#judith p. hallett

[garland-on-thy-brow]

A little list that I made for my reading (currently in process) about Messalina and Agrippina. 

Tagging @just-late-roman-republic-things who some time ago asked whether I had reading recommendations about Agrippina and Poppaea; this question was before I also got into reading about Messalina.

Items are given in no particular order. Those I have already read are marked with +.

Vassiliki Panoussi, From Adultery to Incest: Messalina and Agrippina as Sexual Aggressors in Tacitus’ Annals. +

Joshel, S. R. (1997). "Female Desire and the Discourse of Empire: Tacitus' Messalina" Ed. by J. Hallett and M. Skinner. In Roman Sexualities (pp. p. 221-254). Princeton: Princeton University Press. +

Levick, B. (1990) Claudius.

Ginsburg, Judith. 2006. Representing Agrippina: constructions of Female Power in the Early Roman Empire. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Ash, R. (2021). "The Staging of Death: Tacitus' Agrippina the Younger and the Dramatic Turn". In Usages of the Past in Roman Historiography (pp. 197-224). 

Bauman, R. A. 1992. Women and Politics in Ancient Rome.

[dwellordream]

“One fact about the high emotional valuation of Roman daughters by their fathers and the cultural centrality of the Roman role of daughter is particularly noteworthy. Namely, this phenomenon did not apparently obtain in the two advanced societies on which the Roman elite of the classical period modeled so much of its culture: those of the Etruscans and the fifth century B.C. Athenians. Filiafocality thus differs from various other Roman sociocultural phenomena in that it was not merely a "borrowing" from one or both of these societies. Rather, its emphasis on daughters and the role of daughter enabled Roman culture to distinguish itself from both Athenian and Etruscan civilizations in a major regard. 

Both Greek and Roman authors characterize Etruscan women as hedonistic, luxury-loving, and morally abandoned. Contemporary artistic representations of Etruscan life, which we adduced as evidence in our earlier discussion of women in archaic Etruscan society, confirm the first two of these impressions, although not the third: they merely suggest that Etruscan women socialized, and socialized with males, to an extent impossible for a respectable Greek, and unthinkable for a respectable Roman, woman. Nonetheless, this "freedom" of Etruscan women seems mainly to have rendered them more compatible and dynamic public companions for their spouses. 

Representations of affectionate, pleasure-loving couples abound in Etruscan art. Roman legends about Rome's early Etruscan rulers—Tarquinius Priscus and his inspiring wife Tanaquil; Tullia, the ambitious daughter of Servius Tullius, and her goaded husband Tarquinius Superbus—also appear to furnish testimony to the cultural emphasis placed by the Etruscans on the bond between, and mutual support of, husband and wife. Furthermore, an Etruscan woman was, as noted previously, given a "name of her own," rather than a feminine form of her father's. And Etruscan inscriptions will generally identify a woman not only by this name but also by the names of her husband, mother, and father: what evidently mattered to Etruscan society were the married couple of which she was a member and the married couple which produced her.

Ties between an Etruscan woman and her father, to judge from Etruscan sources, do not seem to have mattered much at all. Roman sources, moreover, indicate that Etruscans' notions about this particular bond stood in absolute antithesis to their own. Several Roman writers make much of King Servius Tullius' assassination at his daughter's hands. Livy characterizes Tullia as, like the Greek male mother-slayer Orestes, deserving the vengeance of the Furies for desecrating hallowed blood ties. The late republican scholar Varro is reported to have declared the detestable Tullia wholly unlike another king's daughter of legendary lore, the Greek Antigone.

Indeed, so strong was the opposition in the Roman mind between Etruscans and dutiful, beloved daughters that Vergil and Dionysius of Halicarnassus, in relating stories about early Rome, portray two native daughters, Camilla and Cloelia, as both objects of paternal pride and courageous foes of Etruscan fighters. Athenian drama may have represented Antigone as noble in her devotion to her father Oedipus, and in her commitment to ties of blood—her brother and the rites owed his corpse. Yet it also casts her as a tragic and alien figure. Her uncompromising commitment to ties of blood of course brings about her death in Sophocles' play.

More significantly, in Sophocles' later Oedipus at Colonus, Antigone's public devotion to her father prompts Oedipus' baffled comparison of his supportive daughters and stay-at-home sons to exotic Egyptians, who completely reverse the roles of the sexes. Other Attic tragedies may portray daughters and unmarried sisters as figures men can comfortably trust, and therefore different from mothers and female sexual partners: one thinks of Electra, and the way in which Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides contrast her nature and conduct with those of her mother, Clytemnestra.

But the death of Electra's sister Iphigenia at her father's hands, though provoking sorrow and outrage from chorus and characters in various plays by all three leading tragedians, is depicted as a far less heinous act than Clytemnestra's murder of her husband, and far less consequential than Orestes' slaying of his mother. As far as one can tell, it took Lucretius, a Roman poet, to raise this Greek mythic episode to a paradigm for culturally inspired barbarity. Other evidence from and about fifth-century B.C. Athenian society confirms the implications of Attic tragedy and provides more reliable proof that Athenian men did not assign much value to female children or cultural emphasis to their role. 

In classical Athens daughters could not—as could their Roman counterparts—inherit their fathers' property in their own right. Brotherless daughters were reckoned epikleroi, "women included in the paternal estate." Upon her father's death, an epikleros was ordinarily expected to become the ward of, and marry, her father's anchisteus, closest living male relative; such marriages between epikleroi and their fathers' kinsmen often necessitated divorces between epikleroi and their present husbands. The male offspring of an epikleros and this new husband (the closest approximation genetically to a son his late maternal grandfather could have sired) would then inherit the dead man's estate.

All Athenian women, moreover, automatically became wards of their husbands upon marriage (although the kyrios, guardian, of a widow or divorcee was merely her closest living male relative, and might be her father, brother or son). This phenomenon, combined with upper-class women's segregation from men's affairs, allowed for little contact between a well-born woman and a male relative other than a kyrios·, it hence militated against much contact between a well-born woman in the kyrieia of a husband and her father or brother. Additionally, when speaking in law courts about respectable and respected women, the Athenians tended to identify them not by their given names, but in terms of their current kyrios—e.g. Spudias' wife, Onetor's sister—reinforcing their lack of legal personhood and their dependence on the man who served as their guardian.”

- Judith P. Hallett, “Filae Familiae.” in Fathers and Daughters in Roman Society: Women and the Elite Family

[alessandroiiidimacedonia]

Forthcoming paperback: "Power Couples in Antiquity. Transversal Perspectives" edited by Anne Bielman Sánchez

Forthcoming paperback: “Power Couples in Antiquity. Transversal Perspectives” edited by Anne Bielman Sánchez

Good day, thanks to be here on Alessandro III di Macedonia! Here’s a new interesting coming soon release that might interest some of you: Power Couples in AntiquityTransversal Perspectives Edited by Anne Bielman Sánchez Out on: June 30, 2021 – by Routledge Everyone can name a couple made up of famous, rich, or powerful partners, who cultivate a joint media image which is stronger than either…

[a2000yearjourney]

Rome 49BC: Order from Chaos

Two thousand years ago, at the dawn of the first century, the world was ruled from Rome. Rome was in turmoil. Civil war had engulfed the empire’s capital city. Dictators seized power, and the Roman future seemed bleak. But from the chaos, the Roman Empire would rise stronger and more dazzling than ever before. Within a few short years, it would stretch from Britain, across Europe, to southern Egypt, from North Africa around the Mediterranean, to the Middle East. It would embrace hundreds of languages and religions and would till those diverse cultures into a rich soil, from which western civilizations would grow. Rome would become the world’s first and most enduring super power, spanning continents. The glory days of Rome were studded with names that reach out to us across two millennia: Ovid and Nero, Seneca and Caligula. But the story of Rome is more than the story of famous men. Millions of less familiar figures struck different chords in the symphony of empire. People such as the wealthy benefactor, Umachia. The rebel queen, Boudicca, and countless uncelebrated soldiers and slaves, senators and peasants.

Above them all, is this man, Caesar Augustus. This was the emperor who set the tone for the astonishing renaissance of Rome.

Part one of my history tells the story of Augustus, (the great-grandfather of my 51st great granduncle) and his people, the men and women who wrested order from chaos. They shaped the greatest empire the world has ever seen and launched the Roman Empire in the first century.

