Quantum enim adtinet ad litteras Graecas, quae lingua inter ceteras gentium
clarior habetur (...)” Also see Augustine, Quaestiones in Heptateuchum 7.37: “Unde
Graecorum nomine apostolus omnes gentes significat (…) quod in linguis gentium
Graeca ita excellat, ut per hanc omnes decenter significentur.” And, furthermore,
Augustine, Epist. 196.4.15 and Sermo 229F.2: “Graecos enim apostolus omnes
gentes dicit, propterea quia in gentibus Graeca lingua extollitur.”
59. Fögen 2000: 221–2n4; Denecker 2017: 254.
60. Cf. Fögen 2000.
61. De rerum natura 1.139: “propter egestatem linguae et rerum novitatem.”
62. De rerum natura 1.830 and 3.258.
63. Bardy 1948: 137 with n2; Van Rooy 2013: 41n36. Basil of Caesarea, Ep. 214.4
(Patrologia Graeca [hereafter PG] 32: 789): “Περὶ δὲ τοῦ, ὅτι ὑπόστασις καὶ οὐσία
οὐ ταὐτόν ἐστι, καὶ αὐτοί, ὡς νομίζω, ὑπεσημήναντο οἱ ἀπὸ τῆς Δύσεως ἀδελφοὶ, ἐν
οἷς τὸ στενὸν τῆς ἑαυτῶν γλώττης ὑφορώμενοι, τὸ τῆς οὐσίας ὄνομα τῇ Ἑλλάδι φωνῇ
παραδεδώκασιν, ἵνα, εἴ τις εἴη διαφορὰ τῆς ἐννοίας, σώζοιτο αὐτὴ ἐν τῇ εὐκρινεῖ
καὶ ἀσυγχύτῳ διαστάσει τῶν ὀνομάτων.” See also Acacius of Beroea, Ep. 15 inter
Cyrillianas (PG 77: 100): “τῷ ἐστενῶσθαι τὴν ῥωμαϊκὴν φωνὴν καὶ μὴ δύνασθαι, πρὸς
τὴν ἡμετέραν τῶν γραϊκῶν φράσιν, τρεῖς ὑποστάσεις λέγειν.”
64. Cf. Garcea, Rosellini, and Silvano 2019.
65. Cf. Rochette 1997, 2010, forthcoming.
66. Rebenich 1993; Denecker 2017: 178–83. The actual degree and profoundness of
Jerome’s mastery of Hebrew is a matter of ongoing debate.
67. See, for example, Hennings 1994; Fürst 1994, 1999.
68. Cf. Denecker 2017: 178–80.
69. Cf. Denecker 2017: 308.
70. See, for example, Matthaios 1999; Lallot 2014.
71. Jeep 1893.
72. See, for example, Barwick 1922; Desbordes 1988, 1995.
73. On the “(definite) article,” see Denecker and Swiggers 2018; on the “dual number,”
see Denecker 2019.
74. Uría 2017.
75. “Noster sermo articulos non desiderat ideoque in alias partes orationis sparguntur.”
76. “Latini articulum non adnumerant, Graeci interiectionem.”
77. On bilingual papyri, see Wouters 1979; Scappaticcio 2015; on Latin as a “language
of acculturation,” see Swiggers and Wouters 2011, 2015.
78. Dickey 2016.

Chapter 3
1. Cf. Kampen 1981.
2. Gynaecology 2.6a[13]; Temkin [1956] 1991: 83.
NOTES 169

3. Roman Questions 288c.

4. On Temperaments 2.2 [1.578 Kühn]; Galen Causes of Illness 7 [7.28–9 Kühn];
Plutarch, On the Education of Children 3d; Soranus, Gynaecology 2.15[84],
2.15[42]. This advice is common today and is promoted by Harvey Karp, MD.
5. Pease et al. 2016.
6. Dasen 2011: 293; for example, see Aristotle, Generation of Animals 5.1.779a24,
On Colors 6.797b24–30.
7. Plato, Laws 7.792A, 7.808D; Aristotle, Politics 7.17.1336a.
8. Dasen 2008.
9. Dasen 2011: 294.
10. On infant skin, see Euripides, Medea 1071–5, 1402–3; on the smile, see Herodotus
5.92; on infant voices in ancient Greece, see Golden 1995.
11. Dasen 2011: 308.
12. On the festival food at Harpokrateia, see Dunand 1979: 74–5 (figs 134–87); Török
1995: 119 (figure 159).
13. On malnutrition in antiquity, see Laes 2018. Contemporary breastfed babies are
typically recommended to consume a supplement of 400 IU of vitamin D (Drugs
and Lactation Database [LactMed] [Internet] 2006).
14. Gellius 12.1.8.
15. Dasen 2011: 307–8.
16. Laes 2017.
17. Gourevitch 1984: 248–58.
18. Bradley 1991b: 13–36.
19. Gynaecology 2.7(17).
20. Laes 2018.
21. Borgeaud 2004.
22. Dupras, Schwarcz, and Fairgrieve 2001.
23. Dasen 2011: 292; Laes 2018.
24. Celsus, On Medicine 2.1.18; Hippocratic treatise On Dentition.
25. Dasen 2011: 294.
26. Harlow 2017: 45.
27. deVries and deVries 1977.
28. Wilson et al. 2011: 95.
29. Ibid.: 95, 97–8.
30. Venit 2016: 39.
31. Laes 2008a.
32. A famous life-cycle sarcophagus commemorates learning to walk in the Roman
world, but does little to further this question. See Rawson 2003: fig. 3.1. On
crawling, more generally, see Laes 2008a. On the dangers of walking too early, see
Galen, In Hipp.Artic.comment 4.4 [18.1.670–1 Kühn].
33. On the benefit to the adopter as much as the adoptee, see Cox 1998: 148.
34. P.Oxy. 9.1206 (March 27–April 35, 335 ce); translated by Huebner 2013: 521.
35. For a discussion of this text, see Huebner 2009a: 74.
36. P.Oxy. 37.1.7 and 38.7.
37. Garland 1995: esp. 6–7, Laes 2008b: 89–90.
38. Soranus, Gyn. 1.39.1–1.39.2; Galen, De theriaca ad Pisonem 2 [14.254 Kühn];
Marie 2004.
39. Metzler 2006: 86–9.
40. Seneca, De ira 1.15.2.
170 NOTES

41. Laes 2008b: 97.

42. Dasen and Späth 2010: 8–9.
43. Schwarzman 2006; papers in Laes and Vuolanto 2017.
44. Lillehammer 1989; Egan 1996.
45. Sofaer Derevenski 1994; Quirke 1997.
46. Johnson 2003.
47. https://locusludi.ch (accessed March 11, 2020).
48. Aristophanes, Clouds 877–881; Plato Laws 1.643b-d; André et al. 1992.
49. Kamp 2001; Dolansky 2017; Toner 2017b.
50. Boozer 2013.
51. Huskinson 1996; see also Huskinson 2007.
52. Harlow 2017.
53. Bradley 1991a: 103–25; Petermandl 1997; Mirkovic 2005; Capasso 2001: esp.
1028–31; Laes 2011a: 148–221.
54. For example, Hawke [1988] 1989: 66–7.
55. Badawi 1989.
56. Montserrat 1996: 42–4; Huebner 2009b.
57. James and James 2004: 2; Elwood and Elwood 2012; Laurence 2017.
58. Laurence 2017.
59. Huntley 2011; Garraffoni and Laurence 2013.
60. Boozer 2015.
61. Mayhew 1861; Strange 1982.
62. Papaconstantinou 2010.
63. P.Oxy. 55.3815 (third century ce); translated by Montserrat 1996: 36.
64. Laes and Strubbe 2014.
65. Most researchers consider the age of menarche in the modern Western world to be
unusually low. Research has shown that the age of onset dropped from an average
of 17 in 1830 to 12.8 in 1962. See Tanner 1978. The age of menarche continues to
drop today. On the relationship between menarche and diet, see Moisan, Myer, and
Gingras 1990.
66. Bagnall and Frier 1994: 112–14.
67. Montserrat 1996: 48.
68. Two to seven days is considered to be normal. Most women menstruate for four or
five days.
69. Mensch, Bruce, and Greene 1998.
70. O. Claud 174.
71. Lindsay 1963: 41.
72. Corbeill 2004: 117.
73. Janett E. Morgan 2011.
74. Baines 1981, 1988; Harris 1989; Beard, Bowman, and Corbier 1991; Thompson
1992; Lesko 1994; Depauw 2012.
75. Lindsay 1963: 63.
76. Cribiore 2001.
77. Cribiore and Davoli 2013.
78. Cribiore, Davoli, and Ratzan 2008; Davoli and Cribiore 2010.
79. Westermann 1914; Brewster 1917; Herrmann 1958; Bradley 1984, 1991a: 103–
24; 1991b: 112; Bergamasco 1995, 1998, 1997; van Minnen 1998.
80. Harris 2016: 209.
81. Bremmer 1999; Dixon 1999; Frasca 1999.
NOTES 171

82. Bradley 1984: 40–1.

83. P. Mich. 5.346a (13 ce); P.Oxy. 14.1647 (239 ce); P. Mich. 5191a (271 ce); Bradley
1991b: 107; Rowlandson 1998: 267–8.
84. Bradley 1991a: 109.
85. van Minnen 1998.
86. Bradley 1991b: 201.
87. Claytor, Litinas, and Nabney 2016.
88. Laes 2011b.
89. Dig. 21.1.
90. Solevåg 2017.

Chapter 4
1. Corbeill 2001: 262; Too 2001: 13; Bradley 2013a: 651–2.
2. McWilliam 2013: 264. For similar notions of socialization, see Teresa Morgan
2011: 504–5; Vuolanto 2013: 595.
3. Too 2001: 12; Teresa Morgan 2011: 517. For a short overview of this state control
by the Roman Empire, see Watts 2015: 476–8.
4. Humphreys 1996: 60.
5. Teresa Morgan 2011: 519.
6. Too 2001: 18. Plato saw education and socialization as processes that lasted an
entire lifetime (for example, Laws 7.803c–e).
7. Teresa Morgan 2011: 504. In Athens full adulthood seemed to have only been
reached at the age of thirty, when men were eligible for office and fully assumed
their role as socializers of the young. These were often their own children as this
was also the customary male age for marriage. Similarly, Roman men could only
exercise office at the age of thirty but seem on average to have gotten married a few
years earlier than their Greek counterparts.
8. Plato, Laws 7.805c–d.
9. Lacey 1968: 163, 189; Golden 1990: 33, 46–9; Teresa Morgan 2011: 518–19;
Evans Grubbs and Parkin 2013: 10; Vuolanto 2013: 582, 586–7, 594.
10. Teresa Morgan 2011: 505; Bradley 2013a: 653–4.
11. McWilliam 2013: 271.
12. Ober 2001: 175 and 186.
13. Ibid.: 175, 178, 189.
14. Plato, Apology 24c–25c.
15. Ober 2001: 180.
16. Ibid.: 180–5.
17. Osborne 2011: 25, 34–8; Van Nijf 2016: 50–4.
18. Humphreys 1996: 17–18, 28.
19. Teresa Morgan 2011: 507.
20. Golden 1990: 41–9; Patterson 1998: 137; 2013: 379.
21. Teresa Morgan 2011: 516.
22. Bonnard, Dasen, and Wilgaux 2017: 78–9.
23. Aristotle, Politics 1252b12. Similarly, Plato (Laws 3.676b and following) gives the
oikos the most important role in the formation of cities.
24. Patterson 1998: 178, 181.
25. Janett Morgan 2011: 454–9, 463–4.
26. Ibid.: 455.
172 NOTES

27. Ibid.: 452–3.

28. On Apaturia, see Lacey 1968: 92–3; Golden 1990: 25–6; on registration of sons,
see Lacey 1968: 92.
29. Ober 2001: 189.
30. Ibid.: 186.
31. Humphreys 1996: 1–4, 13, 16–17, 21, 66, 69–70, 73, 75; Patterson 1998: 107–8,
114, 156–8, 177; Trümper 2011: 40–1, 51. For Plato’s view on this division, see
Lacey 1968: 178–80, 190, 192–4; Patterson 1998: 180–2, 224.
32. For a detailed discussion of Plato’s educational program, see Patterson 2013.
33. Plato, Laws 5.739a–740a.
34. Lacey 1968: 177–8, 192–4.
35. Ibid.: 190.
36. Ober 2001: 195–6.
37. Casey 2013.
38. Ober 2001: 198–202. For a brief reiteration of this idea, see also Casey 2013: 426.
39. Ibid.: 428.
40. Baroin 2010: 20.
41. There was also a legal aspect to this “personal continuity”: the son was the father’s
heir and continued the family line and sacrificial rites, which were seen as an
important legal obligation. In a legal sense, then, the son literally became his
father.
42. McWilliam 2013: 269.
43. Baroin 2010; Cicero, Against Verres 1.51–2, 2.1.32; For Sestius 136; Laelius on
Friendship 1; On Duties 1.122–3; On the Ends of Good and Evil 3.8; Horace,
1.6.72; Livy, 5.18.5–6; Plautus, Trinummus 297–9; Valerius Maximus, 5.8.3;
Vergil, Aeneid 12.435–40.
44. Cicero, On the Republic 4.3. Translation by J. W. Keyes in the Loeb Classical Library.
45. Corbeill 2001: 262, 282–4.
46. Cicero, Brutus 282, On the Responses of the Haruspices 26, 27; Pliny the Younger,
Letters 3.3.6.
47. On the mother and other kin in upbringing as role models, see McWilliam 2013:
269–73; on educational songs, see Corbeill 2001: 263–4.
48. McWilliam 2013: 282.
49. This is clearly expressed in several forensic speeches of Cicero, in which he uses such
failed imitation as a powerful argument against his opponent: Against Verres 2.1.32,
For Caelius 33–4, For Cluentius 16, For Piso 53, 62, For Sestius 21, Philippics 2.14.
50. Pliny the Younger, Letters 5.8.5 and 8.14.6.
51. Attic Nights 1.23.4.
52. Cicero, On Divination 1.36, On Illustrious Men 56.16–57.4; Pliny, Natural History
7.122; Plutarch, Tiberius Gracchus 1.6; Valerius Maximus, 4.6.1; Dixon 2007:
50–1; Harders 2010: 55–6.
53. Once in the context of a lineage of Sempronii (Oratorum Romanorum Fragmenta2,
fr. 47 = Scholia Bobiensia, p. 81 Stangl) and once remembering the sacrifice of his
father to save the life of Cornelia (Cicero, On Divination 1.36).
54. Livy, 38.50.5–54.2; Polybius, 23.14.
55. Harders 2010: 55–61.
56. Plutarch, Tiberius Gracchus 1.4–5.
57. Cicero, Brutus 104, 211; Plutarch, Tiberius Gracchus 1.3; Quintilian, Institutes of
Oratory 1.1.6; Tacitus, Dialogue on Rhetoric 28.
NOTES 173

58. Cicero, Brutus 100, 104, 125; Dio Cassius, Roman History 24.83.1; Plutarch,
Tiberius Gracchus 8.5.
59. Plutarch, Tiberius Gracchus 1.6–7; Teresa Morgan 2011: 518.
60. Dixon 2007: 49–53.
61. It should be noted that such an honorific statue was highly unusual for women at the
time. For a more detailed discussion of this statue, see Flower 2002; Dixon 2007:
56–9.
62. CIL 6.31610; Helbig4 1679, cat. no. 6969, II 13.3, no. 72; ILS 68; ILLRP 336;
Juvenal, 6.167–9; Pliny, Natural History 34.13; Plutarch, Gaius Gracchus 4.
63. Pliny the Elder, Natural History 34.31.
64. Dio Cassius, Roman History 83.3.
65. Appian, Civil War 1.2.14; Gellius, Attic Nights 2.13.5; and Plutarch, Tiberius
Gracchus 13.4.
66. Plutarch, Gaius Gracchus 4.1–2.
67. Cicero, On Rhetoric 3.214 = Oratorum Romanorum Fragmenta2, fr. 61, p. 196.
68. Seneca, To Helvia His Mother On Consolation 16.6 = ORF2, fr. 65a/b, p. 197.
69. Dixon 2007: 57–8.
70. Saller 1994: 45–6. His findings were later largely confirmed by Scheidel (2009),
although it seems likely that paternal mortality in Rome was slightly higher than
Saller envisioned at the time.
71. On male kin as socializers, see Harders 2010; on the unavailability of male kin as
socializers due to father’s age, see Scheidel 2009: 36–40.
72. Rappe 2001: 406; Vuolanto 2013: 580.
73. Rappe 2001: 408; Watts 2015: 475–8.
74. Brown 2000: 54–5.
75. This is most clearly expressed in a letter of 411 ce to a pagan (Letters 137.3), who
was very much into the classical tradition. Augustine portrays Christian Scriptures
as a virtually bottomless pit of knowledge.
76. Brown 2000: 298–300; Rappe 2001: 412–13.
77. Brown 2000: 260–5; Rappe 2001: 412.
78. Brown 2000: 9–11, 24–7; Rappe 2001: 405; O’Donnell 2001: 17–18.
79. Brown 2000: 25.
80. On the Christian Doctrine prooem. 5; Brown 2000: 261–2.
81. Rappe 2001: 407–9, 430.
82. Generally on the role of fathers for the socialization of sons, with attention to
continuity with earlier centuries, see Vuolanto 2013: 582–3, 586–7, 594.
83. Ibid.: 417.
84. Teresa Morgan 2011: 519; Vuolanto 2013: 583–4. See also Chrysostom’s remarks
on the role of the father in religious education (On Vainglory or How to Raise your
Children 34; 41; 60).
85. Augustine, Incomplete Work against Julian 5.17, On Order 2.4.12; Chrysostom,
Homilies on the Epistle to the Romans 4; Harper 2013: 153–4, 166, 238–9.
86. Harper 2013: 160–1.
87. Ibid.: 178–9.
88. Chrysostom, On Vainglory or How to Raise your Children 18.
89. Teresa Morgan 2011: 519.
90. Leyerle 2013: 559–60, 568; Vuolanto 2013: 581.
91. For a brief overview of this relationship with his mother, see Brown 2000: 16–22.
92. Augustine, Confessions 2.3.6; Brown 2000: 18–9; O’Donnell 2001: 1, 20.
93. Brown 2000: 30, 194.
174 NOTES

94. Augustine, Confessions 2.3.8.

95. Augustine, Confessions 3.4.7, 9.9.19.
96. Rebillard 2012: 62, 67–70.
97. Ibid.: 71.
98. Augustine, Sermon 301A [Denis 17].8.
99. Augustine, Sermon 335D [Lambot 6].3.
100. Rebillard 2012: 74–5.
101. Brown 2000: 307–8.
102. Vuolanto 2013: 584.
103. On fathers who forsake their duty to take their children to church, see Chrysostom,
On Vainglory or How to Raise your Children 41.
104. Cooper 2011: 184–6; 190–1, 195–6.
105. Ibid.: 186–8; 192–5; Osiek 2011: 201–2.
106. Cooper 2011: 190.
107. Leyerle 2013: 559–60.
108. Osiek 2011: 212.
109. Chrysostom, Homilies on Matthew 2.5; Leyerle 2013: 574.
110. Vuolanto 2013: 584.
111. Not much seems to have changed, then, since the days of Tertullian, who heavily
criticized Christians attending races and the games (Tertullian, On Spectacles;
Osiek 2011: 209; Rebillard 2012: 76–7; Vuolanto 2013: 586–7). See also Sermon
301A, discussed above.
112. Vuolanto 2013: 585–6.
113. Osiek 2011: 201, 205.
114. Cooper 2011: 194; Osiek 2011: 199–200.
115. Leyerle 2013: 572.
116. Osiek 2011: 199, 204, 211–12; Leyerle 2013: 569.
117. Leyerle 2013: 569–71; Vuolanto 2013: 590.
118. Osiek 2011: 205.
119. Vuolanto 2013: 596.
120. For general reflections on the impact of Christianity, especially in terms of children,
education, and socialization, see Too 2001: 16–17; Bradley 2013a: 658–9; Evans
Grubbs and Parkin 2013: 8; Leyerle 2013: 559, 566, 575.
121. Rappe 2001: 405; Rebillard 2012: 90.
122. Harper 2013: 238–9.