Two thousand years after Egypt’s pharaoh’s reigned supreme, four hundred years after the flowering of Greek culture, three hundred years after Alexander the great - a boy named Octavian was born in a small Italian town. The child would one day be called Augustus, and his birth, one ancient historian tells us, would be gilded by legend. His father, leading an army through distant lands, went to a sacred grove, seeking prophecy on the boy’s future. When wine was poured on the altar, flames shot up to heaven. The signs were heard only once before, by Alexander the Great. The priest declared that Augustus would be ruler of the world.

Suetonius tells the story. Writing at the turn of the first century, he based his biography on eyewitness accounts, on common gossip and on research conducted as imperial librarian. In truth, he writes that the prospects of young Augustus were far from grand. The boy was sickly, with few connections. His family were country people. His father was the first in their line to join the Senate. But worse - Augustus was born into dangerous times. Civil war had flared for decades. Feuding nobles fought to gain power for themselves. And Rome’s traditions of open government were often trampled underfoot. So too, were innocent bystanders. When Augustus was just four years old, his father suddenly died. Without a male mentor, the boy’s future looked bleak. But in 49 BC, when he was thirteen, Augustus’ fortunes took a dramatic turn. For in that year, his great uncle, Julius Caesar, gained the upper hand on the battlefield. Leading an army across the Rubicon River, Caesar declared himself master of Rome and ruler of an empire still aspiring to greatness. At the time of Julius Caesar, the Roman Empire was a bit like a boy who has reached six feet tall, yet he’s only fourteen or fifteen years old. He’s not yet a man. The externals of empire were there - the armies were there. The Romans governed most of the coast of the Mediterranean, with the exception of Egypt. However, they had not yet learned to bring that into a functioning organism. The past decades of internal fighting had weakened the empire. Northern tribes harried the borders. Enemies were confronting Rome in the east. And the province of Spain threatened to break free. Julius Caesar moved quickly to bolster the frontiers, and his own legacy. Caesar had no heir, so when Augustus completed a dangerous mission, Caesar adopted the teenager in his will. Karl Galinsky, Professor of Classics, University of Texas, Austin:

“Augustus realized this was a tremendous opportunity. Mind you, he had no military training, but he was the heir of the greatest political figure that was under the Roman sky at that time - and he cashed in on it.”

It was a heady opportunity for Augustus, but also a perilous challenge. For in 44 BC, foreigners were not the only threat to stability. There were enemies within Caesar’s small circle of advisors. They murdered Caesar at a meeting of the Senate. For the second time in his life, Augustus lost a father. Now, on the verge of manhood, he thrust himself into the maelstrom of Roman politics. Keith Bradley, Professor of Greek and Roman Studies, University of Victoria:

“The death of Julius Caesar was not just a turning point in Augustus’ life, it was a turning point in world history. Augustus was extremely young at this time, only in his nineteenth year. Yet when he knew that he had been made Caesar’s heir, he immediately took up the political legacy of Caesar. He entered the mainstream of Roman politics. He didn’t hesitate to try to avenge his father. That meant, of course, stepping onto the stage of politics, raising an army and immersing himself in a contest for supreme political power in Rome.”

He displayed brutality against enemy prisoners. Once, when a father and son were begging for their lives, he ordered that they should draw lots to determine which one should be executed. The father offered himself and was killed. Because of this, the son committed suicide. Augustus watched them both die. Suetonius describes the crisis as “trial by fire” and Augustus didn’t flinch from the task. He formed a strategic alliance with Marc Antony, a powerful general, who also wanted supremacy. Together they massacred their enemies in the capital. Then they pursued their rivals to the shores of Greece, where they fought and won two of the bloodiest battles in Roman history. When the carnage ended, the empire was theirs. Augustus and Antony divided the spoils of war. Augustus remained in Rome. But Antony took control of Egypt, a land not formally joined to Rome, but firmly under the empire’s command. There, he joined forces with Egypt’s queen. Ancient historians, like Cassius Dio, believed that was a fateful move. When Antony fell deeply in love with his new ally, many feared the ambitious queen was scheming to rule Rome herself. Her name was Cleopatra. Cleopatra’s brazen desire for passion and wealth was insatiable. By love, she had made herself queen of Egypt. But she failed in her goal to become queen of the Romans. Judith P. Hallett, Professor of Classics, University of Maryland, College Park:

“Cleopatra did not enjoy a good press in Rome. What really irritated people about Cleopatra was that she was a powerful woman from the east, and from a very wealthy country with a monarchic system of government. She therefore symbolized lack of moderation, lack of control, frenzied fury, everything that Rome tried not to be. Cleopatra and Antony were cast as leaders of the evil empire.” Antony’s alliance with Augustus withered. But Augustus struck first. The poet, Virgil, later cast the battle as an epic struggle of east against west. “Standing high on the stern, Augustus leads the Italians into battle. Carrying with him the bite of the Senate and the people. Opposing him, with barbarian wealth, is Antony, suited for battle. He carries with him the powers of the orient. And to the scandal of all, his Egyptian wife, their monstrous divinities raised weapons against our noble, Roman gods.” Three quarters of the Egyptian fleet was destroyed. Anthony and Cleopatra committed suicide - and the land of the pharaohs was formally annexed to the Roman Empire. Judith Hallet:

“The annexation of Egypt for Augustus was immensely important. It was the equivalent of Hitler’s troops marching through the streets of Paris. Here was a wealthy country that was going to be providing food, that was going to be providing land. But above all, it was a country of great cultural prestige, and once Rome had Egypt as part of its empire, they had truly arrived.”

A Voice:

“There is nothing that man can wish from the gods, nothing the gods can do for men which Augustus, when he returned to the city, did not do for the public, the Roman people, and the entire world. Civil wars were finished - foreign wars ended and everywhere the fury of arms was put to rest.” Upon Augustus’ return to a war torn Rome in 29 BC, the city went wild with enthusiasm. The triumphant general vowed to restore peace and security. It was a promise he would keep. The victory of Augustus launched a period of stunning cultural vitality, of religious renewal and of economic well being that spread throughout the empire. It would be called the ‘Pax Romana’ - the peace of Rome. To many, it marked the return of Rome’s mythic and glorious past. But Augustus himself would never return to the past. He was now a hardened thirty-two-year-old man - the sole ruler of the Greco-Roman world, Rome’s first emperor. Victory had been costly, but the greatest challenge still lay ahead, for to avoid the fate of Julius Caesar, Augustus must disarm the Senate and charm the masses. He must do better than win the war. He must win the peace. That challenge would occupy the rest of his life. A Voice:

“Let me step forward, clear my throat, and announce that I am a native of Soula, a few days’ journey eastward from Rome.” While Augustus fought his way to the pinnacle of power, a boy named Ovid was coming of age under less demanding circumstances. Ovid Speaks:

“I was the second son, a year to the day younger than my brother. We always had two cakes on the birthday we shared, and were close in other ways as well. We studied together, and then went up to Rome to seek our fortunes. I used to waste my time trying to write verses. My father called it waste. He disapproved of any pursuit where you could not turn a decent living, and always used to say, ‘Homer died poor.’” Ovid came from the same stock as Augustus. They were both landed gentries, and like Augustus, the young man found his identity and his ambitions moulded by his demanding family.

Ovid:

“I tried to give up poetry, to stick to prose on serious subjects, but frivolous minds like mine attract frivolous inspirations, some too good not to fool with. I kept returning to my bad habits, secretive and ashamed. I couldn’t help it, I felt like an impostor in serious matters, but I owed it to my father and my brother to try to do my duty.” By Roman law, a father wielded absolute control over his children. Those who displeased him could be disowned, sold into slavery or even killed. The young Ovid tried to meet his father’s expectations. He married, studied law - but the strain proved unendurable. Miserable, Ovid and a friend set out on a journey of self-discovery. Ovid:

“We toured the magnificent cities of Asia. We watched the flames of Mount Etna light up the heavens. We ploughed the waves in a painted ship, and also travelled by wagon. Often the roads seemed short, as we were lost in conversation. When we walked, our words outnumbered our steps - and we had too much to say, even for the long evenings of supper.” Eighteen months later, Ovid settled in Rome, older and more self-confident than before. He resolved to become a poet. He cultivated new friends in Roman literary circles, and soon, Ovid made a name for himself as Rome’s reigning poet - of stolen kisses. Ovid:

“So your husband is coming to this dinner party? I hope he gags on his food. Listen - and learn what you must do. When he settles on his couch to eat, go to him with a straight face. Look modest and lie back beside him. But secretly touch me with your foot. Don’t let him drape his arms around your neck, don’t rest your gentle head against his chest - don’t welcome his fingers to your lap or to your eager nipples. Most of all, no kissing. When dinner is done, your husband will close the bedroom door. But whatever the night shall bring, tell me tomorrow - you refused.”