Chapter 5
   1. CIL 6.33976 (Latin epitaph), IG 14.2012 (Greek text). The altar is discussed
by Kleiner 1987: 162–5. Rawson (2003: 17–20) offers a helpful analysis of the
iconography and Latin inscription. Sadly, Maximus’ ambition and devotion to his
studies may have precipitated his early death, for the Greek epigrams beneath the
Latin inscription attribute his demise to an illness caused by overwork.
   2. Jerome and Augustine are particularly helpful in this regard. Space does not permit
specific consideration of Christianity with respect to the topics examined here,
which is treated only as it concerns continuity.
NOTES 175

3. Quintilian, Inst. 1.1–3.

4. Cic. Q. Fr. 1.3.3; cf. Lact. Inst. 1.15.20.
5. Cic. Brut. 104; Tac. Dial. 28.5–6, Agr. 4.2; cf. Quint. Inst. 1.1.6. See also Dixon
1988: 172–3. Unless indicated otherwise, translations are from the Loeb Classical
Library (slightly modified).
6. Nic. Dam. 3.6.
7. Some might begin their studies later in life, as Plutarch (De liberis educandis 14b–c)
notes of Eurydice, mother of Philip II of Macedon and grandmother of Alexander the
Great, whose sons were already adolescents when she learned to read. Subsequent
references to this work are abbreviated De lib. educ.
8. Plato (Prot. 326c–e) describes how teachers first draw a faint outline of letters for
beginning students to trace then provide them with a copy-book in which students must
reproduce the model that is presented. Cribiore (1996: 143) indicates that the student
copied the master’s model between parallel lines, as papyri school exercises attest.
9. Quintilian, Inst. 1.1.27.
10. Seneca, Ep. 94.51.
11. Jerome, Letters 107.4.
12. Cribiore 1996: 112.
13. Ibid.: 145.
14. P. Koln 3.125 = Cribiore 1996, no. 250.
15. Cribiore 1996: 147.
16. Leiden University Library, MS BPG 109 = Cribiore 1996, no. 386.
17. MPG 59.385.56; my translation.
18. See, for example, Cribiore 1996, nos. 136 and 222. It appears acquiring skill at
writing was often privileged over comprehending what was being written. Cribiore
(1996: 206, no. 136) notes that the student’s copies of a hexameter and exhortation
on the importance of writing well found on a second- to third-century ce wooden
tablet from Tebtunis contain increasing errors and omissions, which indicate he
could not read what he was copying.
19. Quint. Inst. 1.1.28.
20. Cic. Att. 2.9.4, 2.12.4, and 2.15.4, respectively.
21. Wiedemann 1989: 88–9. Cf. Fronto, Ad amicos 1.12 (= van den Hout 1988: 178–
9), on wanting his grandson to get into the habit of requesting items such as writing-
paper and tablets once older, which he was grabbing for as a toddler.
22. Quint. Inst. 1.1.36.
23. On fables, see Laes 2006.
24. P.Oxy. 42.3004 and P.Mon. Epiph. 2.615, respectively.
25. Morgan 1998: 135–8.
26. Quint. Inst. 1.8.5.
27. For a helpful discussion of Plutarch’s aims in this essay, see Xenophontos 2015.
28. Ep. 2.1.69–71.
29. Keith 2000: 9–10.
30. Keith 2000: 35. Cf. Corbeill 2001: 262. It is not clear the extent to which girls
studied epic poetry and were expected to assimilate the ideologies espoused.
Certainly, some learned to read Homer: for example, Pompey’s young daughter
Pompeia famously recited an ill-chosen line from the Iliad (3.428) upon her father’s
return from the East (Plut. Mor. 737B). Others must have engaged in more advanced
study for Juvenal’s (Sat. 6.434–56) complaint to make sense about women flaunting
their knowledge of Homer and Virgil at dinner parties.
176 NOTES

31. Bradley 2017: 330.

32. Competition was also a feature of boys’ education in classical Athens, as Beaumont
(2012: 137–42) discusses, adducing in support a number of iconographic examples
related to contests in poetic recitation and musical performance.
33. Quint. Inst. 1.2.23–4.
34. Quint. Inst. 1.2.21–2.
35. Quint. Inst. 1.2.29.
36. The agonistic nature of aristocratic life also played a role in rivalries among school
boys. For instance, Plutarch (Brut. 9.1–2) reports that Brutus’ co-conspirator
Cassius, who had a dislike of tyrants from boyhood, once gave Faustus, the son of
Sulla, a beating at school because he felt Faustus was boastful.
37. See Cribiore 1996: 127 with n. 36, for a list of exercises in which the command to
“be diligent” or “pay attention” is accompanied by the warning to do so unless the
student wishes to be beaten, and no. 257 in the catalog for the maxim. Cf. the use
of the Greek verb typtein (to beat) as a model for practicing conjugations: Cribiore
2001: 69.
38. As Laes (2006: 903–7) shows, many Aesopian fables promise harsh consequences
for those who do not respect their place in society in terms of social status and
wealth.
39. Bloomer 2015a: 197.
40. Corporal punishment of students also had considerable longevity as authors
writing late in the fourth century ce such as Libanius and Ausonius, who were both
educators, refer to these practices as commonplaces in schools. On the stereotype as
well as late antique evidence, see Booth 1973: 108–10.
41. Dig. 38.19.6.2.
42. For example, Sen. De clem. 1.16.3–5; Quint. Inst. 1.3.13–18, 2.4.10–12; [Plut.]
De lib. educ. 8F. For additional evidence of teachers’ use of corporal punishment
as well as positive incentives for learning, see also Rawson 2003: 175–7; and for
further examples of corporal punishment administered by teachers, see Laes 2005:
78–81.
43. Cf. SB 5.7655 (cited by Laes 2005: 79), a papyrus in which a father urges his son’s
teacher to beat him on the backside and states that the boy is used to being beaten
at home and “wants it (…) and needs his daily share.”
44. Augustine, Conf. 1.9.14–15.
45. Bloomer 2015a: 186.
46. Augustine’s positive recollections of learning are quickly linked to negative ones
involving fear and pain: for example, Conf. 1.14.23 on learning Latin from his nurse
and playmates without “fear and torture” and the pressure of looming punishments;
and 1.17.27 on a school assignment exciting him because of a possible reward but
also the fear of disgrace and being beaten.
47. For an accessible introduction, see Dickey 2017, especially 142–4, for how these
texts were used. Translations are from Dickey 2012–15.
48. Coll. Steph. 11a–e.
49. Coll. Celt. 39d–e. Interestingly, the Latin verb used in this instance encompasses
a range of meanings while the Greek specifically indicates the student is to
be beaten or flogged. Dickey (2012–15: 225) maintains that coercetur is very
appropriate as a translation for the Greek deretai. More precise language
is employed in the passage referred to immediately below with vapulare and
darēnai respectively.
NOTES 177

50. Coll. Harl. 8a–10e.

51. Aristotle, Pol. 1339a.
52. Booth 1973: 110–11.
53. Coll. Steph. 19a–d.
54. Dig. 7.7.6.1.
55. Dig. 32.65.3.
56. Plut. Cat. mai. 21.1.
57. On Crassus, see Plut. Crass. 2.6; on Atticus, see Nep. Att. 13.3–4.
58. Pliny, Ep. 7.27.13.
59. Bodel 2011: 333.
60. Keegan 2012: 75–6.
61. Bradley 1991a: 107–11.
62. P.Oxy. 4.725.
63. P.Oxy. 4.724.
64. Laes 2011: 192.
65. Dig. 9.2.5.3–9.2.6.
66. Lucian, Somn. 1–5.
67. Dig. 21.1.17.5.
68. Lesis’ status is not clear, but Jordan (2000: 97) suggests he likely was not a slave.
Translation from Jordan 2000.
69. This discussion, along with translation of the inscriptions, is indebted to Laes 2011a:
193–4. See also Laes 2015.
70. CIL 6.10013.
71. RIT 447.
72. For extracts from several colloquia that include most of these elements, see Dickey
2017: 23–37. Visiting the sick is discussed by Dickey 2017: 66–8; though the
protagonist in the dialogue quoted is not a child, the responsibility of discharging
such a social duty was clearly deemed important for young people to learn.
73. For a helpful discussion of the different types of kisses between adults, see also
Laes 2017: 67–9.
74. Cic. Att. 16.11.8.
75. Cic. De div. 1.103.
76. DRN 3.895–6.
77. Plut. Mor. 38c.
78. Cic. Brut. 210–11.
79. Quint. Inst. 1.1.4–8; cf. Tac. Dial. 29.1–4.
80. Plut. De lib. educ. 9f.
81. Quint. Inst. 1.2.7–8.
82. Roller (2006: 159–63) provides a helpful discussion of children at convivia and the
challenges posed by adult content. The dining posture of children and adolescents
as it pertains to their “acculturation into the world of adult conviviality” (163)
is beyond the scope of the present chapter: see Roller 2006, with references to
relevant scholarship.
83. Sen. De prov. 1.6. On deliciae and bold speech, see Laes 2003: 300–4 and 316–17;
and Mencacci 2010: 226–8.
84. Dickey (2012–15: 238) comments that otio, which she translates as “unhurriedly,”
is not standard (per otium is more common). The use of otium in this context,
however, is worth noting in a different regard, for this is a concept associated with
the freeborn, not slaves. The schoolboy’s ascent might thus be better described as
“leisurely” to capture this dimension.
178 NOTES

85. Laurence 2017: 28.

86. Mencacci 2010: 228.
87. Plut. De lib. educ. 10a.
88. Plut. De lib. educ. 10f–11c.
89. Plut. De aud. 39b.
90. Augustine, Conf. 9.8.
91. Cf. Jerome, Letters 107.8, 10, for similar concerns about Paula’s intake of food
and drink. The moral authority attributed to the old nurse here contrasts with the
disdain often shown toward older women’s contributions to moral education in both
Greek and Roman traditions, evident especially in the denigration of aniles fabellae
(stories told by old women including but not exclusively nurses): see Laes 2011:
74–7; and Heath 2011: 82–5; as well as Gordon (1999: 205–6) on the tension
between proclaimed disbelief in “old wives’ tales” and the creeping worry that they
are not to be disbelieved entirely.
92. Plut. De fortuna 99d; cf. De lib. educ. 5a.
93. Plut. An virtus doceri possit 440a.
94. Aristophanes, Clouds 983.
95. Bradley 1998b: 40–6. Cf. Musonius Rufus (18B), who expounds on the necessity
of decorum and moderation in eating in a lecture not explicitly concerned with
children or young adults, but clearly relevant to them and anyone interested in their
upbringing.
96. For example, Cic. De Fin. 5.43: “the germ of the virtues is contained in the impulses
of childhood.”
97. Plut. De lib. educ. 14a.
98. Cf. Jerome, Letters 107.9. Parents could “imprint” both positive and negative
behavior and attributes: for example, Tac. Dial. 29.3–4.
99. Seneca, Helv. 18.8.
100. Plut. Cat. mai. 24.3–5.
101. Suet. Aug. 64.
102. Jerome, Letters 107.10, 128.2. Pentti (2015: 123) observes that Jerome has
appropriated an old pagan virtue to show that Christian virgins are morally superior
to their secular peers; she also notes that while previously mothers taught their
daughters wool-working, Jerome’s Christian girls learn these skills from female slaves.
103. Toner 2017b: 105.
104. Wiedemann 1989: 150–1.
105. See also Toner 2017b: 107–12.
106. For gender differences in Roman children’s play, see Dolansky 2017: 123–8.
107. For children’s exposure to violence in the course of play and leisure, see in particular
Bradley 1998c: 545–56 (especially on children attending cock fights, as noted below)
and more generally Rawson 2003: 330–1.
108. Plut. Alc. 2.1.
109. Herod. 3.10.3–4.
110. Plut. Terrestriane an aquatilia animalia sint callidiora 965b, 968e.
111. Plut. Cat. min. 2.5–6.
112. Augustine, Conf. 1.18.30. Augustine’s phrasing (pueris ludum suum (…) vendentibus)
hints at the possibility that a certain amount of peer pressure may have been involved
NOTES 179