Keith Bradley:

“It’s a mistake to think that Ovid’s poetry can be read very literally in purely autobiographical terms. That wouldn’t be true, I think, of any poetry from antiquity. But at the same time, Ovid is writing of subjects of which he has some sort of experience and he certainly, through the love poetry, opens up a world that is very different in tone and quality from the official atmosphere.”

While Ovid bloomed as a man of words, the new emperor thrived as a man of action. He rebuilt Rome - and his own family. Divorcing his wife, Augustus married his heavily pregnant mistress - Livia. The move raised eyebrows and hackles, as love was not the only motive. Although Augustus shunned the trappings of absolute power, many suspected he was building a dynasty - a line of heirs to rule Rome for generations to come. Augustus knew it was a dangerous move. He knew that Julius Caesar had been murdered for appearing as a king. Augustus would not make the same mistake. He relinquished high office and struck a delicate balance between fact and fiction.

Augustus writes:

“Having, by universal consent, acquired control of all affairs, I transferred government to the Senate and the people of Rome.” Judith Hallet:

“Augustus was a very cagey political leader because he pretended to be restoring all of these republican political traditions. In fact, what he was running was a full-fledged dynastic monarchy.” A Voice:

“Augustus conquered Cantabria, Aquitania, Pannonia, Dalmatia and all of Illyricum, as well as Raetia.” Augustus not only changed the empire, he expanded it. Egypt had been added early in his career. Soon, Northern Spain was joined. Augustus drove across Europe, into Germany, and he united east and west by adding modern Hungary, Austria, the Balkans and central Turkey. These victories employed Roman soldiers and senators and offered welcome distractions to the city’s poor. When Augustus wasn’t staging chariot races or gladiator shows, he displayed exotic animals, the quarry of Rome’s far-flung empire. A rhinoceros appeared in the arena, Asian tigers in the theatre and a giant serpent in the forum.

Karl Galinsky:

“One key constituency for Augustus was the plebeian population of Rome, and that is basically the city mob. You have several hundred thousand folks here who have no jobs, and to put it very simply, who need to be kept off the streets, and kept from making trouble, because it’s a very volatile, combustible mixture.” The volatile mix that made up Rome stayed quiet for the first four years of Augustus’ rule. Then, in 23 BC, events took a critical turn. Cassius Dio writes that a series of disasters convinced the people that Augustus needed not less power, but more. “The city was flooded by the over flowing river and many things were struck by lightning. Then a plague passed through Italy and no one could work the land. The Romans thought these misfortunes were caused because Augustus had relinquished his office. They wished to appoint him dictator. A mob barricaded the Senate inside its building and threatening to burn them alive, forced the Senate to vote Augustus absolute ruler.” The demands threatened to unsettle the emperor’s precarious political balance. Augustus fell to his knees before the riders. He tore his toga and beat his chest. He promised the mob that he would personally take control of the grain supply. But Augustus refused to be called a dictator. The crowd disbanded, but the lesson was clear. Augustus was riding a tiger. To keep order on the frontiers, the streets and the Senate was a super human task. Super human skills were needed. Luckily for Rome, Augustus had them. Karl Galinsky:

“Then something very fortuitous happens: Halley’s Comet shows up and the word is given out by Augustus that this is the soul of Julius Caesar ascending into heaven. So from this point on he is called Julius Caesar the divine. Politically it became very potent, because what does Augustus do at this point? On all his coinage on all his writings, on all his symbols, whatever, he puts on the words “DF”, meaning Son of the Divine. And it’s really quite an asset in politics to be the Son of the Divine. There are modern politicians I think would be very jealous of being able to do that.”

Augustus enhanced his pious new identity with stories of his lean habits. It was said that he slept in a modest house, and slept on a low bed, that he ate common foods, coarse bread, common cheese, and sometimes, even less.

Augustus:

“My dear Tiberius, not even a Jew observes a fast as diligently on the Sabbath as I have today. I ate nothing until the early hours of evening when I nibbled two bites before my rub down.”

Moral change, Augustus began to argue, was the enemy of Rome. He believed that its future ran through its past, through the restoration of the values he thought had first made Rome great. Augustus:

“I renewed many traditions which were fading in our age. I restored eighty-two temples of the gods, neglecting none that required repair at the time.” In public, Augustus led by example. He sacrificed animals in traditional rituals and he re-established traditional social rules. New laws assigned theatre seats by social rank. Women were confined to the back rows. Adultery was outlawed; marriage and children were encouraged. To many, Roman society had recovered its true course. The son of a god was building an empire for the ages. Augustus:

“Who can find words to adequately describe the advancements of these years? Authority has been returned to the government, majesty to the Senate, and influence to the courts. Protests in the theatre have been stopped, integrity is honored, depravity is punished.” But amid the applause, there were also cries of protest. The emperor’s new traditional values rankled friends and enemies alike. It even rankled his own daughter, Julia. Long a pawn of family politics, Julia assumed that she was exempt from her father’s stringent views. She was wrong. And in the coming years, Augustus, son of a god, would have to confront Augustus the father.

“If there is anyone here who is a novice in the art of love, let him read my book. With study, he will love like a professional.” As the emperor, Augustus firmly charted a course of moral rigor. The poet Ovid staked out different ground. He was now Rome’s most famous living poet, and his boldness grew in step with his reputation. Having all but exhausted the conventions of love poetry, he decided to stretch them. He began composing a manual of practical tips on adultery.

Ovid writes:

“Step one - stroll under a shady colonnade. Don’t miss the shrine of Adonis, but the theatre is your best hunting ground. There you will find women to satisfy any desire, just as ants come and go, so the cultured ladies swarm to the games. They come for the show - and to make a show of themselves. There are so many I often reel from the choice.” Many Romans yearned to follow their emperor back to the good old days of stern Roman virtue. But others reveled in the promises of Rome’s newfound peace. Ovid was one of them. To the youthful poet, old limits seemed meaningless. “Do not doubt you can have any girl you wish. Some give in, others resist but all love to be propositioned. And even if you fail, rejection doesn’t hurt. Why should you fail? Women always welcome pleasure and find novelty exciting.” Indeed, the earlier civil wars had unleashed enormous social change. Some women had gained political clout, new rights, and new freedoms. Tradition holds that one such woman was Julia, the emperor’s only child.

“Julia had a love of letters and was well educated - a given in that family. She also had a gentle nature and no cruel intentions. Together these brought her great esteem as a woman.”

Julia didn’t reject traditional values wholesale. She had long endured her father’s overbearing control. She dutifully married three times to further his dynastic ambitions, and she bore five children. Her two boys, Guyus and Luccius were cherished by Augustus as probable heirs. But like Ovid, Julia expected more from the peace. She was clever and vivacious, and she had an irreverent tongue that cut across the grain of Roman convention. Her legendary wit was passed through the centuries by a late Roman writer called Macrobius.

Macrobius writes:

“Several times her father ordered her in a manner both doting and scolding to moderate her lavish clothes and keep less mischievous company. Once he saw her in a revealing dress. He disapproved but held his tongue. The next day, in a different dress, she embraced her father with modesty. He could not contain his joy and said, ‘Now isn’t this dress more suited to the daughter of Augustus?’ Julia retorted, ‘Today I am dressed for my father’s eyes. Yesterday I dressed for my husband.’

But apparently Julia’s charms were not reserved for her husband alone. The emperor’s daughter took many lovers.

Judith Hallet:

“Her dalliances were so well known that people were actually surprised when her children resembled her second husband, who was the father of her five children. She wittily replied, “Well that’s because I never take on a passenger unless I already have a full cargo.” The meaning here is that she waited until she was already pregnant before undertaking these dalliances, so concerned was she to protect the bloodlines of these offspring.“

Julia, like Ovid, was a testament to her times. But neither of them were average Romans. The life they represented shocked traditional society to the core. And as Julia entered her thirty-eighth year, crisis loom

"In that year, a scandal broke out in the emperor’s own home. It was shameful to discuss, horrible to remember

One Roman soldier voiced deep revulsion at Julia’s extraordinary self-indulgence. "Julia, ignoring her father Augustus, did everything which is shameful for a woman to do, whether through extravagance or lust. She counted her sins as though counting her blessings, and asserted her freedom to ignore the laws of decency.” Julia’s behavior erupted into a full-blown political crisis, which was marked by over-blown claims. The emperor’s daughter was rumored to hold nightly revels in Rome’s public square. She was said to barter sexual favors from the podium where her father addressed the people. When the gossip reached Augustus, the emperor flew into a violent rage. He refused to see visitors. Upon emerging, Suetonius reports, he publicly denounced his only child. “He wrote a letter, advising the Senate of her misbehavior, but was absent when it was read. He secluded himself out of shame, and even considered a death sentence for his daughter. He grew more obstinate, when the Roman people came to him several times, begging for her sake. He cursed the crowd that they should have such daughters and such wives.” As a father, Augustus could not abide Julia’s behavior. As an emperor, he could not tolerate the embarrassment. Augustus banished Julia for the rest of her life. “I was going to pass over the ways a clever girl might elude a husband or a watchful guard. But since you need help - here is my advice.” Soon after Julia’s exile, Ovid released his salacious poem. It couldn’t have been more poorly timed. “Of course a guard stands in your way, but you can still write. Compose love letters while alone in the bathroom and send them out with an accomplice. She can hide them next to her warm flesh, under her breasts or bound beneath her foot. Should your guard get wind of these schemes, she can offer her skin for paper and carry out notes written on her body.” Ovid’s poetry extolled behavior for which the emperor’s daughter was banished. Her fate loomed large as a warning. For the present, the emperor remained mute towards Rome’s most gifted rebel. Ovid turned his hand to less provocative forms of poetry. He remarried, and he embraced a new appreciation for discretion.