since the boys literally “sold [him]” on their game. The verb vendere is often used
pejoratively, including in contexts where it means to betray for money.
113. Augustine, Conf. 2.8.16.
114. Vuolanto 2015: 317.
115. Jerome, Letters 128.4.
116. Jerome, Letters 107.4. It is telling that Jerome specifically uses discere, “to learn,”
and docere, “to teach” in both letters (107.4: “procul sit aetas lasciva puerorum, ipsae
puellae et pedisequae a saecularium consortiis arceantur, ne, quod mali didicerint,
peius doceant”; 128.4: “puellarum quoque lascivia repellatur, quae quanto licentius
adeunt, tanto difficilius evitantur et, quod didicerunt, secreto docent inclusamque
Danaen vulgi sermonibus violant”). I have translated puellae at 107.4 as “girls”
whereas others regard them as one group of female slaves, “maids” (in the Loeb
edition and Katz 2007: 121), while pedisequae are “attendants.” Yet the beginning
of the sentence appears to set up a contrast between boys, who are not appropriate
playmates or companions, and girls (presumably freeborn), who could be but must
be free from worldly knowledge such as Paula’s servile attendants.
117. Pentti 2015: 129.
118. Jerome, Letters 107.9. Jerome’s use of ancillula could signal that the maid was of
a similar age to Paula, but she may have been older and the diminutive employed
instead to denigrate her status and gender.
119. Plaut. Mostell. 118–28.

Chapter 6
   1. Plato, Alc. 109d, 110b; Gorg. 514c; Protag. 326e.
   2. For the equation of kathegetês and praeceptor, see Dickey 2015: 50. The spectrum of
meanings of didaskalos ranges from “choir coach” (Aristoph. Ach. 628) to “religious
teacher” (didaskalos/rabbi was the the most common term for Jesus in the Gospels,
see Kany 2008: 1110; Feldmeier 2015: 38–40).
   3. Codex Theod. 13.3.5, 11; see Vössing 2020: 181–3.
   4. Festus, p. 470 Lindsay. For the double meaning of ludus, its treatment by Latin
grammariams, and the extensive separation between schools and the world of games,
see Laes 2020.
   5. Vössing 2003: 457.
   6. Kaster 1988: 443–5. For example, magister ludi, puerorum, studiorum, litterarum,
artis grammaticae.
   7. Vössing and Schulze 2017.
   8. Aristophanes, Nub. 963–5; 981–3.
   9. Libanius, Epist. 41.1; 44; 172.2 and 1164.1.
10. Augustine, Util. cred. 9; Serm. 156.13 and 349.7.
11. Julian, Or. 7, 235a; Or. 4(8), 24c; Mis. 351–3.
12. Suetonius, Gram. 4.2; Libanius, Or. 1.9 and Epist. 406.
13. Horace, Epist. 2.1.156.
14. For example, Cicero, De or. 1.47.
15. Aristophanes, Eq. 60; Lysias 30.22.
16. Cribiore 2007: 35–7.
180 NOTES

17. See, for example, Augustine, Conf. 8.6.13: Ausonius, Prof. Burd. 22 tit.; Vössing
1997: 354.
18. Fucarino 1982/3: 101–3.
19. Aristotle, Pol. 1323b 39 and 1313b 3.
20. See Arrian, Epict. diss. 3.23.30.
21. Claus 1965.
22. Virgil, Catal. 5.3; Pliny, Epist. 2.3.5.
23. Hemelrijk 1999.
24. For female philosophers, see Mratschek 2007; Deslauriers 2012; for private tutors,
see Vössing 2004: 137–40.
25. Beazley 1963: 431, no. 48; Schulze 1998: 23–5; Backe-Dahmen 2010: 60–5.
26. Xenophon, Kyneg. 1. For Chiron, see Mackie 1997; Aspiotes 2006: no. 449.
27. Plutarch, Quaest. Rom. 278e. Anachronistic stories such as Liv. 3.44.6 must be set
aside.
28. Christes 1979.
29. Vacher 1993; Kaster 1995.
30. Berrey 2017.
31. Holder 2017.
32. Blum 1977: 179–91.
33. Bajoni 1996; cf. also Booth 1982; Sivan 1993; Coşkun 2002; Sowers 2016.
34. See the recent commentaries of Civiletti 2007; Becker 2013; Goulet 2014.
35. Rothe 1989.
36. For the province of Africa, see Vössing 1997: 659–61; for Egypt, see Cribiore
1996: 12–26; for the years 259–565 ce, see Kaster 1988: 231–440, who lists 281
elementary and grammar teachers. For the fifth to the seventh centuries ce in the
Greek East, see Szabat 2007.
37. Christes 1979.
38. Agusta-Boularot 1994; Rieß 2001; Laes 2007. For pedagogues, see Laes 2009a and
2009b.
39. Historia Augusta, Marc. Aur. 2.2; Sev. Alex. 3.2
40. Kaster 1988.
41. Wintjes 2005; Cribiore 2007, 2013; Van Hoof 2014.
42. Schirren 2005.
43. Champlin 1980: 118–30; Demougin 2010; Fleury 2010; Laes 2009c.
44. Seneca Rhetor, Controv. 2, praef. 5.
45. Pedersen 1997: 12–16; Flashar 1999.
46. Del Corso 2005: 9–30.
47. Hadot 2006: 63–80.
48. Vössing 2003: 461–5; Markschies 2007: 67–70.
49. MacLeod 2000.
50. Vössing 2007.
51. Teresa Morgan 2011; Vuolanto 2013.
52. Cicero, Lael. 1 and Brutus 306; cf. Scholz 2010: 264–316.
53. Suetonius, Gram. 2.1; Booth 1978; Kaster 1988: 447–52.
54. Suetonius, Gram. 25.1; Cic., De orat. 3.93; Quintilian, Inst. 2.4.42; Gellius, NA
15.11. See also Schmidt 1975; Bloomer 2011: 37–52.
55. Suetonius, Gram. 3.4.
56. Apuleius, Flor. 20.2; Augustine, Conf. 1.13.20; Pomponius, GrL Keil
5.96.12–15.
NOTES 181

57. Apuleius, Flor. 20.2; Augustine, Conf. 1.14, 16, 20. For street teachers, see Horace,
Epist. 1.20 and Bonner 1972; cf. also Laes 2011a: 122–4.
58. Pliny, Epist. 4.13; Augustine, Conf. 2.5. For “at the same time,” see Cribiore 2007: 31.
59. Bringmann 1994.
60. Suetonius, Vesp. 18; Dio Cassius 66.12.1a. On Quintilian, see Jerome, Chron. a.
Abr. 2104. For grammatici urbis Romae, see Kaster 1988: 275–7.
61. For Athens, see Toulouse 2008: 142–72; Watts 2006a: 26–38. Since Marcus Aurelius
there were also chairs or philosophy, see Haake 2018: 34–6; for Constantinople,
see Schlange-Schöningen 1995: 108–11.
62. Historia Augusta, Hadr. 16.8; Ant. Pius 11.3; and Alex. Sev. 44.4; AE 1936, 128.
See Fein 1994: 282–98.
63. Pliny, Epist. 4.13; see Vössing 1997: 333–4; Philostrat, VS 1.23, p. 526.
64. This was still the case as late as the early sixth century ce in Carthage, see Anthologia
Latina 376.32 [Riese]: Carthago ornata magistris.
65. Exemptions: Dig. 27.1.6.8 and 50.4.18.30. Restrictions: Dig. 27.1.6.2–10 and
50.4.18.30. Role of the town council: Codex Theod. 13.3.1–3, 7–15 and Codex
Iust. 10.53.1–5, 8–10.
66. Cf. Augustine, Conf. 6.11. See Vössing 1997: 324–35.
67. Derda, Markiewicz, and Wipszycka 2007; Majcherek 2010. On thêatra, see Cribiore
2007: 44.
68. Codex Theod. 14.9.3; 15.1.53 (425 ce), see Schlange-Schöningen 1995: 114–21.
69. Vössing 2008: 234–6.
70. Vööbus 1962; Becker 2006; Vössing 2019a: 1197–81, also for the general lack of
Christian schools in antiquity.
71. Schuler 2004; Perrin-Saminadayar 2004. On kings, see Ameling 2004.
72. Morgan 1998: 25–7; Scholz 2004: 109.
73. Suetonius, Iul. 42.1; Bringmann 1983. For the Roman reception of the Greek
euergesia, see Ferrary [1988] 2014: 124–32.
74. Pliny, Epist. 4.13.6.
75. For the professio litterarum, see Florus, Verg. 3.2.7; Dahlmann 1968. For the statue
of a successful grammaticus Graecus (Trajan’s Forum, with the inscription CIL
6.9454), see Bonner 1977: 58; and Agusta-Boularot 1994: 674.
76. Auson., Prof. Burd. 10.14 and 21.27, p. 43 and 51 Prete.
77. See the example of the grammarian Servius and his respected position in Macrobius’
Saturnalia (around 380): Kaster 1988: 169–97. For the realistic hope of social
advancement through education (spes litterarum), see Schindel 2003: 176. Cf.
Augustine, Conf. 2.3; Lepelley 2001; Becker 2016.
78. CIL 5.3433, 5278, 9.1654; Lepelley 1981: 394.
79. Vössing 1997: 271–4.
80. Aelius Donatus, the famous Roman grammarian (Hieronymus, Rufinum 1.16) and
teacher of rhetoric, author of professional works that were used until the modern
times. See Holtz 2005; for his title vir clarissimus, see Kaster 1988: 276; the orator
Augustine hoped for a position as provincial governor: Augustine, Conf. 6.19 and
Lepelley 2001. For others examples, see “Who’s who.”
81. Morgan 1998: 39–46; Cribiore 1996, 2012. For the teaching methods of the
ludimagistri, see Laes 2011a: 124–6; Horster 2001: 92–6; Johnson 2015.
82. Cribiore 2001: 65–73; Christes 2003; Laes 2005: 75–89; Bloomer 2015a.
83. On the ideal teacher, see Dickey 2017: 7–45; on appeals, see Quintilian, Inst.
1.1.10–3.17 and 2.2.4–8 (cf. Laes 2020).
182 NOTES