“Enjoy forbidden pleasures in their place. But when you dress, don’t forget your mask of decorum. An innocent face hides more than a lying tongue.” Ovid was on notice. The order of Augustus had firm bounds of propriety and Ovid had tested them to the fullest. “Now consider the dangers of night. Tiles fall from the rooftop and crack you on the head. And the drunken hooligan, spoiling for a fight, cannot rest without a brawl. What can you do when a raving madman confronts you? Or tenants throw their broken pots out the window? You’re courting disaster if you go to dinner before writing your will.” At the turn of the first century, the poet Juvenal, was writing verses, which exposed much of Rome to scorn. He was acerbic and had a keen eye for the gritty realities of urban life. Juvenal writes:

“Our apartment block is a tottering ruin. The building manager props it up with slender poles and plasters over the gaping cracks. Then he bids us sleep safe and sound in his wretched death trap.” Ronald Mellor, Professor of History, UCLA:

I don’t think our notion of Rome bears much relation to the Rome of every day life. Because what is left today are the big public buildings, not the squalid hovels without plumbing and sanitary conditions that ordinary people lived in. That’s precisely the reason members of the elite preferred to withdraw up into the hills, and to have their villas up on the hills, a little bit away from the noise and away from the stench and away from that incredible hoard of people pressing close together. Juvenal writes:

“I would love to live where there are no fears, in the dark of night. Even now, I smell fire and hear a neighbor cry out for water as he struggles to save his measly belongings. Smoke pours out from the third story as flames move upwards, but the poor wretch who lives at the top with the leaking roof and roosting birds, is oblivious to the danger, and sure to burn.” In the year 4, in the imperial palace, the emperor, Augustus also lost sleep, but not from fear of fire. Now an old man of sixty-six, Augustus has lost much of his youthful vigor. “His vision had faded in his left eye, his teeth were few, widely spaced and worn down, his hair wispy and yellowed. His skin was irritated by scratching and vehement scraping, so that he had chronic rough spots, resembling ring worm.” As the emperor neared death, plots to succeed him sprouted. His grandsons and intended heirs had both died, unexpectedly. And the emperor himself lived under constant threat of assassination. Speaking for Augustus, one ancient historian voiced his dilemma: “Whereas solitude is dreadful,” he wrote, “company is also dreadful - the very men who protect us are most terrifying.” Andrew Wallace-Hadrill, Director, British School, Rome:

“In many ways, Augustus looked so solid, and what he created looked so solid you forget the fragility. I think contemporaries were very aware of that fragility. And surely Augustus was, he was - over anxious, in a sense, to provide a secure system after he’d gone.”

At this time, there were unusually strong earthquakes. The Tiber pulled down the bridge and flooded the city for seven days. There was a partial eclipse of the sun, and famine developed. Ancient historians report that natural disasters predicted political ones. In the year 6, soldiers, the backbone of the empire, refused to re-enlist without a pay rise. New funds had to be found. Then, fire swept parts of the capital. A reluctant Augustus turned to taxation. It was a dangerous tactic, and the emperor knew it. Fearing a coup, Augustus dispersed potential enemies. He recessed the courts and disbanded the Senate. He even dismissed his own retinue - Rome remained on edge.

“The mob, distressed by the famine of the taxes after the fire… openly discussed rebellion. When night fell, they hung seditious posters.” The crisis passed. But soon a new and even greater disaster battered the aging Augustus. It began in Germany, a land of fiercely independent tribes, and to the Roman eye, rugged barbarism. The region had been recently conquered, and Roman customs were taking root - or so they thought. “The barbarians had not forgotten their ancient traditions, their free way of life or the power of arms. But, as long as they were assimilated slowly, they did not realize they were changing, and did not resist Roman influence.” That peaceful evolution stopped, however, in the year 9. The year an arrogant young General named Quinctilius Varus became commander of the Rhine army, and brought an iron fist to the province. “He forced more drastic change on the barbarians, and exacted money as if they were his subjects.” Varus disastrously miscalculated the extent of Roman control, and misjudged German compliance. A trusted German chieftain organized a full-scale revolt, and lured Varus’ troops into a trap, deep in unfamiliar terrain. “The mountains were rocky and covered with ravines. The trees were dense and tall so that the Romans were struggling to make progress. Rain began to fall in sheets. The heavy wind scattered their numbers. The ground became slippery around the tree trunks and leaves. While the Romans were dealing with these troubles, the barbarians surrounded them, suddenly coming from everywhere. First, they came from afar. Then, since no one was fighting back and many were wounded, the barbarians came ever closer, and the Romans were unable to retaliate. They kept crashing into each other…They could not grip their arrows or javelins. The rain forced their weapons from their hands. Even their sodden shields were useless. And so every man and every horse was slaughtered.” Three legions were massacred - a tenth of Rome’s army. Augustus, his biographer reports, was traumatized. “They say he was so disturbed, that for several months, he let his hair and beard grow, and would sometimes bash his head on doors and cry out 'Quntillius Varus, give me back my legions.’” The disaster in Germany underscored a stark reality. The empire was born of violence, and to violence, it ever threatened to return. The emperor was in no mood for leniency. “Believe me, love’s climax of pleasure should not be rushed, but savored. But when you reach those places a woman loves to have touched, don’t let shame get in the way, don’t back off. You’ll see her eyes shine with a trembling light, as when the sun glitters on rippling water. She’ll moan and murmur sweet words just right for the game. But don’t outpace your mistress, or let her leave you in the dust. Rush to the finish line in unison. When man and woman collapse together, they both win. That’s the greatest prize.” Ovid’s sizzling words gripped Rome when they were first published. But a decade later, they would return to haunt him. For the patience of the emperor Augustus has reached its lowest point. Beleaguered, he saw plots in every corner, anarchy in every act of disobedience. Blaming the subversive book, Augustus banished Ovid from Rome. “Hello. Are you there? If so, indulge these verses of mine. They don’t come from my garden, or from that old couch I used to sprawl on. Whoever you are and in whatever parlor or bedroom or study, I have been writing on decks, propped up against bulkheads.” The poet was sent to an untamed backwater on the edges of the empire, on the shores of the black sea. For Ovid, the ultimate urban sophisticate, no punishment could have been harsher. His roguish aplomb crumbled to anguish. “When night falls here, I think of that other night when I was cast out into the endless gloom. We managed to laugh, once or twice, when my wife found, in some old trunk, odd pieces of clothing. This might be the thing this season, the new Romanian mode. And just as abruptly, our peal of laughter would catch, and tear into tears. And we

held each other. My wife sobbed at the hearth. What could I say? I took the first step with which all journeys begin, but could not take the second. I was barely able to breathe. I set forth again. Behind me, she fell, rolling, onto the floor, her hair swept onto the hearth, stirring up the dust and ashes. I heard her call my name. I thought I had survived the worst - what could be worst? But my wife arose, pursued me, held on to me weeping. Servants pulled her away. Whatever worth there was in me died there.”

Ovid was sure his talents would bring him home. He wrote constantly. And as he waited, he sought refuge in a remote frontier town. When the temperatures dropped, Ovid wrote, the wine froze in its vessels, the river in its banks. Across the ice thundered hostile horsemen, plundering and killing. It was a brutal life. Ovid wrote home from exile, a side of the empire that few Romans ever saw. “Beyond these rickety walls there’s no safety. And inside it’s hardly better. Barbarians live in most of the houses - even if you’re not afraid of them you’ll despise their long hair and clothes made of animal skins. They all do business in their common language. I have to communicate with gestures. I am understood by no one, and the stupid peasants insult my Latin words. They heckle me to my face, and mock my exile.” Writing for this audience, Ovid complained, was like “dancing in the dark.” As the years passed, Ovid shrivelled into a bony old man. He fell ill. Contrition replaced his former bravado. “Oh, I repent I repent. If anyone as wretched as I can be believed, I do repent. I am tortured by my deed.” Ovid, however, never got an answer to his pleas. And would never get a reprieve. As he approached death, he became sadly resigned to his fate. “Look at me. I yearn for my country, my home, and for you. I have lost everything that I once had. But I still have my talent. Emperors have no jurisdiction over that. My fame will survive, even after I am gone. And as long as Rome dominates the world, I will be read.” Nine years into his exile, Ovid died. He outlived Augustus, but he had bent to the emperor’s will. At the start of the emperor’s public life, Augustus had won the wars engulfing Rome. By the end, he had won the peace, and men like Ovid paid the price. In the years ahead, when lesser men would rule Rome, that price would rise higher still. “Oh Jupiter and Mars and all gods that raise the Roman Empire to ruler of the world, I invoke you and I pray - guard this prosperity, this peace, now and into the future.” In the year 14, prayers such as these were heard around the vast dominion ruled by Rome. For in that year, the empire stood at a precipice. The emperor Augustus had died. Augustus had been a towering figure. He had extinguished a century of civil war. He presided over forty years of internal peace and prosperity. He forged the vision and power that cemented the empire together. But the peace of Augustus came at a price. By the end of his life, Augustus had eclipsed the Senate, ruled as a monarch, and founded a dynasty that was fraught with troubles. His heirs, Tiberius, Caligula, Claudius - these men would lead Rome through years of political terror, imperial madness, assassination - and through the distant founding of a new religion that would one day engulf the empire itself. The years to come would be years of trial - testing the endurance of subjects and citizens, soldiers, and slaves. The men and women of the Roman Empire in the first century.

[hearthglow]

Question time. I am reading Marcus Aurelius's Meditations and in the first book he condemns "homosexuality." The Meditations were originally written in Greek, I know, but I'm not sure if ancient Roman concepts of male-male relationships translates easily into modern English. Unfortunately the translator/editor does not make any useful notes on this passage. Can you shed some light on male-male relationships in Roman antiquity?

SO. Despite being queer, this is something I read less about than I should, because it is kind of a minefield of exhaustion. To begin, you need to be constantly aware of the huge gaping discourse pits that plague ancient sexuality studies, especially when it comes to male-male relationships:

1. Labeling issues.Modern sexualities do not map to ancient ones. This should be kind of obvious as they are separated by 2000+ years of history, but you would be surprised how badly this works out in practice. The problem here is that after being violently written out of history for basically forever, anything that vaguely sounds like “gay people didn’t exist back then” is obviously inflammatory. (And some gross academics have indeed argued just that.) The basic idea is that there is no neat 1-to-1 translation system of our current sexuality spectrum to the ancient spectrum, and our modern day realities can’t be imported backwards. However, this leads us to…

2. Language issues.We don’t really have specific terms for much of the ancient spectrum, so we have to use modern words, which results in people applying their current conceptions. But wait, there’s more! We’ve got textual/linguistic issues where there is no differentiation between words for homosexuality (interest-only-in-men), homosexual behavior (acts-with-men), and pederasty.  Then you have hundreds of years of bigoted translators conflating homosexuality and pederasty. And then you’ve got today, where pederasty itself doesn’t neatly map to modern CSA but is understandably not something victims want distant academics philosophizing about!! Everyone is trapped navigating between Abuse Apologism and the Predatory Gays stereotype, which are both a helluva lot more harmful than Scylla and Charybdis ever were.

3. Reception issues.With modern lgbtqia+ movements and queer theory rising in academia, we’ve seen a lot more perceptions and interpretations of classical works. There’s a tendency for any academic questioning of these minority narratives to be taken as an attack (and sometimes it IS, like with the hyper-focus on Sappho). A lot of “Western” sexuality movements also owe a huge debt and inspiration to their own imaginings of the classics, and while they aren’t invalidated by those imaginings being disproved, it can sure feel like that’s the goal sometimes. Murky waters.

4. Agency issues.A lot of lgbtqia+ people have really bad experiences with being labeled rather than choosing labels. Since we can’t talk to ancient Romans and have them self-define, we’re either stuck discussing trends rather than people (which is impersonal), or deciding that because they do X, they must be Z. This results in sweeping generalizations: “well technically they’re all bi” or “if they ever had male/male sex they must be gay” and so on. But that kind of black/white labeling doesn’t manage to describe reality today either.0

5. (Bonus issue: Academia can’t keep up with our terminology which results in anything older than about 5-7 years being cringe-worthy and if I read one more article talking about a two-sexed image being bisexual I’m gonna friggin lose it)

—

Meanwhile, there are the ancient biases that one has to take into account:

1. We mostly know about ELITE male/male customs, as systemized in unbalanced arrangements and/or pederasty. There is considerably less data on the other 99% of Romans.

2. Active/Submissive. Labels were based on role during intercourse, not interest/attraction as our spectrum generally works today. The stereotypes surrounding men taking an active role (dick go in thing) were completely different than those about men taking a submissive role (thing dick go in). This also aligned ‘submissive’ roles with women, who performed the same function, and so doubled the implication of unmanliness.

3. Propaganda. If you hate an emperor/politician, make him seen unmanly. If you want to make him seem unmanly, say he’s submissive to other men and does other “womanly” things. It was a pretty simple equation. This does not mean everything is hands down a lie, but this is a bias that has to be accounted for when we delve into questions about the Galli, Elgabalus, and basically any secondhand report.

It’s kind of like if you had to write a history of modern sexual identities, but all you had were some 00s top/bottom stereotypes, homophobic diatribes, some philosophical meta on RPF, vague mentions of rainbow parades, and a handful of closeted love letters. In another language. Missing 90% of its context.

—

All of that said, there is constant work being done in the area, though more (and more varied) work is always needed. Here is a small chronological sampling across a few disciplines, with a caveat that I have not read most of these yet myself – apologies if they willingly hurl themselves into a discourse hellscape.

Richlin, Amy. “Not before Homosexuality: The Materiality of the Cinaedus and the Roman Law against Love between Men.” Journal of the History of Sexuality 3-4, 1993. Cited by just about everything that comes after.

Parker, Holt. “The Teratogenic Grid.” In Roman Sexualities, ed. by Judith P. Hallett and Marilyn B. Skinner, 1997. A breakdown of the active-passive binary used by later work.

Taylor, Rabun. “Two Pathic Subcultures in Ancient Rome.” Journal of the History of Sexuality, Vol. 7-3, 1997.

Gregg, Christopher A. Homoerotic Objectification in Roman Art: The Legacy of Ganymede. Dissertation for the University of North Carolina, 2000. Art theory.

Karras, Ruth Mazo. “Active/Passive, Acts/Passions: Greek and Roman Sexualities.” The American Historical Review, Vol. 105-4, 2000. Review of recent scholarship.

Bartman, Elizabeth. “Eros’s Flame: Images of Sexy Boys in Roman Ideal Sculpture.” Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome. Supplementary Volume 1, 2002. Art theory.

Eger, A. “Age and Male Sexuality: ‘Queer Space’ in the Roman Bathhouse?” JRA Supplementary Series 65, 2007

Williams, Craig. Roman Homosexuality. 2nd edition, 2010. (See Bryn Mawr Classical Review here.)

Latham, Jacob. “Fabulous Clap-Trap”: Roman Masculinity, the Cult of Magna Mater, and Literary Constructions of the Galli at Rome from the Late Republic to Late Antiquity.“ The Journal of Religion, Vol. 92-1, 2012

Larson, Jennifer. Greek and Roman Sexualities: A Sourcebook. 2012. Collection of primary sources.

Ingleheart, Jennifer. Ancient Rome and the Construction of Modern Homosexual Identities. 2015. Reception studies.

And to circle all the way back to Marcus Aurelius, I give you:

Richlin, Amy. Marcus Aurelius in Love. 2007

Laes, Christian. “What Could Marcus Aurelius Feel for Fronto?” Studia Humaniora Tartuensia 10.A.3, 2009

[dwellordream]

“...Nevertheless, in the face of this popular ideal of female domesticity, and in the face of these prevailing constraints on female public activity, some Roman women of the upper classes proved formidable, politically influential figures in the late republic and early empire— Cicero's and Tacitus' own times. It is with such women, and the paradoxical nature of their formidability and political influence, that those who study women in the classical Roman elite chiefly concern themselves. Ancient sources report that several women from Rome's leading houses wielded substantial clout during the forties B.C., a decade rife with civil war and political turmoil. 