84. Bonner 1977: 189–249; Cribiore 2001: 185–219.

85. Corpus Grammaticorum Latinorum 3 122.26–9.
86. Uhl 1998.
87. Vössing 1995; Berti 2007; Van Mal-Maeder 2007.
88. Cf., for example, Petronius, Sat. 1–5; Pliny, Epist. 2.18.1–3.; 4.11.1–3; Tertullian,
Adv.Valent. 8.3. For Libanius’ exercises, see Cribiore 2007: 148–55.
89. Persius, Sat. 3.44–7; Quintilian, Inst. 2.2.9–12, 2.7.1, and 10.5.21; Pliny, Epist.
2.18.1; Iuvenal, Sat. 7.160; Gellius, NA 9.15; Libanius, Epist. 25 and Or. 5.46;
Eunapius, Hist. 4; Eutropius 9.19; Ps. Aurelius Victor, Epit. 38.7; Augustine, Conf.
1.27. For declamations as literature, see also Hömke 2007.
90. Kany 2008: 1127–30.
91. Tertullian, Idol. 10; Tatian, Or ad Gr., p. 28 (Schwartz); cf. also Athenagoras, Suppl.
11, p. 12 (Schwartz).
92. Markschies 2002: 104–6; Gemeinhardt 2008; Kany 2008: 1127.
93. Gemeinhardt 2007: 350–94. Religious conflicts in the classroom are not clearly
witnessed. It is difficult to see in the story of the martyr Cassian, a teacher of
stenography, murdered by his pagan pupils (Prudentius, Peristeph. 9, early fifth
century), more than a general reflex of the violence used in ancient schools.
See Laes 2019b.
94. Cf., for example, Augustine, Conf. 3.6; 4.2 and 9.2.
95. For the considerable amount of bibliography, see Cecconi 2015: 205–7; Vössing
2020: 179.
96. Julian, Epist. 61c (Bidez).
97. Augustine, Conf. 8.10 and Eunapius, VS 10.8.1, p. 493; Olearius, p. 79 (Giangrande).
See Becker 2013: 483–8. On Marius Victorinus and Prohairesius who lost their
positions as teachers of rhetoric, see Becker 2013: 483–8.
98. See also jokes in the Philogelos 140 and 196.
99. Martial, Ep. 10.62 (see Vössing 2017).
100. Ovid, Fasti 3.829; Juvenal, Sat; 7.158; CIL 4.8562; Anth. Pal. 9.174; Augustine,
Conf. 5.22. Regarding this problem for ancient teachers, see Bonner 1977: 146–63;
Kaster 1988: 115–23.
101. For “pranks” even by students of rhetoric, see Tertullian, Adv. Val. 8.3 (Vössing
1997: 269); Augustine, Conf. 5.14.
102. Anthologia Latina 96 and 294 (Riese).
103. Examples in Vössing 2003: n. 76 and 114. See also Del Corso 2008.
104. For the donkey in a toga, see Reggiani 1990: 80.
105. See, for example, Iuvenal, Sat. 1.15; Augustine, Cresc. 4.6.7; De civ. D. 22.22;
Fulgence, Myth. 1.14.
106. For suspicious cases, see Quintilian, Inst. 1.2.4; and Suetonius, Gram. 16 and 23.
For “satirical tradition,” see Iuvenal, Sat. 9.224 (also 7.239–41); Lucian, Symp. 26;
Anthologia Palatina 11.34 and 219 (cf. also the caricature of doctors in Martial, Ep.
6.31 and 11.71). Children from higher class backgrounds generally enjoyed better
protection, see Horace, Sat. 1.6.76–84. See Laes 2019a.
107. Gellius, NA 6.17; 14.5; 16.6; see Astarita 1993: chap. I. See also Suetonius, Tib. 70;
H. A. Hadr. 16.8.
NOTES 183

108. Petronius 1–5; Juvenal, Sat. 7.154–167; Ps.-Longinus, Sublim. 44.

109. Heldmann 1982. For the practice of declamations as communication training, see
Vössing 1995: 115–18.
110. Seneca, Epist. 106.12; the immediate context is the teaching of philosophy.
111. Arrian, Epict. diss. 1.11.39, 4.1.138; Philogelos, 1–103 and 253–9. See Andreassi
2004: 43; Laes 2010a.
112. Tanaseanu Döbler 2008: 71–84; Manuwald 2012.
113. See, for example, the conflicts reflected in Apuleius, Flor. 3; 7.7–10.
114. Dracontius, Romul. 1.12–14 See Vössing 2019b.
115. Procopius, Goth. 1.2.6–17.

Chapter 7

   1. I am grateful to Christian Laes for suggestions and comments that have improved this
chapter, and also to Lea Stirling and my colleagues at the University of Winnipeg,
Jason Brown, Melissa Funke, Matt Gibbs, Peter Miller, Michael MacKinnon, and
Conor Whately, for sharing their insights.
   2. Bodel 2015: 752–4.
   3. For example, Bowman and Woolf 1994; Bowman 1998; Thomas 2009: 15; Tomlin
2016. For bibliography, see Werner 2009.
   4. For this sort of discussion, see Harris 1989.
   5. Bowman and Woolf 1994: 4.
   6. Harris 1989.
   7. This was disputed before 1989, see Harris 1989: 8–9.
   8. For estimates, see more recently Laes 2014, and note Harris 2014.
   9. For example, the contributions in Humphrey 1991.
10. For responses to some criticisms, see Harris 2014.
11. For example, Horsfall 1991; Hanson and Conolly 2002.
12. Green 2002: 3–5; Thomas 1992: 74, but cf. Thomas 2009: 348, where the study
of literacy as a technology is deemed too simplistic; the problem, however, may be
excessively simplistic assumptions about the adoption of technology.
13. See especially Green 2002.
14. Bodel (2015: 752) discusses this and earlier use of Latin elsewhere. See Solin (2011)
on the confirmed authenticity of the early seventh-century “Fibula Praenestina,”
perhaps found in a tomb at Praeneste.
15. Habinek 2009: 120. See also Feeney 2016.
16. Hanson 1991: 170–5.
17. Bowman 1991: 221–2; Hanson 1991. For an archeological perspective, see
Eckardt 2018.
18. Thomas 1992: 150–7; Woolf 2000: 881.
19. Hanson 1991: 163–4.
20. Harris 1989: 34–5 and fig. 7; note also Day 2010: 43–4.
21. Gardner 1986; Thomas 2009: 27.
22. Hanson 1991: 160.
23. See Toner 2017a.
184 NOTES

24. Harris 1989: 46. For interpretations of “nonsense inscriptions” on Athenian vases
of the sixth and fifth centuries, see Mayor, Colarusso, and Saunders 2014.
25. Milnor 2014: 25–6.
26. Aristotle, Pol. 8.1338a15–17.
27. Diodorus Siculus 12.13.
28. Seneca, Brev. 14.2.
29. Gager 1991: 131, no. 43.
30. Apuleius, Met. 8.22.
31. See Andrews 2013.
32. Woolf 2000: 889–91; Graziosi 2016; Habinek 2009: 114–15.
33. Corbeill 2004: 28–9.
34. Faraone 1999: 69–78.
35. Cf. Gordon and Simón 2010: 19–21. On writing in late and post-Roman times, see
Ward-Perkins 2006: 160–93.
36. Mayor, Colarusso, and Saunders 2014.
37. Hopkins 1991; Bagnall 2011.
38. For example, Audollent 1904: 365–6, no. 267, 368–70, no. 271.
39. Jordan 2002.
40. See Dickey 2016 and 2017.
41. Horsfall 1991: 62–4; Cribiore 2007: 74–101; Enos and Peterman 2014.
42. Cicero, Att. 1.12.4.
43. CIL 4.33892. See Caldelli 2015, whose translation this is, for further comparanda.
44. See Plant 2004.
45. See Parker 2012.
46. Hanson 1991: 162, with references.
47. Translated and discussed by Dickey 2017: 27 and 35.
48. Philostratus, Lives of the Sophists 2.558.
49. Petronius, Sat. 46.
50. UPZ 1.148, translated by Bagnall and Cribiore 2006: 113.
51. Thomas 1992: 42.
52. Bowman 1991: 127; Woolf 2009: 51.
53. Livy 45.29.
54. Talbert 2012: 237; cf. Kelly 1994: 174 on concessions to use Greek instead of Latin
in administrative documents.
55. Woolf 2000: 896.
56. See Laes 2014: 20 and n50 for discussion.
57. Price 1999: 69.
58. Beard 1991: 54–8; more recently MacRae 2016.
59. Thomas 1994: 40–3, quote from 41; 2009: 30–4.
60. Pliny the Younger, Ep. 8.6.1–2.
61. Thomas 1992: 93–100, 132–44; Woolf 2009: 63.
62. Kelly 1994: 167–8.
63. Talbert 2012.
64. Note Howley 2017.
65. Suetonius, Aug. 31.
66. P.Yale 299; translated by Ogden 2009: 284 no. 296.
67. For burning of records of tax arrears, see Woolf 2000: 895; and Meyer 2006:
36 and n80.
68. Suetonius, Gai. 41.
NOTES 185

69. For example, Kelly 1994: 168–9.

70. Johnson 1978.
71. For example, Tacitus, Ann. 14.40.
72. Livy 39.18.4.
73. Thomas 1992: 86.
74. See especially Beard 1991.
75. See Wiedemann 1989: 186–8; quote from 188.
76. Homer, Il. 6.168.
77. Vindolanda Tablets Online n.d.: Tablet 346.
78. P.Berenike 2.129, translated by Bagnall and Cribiore 2006: 169–70.
79. P.Oxy. 744 = Sel. Pap. 105, translated by Shelton 1998: 28.
80. P.Brem. 64, translated by Bagnall and Cribiore 2006: 146.
81. P.Mich. 8.468, translated by Shelton 1998: 260.
82. Plutarch, Arist. 7.
83. Harris 1989: 54.
84. Woolf 2000: 893.
85. Huan (429 ce) 2004: s. 11; translation by J. Hill. Available online: https://depts.
washington.edu/silkroad/texts/weilue/weilue.html (accessed February 20, 2018).
This text was written in the third century CE, but published in the fifth century CE.
86. Thomas 1992: 83; Woolf 2000: 886–8; Meyer 2006: 24–36.
87. Aristotle, Pol. 1270b 29–32.
88. Bowman 1991: 121–2; Thomas 1992: 67–72.
89. P.Yale 299; Bowman 1991: 121.
90. Suetonius, Gai. 41.
91. Thomas 1992: 145.
92. Woolf 2000: 895–6.
93. Ogden 2009: 162–3, nos. 123 and 124.
94. Thomas 1992: 67–72; Woolf 2000: 896.
95. Plato, Phaedrus 274e–275b.
96. Caesar, BG 6.14.
97. Ford 2002: 93–112.
98. Horace, Odes 3.30.1.
99. Pliny the Younger, Ep. 6.16.1.
100. See Güven 1998: 38 and 44n50 for references.
101. Dasen 2010; Hope 2011.
102. Carroll 2011.
103. Suetonius, Aug. 101.
104. Woolf 2000: 886.
105. Thomas 1992: 86; Güven 1998.
106. For two perspectives, see Bing 2002 and Day 2010: 26–84.
107. Thomas 1992: 62–3. For two perspectives on the living stopping to contemplate the
content, see Bing 2002 and Day 2010: 26–84.
108. CIL 1.2.1221; translated by Shelton 1998: 37n4.
109. CE 95; translated by Lattimore 1942: 124.
110. CEG 326; translated and discussed by Day 2010: 33–48; see also Thomas 1992: 63–4.
186 NOTES