They encourage modern scholars to accord special attention to such females as Marcus Brutus' mother Servilia and Mark Antony's wife Fulvia, who are portrayed by classical authors as staging summit conferences, commanding armies, implementing political proscriptions, and thereby controlling men's affairs. Tacitus and Suetonius vividly document the powerful roles played by shrewd and redoubtable female kin in the reigns of Rome's Julio-Claudian emperors; their accounts have attracted, and deserve, no less notice. Ancient sources, moreover, regard politically powerful women as a time-honored element of Rome's heritage. 

Both the historian Livy, writing in the final quarter of the first century B.C., and the biographer Plutarch, a century and a half later, give serious consideration to a legend which credits a woman, the nymph Egeria, with advising Rome's second king, Numa Pompilius, on weighty matters of state: their assumptions about Rome in the eighth century B.C., may well derive from their observations of Roman politics in later, historical, eras. Perhaps more importantly, even upper-class Roman women who did not possess special political influence nor concern themselves deeply with the workings of Roman government seem to have been perceived by politically experienced and aware Roman males as disturbances and even threats to Roman political order. 

Accounts summarizing an oration delivered in the early second century B.C. by the elder Cato serve as a case in point: in this oration, Cato is said to have justified the prohibition against young boys' attending the Roman senate as protecting young boys, and the senate, against the rapidly mobilized forces of their inquisitive and gossipy mothers. Livy, moreover, attributes to the elder Cato a speech expressing outrage at a group of wellborn women who demonstrated against inequitable legislation restricting their personal adornment. This rendition of Cato's supposed remarks characterizes these women as not merely riotous but actually in the process of overthrowing male rule.

By Livy's time, however, other men had joined Cato in regarding women with the most minimal political involvements as nonetheless capable of having considerable political impact. Sallust, writing in the decade before Livy launched his lengthy history and in the years immediately following his own retirement from political life, assigned a character sketch of the aristocratic matron Sempronia a featured place when chronicling the Catilinarian conspiracy of 63 B.C. Yet it is clear from all of our evidence, much of it supplied by Sallust himself, that Sempronia played no part in the conspiracy whatever and was at most deemed a possible influence on various men.

By the first century, apprehensions about the political potential of women altogether removed from public life had become more commonplace. During the emperor Nero's reign of terror in the early sixties A.D., the female relations of his male victims routinely suffered persecution at Nero's hands. Even Nero's adoptive half-sister Claudia Antonia, whom Tacitus pointedly depicts as a quiet and unassertive woman, appears to have met her death because Nero harbored political suspicions about her. Indeed, the assumption that women, especially those of high birth, were instrumental in affecting the course of Roman republican and imperial politics manifests itself frequently and strongly enough in our ancient Roman male sources to render it impossible for scholars today to distinguish clearly between women's actual influence and women's imagined influence in political matters.

Whatever the true extent of Roman women's political involvement, it is indisputable that the political impact attributed to certain of them reflects a general image of Roman women as socially significant and often highly visible individuals. Such an image of course differs radically from that of well-born women in the society to which later republican and early imperial Rome is sometimes likened, that of fifth century B.C. Athens. "Citizen women" of the classical Athenian era barely figure in accounts of political history and are not represented as integrally involved in male social concerns; their social invisibility has created difficulties for generations of scholars merely interested in determining their social status.

In the light of scholars' readiness to note Roman women's paradoxical, real and imagined, political influence and social significance during classical times and to acknowledge Roman women's structurally central, and hence influential and significant, position within the elite family, one might therefore expect scholarship to connect this familial structural centrality and this paradoxical formidability with one another. At the very least one would expect a strong scholarly interest in the dynamics of Roman women's involvement in the politically influential, socially significant, upper-class family itself. Yet the behavior thought appropriate to and the behavior actually evinced by women in their various roles within the elite Roman family—of mother, sister, wife, daughter—are only beginning to undergo examination; the same holds true for the patterns of bonding with and among female family members.

Even in recent investigations into these matters, Anglo-American scholars have not made much of an effort to consider the relationship between the paradox of Roman women and women's conduct in their role, or roles, within the upper-class Roman family. This lack of effort need not, however, be ascribed to scholarly obtuseness. For generations a theory of Roman social development based on the views of the nineteenth century jurist Bachofen and his followers has been invoked, largely in European studies, to account for the paradox of Roman women. This theory pointedly assumes an impact of early Roman family structure and sentiment on women's position in much later elite Roman society. 

The theory and its explanation for the paradox of Roman women deserve special scrutiny and detailed refutation for two reasons. Most obviously, its understandable failure to convince most Anglo-American scholars may help elucidate the failure of recent studies to link upper-class Roman women's familial position to their social significance and political influence. More importantly, its shortcomings make clear various problems to be encountered in seeking to relate the paradox of Roman women to their structural centrality in the elite family of classical times.”

- Judith P. Hallett, “The Paradox of Elite Roman Women: Patriarchal Society and Female Formidability.” in Fathers and Daughters in Roman Society: Women and the Elite Family

[dwellordream]

“...It stands to reason that a society which is ruled by its male senior citizens through the control of younger and less powerful men would instill reverence for the wisdom of advancing age in its male youth. The Romans, we might observe, referred to previous generations as maiores, greater individuals, and employed the adjective magnus, great, in the kinship terms for parents' close male and female ascendants (a practice the English language has adopted with its use of the adjective "great" for kin of earlier generations); such a practice testifies to the Roman equation of seniority with superiority, and to the inclusion of women among its superior seniors. 

Thus it should come as no surprise that older women seem to command more respect, inspire more awe, and have (or be perceived as having) greater social and political influence than do younger ones. In addition, Roman women along in years were more likely to have young male relatives who were eager to prove themselves worthy of and to their elders, and who were mindful of the nurturance they had recently received from mothers and older kinswomen; such young men were under special pressure to manifest their respect and awe for their female maiores through publicly visible gestures. 

We have already examined the idealization in Tacitus' Dialogus of the moral instruction and intellectual sustenance provided for an eternally indebted Roman male youth committed to a life of public service by his upstanding female relatives; this picture is far from unique in Roman writings. Such a vision of an older Roman matron's function, and of Roman mother-son relations, seems the parodic point of Plautus' Casina. The play, composed immediately before the playwright's death in 184 B.C., was popular enough to be revived in the next generation. In it, the materfamilias Cleostrata intimidates her elderly and socially powerful husband both through proving herself his moral superior and, as her son's ally and abettor, by ingeniously securing for this son the sexual favors of a slave girl his father also covets.

By cleverly rendering her presumably grateful son such services, attracting admiration for her capable handling of this complex affair, but nonetheless setting herself up as a moral example in the process, she evidently travesties the Roman concept of a wise, righteous, and exemplary mother. This same vision, however, is reproduced as part of a serious moral and political exemplum in Livy's narrative on the Bacchanalian scandal, an episode which profoundly shook Roman society shortly before the Casina was first performed. Livy's young male protagonist Aebutius and his reluctantly influential courtesan mistress Hispala Fecinia manage to bring the matter to the consul Postumius' attention, and Postumius proceeds to bring the malefactors to justice, solely through the aid of Aebutia, amita (father's sister), to Aebutius, and Postumius' venerable mother-in-law Sulpicia. 

These two older women—depicted as virtuous, beneficent, sagacious, deserving of male reverence and hence, by Livy's implication, truly "maternal"—are contrasted with two, far less admirable, matronly counterparts: Aebutius' own mother Duronia, whose devotion to both her second husband and his interest in depriving Aebutius of his patrimony led her to seek her son's undoing by having him initiated into Bacchic worship; the Campanian priestess Paculla Annia, who began the Bacchic cult's corrupting influence by initiating its first men, her own sons. 

Livy's account, at 39.nff., of Postumius' efforts to ascertain, through Sulpicia, the character of Aebutia, warrants special notice since here he treats these two nurturant and publicly influential mother figures in a sympathetic and sentimentalizing fashion: he refers to the former woman as dignified, a gravis (and later a gravissima) femina, to the latter as morally upright and of old-fashioned ways, probam et antiqui moris; he even describes Aebutia as moved to tears by, the dreadful treatment of her brother's son (filius eius fiatris), also morally upright (probus), by those who should have been the last to do so.

 Another, doubtlessly romanticized, moralizing tale also attests to both the esteem in which a young Roman male was to hold his elder kinswomen's judgment and moral authority and to the public display and political impact of such esteem, namely the story of Gnaeus Marcius Coriolanus. Set in the mid-fifth century B.C., the story achieved great popularity in the classical period: a lost book by Cicero's closest friend Titus Pomponius Atticus featured Coriolanus prominently; Livy, Valerius Maximus, and Plutarch all treat his tragedy. Coriolanus has recently been called the "Roman archetype" of the "perpetual mama's boy" in a provocative psychoanalytic study of the Roman mother-son relationship, and for good reason: he allegedly valued his widowed mother so highly that he abandoned a traitorous march on Rome at the head of an enemy force only after she demanded that he desist.

There are less dramatic, and probably somewhat more reliable, pieces of ancient Roman testimony to the reverential regard of young Roman men for the older, maternal female members of their families, to their—and others'—experience of these women as significant and influential individuals, and to the frequent exhibition of both this regard and this experience in a larger sociopolitical context. Several laudationes Junebres, orations delivered by aristocratic Roman men (and usually youthful ones) to honor a deceased relative of political distinction, belong in this category. 

Cicero reports that the first such speech in commemoration of a woman was given in 102 B.C. by the consul Quintus Lutatius Catulus to honor his mother Popilia; no young woman received this same recognition until over thirty years later, when Julius Caesar's second wife, Cornelia, was buried amid her husband's public praises. That same year, however, Caesar made a more memorable, or at least better remembered, contribution to funeral oratory with his laudation of his father's sister Julia, wife of the military and political leader Marius. Caesar's words first proclaimed the glory of this aunt's, and hence his own father's, maternal ancestry: The maternal lineage of my paternal aunt Julia descended from kings, the paternal is connected with the immortal gods. 

For the Marcii Reges go back to Ancus Marcius, Marcia being the name of her mother, and the Julii, to which clan our family belongs, are offspring of Venus. There is, therefore, in her lineage both the holiness of kings, who have the greatest power among humans, and the religious quality of gods, in whose power are the kings themselves. Perhaps not insignificantly, Ancus Marcius, the early king from whom Julia's maternal Marcii traced their lineage, supposedly inherited Rome's throne through his maternal grandfather; so, too, the divinity from whom her (and her nephew's) paternal Julii avowed their descent was Venus, mother of the Trojan hero Aeneas.

A later, and also elderly, Julia, Caesar's sister, was hailed in the funeral laudatio upon her death in 51 B.C. by the twelve-year-old Octavius, whose mother Atia was Julia's daughter; through this maternal grandmother Octavius, later the emperor Augustus, could claim descent by blood, as well as adoption, from Venus and the Julian clan. The laudatio delivered in 42 B.C. to honor the nonagenarian Caecilia by her son Atticus, a man whose attraction to the Coriolanus legend we have already noted, stirred comment as providing proof of Atticus' familial devotion (pietas): said to be sixty-seven at the time, he pointed out that he had never once needed to apologize to his mother, nor quarreled with his sister, who was almost the same age as he. 

One might also consider in this context an inscription generally dated to the early empire, the laudatio of a noble matron Murdia. It is dedicated by a son of the woman's first marriage, despite the fact that her second husband seems to have been numbered among her survivors. She is, moreover, identified only with the words Murdiae L(ucii) F(iliae) Matris, "Murdia, Lucius' daughter and my mother"; she is acclaimed by this son as "most precious to me" (carissima mihi), although he says nothing about affection between her and either husband. 

Along with citing her modesty (modestia), upright character (probitas, an attribute we have seen noted in Livy's Aebutia and Aebutius), chastity (pudicitia), compliant nature (opsequium), wool-spinning (lanificium), conscientiousness, and trustworthiness (diligentia and fides), he cites her wisdom (.sapientia); what is more, he accords her special praise for treating all of her sons equally in her will. Both mater and amita also figure prominently in another, fairly early and important source for the public reverence awarded and sociopolitical significance clearly and justifiably ascribed to older Roman women of the upper classes by their younger male relatives. 

…It may help further to elucidate why other young Roman men of the upper classes regarded their elder female relations, their own and other men's mothers, so seriously, looking upon them as socially and politically powerful figures deserving publicly visible homage. Atticus' sister of sixty-odd, Aemilia, the dowager sister of Lucius Aemilius Paullus, and the matrons who were sisters of Aemilia's son Publius Cornelius Scipio (and hence enjoyed the magnanimity of his adoptive son) obviously rank among older women, whether by age or by relation to their devoted male kin. But the concern publicly evinced for other, younger, women of high birth by their brothers, such as that displayed by Scipio in his munificence to his sisters, indicates that sisters in Roman elite society were also highly, and publicly, esteemed by their brothers. 

Evidence from Roman comedy merits special note in this context. A lengthy passage from Plautus' Aulularia generalizes on the feelings and duties of brothers and sisters to one another: it depicts Roman brothers and sisters as partaking of a close relationship, sharing the same concerns, and looking to one another for advice; it depicts one particular sister, moreover, as expecting her advice to be followed. At lines i2off. Eunomia speaks of her sincere commitment to her brother Megadorus' best interests as "befitting a sister of the same parents" While acknowledging that brothers find sisters bothersome, she points out their mutual obligation to counsel and admonish one another, and even demands that Megadorus do what she orders; she justifies these demands on the grounds that she is closest to him and he to her.

More importantly, both Roman legend and Roman historical writing concur in their depiction of this fraternal esteem for sisters, and fraternal compliance with sisters' wishes, as having a substantial public impact among the Roman elite. They suggest that a Roman sister, though likely to be regarded with respect rather than veneration, and subtly complimented rather than eulogized, by her brother, often exerted influence of a political nature both on and through him; they indicate that various sisters publicly reflected in—and often actually benefited from—their brothers' social and political prestige.”

- Judith P. Hallett, “Women of Elite Families and Roman Society.” in Fathers and Daughters in Roman Society: Women and the Elite Family

[dwellordream]

“…Bachofen and more recent supporters of his theory such as G. D. Thomson maintain that a matriarchal or matrilineal order prevailed in Rome's monarchic era (which, by Roman reckoning, extended from 753 to 510 B.C.). They suppose as well that this matriarchal or mat­rilineal order was first associated with Rome's Sabine component and reached its peak during the Etruscan domination of Rome in the late seventh and sixth cen­turies B.C. According to such a view, therefore, the es­teem granted and formidability attributed to so many well-born women of the republican and early imperial periods, the very opposite of what one might expect from their lack of formal civil rights, constitutes a sur­vival of early "mother right," Sabine and Etruscan in provenance.

Yet the hypothesis that matriarchal or matrilineal ele­ments in Sabine, and in particular Etruscan, culture were absorbed into Roman civilization, though a convenient means of accounting for certain seemingly incongruous features of later republican and early imperial Roman society, poses certain problems. In the first place, the identification and isolation of purely Sabine and Etruscan components in pre-republican Roman culture are not only difficult, but fraught with complications. Scholars differ strongly over when Sabine and Etruscan influence was felt in early, "Latin," Rome, and thus where a par­ticular early Roman practice originated.

One must also consider why many practices, if indeed non-Roman in origin, were adopted. For if Roman society of the mon­ archic period is to be attributed with its own, native, Latin, practices and institutions, which it gradually ­combined with those of non-Latin (Sabine) and non-Indo- European (Etruscan) peoples, it presumably incorpo­rated solely those foreign elements which fitted its existing needs and adapted those elements to conform with its own pre-existing attitudes and usages. In fact, two of the so-called Sabine and Etruscan practices which Thomson himself remarks upon as significant "matriar­chal" features of monarchic Rome as it is portrayed by classical authors such as Livy—royal succession bya son- in-law and by a daughter's son—are also said, by Livy himself, to have first obtained among the Latins.

At 1.1.9-11 Livy depicts Rome's Trojan forefather Aeneas as able to claim the throne of Latium only after wedding the daughter of its king, Latinus; Livy later represents Aeneas' descendant Romulus and his twin brother Re­mus as claiming their monarchic rights to found a new city because their mother was daughter of Numitor, rightful king of the Latin city Alba Longa. Thus it would seem likely that if the social importance and po­litical influence ascribed to Roman women of the clas­ sical period are survivals from the years of Sabine and especially Etruscan hegemony at Rome, then the Ro­mans of those early eras must have found the general Sabine and Etruscan view of women as significant in­dividuals compatible with their own. Furthermore, the fact that a practice based on widespread human familial sentiment (such as the respect for motherhood in mon­archic Rome discerned by Bachofen and his adherents) "survives" from an earlier period should imply that the sentiment still obtains to some extent in the later period.