111. Herodotus 5.35.

112. CIL 11.6721. Electronic Archive of Greek and Latin Epigraphy (EAGLE) (2012),
s.v. “EDR125627.” Available online: http://www.edr-edr.it/edr_programmi/res_
complex_comune.php?do=book&id_nr=EDR125627 (accessed December 19,
2017).
113. Catullus 95; Cicero, Att. 16.3.1.
114. McCutcheon 2015: 15–16.
115. See Keppie 1991: 20, 138–9, appendix 2.
116. Woolf 2009: 56.
117. See Laes 2013.
118. Hanson 1991: 163–4; see also Bagnall 2011; Charlesworth 2014.
119. Caesar, BG 6.14.
120. Bowman and Woolf 1994: 4–5; Lloris 2015: 136.
121. Horsfall 1991: 64–5; Woolf 2009: 50–1; Toner 2017a: 183–8.
122. See Adams 1982: 1–8.
123. Electronic Archive of Greek and Latin Epigraphy (EAGLE) (2012), s.v.
“EDR123373.” Available online: http://www.edr-edr.it/edr_programmi/res_
complex_comune.php?do=book&id_nr=EDR123373 (accessed December 19,
2017).
124. CIL 4.10568 (1). See The Ancient Graffiti Project (2018), where it is translated as
“Mansueta, hold (on/it?).”
125. Betz [1986] 1992: 303. On words and images in magical spells, see Dijkstra 2015.
126. Petronius, Satyricon 58.
127. Bodel 2015: 751.
128. Tomlin 1994.
129. Bowman 1991: 127.
130. Horsfall 1991: 71.
131. See especially Thomas 2009 and Woolf 2009.
132. Thomas 1992: 71–2; Woolf 2000: 891–5.
133. Habinek 2009: 125–36. On gaming, see also Toner 2017a: 183–8.
134. Milnor 2014. For the relationship between literary and nonliterary writings, see also
Schwitter 2017.
135. Adams and Iasucthan 1999.
136. PGM VII.1–148; see Betz [1986] 1992: 112–19.
137. For example, Woolf 1994; Hanson and Conolly 2002; Charlesworth 2014.

Chapter 8
   1. For evidence, see Seneca, Ira 1.20.8–9 (dementia), 3.21.5 (furor); Clem. 1.25.2
(insania); Tranq. 14.5 (dementia); Cons. Polyb. 13.1 (furor), 17.5 (furiosa
inconstantia); Ben. 7.11.1–2 (dementia); Const. 18.1 (insania); Philo, Leg. 93 (mania);
Josephus, Ant. 19.1, 5, 11, 39, 50, 69, 130, 193 (mania). The use of paraphrosynē in
Claudius’ edict to Alexandria and Syria (Josephus, Ant. 19.284, 285) seems especially
significant. Tacitus, Agric. 13.2 (ingenium mobile); Ann. 6.45 (commotus ingenio),
11.3 (impetus), 13.3 (turbata mens); Hist. 4.48 (turbidus animi). Suetonius, Cal.
50.2. For the long history, see Clark 1993; Thumiger 2013; Jouanna 2013.
NOTES 187

2. Attempts are summarized in Ferrill 1991. For statements, see Syme 1958: 436.
The tradition of Caligula’s insanity, as with accusations of madness made against
other emperors, may be regarded as due to the upheavals that the emperorship are
thought to have brought to Roman society (Toner 2009: 84) but, if so, the onus
must be to show a direct link between social change and imperial reputation.
3. Ellmann 1987.
4. Certain portions of this essay draw upon previous publications, especially book
reviews, which I have not always thought it necessary to cite. For a helpful discussion
on a draft I am much indebted to S.E. Scully and M. Golden.
5. Jamison 2017. Jamison writes: “This book is not a biography. I have written a
psychological account of the life and mind of Robert Lowell; it is as well a narrative
of the illness that so affected him, manic-depressive illness” (5). Few will agree on
the disclaimer.
6. Bate 2003.
7. Barrett [1990] 2015: 99. Typically, see Balsdon 1934; Ferrill 1991; Winterling
2011.
8. Constructs: see esp. Winterling 2011: 103, 114, 127–31.
9. On biographies, Marañón (1956) is an exception. Osgood (2011: 24) regards a
biography of Claudius as impossible. On theory, see, for example, Kendall 1965;
Edel 1984; Backscheider 1999; Caine 2010. On biography in antiquity, see Hägg
2012. On the Senate, see Talbert 1984: 131–4; Beard 2015: 428 is nonetheless
confident about the behavior of “most Roman senators.” On Constantine, see
Barnes 2011: 2, 80; cf. 175.
10. Howard 1987: 171–6.
11. See Levick [1999] 2017: 126.
12. Levick [1990] 2015: 167–8.
13. On standards, see Bradley 1991a, 1998a; cf. Wardle 1998: 446–7; Henderson
2014.
14. Suetonius, Iul. 74.1.
15. Claud. 34.1.
16. Nero 7.1; Otho 2.2.
17. Vesp. 16.3.
18. Aug. 61.1.
19. Iul. 31.2–32.
20. Nero 47.1–2.
21. Otho 11–12.
22. Vesp. 15.
23. Dom. 19.
24. If Suetonius wrote generic “not-history” (Wallace-Hadrill 1983: 5–28, followed by
Pelling 2009) it does not follow that his sequence of lives is not a form of history
tout court. For the text of Suetonius I follow Kaster 1995.
25. On “New biography,” see Marcus 2002.
26. Strachey 1918: preface; 1921.
27. Champlin 2003: 228.
28. On topics there is nothing comparable in Plutarch’s two remaining imperial
biographies; see otherwise Bradley 1999. On childhood, see Rawson 2003 (cf.
Bradley 2011a); Laes 2011a; Vuolanto 2014. The doubts of Beard 2015: 449 are
misplaced.
29. Tib. 2.2, 68.3.
188 NOTES

30. Nero 4; 33–8; cf. esp. 1.2.

31. Vit. 2.2–5, 4.
32. Bate 2009: xviii, 71, 73.
33. On Apuleius, for some possibilities, see Bradley 2012. On Suetonius, the best study
remains Wallace-Hadrill 1983. The attention to Lytton Strachey’s sexual life by
his definitive modern biographer (Holroyd 1995), inappropriate in the era of
Victorian biographical idealization against which Virginia Woolf reacted (Woolf
[1939] 2011), suggests that items in the Caesares traditionally dismissed as trivial or
sensationalist deserve objective scrutiny.
34. Yavetz 1996: 106.
35. Aug. 8.1; Tib. 4.3, 6.4; Claud. 2.1; Nero 6.3.
36. On calculations, see Saller 1994; Scheidel 2009.
37. Golden 2009: 59. On growing up fatherless, see Huebner and Ratzan 2009.
38. Otho 1.1.
39. Vesp. 22.1.
40. Titus 2.
41. Court of Augustus: Suetonius, Aug. 48 with Wardle 2014: 355–6; cf. Aug. 17.5 with
Wardle 2014: 155–6, esp. for Cleopatra Selene and Juba of Mauretania.
42. Nero 50; cf. 35.5; Dom. 17.3.
43. Nero 6.3.
44. See Bernstein 2009.
45. Parker 2016: 5, 44–5. For the pre-imperial age, Cicero’s reaction to the death of
Tullia (Treggiari 2007: 136–8) is an important if unusual item.
46. On the distinctiveness of the Meditations, see esp. Rutherford 1989; Brunt 2013:
360–93.
47. Marcus Aurelius, Med. 1.2.
48. For extensive family bonds, recoverable from prosopographical investigation, see
Birley 1987: 28–52.
49. Marcus Aurelius, Med. 1.16.
50. Aug. 89.1; Tib. 57; Claud. 41.1; Nero 7.1, 52.
51. On deportment, see Bradley 1991b: 51–5; 1998b. On duties, see Bradley 1991b:
13–36.
52. H.A. Marc. 2.2–4; Dio 72.35.1.
53. On these men, see Birley 1987: 28–52.
54. Quint. Inst. 1.1.4–5, 8–9, 11.32.
55. Quint. Inst. 1.10.9–33, 1.10.34–49, 1.11.1–18.
56. Suet. Aug. 25.4.
57. For theorists, see Vuolanto 2017; Bloomer 2017. For maxims, see Bradley
2019. For Hadrian, see Speidel 2006. For replicating, see Bradley 2013b. For
colloquia, see Dickey 2012–15, 2015. For aristocracy, contrast Bloomer 2011:
passim.
58. On friendship, see Birley 1987: 69–88; cf. Champlin 1980: 94–117; on erotic
bond, see Richlin 2006; contra Laes 2009c.
59. Cal. 34, 45, 53.
60. Aug. 17.5; Claud. 27.1; Nero 35.5.
61. On familia, see Treggiari 1975.
62. For likelihood, see Harris 2013: 7–8, 3. Celsus’ threefold division, which the court
doctor Galen later favored (Clark and Rose unpublished), differs from the binary
NOTES 189

classification observed by Jouanna (2013) in the Hippocratic corpus and elsewhere,