Concern for the origins of women's social significance and political influence in classical Roman times does not, therefore, in itself suffice: the reasons why women con­tinued to be regarded as socially significant and politi­cally influential after the monarchic, and through the classical, era deserve equal attention. Although we have relatively little knowledge of ear­liest Sabine society outside our later Roman literary sources, we do have a large body of independent evi­dence on the Etruscans in the late seventh and sixth centuries B.C. and in the several centuries thereafter.

Many Etruscan works of art and inscriptions, largely from their grave goods and cemetery decorations, still exist and reveal much about the Etruscans' lifestyle and values. This evidence, moreover, also calls the theory of Bachofen and his adherents seriously into question: it does not suggest that the Etruscans ever exalted older women by ceding to them positions of political lead­ership denied to men, or that the Etruscans ever reck­oned descent solely through the female line. In other words, the terms "matriarchy," signifying rule by mothers, and "matriliny," meaning the reckoning of ancestral descent through mothers, do not accurately represent the Etruscans' political organization or kinship structure in any period.

Indeed, the term "matriarchy" has no descriptive relevance to the political or the kinship structure of any society in which women do not mo­nopolize (or significantly control) government, but have available to them opportunities for political involvement and influence also open (and in some societies only open) to males. The term "matriliny" is similarly uninformative about any society which values maternal lineage, and mothers themselves, but not to the degree that it discounts or devalues paternal lineage and fathers. Etrus­can society seems to have provided women with op­portunities for public involvement and to have assigned great value to maternal lineage. The social importance the Etruscans accorded women and the Etruscan em­phasis on maternal ancestry have even been, as we have noted, enough to earn them a reputation among certain scholars for belief in the principle of "mother right." But as this discussion has observed and will continue to demonstrate, elite Roman society of classical times dis­played these very features as well.

Admittedly, the Etruscans differed considerably from the classical Romans in their mode of identifying women and in their definition of acceptable female behavior. Unlike their Roman counterparts, well-born Etruscan women were given individuating names and often com­memorated by indications of both their fathers' and their mothers' names. Tomb paintings and objects document that affluent Etruscan women took part in dancing and athletic exercise and indulged themselves at lavish parties and with elaborate attire, behavior which contrasts with that of Roman women. Such artifacts imply, too, that Etruscan women of high birth, in contrast to aristocratic Roman matrons, were not celebrated for wool-spinning and domestic administration. These differences be­tween Etruscan and classical Roman women are not to be dismissed.

They warrant investigation and explana­tion—through study of each larger society and its values and, more specifically, of how women were integrated into each entire culture and its institutions and beliefs. But these differences should not be exaggerated, partic­ularly by those who would explain the formidable be­ havior and image of elite Roman women in the classical era as a survival of early "mother right" connected with the Etruscans. By the same token, superficial similar­ities between later Roman and earlier Etruscan beliefs and practices relating to women do not automatically establish the former as "Etruscan legacies," nor should they be used to account for other features of republican and imperial Roman civilization; rather, they must be understood in the context of their own culture and its entire social structure.

The argument that behavioral patterns associated with early Roman "mother right" survived into the classical era is most thoroughly demolished, however, by actual examination of Roman society during its earliest years, including those in which Sabine and Etruscan culture would have exerted their greatest influence; such an ex­amination reveals the thoroughly and overwhelmingly patriarchal nature of Roman society of that time. The patriarchal nature of earliest Roman society, moreover, seems to have had its roots in the organization of the Roman family. Testimony about the earliest Romans parative materials is kept to a minimum (and restricted to other ancient cultures kindred with and familiar to the Romans them­ selves). This study does, however, seek to establish the similarities between Roman upper-class family structure and family-related eco­nomic institutions, patterns of political behavior, language, and leg­ends—especially those related, by such authors as Livy, Plutarch, and their sources, with a moralistic, "ideological," purpose—in their emphasis on certain female roles, and to argue for the cultural centrality of one, primal, female familial role to explain these similarities.

- Judith P. Hallett, “The Paradox of Elite Roman Women: Patriarchal Society and Female Formidability.” in Fathers and Daughters in Roman Society: Women and the Elite Family

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“…Roman religion also furnishes important testimony to the Roman valuation of daughters and to the cultural elaboration of the daughter role. We have already al­luded to the Vestal Virgins in connection with the amply documented theory that a priest-king functioned as a dominant figure in earliest Rome. Other facts about Vestals themselves are pertinent at this juncture: that the latter-day head of the Roman state religion, the pontifex maximus, greeted a new Vestal with the address amata, presumably from amare (to love), and meaning "cher­ished one"; that a Vestal was chosen when she was be­tween the ages of six and ten; that a novice Vestal needed to have both parents living.

Such data corroborate the related theory that the Vestals had originated as the pre-marriageable daughters of Rome's priest-king; the sym­ bolic association, by several Roman sources, of fire with the male procreative force allows the additional inference that the Vestals were initially entrusted with the keeping of a flame because fire represented the power to create and sustain life which their father possessed and they had not yet personally encountered. The tasks and priv­ileges assigned in classical times to these apparently ar­chetypal filiae, daughter-figures for the entire Roman community, warrant attention next. Because the Latin word for the hearth which Vestals guarded, an object which came to symbolize the Roman people no less than it did, Roman male procreative power, is focus, the important cultural role played by the Vestals stands as per­haps the most etymologically apposite illustration of Rome's filiafocality.

Various duties and attributes of the Vestalsseem more appropriate to archetypal wife- than to daughter-figures. Such "wifely" duties and attributes include preparing the mola salsa, sacrificial cake, and cleansing the temple of Vesta, their involvement in state festivals which orig­inated in fertility rites, and their matronal costume. But the Vestals' paradoxical combination of these wifely and their distinctly daughterly aspects—multiplicity, vir­ginal status, early admission to and limited term in the order, white veil—has a parallel in the daughterly at­ tributes assigned a Roman married woman. Her name still identified her as her father's daughter; her nuptial pledge to be Gaia to her husband's Gaius symbolically obligated him to adopt a paternal role towards her; her legal status relative to her husband—were theirs a mar­riage with manus—was that of daughter to father.

In other words, the Vestal cult demonstrates not only the metaphoric extension of the daughter role to female conduct in another, state religious and extra-familial realm, but also shows the ability of the role to coexist with that which daughters were expected to assume literally (and hence the Vestals assumed symbolically). Additionally, the fact that the Vestals were defined symbolically as both unmarried daughters and more mature wives helps to clarify why their membership in the order benefited their blood families in the way that it seems to have done. A Vestal was unique among Roman women in that, under the laws of the Twelve Tables, she required (and hence burdened) no legal guardian. Like a woman who had passed into her husband's manus upon marriage, she passed out of her father's potestas and personal respon­sibility upon admission to the order.

But even though Vestals could not for this reason inherit from an intestate kinsman, they, unlike other women, could make wills, and thus bequeath to others the sum—which by the early first century A.D. was a handsome one—they routinely received when they joined the order. To be sure, the Vestal herself was technically given this money; it may, however, have been ultimately intended to compensate her family of birth for taking away their daughter. After all, ancient sources also assert that after the cult's estab­lishment the number of Vestals increased, the terms of the Vestals' tenure lengthened, and consequently the order in the classical era numbered nubile girls and grown women as well as those who had not yet reached the age of marriage.

While one finds scholarly skepticism about this assertion, its antique authority demands that we at least account for the change in the order such sources describe. And we may best account for the ex­pansion of the order and extension of the members' tenure by considering how these two developments would have affected the actual and prospective Vestals' families of birth, and why these families might have entered their daughters in the order to begin with. For it is plausible, though by no means provable, that a connection exists between these two developments in the cult's history and the frequency in early Roman re­publican times of periods when war or economic crisis diminished the available number of suitable husbands for daughters of leading houses. In such circumstances, of course, families unable to find large dowries for one or more daughters were at a special disadvantage.

More reliable testimony on later periods of Roman history merits special note in this context: namely, accounts that after the disaster at Cannae in 216 B.C. two of the six Vestals were executed for unchastity, and that in the midst of a similarly tense period a century later three of the Vestals were condemned to death. The timing of these historical episodes suggests that this large-scale public scapegoating may in part have been sanctioned because well-born and powerfully situated families cov­eted for their own prepubescent daughters the places that would be left vacant by such executions—due to circumstances which rendered them unable to wed these daughters to husbands of their station.”

- Judith P. Hallett, “Filiae Familiae.” in Fathers and Daughters in Roman Society: Women and the Elite Family