in which depression and hyperactivity are the principal symptoms.
63. Celsus 3.20.1; cf. 2.7.25.
64. Cal. 50.3.
65. Suet. Cal. 51; Celsus 3.18.4: ex metu.
66. Cal. 51.
67. Dig. 21.1.4.3, 21.1.65 pr.
68. Vit. 12. On material, see Toohey 2013; on resistance, see Bradley 2011b.
69. Seneca, Ben. 2.12.1; Dio 59.27.1.
70. Cal. 55.1. On context, see Clark and Rose 2013: 68: “socio-cultural elements
play a major role in defining and influencing mentally aberrant behavior.” On
conspiracy theories, see Winterling 2011: 4–7, 47–8, 82–96, 187–94; cf. Barrett
[1990] 2015: 3. On company, see Colloquia Monacensia-Einsidlensia 2e, 2g,
2h, 3e (Dickey 2012–15: 1:105). For features, see, for example, Suetonius,
Iul. 49.2; Aug. 19.2, 65.4; Tib. 66; Claud. 2.1, 4.2, 4.5, 15.1, 26.2 (ius osculi);
Vesp. 5.2.
71. Forster 1927: 45.
72. In what follows, quotations from Mémoires d’Hadrien are taken from the definitive
Pléiade edition in Yourcenar’s Oeuvres romanesques of 1982 (= OR). I follow the
practice of Yourcenarian scholars in abbreviating her works as indicated above.
73. PV 93–4.
74. On historical biography, see HZ 137; 363; ER 23; cf. ER 51–4; PV 37–8; 71–2;
301; 319.
75. Woolf in McNeillie 2008: 473.
76. On imitative, see EM 294. Yourcenar considered Marcus insufficiently complex
a character to make him her subject (YO 151), though various details from the
Meditations were incorporated into her text. It was from this work that she first
began to study Greek, under her father’s tutelage. For tragic, see PV 196–7.
77. OR 524; cf. HZ 27, 139; PV 36.
78. PV 103, 123.
79. PV 160.
80. Momigliano 1985: 88.
81. See EM: 5, 16; see Bradley 2016.
82. OR 528.
83. See ER 56; cf. YO 61–3; VF 43–4.
84. Modifications to the original text of the lecture were made twenty years or so later,
see Yourcenar 2015 with Poignault 2015.
85. Yourcenar 2015: 132.
86. Yourcenar 2015: 164, 165.
87. OR 302–3.
88. OR 311–12. Criticism, see Syme 1991 (classic); see also Furbank 2004.
Charge, denial, see for example, PV 182; VF 37.
89. VF 57.
90. Aristotle, Poetics 9; quoted in Maurois 1928: 85.
91. Library: Bernier 2004: nos. 6241 (Maurois); 6616, 6641 (Strachey); cf. 3980,
6613, 6621, 6625, 6627, 6628, 6699 (Woolf’s novels); 3439, 1496 (Les Vagues).
Encounter, see Savigneau 1993: 113–14, to which add YO 207.
92. Tacitus, Agr. 4.1.
190 NOTES

93. Ibid.: 4.2.

94. On conventions, see Carroll 2006.
95. See Rostovtzeff 1957: plates III, 1; XVI, 1; XXIV, 1; XXIV, 5; XXVI, 1; XXVIII,
4; XXX, 3; XL, 2; LIII, 2; LIX, 1.
96. Wilson 2015: 118.
97. Dilthey: Harrington 2001, with Rickman 1976: 168–245. Hopkins 1999: 2, with
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 CONTRIBUTORS

Anna Lucille Boozer is an associate professor in the Department of History at

Baruch College and in the Anthropology Program at the Graduate Center at the
City University of New York (CUNY). Boozer directs the CUNY Excavations
at Amheida in Egypt and the Meroe Archival Project (MAP) in Sudan. Her
research focuses primarily upon imperialism, daily life, urbanism, memory, and
social identity in Roman Egypt and Meroitic Sudan. Her recent publications
include a monograph, A Late Romano-Egyptian House in the Dakhla Oasis
(2015), ​and a coedited book, Archaeologies of Empire (forthcoming).

Keith Bradley is the Eli J. and Helen Shaheen Professor of Classics Emeritus
at the University of Notre Dame and Adjunct Professor in Greek and Roman
Studies at the University of Victoria. He is currently engaged with the issue
of how to write a biography of a Roman emperor. He is the coeditor of The
Cambridge History of World Slavery, Volume 1: The Ancient Mediterranean
World (2010), and the author of Discovering the Roman Family: Studies in
Roman Social History (1991), Slavery and Society at Rome (1994), and Apuleius
and Antonine Rome: Historical Essays (2012), amongst others. He is a Fellow
of the Royal Society of Canada.

Alexis Daveloose is a PhD fellow at Ghent University. His current research

investigates the representation of family relations in Etruscan funerary culture
and the potential impact of the Roman conquest thereon. His Master’s
dissertation focused on the sociocultural use of funerary culture in Hellenistic
Chiusi within the context of so-called “Romanization,” for which he won several
awards. Other interests include Republican Rome, identity representation,
cultural exchange, and the Roman conquest of Italy.
226 CONTRIBUTORS

Tim Denecker obtained his MA in Classics and PhD in Linguistics from KU

Leuven, in 2011 and 2015. Having investigated general ideas about language in
early Latin Christianity during his PhD, as a postdoctoral fellow of the Research
Foundation – Flanders (FWO) he worked on Latin language manuals from late
antique and early medieval Western Christianity. Since 2018 he has been a
publishing manager at Brepols and the Corpus Christianorum (Turnhout), and
he remains active as a research fellow at KU Leuven and its Center for the
Historiography of Linguistics.

Matthew Dillon is Professor of Classics and Ancient History at the University of

New England, Australia, and gained his BA Hons and MA at the University of
Queensland. His research interests include ancient Greek and Roman religion,
and how religious beliefs intersected with the workings of these ancient
societies. He has written several articles and books on Greek religion, including
Omens and Oracles. Divination in Classical Greece (2017), as well as textbooks
and sourcebooks on ancient Greece and Rome. He has also published on Greek
epigraphy and society.

Fanny Dolansky is an associate professor in the Department of Classics at Brock

University (Saint Catharines, Canada) where she teaches Latin and Roman
history. Her published articles and book chapters include studies of several
Roman domestic rituals and festivals, children’s education, toys and play, and
rape narratives in book 2 of Ovid’s Fasti. She is coauthor (with Stacie Raucci)
of Rome: A Sourcebook on the Ancient City (2018), and has forthcoming
contributions on religion and divination in the Roman imperial court and on
the regal past in Ovid’s Fasti.

Christian Laes is Professor of Ancient History at Manchester University (UK).

He studies the social and cultural history of Rome and late antiquity, paying
particular attention to the human life course: childhood; youth; family;
slavery; old age; sexuality; and disabilities. His monographs and over 100
contributions have been published by international publishers and journals.

Pauline Ripat is an associate professor in the Department of Classics at the

University of Winnipeg. Her research focuses on Roman social history, magic,
and divination. She has several journal articles and chapters in these areas, has
coedited volumes dealing with the ancient family and ancient sport, and is a
co-developer of two freely distributed digital games for students of Latin and
Greek, Vice Verba and Hoi Polloi Logoi.

Konrad Voessing is Professor of Ancient History at the Rheinische Friedrich-

Wilhelms-Universität in Bonn. Since 2012 he has been a member of the
CONTRIBUTORS 227

Nordrhein-Westfälische Akademie der Wissenschaften in Duesseldorf. His

field of research includes the cultural history of antiquity (notably schools and
education, banquets and eating culture, and the history), the representation of
the ruler, Roman North Africa, and the history of the Germanic peoples in late
antiquity, especially the Vandals.
 INDEX

Note: Page locators in italic refer to figures. As a rule, Roman names have been
listed to the nomen gentilicium, with the exception of well known names as e.g.
Cicero, Fronto and Seneca, or names of emperors.

Aasgaard, Reidar 5 tensions between Christian ideal and

abbreviations 131 reality 33, 78–9
adolescence 58–62 trilingual ideal 41
adoption 52–3 Augustus 60, 85, 98, 125, 145, 149
adulthood, age of 66 Res Gestae 129–30
Aeneid 33, 88 Ausonius 105–6
Agricola 158
Alexandria school of philosophy 28–9 Bailyn, Bernard ix–x, 2–3
alphabet, learning the 35–6, 122 Basil of Caesarea 33, 40
Amalasuntha 115 Bate, Jonathan 143–4
Amheida school 60, 61 Bible 37, 41
Ammianus Marcellinus 24 bilingual education 39–40, 41
Ancient Literacy 118–19 acculturation and 42–5
apprenticeships 60–1, 92–4 colloquia 38, 43–5, 90, 94
archives, keeping 124 biographies
Aristotle 121, 127–8, 157 Champlin’s biography of Nero
artes liberales 32 141–2
astronomy 28 of Chaucer 138–9
Athens 24, 66, 109, 124 childhood experiences of Roman upper-
philosophical school at 28 class boys 143–50
socialization in classical 67–70 glimpses of lives from middling and
Augustine of Hippo 17, 32, 90, 97 lower ranks of society 158–9
on Greek language 40 Mémoires d’Hadrien 153–7
on peer group pressure 99 of Shakespeare 143–4
relationship with parents 77–8 Strachey as pioneer of ‘new’ 141
on socialization in family setting 76–7 Suetonius’ imperial Roman 140–3, 145,
system of paideia 75–6 150–2
INDEX 229

understanding madness of Caligula socialization and conflicting value sets

135–8, 150–2 75–81
vacuum in Roman imperial 135–41 Cicero 71, 87, 95, 122, 131
Bonner, Stanley 4 education of his children 84–5, 87
breastfeeding 7, 49, 50 civic education 67–8, 70
civic religion 68–9
Caligula Clare, John 137
childhood 144, 150 classical approach to history of education
limitations to biographies of 136–8 2–6
mental illness 135–8, 151–2 Claudius 139–40, 141, 145
canons of learning 31–2 Claudius Mamertinus 22
carrying children 51–2, 52 Clement of Alexandria 11, 16, 24
Cato the Younger 99 Paedagogus 16–17, 97
Celsus 150–1 clothing 56
chamber pots 51 Codex Justiniani 29
Champlin, Edward 141–2 Codex Theodosianus 20, 21, 113
Chaucer, Geoffrey 138–9 colloquia 38, 43–5, 90, 94
childhood 47–63 commentaries 37–8
biographical experiences of Roman communications 39–45
upper-class boys 143–50 competition 87, 89, 98–9
definitions 66 Constantine the Great 18, 138
early 54–6 Cornelia 73–4, 85
infancy 48–54 corporal punishment 89–91, 93–4, 112, 114
late 58–62 Cremin, Lawrence x, 2
middle 56–8 curriculum 8–9, 11, 12, 32, 45, 88, 107
Christian education Plato’s ideal 69–70
Augustine’s concerns over 17 Cynics 22
higher education 110 Cyril of Alexandria 25–6
in home 76–7, 80
Jerome advises on a girl’s 27–8, 35–6, Dasen, Véronique 54
98, 99–100 deaf slaves 62
memorising Greek text of Scriptures definite article 42
27–8 definitions for teachers and teaching 101–3
in monastic communities 80 democracy 67–8, 70
Paedagogus 16–17, 97 diapers 50
pagan texts in 16–17, 20, 21, 30, 33, Dickey, Eleanor 4, 38, 42, 44
34, 76 didactic aids 35–6, 38, 42–3, 122
religious classes 16–17, 17–18 didaskalos 101
restrictions for women 17–18 Diomedes 34
of Saint Perpetua 18–20 disabled children 53–4, 56
Christian marriage 77 barriers to education for 62, 63
Christian teachers 20–4, 33, 113, 115 disciplines 32–3, 37, 107
Christianity documents, written 124–6
apologists quoting Homer 16 destruction of 125
conflict between classical tradition and Donatus 37, 42
33 drinking 97
conversions to 17–18, 29, 30, 79
disability in 62 early childhood 54–6
and shift from scroll to codex 37 eating and drinking 97
230 INDEX

educare 6–7 gods 11, 12, 13–16, 20, 21

educere 6–7 Gracchi family 72–5
Egypt, fondness for children in 48–9 Gracchus, Tiberius Sempronius 72–4
elementary teachers 101, 104, 105, 108, grammar 32–5, 102, 112
110–11, 114 comparing Latin and Greek 42
enkyklios paideia 32, 107 partes grammaticae 33–4
Ennius 88, 104 grammarians 6, 102, 107, 108, 109, 110,
ephebeia (military training) 70 112, 113, 114
epic poetry 88–9 Greek alphabet 122
ethical aims of Roman education 87–8 Greek language
etiquette and social graces 95–7 Augustine on 40
etymology 6–8 bilingual competence in Latin and
Eumenius 111 39–40, 41
Eunapius of Sardes 105 cultural prestige of 42, 107
Eusebius 17–18, 58 grammar 42
exempla 71, 77, 79, 88 ownership 23
as primary language of education 39
fables 87, 89 teachers imported to Italy 107
families and households writing development 117
relationships in upper-class Roman 145–50 greetings 95, 152
socialization in 67–8, 76–7, 79–80 Gregory Nazianzenus 23
fathers 54–5 gymnasium 12–3, 60, 68, 71, 108–10
as Christian role models 76
conversions to Christianity 79 Hadrian 147, 153–7
early deaths 75, 145 Hebrew 41–2
of emperors 145 Heraclius, Cynic philosopher 22
socialization of sons 68, 69, 71–3, 76, Herodas 90–1
79–80 Herodes Atticus 123, 148
female circumcision 57 Herodotus 20, 21, 131, 157
festivals 68–9, 76–7, 78, 80 Hesiod 15, 20, 21, 24, 86
formal learning 84–94 higher education 103–4, 108–10
apprenticeships 92–4 Homer 12, 30, 40, 60, 88, 102, 126
schools 85–91 Christian apologetics on 16
slave children 91–2 Christian teachers of 20, 21, 33
Forster, E.M. 152–3 Plato’s criticism of 11, 12, 13–16
fostering children 53 Horace 112, 129
foundling children 53 Housman, A.E. 146
Fronto 106, 113, 149 Howard, Donald R. 138–9
Hypatia of Alexandria 24–7
girls
acquiring practical skills 98 Iliad 12, 33, 86, 126
apprenticeships 60–1 images 132–3
depictions of 56 indentured servitude 61
disabled 62–3 infancy 48–54
education 63, 85, 104, 122 informal learning opportunities 94–100
learning a trade 60–2 etiquette and social graces 95–7
Plato advocates education of 69 play, leisure and peer culture 98–9
socialization 66 practical skills 98
study of epic poetry 175n30 role models 97–8
INDEX 231

information, memorizing and organization levels 35, 59–60, 118, 133

of 36–7 literacies 132–4
inscriptions social difference and acquisition of
commemorative career 158 122–3
earliest 119 technology and 118–22
errors in public 133 writing and memory 128–31
of laws 128 writing and power 122–8
monumental 128, 129–31 literature review 2–6
tombstone 122, 130–1 Livius Andronicus 88
interjection 42 Livy 123
Lowell, Robert 136
Jerome 41, 105 Lucretius 40, 95
advising on Paula’s education 27–8,
35–6, 98, 99–100 Maccabees, second book of 12–13
John Chrysostom 77, 79, 80, 87 magister 101–2
Judaism and Hellenism 12–13 Malalas 28
Julian 20–4, 30, 102, 113, 115 Marcus Aurelius 106, 146–50
Julius Caesar 110, 129, 140–1 Mark Antony 125
Justinian 28–30 Marrou, Henri-Irénée 3, 4, 32
material bearers for information 36, 37
Kingsley, Charles 26–7 maxims 86, 87–8, 89, 149
knowledge 31–5 meal times 97
media 35–8
Lactantius 35 Meditations 146–8
languages Mémoires d’Hadrien 153–7
children’s exposure to different 57–8 memory, writing and 128–31
of education 39–45 menarche 58
literacies and 132 menstruation 58–9
late childhood 58–62 mental illness 135–7, 150–2
Latin of Caligula 135–88, 151–2
alphabet 122 methods, teaching 112–13
bilingual competence in Greek and middle childhood 56–8
39–41 midwife 6, 48
grammar 42 military training (ephebeia) 70
learning 38, 42–3 monumental inscriptions 128, 129–31
‘poverty of’ 40 moral guidance 7–8
use in conquered territories 123–4 mothers 85, 90, 146
writing development 117 breastfeeding 7, 49
laws responsibility for children’s disabilities
monumentalizing 128 54–5
publication of 127–8 socialization of sons 73–4, 80
unwritten 128
lectio divina 34 Nero
letter-writing 126–7, 149 Champlin’s biography of 141–2
Libanius 22, 106 childhood 145
libraries 104–5, 107 Suetonius’ biography of 141, 142–3
Licinius 17–18 Nonius Marcellus 6
literacy 117–34 North Africa, socialization in late antique
different contexts 132–4 75–81
232 INDEX

numeracies 132 poets, Plato’s criticism of 11–16

nutritor 148 Pompeius 37–8
power, writing and 122–8
orators practical skills 98
informal training of 95–6 private tutors 60, 85, 104
social status 111 of boys who would become emperors
training of 85, 102–3, 112–13 105–6
see also rhetoric, teachers of punishment 89–91, 93–4, 112, 114
Orestes 25–6 Pythagoras 13
ostracism 127
Quintilian 39, 42, 84, 106, 149
paedagogium 92, 102 advice on learning to read and write 36,
paedagogus 6, 102, 107, 114, 148 85–6, 88
Paedagogus (The Instructor) 16–17, 97 on classroom rivalries 89
pagan gods 11, 12–16, 20–1 on development of speech 95–6
pagan philosophers on education of upper-class Roman
closing of Athenian school of boys 148–9
Philosophy 28 partes grammaticae 33–4
conversions to Christianity 29–30
Justinian’s legislation 28–30 Rawson, Beryl 1–2
murder of Hypatia 24–7 read, learning to 34, 35–6, 85, 88, 102, 122
pagan texts reading aloud 34, 37
ban on Christians’ teaching of 20–4, record-keeping 124
113, 115 religion, civic 68–9
in Christian education 16–17, 20–1, 30, religious festivals 48, 68
33–4, 76 religious teaching
Parker, Peter 146 absence of pre-Christian 11, 12
pay, teachers 106–7, 108–9, 110, 111 Greek and Roman 12
peer culture 98–9 see also Christian education
Perpetua of Cathage, Saint 18–20 religious writings 124, 126
Petaus son of Petaus 119 Res Gestae 129–30
petitions 127 rhetoric, teachers of 102, 106–88
phallus 132 criticism of 114–15
phratry 69 rhetoric training 85, 95–6, 102–3, 112–13
physical movement, speed of 59, 96 role models 97–8
Plato 12, 128–9 Rome 109, 110, 140
on Homer and other poets 11, 12, 13–16 first elementary school 104
view of education 67–8, 69–70 socialization in Republican 71–5
play 54–6, 55–6, 57 running 96
depiction of girls and boys at 56
and peer culture 98–9 schola 103
Pliny the Elder 7 scholê 103
Pliny the Younger 72, 124, 129 school dialogues (colloquia) 38, 43–5, 90, 94
Plutarch 7, 48, 73, 74, 88, 91, 95, 96, 97, schools 60, 85–91
99, 127 Amheida school 60, 61
poetry 85, 88, 102, 104 competition and violence in 89–91,
Aristotle on history and 157 112, 114
competition 83 developing reading skills 88–9
copying verses from 86 first Roman elementary 104
reading epic 88–9 learning to write 85–8
INDEX 233

of philosophy 28–9 Christian 20–4, 33, 113, 115

punishment in 89–91 conflict and criticism 113–15
pupil misconduct 91 early Roman 110–11
teaching methods 112–13 elementary 101, 104, 105, 108, 110,
Scipio Africanus 72, 73 111, 114
secular education 11, 12 financial support 106–7, 108–9, 110,
Seneca the Younger 86, 96, 98, 107, 115, 111
121, 135, 148, 151 grammarians 6, 102, 107, 108–110,
sexual 112–14
exploitation of pupils 114 import of Greek language 107
morality 77, 81 of Marcus Aurelius 148
Shakespeare, William 143–4 of rhetoric 102, 106–8, 114–15
slave children social function and position 110–11,
educating and training 91–2, 122, 123 114, 148
speech development 96 teaching methods 112–13
slaves terminology 101–3
caring for and instructing upper-class technology, literacy and 118–22
children 97, 102, 114, 146, 148 teething 50
close relationships between children and terminology 101–3
100, 146 Theodoret 23–4
mental illness in 151 Theodosius I 21–2
social class and education 60, 63 Theodosius II 110
socialization 65–82 Tiberius 142, 145, 146
in Athens 67–70 toilet training 50–1
Christianity and conflicting value sets Tomb of Petosiris 51, 52
75–81 tombstones, inscriptions on 122, 130–1
of fatherless children 75 Too, Yun Lee 4–5
gender, class and 66 toys 54–6, 55–6
Gracchi family 72–5 trephein 7
new, school-based form of 108 trilingual education ideal 41–2
in North Africa 75–81 tropheus 7, 147
in Rome 71–5 trophos 7
Sozomen 23
space Varro 6, 7–8, 32, 34
children’s experiences of 57 Vespasian 109, 110, 145
for education, public 107, 109 biographies of 140–1
Spartan education 11 violence
speech in apprenticeships 93–4
development 95–7 in play 98–9
in educational settings 39 at school 89–91, 112, 114
parts of 37–8, 42 Virgil 33, 40, 88, 102
Strachey, Lytton 141 vocational training 60–2
Suetonius 104, 105, 113, 128
as biographer 140–3, 145, 150–2 weaning infants 50
Sulpicius Maximus 83–5 weaving apprenticeships 92–3
symbols 132–3 wet nurses 7, 49, 148
symposia 68 wills 125–6
women
table manners 97 educated 18–20, 24–7
teachers 104–6 negative views on marriage and 88
234 INDEX

restrictions on Christian education for memory, messaging and 35, 128–31

17–18 and power 122–8
see also girls
Woolf, Virginia 154, 157 Xenophanes 12
write, learning to 85–8
writing Yavetz, Zvi 144
development and use 117 Yourcenar, Marguerite 153–7
high value placed on 121
material bearers 36–7
 235
236